The Return of Sherlock Holmes
delicacy, in order to dwell upon sensational details which may
excite, but cannot possibly instruct, the reader.”
“Why do you not write them yourself?” I said, with some
bitterness.
“I will, my dear Watson, I will. At present I am, as you know,
fairly busy, but I propose to devote my declining years to the
composition of a textbook, which shall focus the whole art of
detection into one volume. Our present research appears to be a
case of murder.”
“You think this Sir Eustace is dead, then?”
“I should say so. Hopkins’s writing shows considerable agitation,
and he is not an emotional man. Yes, I gather there has been
violence, and that the body is left for our inspection. A mere
suicide would not have caused him to send for me. As to the
release of the lady, it would appear that she has been locked in
her room during the tragedy. We are moving in high life, Watson,
crackling paper, ‘E.B.’ monogram, coat-of-arms, picturesque
address. I think that friend Hopkins will live up to his
reputation, and that we shall have an interesting morning. The
crime was committed before twelve last night.”
“How can you possibly tell?”
“By an inspection of the trains, and by reckoning the time. The
local police had to be called in, they had to communicate with
Scotland Yard, Hopkins had to go out, and he in turn had to send
for me. All that makes a fair night’s work. Well, here we are at
Chiselhurst Station, and we shall soon set our doubts at rest.”
A drive of a couple of miles through narrow country lanes brought
us to a park gate, which was opened for us by an old
lodge-keeper, whose haggard face bore the reflection of some
great disaster. The avenue ran through a noble park, between
lines of ancient elms, and ended in a low, widespread house,
pillared in front after the fashion of Palladio. The central part
was evidently of a great age and shrouded in ivy, but the large
windows showed that modern changes had been carried out, and one
wing of the house appeared to be entirely new. The youthful
figure and alert, eager face of Inspector Stanley Hopkins
confronted us in the open doorway.
“I’m very glad you have come, Mr. Holmes. And you, too, Dr.
Watson. But, indeed, if I had my time over again, I should not
have troubled you, for since the lady has come to herself, she
has given so clear an account of the affair that there is not
much left for us to do. You remember that Lewisham gang of
burglars?”
“What, the three Randalls?”
“Exactly; the father and two sons. It’s their work. I have not a
doubt of it. They did a job at Sydenham a fortnight ago and were
seen and described. Rather cool to do another so soon and so
near, but it is they, beyond all doubt. It’s a hanging matter
this time.”
“Sir Eustace is dead, then?”
“Yes, his head was knocked in with his own poker.”
“Sir Eustace Brackenstall, the driver tells me.”
“Exactly—one of the richest men in Kent—Lady Brackenstall is in
the morning-room. Poor lady, she has had a most dreadful
experience. She seemed half dead when I saw her first. I think
you had best see her and hear her account of the facts. Then we
will examine the dining-room together.”
Lady Brackenstall was no ordinary person. Seldom have I seen so
graceful a figure, so womanly a presence, and so beautiful a
face. She was a blonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and would no
doubt have had the perfect complexion which goes with such
colouring, had not her recent experience left her drawn and
haggard. Her sufferings were physical as well as mental, for over
one eye rose a hideous, plum-coloured swelling, which her maid, a
tall, austere woman, was bathing assiduously with vinegar and
water. The lady lay back exhausted upon a couch, but her quick,
observant gaze, as we entered the room, and the alert expression
of her beautiful features, showed that neither her wits nor her
courage had been shaken by her terrible experience. She was
enveloped in a loose dressing-gown of blue and silver, but a
black sequin-covered dinner-dress lay upon the couch beside her.
“I have told you all that happened, Mr. Hopkins,” she said,
wearily. “Could you not repeat it for me? Well, if you think it
necessary, I will tell these gentlemen what occurred. Have they
been in the dining-room yet?”
“I thought they had better hear your ladyship’s story first.”
“I shall be glad when you can arrange matters. It is horrible to
me to think of him still lying there.” She shuddered and buried
her face in her hands. As she did so, the loose gown fell back
from her forearms. Holmes uttered an exclamation.
“You have other injuries, madam! What is this?” Two vivid red
spots stood out on one of the white, round limbs. She hastily
covered it.
“It is nothing. It has no connection with this hideous business
to-night. If you and your friend will sit down, I will tell you
all I can.
“I am the wife of Sir Eustace Brackenstall. I have been married
about a year. I suppose that it is no use my attempting to
conceal that our marriage has not been a happy one. I fear that
all our neighbours would tell you that, even if I were to attempt
to deny it. Perhaps the fault may be partly mine. I was brought
up in the freer, less conventional atmosphere of South Australia,
and this English life, with its proprieties and its primness, is
not congenial to me. But the main reason lies in the one fact,
which is notorious to everyone, and that is that Sir Eustace was
a confirmed drunkard. To be with such a man for an hour is
unpleasant. Can you imagine what it means for a sensitive and
high-spirited woman to be tied to him for day and night? It is a
sacrilege, a crime, a villainy to hold that such a marriage is
binding. I say that these monstrous laws of yours will bring a
curse upon the land—God will not let such wickedness endure.” For
an instant she sat up, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes blazing
from under the terrible mark upon her brow. Then the strong,
soothing hand of the austere maid drew her head down on to the
cushion, and the wild anger died away into passionate sobbing. At
last she continued:
“I will tell you about last night. You are aware, perhaps, that
in this house all the servants sleep in the modern wing. This
central block is made up of the dwelling-rooms, with the kitchen
behind and our bedroom above. My maid, Theresa, sleeps above my
room. There is no one else, and no sound could alarm those who
are in the farther wing. This must have been well-known to the
robbers, or they would not have acted as they did.
“Sir Eustace retired about half-past ten. The servants had
already gone to their quarters. Only my maid was up, and she had
remained in her room at the top of the house until I needed her
services. I sat until after eleven in this room, absorbed in a
book. Then I walked round to see that all was right before I went
upstairs. It was my custom to do this myself, for, as I have
explained, Sir Eustace was not always to be trusted. I went into
the kitchen, the butler’s pantry, the gun-room, the
billiard-room, the drawing-room, and finally the dining-room. As
I approached the window, which is covered with thick curtains, I
suddenly felt the wind blow upon my face and realized that it was
open. I flung the curtain aside and found myself face to face
with a broad-shouldered elderly man, who had just stepped into
the room. The window is a long French one, which really forms a
door leading to the lawn. I held my bedroom candle lit in my
hand, and, by its light, behind the first man I saw two others,
who were in the act of entering. I stepped back, but the fellow
was on me in an instant. He caught me first by the wrist and then
by the throat. I opened my mouth to scream, but he struck me a
savage blow with his fist over the eye, and felled me to the
ground. I must have been unconscious for a few minutes, for when
I came to myself, I found that they had torn down the bell-rope,
and had secured me tightly to the oaken chair which stands at the
head of the dining-table. I was so firmly bound that I could not
move, and a handkerchief round my mouth prevented me from
uttering a sound. It was at this instant that my unfortunate
husband entered the room. He had evidently heard some suspicious
sounds, and he came prepared for such a scene as he found. He was
dressed in nightshirt and trousers, with his favourite blackthorn
cudgel in his hand. He rushed at the burglars, but another—it was
an elderly man—stooped, picked the poker out of the grate and
struck him a horrible blow as he passed. He fell with a groan and
never moved again. I fainted once more, but again it could only
have been for a very few minutes during which I was insensible.
When I opened my eyes I found that they had collected the silver
from the sideboard, and they had drawn a bottle of wine which
stood there. Each of them had a glass in his hand. I have already
told you, have I not, that one was elderly, with a beard, and the
others young, hairless lads. They might have been a father with
his two sons. They talked together in whispers. Then they came
over and made sure that I was securely bound. Finally they
withdrew, closing the window after them. It was quite a quarter
of an hour before I got my mouth free. When I did so, my screams
brought the maid to my assistance. The other servants were soon
alarmed, and we sent for the local police, who instantly
communicated with London. That is really all that I can tell you,
gentlemen, and I trust that it will not be necessary for me to go
over so painful a story again.”
“Any questions, Mr. Holmes?” asked Hopkins.
“I will not impose any further tax upon Lady Brackenstall’s
patience and time,” said Holmes. “Before I go into the
dining-room, I should like to hear your experience.” He looked at
the maid.
“I saw the men before ever they came into the house,” said she.
“As I sat by my bedroom window I saw three men in the moonlight
down by the lodge gate yonder, but I thought nothing of it at the
time. It was more than an hour after that I heard my mistress
scream, and down I ran, to find her, poor lamb, just as she says,
and him on the floor, with his blood and brains over the room. It
was enough to drive a woman out of her wits, tied there, and her
very dress spotted with him, but she never wanted courage, did
Miss Mary Fraser of Adelaide and Lady Brackenstall of Abbey
Grange hasn’t learned new ways. You’ve questioned her long
enough, you gentlemen, and now she is coming to her own room,
just with her old Theresa, to get the rest that she badly needs.”
With a motherly tenderness the gaunt woman put her arm round her
mistress and led her from the room.
“She has been with her all her life,” said Hopkins. “Nursed her