The Return of Sherlock Holmes
something of the thrill which the hunter feels when he lies
beside the water-pool, and waits for the coming of the thirsty
beast of prey. What savage creature was it which might steal upon
us out of the darkness? Was it a fierce tiger of crime, which
could only be taken fighting hard with flashing fang and claw, or
would it prove to be some skulking jackal, dangerous only to the
weak and unguarded?
In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting for
whatever might come. At first the steps of a few belated
villagers, or the sound of voices from the village, lightened our
vigil, but one by one these interruptions died away, and an
absolute stillness fell upon us, save for the chimes of the
distant church, which told us of the progress of the night, and
for the rustle and whisper of a fine rain falling amid the
foliage which roofed us in.
Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which
precedes the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click
came from the direction of the gate. Someone had entered the
drive. Again there was a long silence, and I had begun to fear
that it was a false alarm, when a stealthy step was heard upon
the other side of the hut, and a moment later a metallic scraping
and clinking. The man was trying to force the lock. This time his
skill was greater or his tool was better, for there was a sudden
snap and the creak of the hinges. Then a match was struck, and
next instant the steady light from a candle filled the interior
of the hut. Through the gauze curtain our eyes were all riveted
upon the scene within.
The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a
black moustache, which intensified the deadly pallor of his face.
He could not have been much above twenty years of age. I have
never seen any human being who appeared to be in such a pitiable
fright, for his teeth were visibly chattering, and he was shaking
in every limb. He was dressed like a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket
and knickerbockers, with a cloth cap upon his head. We watched
him staring round with frightened eyes. Then he laid the
candle-end upon the table and disappeared from our view into one
of the corners. He returned with a large book, one of the
logbooks which formed a line upon the shelves. Leaning on the
table, he rapidly turned over the leaves of this volume until he
came to the entry which he sought. Then, with an angry gesture of
his clenched hand, he closed the book, replaced it in the corner,
and put out the light. He had hardly turned to leave the hut when
Hopkins’s hand was on the fellow’s collar, and I heard his loud
gasp of terror as he understood that he was taken. The candle was
relit, and there was our wretched captive, shivering and cowering
in the grasp of the detective. He sank down upon the sea-chest,
and looked helplessly from one of us to the other.
“Now, my fine fellow,” said Stanley Hopkins, “who are you, and
what do you want here?”
The man pulled himself together, and faced us with an effort at
self-composure.
“You are detectives, I suppose?” said he. “You imagine I am
connected with the death of Captain Peter Carey. I assure you
that I am innocent.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Hopkins. “First of all, what is your
name?”
“It is John Hopley Neligan.”
I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.
“What are you doing here?”
“Can I speak confidentially?”
“No, certainly not.”
“Why should I tell you?”
“If you have no answer, it may go badly with you at the trial.”
The young man winced.
“Well, I will tell you,” he said. “Why should I not? And yet I
hate to think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life.
Did you ever hear of Dawson and Neligan?”
I could see, from Hopkins’s face, that he never had, but Holmes
was keenly interested.
“You mean the West Country bankers,” said he. “They failed for a
million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall, and Neligan
disappeared.”
“Exactly. Neligan was my father.”
At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a
long gap between an absconding banker and Captain Peter Carey
pinned against the wall with one of his own harpoons. We all
listened intently to the young man’s words.
“It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson had retired. I
was only ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to
feel the shame and horror of it all. It has always been said that
my father stole all the securities and fled. It is not true. It
was his belief that if he were given time in which to realize
them, all would be well and every creditor paid in full. He
started in his little yacht for Norway just before the warrant
was issued for his arrest. I can remember that last night when he
bade farewell to my mother. He left us a list of the securities
he was taking, and he swore that he would come back with his
honour cleared, and that none who had trusted him would suffer.
Well, no word was ever heard from him again. Both the yacht and
he vanished utterly. We believed, my mother and I, that he and
it, with the securities that he had taken with him, were at the
bottom of the sea. We had a faithful friend, however, who is a
business man, and it was he who discovered some time ago that
some of the securities which my father had with him had
reappeared on the London market. You can imagine our amazement. I
spent months in trying to trace them, and at last, after many
doubtings and difficulties, I discovered that the original seller
had been Captain Peter Carey, the owner of this hut.
“Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found that he
had been in command of a whaler which was due to return from the
Arctic seas at the very time when my father was crossing to
Norway. The autumn of that year was a stormy one, and there was a
long succession of southerly gales. My father’s yacht may well
have been blown to the north, and there met by Captain Peter
Carey’s ship. If that were so, what had become of my father? In
any case, if I could prove from Peter Carey’s evidence how these
securities came on the market it would be a proof that my father
had not sold them, and that he had no view to personal profit
when he took them.
“I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the captain,
but it was at this moment that his terrible death occurred. I
read at the inquest a description of his cabin, in which it
stated that the old logbooks of his vessel were preserved in it.
It struck me that if I could see what occurred in the month of
August, 1883, on board the _Sea Unicorn_, I might settle the
mystery of my father’s fate. I tried last night to get at these
logbooks, but was unable to open the door. To-night I tried again
and succeeded, but I find that the pages which deal with that
month have been torn from the book. It was at that moment I found
myself a prisoner in your hands.”
“Is that all?” asked Hopkins.
“Yes, that is all.” His eyes shifted as he said it.
“You have nothing else to tell us?”
He hesitated.
“No, there is nothing.”
“You have not been here before last night?”
“No.”
“Then how do you account for _that_?” cried Hopkins, as he held
up the damning notebook, with the initials of our prisoner on the
first leaf and the blood-stain on the cover.
The wretched man collapsed. He sank his face in his hands, and
trembled all over.
“Where did you get it?” he groaned. “I did not know. I thought I
had lost it at the hotel.”
“That is enough,” said Hopkins, sternly. “Whatever else you have
to say, you must say in court. You will walk down with me now to
the police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very much obliged to
you and to your friend for coming down to help me. As it turns
out your presence was unnecessary, and I would have brought the
case to this successful issue without you, but, none the less, I
am grateful. Rooms have been reserved for you at the Brambletye
Hotel, so we can all walk down to the village together.”
“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” asked Holmes, as we
travelled back next morning.
“I can see that you are not satisfied.”
“Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied. At the same
time, Stanley Hopkins’s methods do not commend themselves to me.
I am disappointed in Stanley Hopkins. I had hoped for better
things from him. One should always look for a possible
alternative, and provide against it. It is the first rule of
criminal investigation.”
“What, then, is the alternative?”
“The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing. It
may give us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow
it to the end.”
Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He
snatched one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a
triumphant chuckle of laughter.
“Excellent, Watson! The alternative develops. Have you telegraph
forms? Just write a couple of messages for me: ‘Sumner, Shipping
Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on, to arrive ten
to-morrow morning.—Basil.’ That’s my name in those parts. The
other is: ‘Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46 Lord Street, Brixton.
Come breakfast to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if
unable to come.—Sherlock Holmes.’ There, Watson, this infernal
case has haunted me for ten days. I hereby banish it completely
from my presence. To-morrow, I trust that we shall hear the last
of it forever.”
Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and
we sat down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs. Hudson
had prepared. The young detective was in high spirits at his
success.
“You really think that your solution must be correct?” asked
Holmes.
“I could not imagine a more complete case.”
“It did not seem to me conclusive.”
“You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask for?”
“Does your explanation cover every point?”
“Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the Brambletye
Hotel on the very day of the crime. He came on the pretence of
playing golf. His room was on the ground-floor, and he could get
out when he liked. That very night he went down to Woodman’s Lee,
saw Peter Carey at the hut, quarrelled with him, and killed him
with the harpoon. Then, horrified by what he had done, he fled
out of the hut, dropping the notebook which he had brought with
him in order to question Peter Carey about these different
securities. You may have observed that some of them were marked
with ticks, and the others—the great majority—were not. Those
which are ticked have been traced on the London market, but the
others, presumably, were still in the possession of Carey, and
young Neligan, according to his own account, was anxious to