The Return of Sherlock Holmes
Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor’s eyes. “Then
perhaps you will explain this receipted bill for thirteen
guineas, paid by Mr. Godfrey Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie
Armstrong, of Cambridge. I picked it out from among the papers
upon his desk.”
The doctor flushed with anger.
“I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an
explanation to you, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes replaced the bill in his notebook. “If you prefer a public
explanation, it must come sooner or later,” said he. “I have
already told you that I can hush up that which others will be
bound to publish, and you would really be wiser to take me into
your complete confidence.”
“I know nothing about it.”
“Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?”
“Certainly not.”
“Dear me, dear me—the postoffice again!” Holmes sighed, wearily.
“A most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from London by
Godfrey Staunton at six-fifteen yesterday evening—a telegram
which is undoubtedly associated with his disappearance—and yet
you have not had it. It is most culpable. I shall certainly go
down to the office here and register a complaint.”
Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk, and his dark
face was crimson with fury.
“I’ll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir,” said he. “You
can tell your employer, Lord Mount-James, that I do not wish to
have anything to do either with him or with his agents. No,
sir—not another word!” He rang the bell furiously. “John, show
these gentlemen out!” A pompous butler ushered us severely to the
door, and we found ourselves in the street. Holmes burst out
laughing.
“Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and
character,” said he. “I have not seen a man who, if he turns his
talents that way, was more calculated to fill the gap left by the
illustrious Moriarty. And now, my poor Watson, here we are,
stranded and friendless in this inhospitable town, which we
cannot leave without abandoning our case. This little inn just
opposite Armstrong’s house is singularly adapted to our needs. If
you would engage a front room and purchase the necessaries for
the night, I may have time to make a few inquiries.”
These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more lengthy
proceeding than Holmes had imagined, for he did not return to the
inn until nearly nine o’clock. He was pale and dejected, stained
with dust, and exhausted with hunger and fatigue. A cold supper
was ready upon the table, and when his needs were satisfied and
his pipe alight he was ready to take that half comic and wholly
philosophic view which was natural to him when his affairs were
going awry. The sound of carriage wheels caused him to rise and
glance out of the window. A brougham and pair of greys, under the
glare of a gas-lamp, stood before the doctor’s door.
“It’s been out three hours,” said Holmes; “started at half-past
six, and here it is back again. That gives a radius of ten or
twelve miles, and he does it once, or sometimes twice, a day.”
“No unusual thing for a doctor in practice.”
“But Armstrong is not really a doctor in practice. He is a
lecturer and a consultant, but he does not care for general
practice, which distracts him from his literary work. Why, then,
does he make these long journeys, which must be exceedingly
irksome to him, and who is it that he visits?”
“His coachman——”
“My dear Watson, can you doubt that it was to him that I first
applied? I do not know whether it came from his own innate
depravity or from the promptings of his master, but he was rude
enough to set a dog at me. Neither dog nor man liked the look of
my stick, however, and the matter fell through. Relations were
strained after that, and further inquiries out of the question.
All that I have learned I got from a friendly native in the yard
of our own inn. It was he who told me of the doctor’s habits and
of his daily journey. At that instant, to give point to his
words, the carriage came round to the door.”
“Could you not follow it?”
“Excellent, Watson! You are scintillating this evening. The idea
did cross my mind. There is, as you may have observed, a bicycle
shop next to our inn. Into this I rushed, engaged a bicycle, and
was able to get started before the carriage was quite out of
sight. I rapidly overtook it, and then, keeping at a discreet
distance of a hundred yards or so, I followed its lights until we
were clear of the town. We had got well out on the country road,
when a somewhat mortifying incident occurred. The carriage
stopped, the doctor alighted, walked swiftly back to where I had
also halted, and told me in an excellent sardonic fashion that he
feared the road was narrow, and that he hoped his carriage did
not impede the passage of my bicycle. Nothing could have been
more admirable than his way of putting it. I at once rode past
the carriage, and, keeping to the main road, I went on for a few
miles, and then halted in a convenient place to see if the
carriage passed. There was no sign of it, however, and so it
became evident that it had turned down one of several side roads
which I had observed. I rode back, but again saw nothing of the
carriage, and now, as you perceive, it has returned after me. Of
course, I had at the outset no particular reason to connect these
journeys with the disappearance of Godfrey Staunton, and was only
inclined to investigate them on the general grounds that
everything which concerns Dr. Armstrong is at present of interest
to us, but, now that I find he keeps so keen a look-out upon
anyone who may follow him on these excursions, the affair appears
more important, and I shall not be satisfied until I have made
the matter clear.”
“We can follow him to-morrow.”
“Can we? It is not so easy as you seem to think. You are not
familiar with Cambridgeshire scenery, are you? It does not lend
itself to concealment. All this country that I passed over
to-night is as flat and clean as the palm of your hand, and the
man we are following is no fool, as he very clearly showed
to-night. I have wired to Overton to let us know any fresh London
developments at this address, and in the meantime we can only
concentrate our attention upon Dr. Armstrong, whose name the
obliging young lady at the office allowed me to read upon the
counterfoil of Staunton’s urgent message. He knows where the
young man is—to that I’ll swear, and if he knows, then it must be
our own fault if we cannot manage to know also. At present it
must be admitted that the odd trick is in his possession, and, as
you are aware, Watson, it is not my habit to leave the game in
that condition.”
And yet the next day brought us no nearer to the solution of the
mystery. A note was handed in after breakfast, which Holmes
passed across to me with a smile.
SIR [it ran],—I can assure you that you are wasting your time in
dogging my movements. I have, as you discovered last night, a
window at the back of my brougham, and if you desire a
twenty-mile ride which will lead you to the spot from which you
started, you have only to follow me. Meanwhile, I can inform you
that no spying upon me can in any way help Mr. Godfrey Staunton,
and I am convinced that the best service you can do to that
gentleman is to return at once to London and to report to your
employer that you are unable to trace him. Your time in Cambridge
will certainly be wasted.
Yours faithfully,
LESLIE ARMSTRONG.
“An outspoken, honest antagonist is the doctor,” said Holmes.
“Well, well, he excites my curiosity, and I must really know
before I leave him.”
“His carriage is at his door now,” said I. “There he is stepping
into it. I saw him glance up at our window as he did so. Suppose
I try my luck upon the bicycle?”
“No, no, my dear Watson! With all respect for your natural
acumen, I do not think that you are quite a match for the worthy
doctor. I think that possibly I can attain our end by some
independent explorations of my own. I am afraid that I must leave
you to your own devices, as the appearance of _two_ inquiring
strangers upon a sleepy countryside might excite more gossip than
I care for. No doubt you will find some sights to amuse you in
this venerable city, and I hope to bring back a more favourable
report to you before evening.”
Once more, however, my friend was destined to be disappointed. He
came back at night weary and unsuccessful.
“I have had a blank day, Watson. Having got the doctor’s general
direction, I spent the day in visiting all the villages upon that
side of Cambridge, and comparing notes with publicans and other
local news agencies. I have covered some ground. Chesterton,
Histon, Waterbeach, and Oakington have each been explored, and
have each proved disappointing. The daily appearance of a
brougham and pair could hardly have been overlooked in such
Sleepy Hollows. The doctor has scored once more. Is there a
telegram for me?”
“Yes, I opened it. Here it is:
“Ask for Pompey from Jeremy Dixon, Trinity College.”
“I don’t understand it.”
“Oh, it is clear enough. It is from our friend Overton, and is in
answer to a question from me. I’ll just send round a note to Mr.
Jeremy Dixon, and then I have no doubt that our luck will turn.
By the way, is there any news of the match?”
“Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account in its
last edition. Oxford won by a goal and two tries. The last
sentences of the description say:
“‘The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely attributed to the
unfortunate absence of the crack International, Godfrey Staunton,
whose want was felt at every instant of the game. The lack of
combination in the three-quarter line and their weakness both in
attack and defence more than neutralized the efforts of a heavy
and hard-working pack.’”
“Then our friend Overton’s forebodings have been justified,” said
Holmes. “Personally I am in agreement with Dr. Armstrong, and
football does not come within my horizon. Early to bed to-night,
Watson, for I foresee that to-morrow may be an eventful day.”
I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next morning, for
he sat by the fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe. I
associated that instrument with the single weakness of his
nature, and I feared the worst when I saw it glittering in his
hand. He laughed at my expression of dismay and laid it upon the
table.
“No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm. It is not
upon this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will rather
prove to be the key which will unlock our mystery. On this
syringe I base all my hopes. I have just returned from a small
scouting expedition, and everything is favourable. Eat a good
breakfast, Watson, for I propose to get upon Dr. Armstrong’s