The Return of Sherlock Holmes
house. He had been stabbed to the heart and must have died
instantly. The knife with which the crime had been committed was
a curved Indian dagger, plucked down from a trophy of Oriental
arms which adorned one of the walls. Robbery does not appear to
have been the motive of the crime, for there had been no attempt
to remove the valuable contents of the room. Mr. Eduardo Lucas
was so well-known and popular that his violent and mysterious
fate will arouse painful interest and intense sympathy in a
widespread circle of friends.
“Well, Watson, what do you make of this?” asked Holmes, after a
long pause.
“It is an amazing coincidence.”
“A coincidence! Here is one of the three men whom we had named as
possible actors in this drama, and he meets a violent death
during the very hours when we know that that drama was being
enacted. The odds are enormous against its being coincidence. No
figures could express them. No, my dear Watson, the two events
are connected—_must_ be connected. It is for us to find the
connection.”
“But now the official police must know all.”
“Not at all. They know all they see at Godolphin Street. They
know—and shall know—nothing of Whitehall Terrace. Only _we_ know
of both events, and can trace the relation between them. There is
one obvious point which would, in any case, have turned my
suspicions against Lucas. Godolphin Street, Westminster, is only
a few minutes’ walk from Whitehall Terrace. The other secret
agents whom I have named live in the extreme West End. It was
easier, therefore, for Lucas than for the others to establish a
connection or receive a message from the European Secretary’s
household—a small thing, and yet where events are compressed into
a few hours it may prove essential. Halloa! what have we here?”
Mrs. Hudson had appeared with a lady’s card upon her salver.
Holmes glanced at it, raised his eyebrows, and handed it over to
me.
“Ask Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope if she will be kind enough to step
up,” said he.
A moment later our modest apartment, already so distinguished
that morning, was further honoured by the entrance of the most
lovely woman in London. I had often heard of the beauty of the
youngest daughter of the Duke of Belminster, but no description
of it, and no contemplation of colourless photographs, had
prepared me for the subtle, delicate charm and the beautiful
colouring of that exquisite head. And yet as we saw it that
autumn morning, it was not its beauty which would be the first
thing to impress the observer. The cheek was lovely but it was
paled with emotion, the eyes were bright but it was the
brightness of fever, the sensitive mouth was tight and drawn in
an effort after self-command. Terror—not beauty—was what sprang
first to the eye as our fair visitor stood framed for an instant
in the open door.
“Has my husband been here, Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes, madam, he has been here.”
“Mr. Holmes. I implore you not to tell him that I came here.”
Holmes bowed coldly, and motioned the lady to a chair.
“Your ladyship places me in a very delicate position. I beg that
you will sit down and tell me what you desire, but I fear that I
cannot make any unconditional promise.”
She swept across the room and seated herself with her back to the
window. It was a queenly presence—tall, graceful, and intensely
womanly. “Mr. Holmes,” she said—and her white-gloved hands
clasped and unclasped as she spoke—“I will speak frankly to you
in the hopes that it may induce you to speak frankly in return.
There is complete confidence between my husband and me on all
matters save one. That one is politics. On this his lips are
sealed. He tells me nothing. Now, I am aware that there was a
most deplorable occurrence in our house last night. I know that a
paper has disappeared. But because the matter is political my
husband refuses to take me into his complete confidence. Now it
is essential—essential, I say—that I should thoroughly understand
it. You are the only other person, save only these politicians,
who knows the true facts. I beg you then, Mr. Holmes, to tell me
exactly what has happened and what it will lead to. Tell me all,
Mr. Holmes. Let no regard for your client’s interests keep you
silent, for I assure you that his interests, if he would only see
it, would be best served by taking me into his complete
confidence. What was this paper which was stolen?”
“Madam, what you ask me is really impossible.”
She groaned and sank her face in her hands.
“You must see that this is so, madam. If your husband thinks fit
to keep you in the dark over this matter, is it for me, who has
only learned the true facts under the pledge of professional
secrecy, to tell what he has withheld? It is not fair to ask it.
It is him whom you must ask.”
“I have asked him. I come to you as a last resource. But without
your telling me anything definite, Mr. Holmes, you may do a great
service if you would enlighten me on one point.”
“What is it, madam?”
“Is my husband’s political career likely to suffer through this
incident?”
“Well, madam, unless it is set right it may certainly have a very
unfortunate effect.”
“Ah!” She drew in her breath sharply as one whose doubts are
resolved.
“One more question, Mr. Holmes. From an expression which my
husband dropped in the first shock of this disaster I understood
that terrible public consequences might arise from the loss of
this document.”
“If he said so, I certainly cannot deny it.”
“Of what nature are they?”
“Nay, madam, there again you ask me more than I can possibly
answer.”
“Then I will take up no more of your time. I cannot blame you,
Mr. Holmes, for having refused to speak more freely, and you on
your side will not, I am sure, think the worse of me because I
desire, even against his will, to share my husband’s anxieties.
Once more I beg that you will say nothing of my visit.”
She looked back at us from the door, and I had a last impression
of that beautiful haunted face, the startled eyes, and the drawn
mouth. Then she was gone.
“Now, Watson, the fair sex is your department,” said Holmes, with
a smile, when the dwindling _frou-frou_ of skirts had ended in
the slam of the front door. “What was the fair lady’s game? What
did she really want?”
“Surely her own statement is clear and her anxiety very natural.”
“Hum! Think of her appearance, Watson—her manner, her suppressed
excitement, her restlessness, her tenacity in asking questions.
Remember that she comes of a caste who do not lightly show
emotion.”
“She was certainly much moved.”
“Remember also the curious earnestness with which she assured us
that it was best for her husband that she should know all. What
did she mean by that? And you must have observed, Watson, how she
manœuvred to have the light at her back. She did not wish us to
read her expression.”
“Yes, she chose the one chair in the room.”
“And yet the motives of women are so inscrutable. You remember
the woman at Margate whom I suspected for the same reason. No
powder on her nose—that proved to be the correct solution. How
can you build on such a quicksand? Their most trivial action may
mean volumes, or their most extraordinary conduct may depend upon
a hairpin or a curling tongs. Good-morning, Watson.”
“You are off?”
“Yes, I will while away the morning at Godolphin Street with our
friends of the regular establishment. With Eduardo Lucas lies the
solution of our problem, though I must admit that I have not an
inkling as to what form it may take. It is a capital mistake to
theorize in advance of the facts. Do you stay on guard, my good
Watson, and receive any fresh visitors. I’ll join you at lunch if
I am able.”
All that day and the next and the next Holmes was in a mood which
his friends would call taciturn, and others morose. He ran out
and ran in, smoked incessantly, played snatches on his violin,
sank into reveries, devoured sandwiches at irregular hours, and
hardly answered the casual questions which I put to him. It was
evident to me that things were not going well with him or his
quest. He would say nothing of the case, and it was from the
papers that I learned the particulars of the inquest, and the
arrest with the subsequent release of John Mitton, the valet of
the deceased. The coroner’s jury brought in the obvious Wilful
Murder, but the parties remained as unknown as ever. No motive
was suggested. The room was full of articles of value, but none
had been taken. The dead man’s papers had not been tampered with.
They were carefully examined, and showed that he was a keen
student of international politics, an indefatigable gossip, a
remarkable linguist, and an untiring letter writer. He had been
on intimate terms with the leading politicians of several
countries. But nothing sensational was discovered among the
documents which filled his drawers. As to his relations with
women, they appeared to have been promiscuous but superficial. He
had many acquaintances among them, but few friends, and no one
whom he loved. His habits were regular, his conduct inoffensive.
His death was an absolute mystery and likely to remain so.
As to the arrest of John Mitton, the valet, it was a council of
despair as an alternative to absolute inaction. But no case could
be sustained against him. He had visited friends in Hammersmith
that night. The _alibi_ was complete. It is true that he started
home at an hour which should have brought him to Westminster
before the time when the crime was discovered, but his own
explanation that he had walked part of the way seemed probable
enough in view of the fineness of the night. He had actually
arrived at twelve o’clock, and appeared to be overwhelmed by the
unexpected tragedy. He had always been on good terms with his
master. Several of the dead man’s possessions—notably a small
case of razors—had been found in the valet’s boxes, but he
explained that they had been presents from the deceased, and the
housekeeper was able to corroborate the story. Mitton had been in
Lucas’s employment for three years. It was noticeable that Lucas
did not take Mitton on the Continent with him. Sometimes he
visited Paris for three months on end, but Mitton was left in
charge of the Godolphin Street house. As to the housekeeper, she
had heard nothing on the night of the crime. If her master had a
visitor he had himself admitted him.
So for three mornings the mystery remained, so far as I could
follow it in the papers. If Holmes knew more, he kept his own
counsel, but, as he told me that Inspector Lestrade had taken him
into his confidence in the case, I knew that he was in close
touch with every development. Upon the fourth day there appeared