The Return of Sherlock Holmes
“Surely there are details in her story which, if we looked at in
cold blood, would excite our suspicion. These burglars made a
considerable haul at Sydenham a fortnight ago. Some account of
them and of their appearance was in the papers, and would
naturally occur to anyone who wished to invent a story in which
imaginary robbers should play a part. As a matter of fact,
burglars who have done a good stroke of business are, as a rule,
only too glad to enjoy the proceeds in peace and quiet without
embarking on another perilous undertaking. Again, it is unusual
for burglars to operate at so early an hour, it is unusual for
burglars to strike a lady to prevent her screaming, since one
would imagine that was the sure way to make her scream, it is
unusual for them to commit murder when their numbers are
sufficient to overpower one man, it is unusual for them to be
content with a limited plunder when there was much more within
their reach, and finally, I should say, that it was very unusual
for such men to leave a bottle half empty. How do all these
unusuals strike you, Watson?”
“Their cumulative effect is certainly considerable, and yet each
of them is quite possible in itself. The most unusual thing of
all, as it seems to me, is that the lady should be tied to the
chair.”
“Well, I am not so clear about that, Watson, for it is evident
that they must either kill her or else secure her in such a way
that she could not give immediate notice of their escape. But at
any rate I have shown, have I not, that there is a certain
element of improbability about the lady’s story? And now, on the
top of this, comes the incident of the wineglasses.”
“What about the wineglasses?”
“Can you see them in your mind’s eye?”
“I see them clearly.”
“We are told that three men drank from them. Does that strike you
as likely?”
“Why not? There was wine in each glass.”
“Exactly, but there was beeswing only in one glass. You must have
noticed that fact. What does that suggest to your mind?”
“The last glass filled would be most likely to contain beeswing.”
“Not at all. The bottle was full of it, and it is inconceivable
that the first two glasses were clear and the third heavily
charged with it. There are two possible explanations, and only
two. One is that after the second glass was filled the bottle was
violently agitated, and so the third glass received the beeswing.
That does not appear probable. No, no, I am sure that I am
right.”
“What, then, do you suppose?”
“That only two glasses were used, and that the dregs of both were
poured into a third glass, so as to give the false impression
that three people had been here. In that way all the beeswing
would be in the last glass, would it not? Yes, I am convinced
that this is so. But if I have hit upon the true explanation of
this one small phenomenon, then in an instant the case rises from
the commonplace to the exceedingly remarkable, for it can only
mean that Lady Brackenstall and her maid have deliberately lied
to us, that not one word of their story is to be believed, that
they have some very strong reason for covering the real criminal,
and that we must construct our case for ourselves without any
help from them. That is the mission which now lies before us, and
here, Watson, is the Sydenham train.”
The household at the Abbey Grange were much surprised at our
return, but Sherlock Holmes, finding that Stanley Hopkins had
gone off to report to headquarters, took possession of the
dining-room, locked the door upon the inside, and devoted himself
for two hours to one of those minute and laborious investigations
which form the solid basis on which his brilliant edifices of
deduction were reared. Seated in a corner like an interested
student who observes the demonstration of his professor, I
followed every step of that remarkable research. The window, the
curtains, the carpet, the chair, the rope—each in turn was
minutely examined and duly pondered. The body of the unfortunate
baronet had been removed, and all else remained as we had seen it
in the morning. Finally, to my astonishment, Holmes climbed up on
to the massive mantelpiece. Far above his head hung the few
inches of red cord which were still attached to the wire. For a
long time he gazed upward at it, and then in an attempt to get
nearer to it he rested his knee upon a wooden bracket on the
wall. This brought his hand within a few inches of the broken end
of the rope, but it was not this so much as the bracket itself
which seemed to engage his attention. Finally, he sprang down
with an ejaculation of satisfaction.
“It’s all right, Watson,” said he. “We have got our case—one of
the most remarkable in our collection. But, dear me, how
slow-witted I have been, and how nearly I have committed the
blunder of my lifetime! Now, I think that, with a few missing
links, my chain is almost complete.”
“You have got your men?”
“Man, Watson, man. Only one, but a very formidable person. Strong
as a lion—witness the blow that bent that poker! Six foot three
in height, active as a squirrel, dexterous with his fingers,
finally, remarkably quick-witted, for this whole ingenious story
is of his concoction. Yes, Watson, we have come upon the
handiwork of a very remarkable individual. And yet, in that
bell-rope, he has given us a clue which should not have left us a
doubt.”
“Where was the clue?”
“Well, if you were to pull down a bell-rope, Watson, where would
you expect it to break? Surely at the spot where it is attached
to the wire. Why should it break three inches from the top, as
this one has done?”
“Because it is frayed there?”
“Exactly. This end, which we can examine, is frayed. He was
cunning enough to do that with his knife. But the other end is
not frayed. You could not observe that from here, but if you were
on the mantelpiece you would see that it is cut clean off without
any mark of fraying whatever. You can reconstruct what occurred.
The man needed the rope. He would not tear it down for fear of
giving the alarm by ringing the bell. What did he do? He sprang
up on the mantelpiece, could not quite reach it, put his knee on
the bracket—you will see the impression in the dust—and so got
his knife to bear upon the cord. I could not reach the place by
at least three inches—from which I infer that he is at least
three inches a bigger man than I. Look at that mark upon the seat
of the oaken chair! What is it?”
“Blood.”
“Undoubtedly it is blood. This alone puts the lady’s story out of
court. If she were seated on the chair when the crime was done,
how comes that mark? No, no, she was placed in the chair _after_
the death of her husband. I’ll wager that the black dress shows a
corresponding mark to this. We have not yet met our Waterloo,
Watson, but this is our Marengo, for it begins in defeat and ends
in victory. I should like now to have a few words with the nurse,
Theresa. We must be wary for a while, if we are to get the
information which we want.”
She was an interesting person, this stern Australian
nurse—taciturn, suspicious, ungracious, it took some time before
Holmes’s pleasant manner and frank acceptance of all that she
said thawed her into a corresponding amiability. She did not
attempt to conceal her hatred for her late employer.
“Yes, sir, it is true that he threw the decanter at me. I heard
him call my mistress a name, and I told him that he would not
dare to speak so if her brother had been there. Then it was that
he threw it at me. He might have thrown a dozen if he had but
left my bonny bird alone. He was forever ill-treating her, and
she too proud to complain. She will not even tell me all that he
has done to her. She never told me of those marks on her arm that
you saw this morning, but I know very well that they come from a
stab with a hatpin. The sly devil—God forgive me that I should
speak of him so, now that he is dead! But a devil he was, if ever
one walked the earth. He was all honey when first we met him—only
eighteen months ago, and we both feel as if it were eighteen
years. She had only just arrived in London. Yes, it was her first
voyage—she had never been from home before. He won her with his
title and his money and his false London ways. If she made a
mistake she has paid for it, if ever a woman did. What month did
we meet him? Well, I tell you it was just after we arrived. We
arrived in June, and it was July. They were married in January of
last year. Yes, she is down in the morning-room again, and I have
no doubt she will see you, but you must not ask too much of her,
for she has gone through all that flesh and blood will stand.”
Lady Brackenstall was reclining on the same couch, but looked
brighter than before. The maid had entered with us, and began
once more to foment the bruise upon her mistress’s brow.
“I hope,” said the lady, “that you have not come to cross-examine
me again?”
“No,” Holmes answered, in his gentlest voice, “I will not cause
you any unnecessary trouble, Lady Brackenstall, and my whole
desire is to make things easy for you, for I am convinced that
you are a much-tried woman. If you will treat me as a friend and
trust me, you may find that I will justify your trust.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“To tell me the truth.”
“Mr. Holmes!”
“No, no, Lady Brackenstall—it is no use. You may have heard of
any little reputation which I possess. I will stake it all on the
fact that your story is an absolute fabrication.”
Mistress and maid were both staring at Holmes with pale faces and
frightened eyes.
“You are an impudent fellow!” cried Theresa. “Do you mean to say
that my mistress has told a lie?”
Holmes rose from his chair.
“Have you nothing to tell me?”
“I have told you everything.”
“Think once more, Lady Brackenstall. Would it not be better to be
frank?”
For an instant there was hesitation in her beautiful face. Then
some new strong thought caused it to set like a mask.
“I have told you all I know.”
Holmes took his hat and shrugged his shoulders. “I am sorry,” he
said, and without another word we left the room and the house.
There was a pond in the park, and to this my friend led the way.
It was frozen over, but a single hole was left for the
convenience of a solitary swan. Holmes gazed at it, and then
passed on to the lodge gate. There he scribbled a short note for
Stanley Hopkins, and left it with the lodge-keeper.
“It may be a hit, or it may be a miss, but we are bound to do
something for friend Hopkins, just to justify this second visit,”
said he. “I will not quite take him into my confidence yet. I
think our next scene of operations must be the shipping office of