textfiles/etext/AUTHORS/DOYLE/bascombe.txt

                                      1891                                  
                                                                            
                                SHERLOCK HOLMES                             
                                                                            
                          THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY                       
                                                                            
                           by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle                        
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
-                                                                           
  We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the          
maid brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran in          
this way:                                                                   
-                                                                           
  Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from         
the west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy.             
Shall be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave      
Paddington by the 11:15.                                                    
-                                                                           
  "What do you say, dear?" said my wife, looking across at me. "Will        
you go?"                                                                    
  "I really don't know what to say. I have a fairly long list at            
present."                                                                   
  "Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking         
a little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good, and        
you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes's cases."               
  "I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained               
through one of them," I answered. "But if I am to go, I must pack at        
once, for I have only half an hour."                                        
  My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the            
effect of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were few         
and simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a cab with        
my valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock Holmes was         
pacing up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt figure made even           
gaunter and taller by his long gray travelling-cloak and close fitting      
cloth cap.                                                                  
  "It is really very good of you to come, Watson," said he. "It             
makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on            
whom I can thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or         
else biassed. If you will keep the two corner seats I shall get the         
tickets."                                                                   
  We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of            
papers which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged           
and read, with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until we         
were past Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a gigantic         
ball and tossed them up onto the rack.                                      
  "Have you heard anything of the case?" he asked.                          
  "Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days."                      
  "The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been        
looking through all the recent papers in order to master the                
particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple        
cases which are so extremely difficult."                                    
  "That sounds a little paradoxical."                                       
  "But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clue.      
The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it      
is to bring it home. In this case, however, they have established a         
very serious case against the son of the murdered man."                     
  "It is a murder, then?"                                                   
  "Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for               
granted until I have the opportunity of looking personally into it.         
I will explain the state of things to you, as far as I have been            
able to understand it, in a very few words.                                 
  "Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in         
Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr.          
John Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned some years        
ago to the old country. One of the farms which he held, that of             
Hatherley, was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an                 
ex-Australian. The men had known each other in the colonies, so that        
it was not unnatural that when they came to settle down they should do      
so as near each other as possible. Turner was apparently the richer         
man, so McCarthy became his tenant but still remained, it seems,            
upon terms of perfect equality, as they were frequently together.           
McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen, and Turner had an only             
daughter of the same age, but neither of them had wives living. They        
appear to have avoided the society of the neighbouring English              
families and to have led retired lives, though both the McCarthys were      
fond of sport and were frequently seen at the race-meetings of the          
neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants-a man and a girl. Turner had      
a considerable household, some half-dozen at the least. That is as          
much as I have been able to gather about the families. Now for the          
facts.                                                                      
  "On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last McCarthy left his house at          
Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the Boscombe      
Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out of the              
stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out with his        
serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the man that he         
must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to keep at three.        
From that appointment he never came back alive.                             
  "From Hatherley Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a          
mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an      
old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William           
Crowder, a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both these              
witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The                   
game-keeper adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr.                
McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the            
same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the           
father was actually in sight at the time, and the son was following         
him. He thought no more of the matter until he heard in the evening of      
the tragedy that had occurred.                                              
  "The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder,         
the game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly           
wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the edge.      
A girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the              
lodge-keeper of the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the woods         
picking flowers. She states that while she was there she saw, at the        
border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son,         
and that they appeared to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr.        
McCarthy the elder using very strong language to his son, and she           
saw the latter raise up his hand as if to strike his father. She was        
so frightened by their violence that she ran away and told her              
mother when she reached home that she had left the two McCarthys            
quarrelling near Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid that they were      
going to fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr.                
McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say that he had found his          
father dead in the wood, and to ask for the help of the                     
lodge-keeper. He was much excited, without either his gun or his            
hat, and his right hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with         
fresh blood. On following him they found the dead body stretched out        
upon the grass beside the pool. The head had been beaten in by              
repeated blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were            
such as might very well have been inflicted by the butt-end of his          
son's gun, which was found lying on the grass within a few paces of         
the body. Under these circumstances the young man was instantly             
arrested, and a verdict of 'wilful murder' having been returned at the      
inquest on Tuesday, he was on Wednesday brought before the magistrates      
at Ross, who have referred the case to the next Assizes. Those are the      
main facts of the case as they came out before the coroner and the          
police-court."                                                              
  "I could hardly imagine a more damning case," I remarked. "If ever        
circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so here."             
  "Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing," answered Holmes         
thoughtfully. "It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if      
you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in      
an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different. It        
must be confessed, however, that the case looks exceedingly grave           
against the young man, and it is very possible that he is indeed the        
culprit. There are several people in the neighbourhood, however, and        
among them Miss Turner, the daughter of the neighbouring land-owner,        
who believe in his innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you      
may recollect in connection with 'A Study in Scarlet', to work out the      
case in his interest. Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the      
case to me, and hence it is that two middleaged gentlemen are flying        
westward at fifty miles an hour instead of quietly digesting their          
breakfasts at home."                                                        
  "I am afraid," said I, "that the facts are so obvious that you            
will find little credit to be gained out of this case."                     
  "There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact," he answered,      
laughing. "Besides, we may chance to hit upon some other obvious facts      
which may have been by no means obvious to Mr. Lestrade. You know me        
too well to think that I am boasting when I say that I shall either         
confirm or destroy his theory by means which he is quite incapable          
of employing, or even of understanding. To take the first example to        
hand, I very clearly perceive that in your bedroom the window is            
upon the right-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade           
would have noted even so self-evident a thing as that."                     
  "How on earth-"                                                           
  "My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness which      
characterizes you. You shave every morning, and in this season you          
shave by the sunlight, but since your shaving is less and less              
complete as we get farther back on the left side, until it becomes          
positively slovenly as we get round the angle of the jaw, it is surely      
very clear that that is less illuminated than the other. I could not        
imagine a man of your habits looking at himself in an equal light           
and being satisfied with such a result. I only quote this as a trivial      
example of observation and inference. Therein lies my metier, and it        
is just possible that it may be of some service in the investigation        
which lies before us. There are one or two minor points which were          
brought out in the inquest, and which are worth considering."               
  "What are they?"                                                          
  "It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after         
the return to Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of constabulary              
informing him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not           
surprised to hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts. His         
observation of his had the natural effect of removing any traces of         
doubt which might have remained in the minds of the coroner's jury."        
  "It was a confession," I ejaculated.                                      
  "No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence."                 
  "Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at          
least a most suspicious remark."                                            
  "On the contrary," said Holmes, "it is the brightest rift which I         
can at present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be, he          
could not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the               
circumstances were very black against him. Had he appeared surprised        
at his own arrest or feigned indignation at it, I should have looked        
upon it as highly suspicious, because such surprise or anger would not      
be natural under the circumstances, and yet might appear to be the          
best policy to a scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation        
marks him as either an innocent man, or else as a man of                    
considerable self-restraint and firmness. As to his remark about his        
deserts, it was also not unnatural if you consider that he stood            
beside the dead body of his father, and that there is no doubt that he      
had that very day so far forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words        
with him, and even, according to the little girl whose evidence is          
so important, to raise his hand as if to strike him. The self-reproach      
and contrition which are displayed in his remark appear to me to be         
the signs of a healthy mind rather than of a guilty one."                   
  I shook my head. "Many men have been hanged on far slighter               
evidence," I remarked.                                                      
  "So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged."                 
  "What is the young man's own account of the matter?"                      
  "It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters,              
though there are one or two points in it which are suggestive. You          
will find it here, and may read it for yourself."                           
  He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire           
paper, and having turned down the sheet he pointed out the paragraph        
in which the unfortunate young man had given his own statement of what      
had occurred. I settled myself down in the corner of the carriage           
and read it very carefully. It ran in this way:                             
-                                                                           
  Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called         
and gave evidence as follows: "I had been away from home for three          
days at Bristol, and had only just returned upon the morning of last        
Monday, the 3rd. My father was absent from home at the time of my           
arrival, and I was informed by the maid that he had driven over to          
Ross with John Cobb, the groom. Shortly after my return I heard the         
wheels of his trap in the yard, and, looking out of my window, I saw        
him get out and walk rapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware        
in which direction he was going. I then took my gun and strolled out        
in the direction of the Boscombe Pool, with the intention of                
visiting the rabbit-warren which is upon the other side. On my way I        
saw William Crowder, the game-keeper, as he had stated in his               
evidence; but he is mistaken in thinking that I was following my            
father. I had no idea that he was in front of me. When about a hundred      
yards from the pool I heard a cry of 'Cooee!' which was a usual signal      
between my father and myself. I then hurried forward, and found him         
standing by the pool. He appeared to be much surprised at seeing me         
and asked me rather roughly what I was doing there. A conversation          
ensued which led to high words and almost to blows, for my father           
was a man of a very violent temper. Seeing that his passion was             
becoming ungovernable, I left him and returned towards Hatherley Farm.      
I had not gone more than 150 yards, however, when I heard a hideous         
outcry behind me, which caused me to run back again. I found my father      
expiring upon the ground, with his head terribly injured. I dropped my      
gun and held him in my arms, but he almost instantly expired. I             
knelt beside him for some minutes, and then made my way to Mr.              
Turner's lodge-keeper, his house being the nearest, to ask for              
assistance. I saw no one near my father when I returned, and I have no      
idea how he came by his injuries. He was not a popular man, being           
somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners; but he had, as far as I        
know, no active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter."             
  The Coroner: Did your father make any statement to you before he          
died?                                                                       
  Witness: He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some              
allusion to a rat.                                                          
  The Coroner: What did you understand by that?                             
  Witness: It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was              
delirious.                                                                  
  The Coroner: What was the point upon which you and your father had        
this final quarrel?                                                         
  Witness: I should prefer not to answer.                                   
  The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press it.                            
  Witness: It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can assure         
you that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which followed.          
  The Coroner: That is for the court to decide. I need not point out        
to you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case                 
considerably in any future proceedings which may arise.                     
  Witness: I must still refuse.                                             
  The Coroner: I understand that the cry of 'Cooee' was a common            
signal between you and your father?                                         
  Witness: It was.                                                          
  The Coroner: How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw you,      
and before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol?                 
  Witness (with considerable confusion): I do not know.                     
  A Juryman: Did you see nothing which aroused your suspicions when         
you returned on hearing the cry and found your father fatally injured?      
  Witness: Nothing definite.                                                
  The Coroner: What do you mean?                                            
  Witness: I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into the          
open, that I could think of nothing except of my father. Yet I have         
a vague impression that as I ran forward something lay upon the ground      
to the left of me. It seemed to me to be something gray in colour, a        
coat of some sort, or a plaid perhaps. When I rose from my father I         
looked round for it, but it was gone.                                       
  "Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help?"               
  "Yes, it was gone."                                                       
  "You cannot say what it was?"                                             
  "No, I had a feeling something was there."                                
  "How far from the body?"                                                  
  "A dozen yards or so."                                                    
  "And how far from the edge of the wood?"                                  
  "About the same."                                                         
  "Then if it was removed it was while you were within a dozen yards        
of it?"                                                                     
  "Yes, but with my back towards it."                                       
  This concluded the examination of the witness.                            
-                                                                           
  "I see," said I as I glanced down the column, "that the coroner in        
his concluding remarks was rather severe upon young McCarthy. He calls      
attention, and with reason, to the discrepancy about his father having      
signalled to him before seeing him, also to his refusal to give             
details of his conversation with his father, and his singular               
account of his father's dying words. They are all, as he remarks, very      
much against the son."                                                      
  Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon           
the cushioned seat. "Both you and the coroner have been at some             
pains," said he, "to single out the very strongest points in the young      
man's favour. Don't you see that you alternately give him credit for        
having too much imagination and too little? Too little, if he could         
not invent a cause of quarrel which would give him the sympathy of the      
jury; too much, if he evolved from his own inner consciousness              
anything so outre as a dying reference to a rat, and the incident of        
the vanishing cloth. No, sir, I shall approach this case from the           
point of view that what this young man says is true, and we shall           
see whither that hypothesis will lead us. And now here is my pocket         
Petrarch, and not another word shall I say of this case until we are        
on the scene of action. We lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall        
be there in twenty minutes."                                                
  It was nearly four o'clock when we at last, after passing through         
the beautiful Stroud Valley, and over the broad gleaming Severn, found      
ourselves at the pretty little country-town of Ross. A lean                 
ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for us upon           
the platform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and leather              
leggings which he wore in deference to his rustic surroundings, I           
had no difficulty in recognizing Lestrade, of Scotland Yard. With           
him we drove to the Hereford Arms where a room had already been             
engaged for us.                                                             
  "I have ordered a carriage," said Lestrade as we sat over a cup of        
tea. "I knew your energetic nature, and that you would not be happy         
until you had been on the scene of the crime."                              
  "It was very nice and complimentary of you," Holmes answered. "It is      
entirely a question of barometric pressure."                                
  Lestrade looked startled. "I do not quite follow," he said.               
  "How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud in        
the sky. I have a caseful of cigarettes here which need smoking, and        
the sofa is very much superior to the usual country hotel abomination.      
I do not think that it is probable that I shall use the carriage            
to-night."                                                                  
  Lestrade laughed indulgently. "You have, no doubt, already formed         
your conclusions from the newspapers," he said. "The case is as             
plain as a pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer it          
becomes. Still, of course, one can't refuse a lady, and such a very         
positive one, too. She had heard of you, and would have your                
opinion, though I repeatedly told her that there was nothing which you      
could do which I had not already done. Why, bless my soul! here is her      
carriage at the door."                                                      
  He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the         
most lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet        
eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all            
thought of her natural reserve lost in her overpowering excitement and      
concern.                                                                    
  "Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" she cried, glancing from one to the other      
of us, and finally, with a woman's quick intuition, fastening upon          
my companion, "I am so glad that you have come. I have driven down          
to tell you so. I know that James didn't do it. I know it, and I            
want you to start upon your work knowing it, too. Never let yourself        
doubt upon that point. We have known each other since we were little        
children, and I know his faults as no one else does; but he is too          
tenderhearted to hurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who          
really knows him."                                                          
  "I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner," said Sherlock Holmes. "You        
may rely upon my doing all that I can."                                     
  "But you have read the evidence, You have formed some conclusion? Do      
you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that        
he is innocent?"                                                            
  "I think that it is very probable."                                       
  "There, now!" she cried, throwing back her head and looking               
defiantly at Lestrade. "You hear! He gives me hopes."                       
  Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am afraid that my colleague           
has been a little quick in forming his conclusions," he said.               
  "But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never did it.        
And about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the reason why        
he would not speak about it to the coroner was because I was concerned      
in it."                                                                     
  "In what way?" asked Holmes.                                              
  "It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had          
many disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that             
there should be a marriage between us. James and I have always loved        
each other as brother and sister; but of course he is young and has         
seen very little of life yet, and-and-well, he naturally did not            
wish to do anything like that yet. So there were quarrels, and this, I      
am sure, was one of them."                                                  
  "And your father?" asked Holmes. "Was he in favour of such a union?"      
  "No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in favour      
of it." A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as Holmes            
shot one of his keen, questioning glances at her.                           
  "Thank you for this information," said he. "May I see your father if      
I call tomorrow?"                                                           
  "I am afraid the doctor won't allow it."                                  
  "The doctor?"                                                             
  "Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for           
years back, but this has broken him down completely. He has taken to        
his bed, and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and that his               
nervous system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive who        
had known dad in the old days in Victoria."                                 
  "Ha! In Victoria! That is important."                                     
  "Yes, at the mines."                                                      
  "Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner          
made his money."                                                            
  "Yes, certainly."                                                         
  "Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to          
me."                                                                        
  "You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow. No doubt you            
will go to the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell      
him that I know him to be innocent."                                        
  "I will, Miss Turner."                                                    
  "I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so if I        
leave him. Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking." She             
hurried from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and we             
heard the wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street.                
  "I am ashamed of you, Holmes," said Lestrade with dignity after a         
few minutes' silence. "Why should you raise up hopes which you are          
bound to disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I call it           
cruel."                                                                     
  "I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy," said Holmes.      
"Have you an order to see him in prison?"                                   
  "Yes, but only for you and me."                                           
  "Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have           
still time to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?"               
  "Ample."                                                                  
  "Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very             
slow, but I shall only be away a couple of hours."                          
  I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through         
the streets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel,             
where I lay upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a                 
yellow-backed novel. The puny plot of the story was so thin,                
however, when compared to the deep mystery through which we were            
groping, and I found my attention wander so continually from the            
fiction to the fact, that I at last flung it across the room and            
gave myself up entirely to a consideration of the events of the day.        
Supposing that this unhappy young man's story were absolutely true,         
then what hellish thing, what absolutely unforeseen and                     
extraordinary calamity could have occurred between the time when he         
parted from his father, and the moment when, drawn back by his              
screams, he rushed into the glade? It was something terrible and            
deadly. What could it be? Might not the nature of the injuries              
reveal something to my medical instincts? I rang the bell and called        
for the weekly county paper, which contained a verbatim account of the      
inquest. In the surgeon's deposition it was stated that the                 
posterior third of the left parietal bone and the left half of the          
occipital bone had been shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon.      
I marked the spot upon my own head. Clearly such a blow must have been      
struck from behind. That was to some extent in favour of the                
accused, as when seen quarrelling he was face to face with his father.      
Still, it did not go for very much, for the older man might have            
turned his back before the blow fell. Still, it might be worth while        
to call Holmes's attention to it. Then there was the peculiar dying         
reference to a rat. What could that mean? It could not be delirium.         
A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become delirious. No,      
it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how he met his fate.         
But what could it indicate? I cudgelled my brains to find some              
possible explanation. And then the incident of the gray cloth seen          
by young McCarthy. If that were true the murderer must have dropped         
some part of his dress, presumably his overcoat, in his flight and          
must have had the hardihood to return and to carry it away at the           
instant when the son was kneeling with his back turned not a dozen          
paces off. What a tissue of mysteries and improbabilities the whole         
thing was! I did not wonder at Lestrade's opinion, and yet I had so         
much faith in Sherlock Holmes's insight that I could not lose hope          
as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his conviction of          
young McCarthy's innocence.                                                 
  It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, for      
Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.                               
  "The glass still keeps very high," he remarked as he sat down. "It        
is of importance that it should not rain before we are able to go over      
the ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his very best and         
keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not wish to do it when        
fagged by a long journey. I have seen young McCarthy."                      
  "And what did you learn from him?"                                        
  "Nothing."                                                                
  "Could he throw no light?"                                                
  "None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who        
had done it and was screening him or her, but I am convinced now            
that he is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very                    
quick-witted youth, though comely to look at and, I should think,           
sound at heart."                                                            
  "I cannot admire his taste," I remarked, "if it is indeed a fact          
that he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as this      
Miss Turner."                                                               
  "Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly,           
insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was only a      
lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away five years        
at a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get into the clutches      
of a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a registry office? No one          
knows a word of the matter, but you can imagine how maddening it            
must be to him to be upbraided for not doing what he would give his         
very eyes to do, but what he knows to be absolutely impossible. It was      
sheer frenzy of this sort which made him throw his hands up into the        
air when his father, at their last interview, was goading him on to         
propose to Miss Turner. On the other hand, he had no means of               
supporting himself, and his father, who was by all accounts a very          
hard man, would have thrown him over utterly had he known the truth.        
It was with his barmaid wife that he had spent the last three days          
in Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. Mark that point.      
It is of importance. Good has come out of evil, however, for the            
barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in serious trouble and          
likely to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly and has written to         
him to say that she has a husband already in the Bermuda Dockyard,          
so that there is really no tie between them. I think that of news           
has consoled young McCarthy for all that he has suffered."                  
  "But if he is innocent, who has done it?"                                 
  "Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two            
points. One is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone        
at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his son, for his      
son was away, and he did not know when he would return. The second          
is that the murdered man was heard to cry 'Cooee!' before he knew that      
his son had returned. Those are the crucial points upon which the case      
depends. And now let us talk about George Meredith, if you please, and      
we shall leave all minor matters until to-morrow."                          
  There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke          
bright and cloudless. At nine o'clock Lestrade called for us with           
the carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe Pool.      
  "There is serious news this morning," Lestrade observed. "It is said      
that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is despaired          
of."                                                                        
  "An elderly man, I presume?" said Holmes.                                 
  "About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life         
abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This business      
has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of                 
McCarthy's, and, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I have           
learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm rent free."                         
  "Indeed! That is interesting," said Holmes.                               
  "Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody about      
here speaks of his kindness to him."                                        
  "Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this            
McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have            
been under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying        
his son to Turner's daughter, who is, presumably, heiress to the            
estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner, as if it were              
merely a case of a proposal and all else would follow? It is the            
more strange, since we know that Turner himself was averse to the           
idea. The daughter told us as much. Do you not deduce something from        
that?"                                                                      
  "We have got to the deductions and the inferences," said Lestrade,        
winking at me. "I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without      
flying away after theories and fancies."                                    
  "You are right," said Holmes demurely, "you do find it very hard          
to tackle the facts."                                                       
  "Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult      
to get hold of," replied Lestrade with some warmth.                         
  "And that is-"                                                            
  "That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that         
all theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine."                     
  "Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog," said Holmes,              
laughing. "But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm        
upon the left."                                                             
  "Yes, that is it." It was a widespread, comfortable-looking               
building, two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of          
lichen upon the gray walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless              
chimneys, however, gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of         
this horror still lay heavy upon it. We called at the door, when the        
maid, at Holmes's request, showed us the boots which her master wore        
at the time of his death, and also a pair of the son's, though not the      
pair which he had then had. Having measured these very carefully            
from seven or eight different points, Holmes desired to be led to           
the court-yard, from which we all followed the winding track which led      
to Boscombe Pool.                                                           
  Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as      
this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker        
Street would have failed to recognize him. His face flushed and             
darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his         
eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was        
bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins      
stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils              
seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind      
was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a            
question or remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most,            
only provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and                
silently he made his way along the track which ran through the              
meadows, and so by way of the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp,      
marshy ground, as is all that district, and there were marks of many        
feet, both upon the path and amid the short grass which bounded it          
on either side. Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop             
dead, and once he made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade      
and I walked behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous,        
while I watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the           
conviction that every one of his actions was directed towards a             
definite end.                                                               
  The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some        
fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the                 
Hatherley Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above        
the woods which lined it upon the farther side we could see the red,        
jutting pinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner's             
dwelling. On the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew very thick,      
and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across             
between the edge of the trees and the reeds which lined the lake.           
Lestrade showed us the exact spot at which the body had been found,         
and, indeed, so moist was the ground, that I could plainly see the          
traces which had been left by the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes,      
as I could see by his eager face and peering eyes, very many other          
things were to be read upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a        
dog who is picking up a scent, and then turned upon my companion.           
  "What did you go into the pool for?" he asked.                            
  "I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or      
other trace. But how on earth-"                                             
  "Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its           
inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there        
it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been had      
I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all        
over it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and            
they have covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But      
here are three separate tracks of the same feet." He drew out a lens        
and lay down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking all         
the time to himself rather than to us. "These are young McCarthy's          
feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles      
are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his          
story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are           
the father's feet as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It is        
the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening. And this? Ha,           
ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too, quite unusual         
boots! They come, they go, they come again of course that was for           
the cloak. Now where did they come from?" He ran up and down,               
sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we were well            
within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great beech, the      
largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced his way to the             
farther side of this and lay down once more upon his face with a            
little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained there, turning      
over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to me to be      
dust into an envelope and examining with his lens not only the              
ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could reach. A            
jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he carefully           
examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the wood          
until he came to the highroad, where all traces were lost.                  
  "It has been a case of considerable interest," he remarked,               
returning to his natural manner. "I fancy that this gray house on           
the right must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word      
with Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having done that, we           
may drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the cab, and I shall        
be with you presently."                                                     
  It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back        
into Ross, Holmes still carving with him the stone which he had picked      
up in the wood.                                                             
  "This may interest you, Lestrade," he remarked, holding it out. "The      
murder was done with it."                                                   
  "I see no marks."                                                         
  "There are none."                                                         
  "How do you know, then?"                                                  
  "The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few             
days. There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It             
corresponds with the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon."       
  "And the murderer?"                                                       
  "Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears              
thick-soled shooting boots and a gray cloak, smokes Indian cigars,          
uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket.           
There are several other indications, but these may be enough to aid us      
in our search."                                                             
  Lestrade laughed. "I am afraid that I am still a sceptic," he             
said. "Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a               
hard-headed British jury."                                                  
  "Nous verrons," answered Holmes calmly. "You work your own method,        
and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall            
probably return to London by the evening train."                            
  "And leave your case unfinished?"                                         
  "No, finished."                                                           
  "But the mystery?"                                                        
  "It is solved."                                                           
  "Who was the criminal, then?"                                             
  "The gentleman I describe."                                               
  "But who is he?"                                                          
  "Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a         
populous neighbourhood."                                                    
  Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am a practical man," he said,         
"and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a        
left-handed gentleman with a game-leg. I should become the                  
laughing-stock of Scotland Yard."                                           
  "All right," said Holmes quietly. "I have given you the chance. Here      
are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before I leave."       
  Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where we        
found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in thought         
with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds himself in         
a perplexing position.                                                      
  "Look here, Watson," he said when the cloth was cleared; "just sit        
down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don't know      
quite what to do, and I should value your advice. Light a cigar and         
let me expound."                                                            
  "Pray do so."                                                             
  "Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about           
young McCarthy's narrative which struck us both instantly, although         
they impressed me in his favour and you against him. One was the            
fact that his father should, according to his account, cry 'Cooee!'         
before seeing him. The other was his singular dying reference to a          
rat. He mumbled several words, you understand, but that was all that        
caught the son's ear. Now from this double point our research must          
commence, and we will begin it by presuming that what the lad says          
is absolutely true."                                                        
  "What of this 'Cooee!' then?"                                             
  "Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The            
son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that he was      
within earshot. The 'Cooee!' was meant to attract the attention of          
whoever it was that he had the appointment with. But 'Cooee' is a           
distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used between                    
Australians. There is a strong presumption that the person whom             
McCarthy expected to meet him at Boscombe Pool was someone who had          
been in Australia."                                                         
  "What of the rat, then?"                                                  
  Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it      
out on the table. "This is a map of the Colony of Victoria," he             
said. "I wired to Bristol for it last night." He put his hand over          
part of the map. "What do you read?"                                        
  "ARAT," I read.                                                           
  "And now?" He raised his hand.                                            
  "BALLARAT."                                                               
  "Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his son        
only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name of      
his murderer. So and so, of Ballarat."                                      
  "It is wonderful!" I exclaimed.                                           
  "It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down           
considerably. The possession of a gray garment was a third point            
which, granting the son's statement to be correct, was a certainty. We      
have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception of an        
Australian from Ballarat with a gray cloak."                                
  "Certainly."                                                              
  "And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only be        
approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could              
hardly wander."                                                             
  "Quite so."                                                               
  "Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the            
ground I gained the trifling details which I gave to that imbecile          
Lestrade, as to the personality of the criminal."                           
  "But how did you gain them?"                                              
  "You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles."      
  "His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length of        
his stride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces."               
  "Yes, they were peculiar boots."                                          
  "But his lameness?"                                                       
  "The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than           
his left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped-he was         
lame."                                                                      
  "But his left-handedness."                                                
  "You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded by      
the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from immediately            
behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can that be unless it      
were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that tree during the         
interview between the father and son. He had even smoked there. I           
found the ash of a cigar, which my special knowledge of tobacco             
ashes enables me to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as you know,      
devoted some attention to this, and written a little monograph on           
the ashes of 140 different varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette          
tobacco. Having found the ash, I then looked round and discovered           
the stump among the moss where he had tossed it. It was an Indian           
cigar, of the variety which are rolled in Rotterdam."                       
  "And the cigar-holder?"                                                   
  "I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore he         
used a holder. The tip had been cut off not bitten off, but the cut         
was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife."                       
  "Holmes," I said, "you have drawn a net round this man from which he      
cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as truly as        
if you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the direction          
in which all this points. The culprit is-"                                  
  "Mr. John Turner," cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our        
sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.                                    
  The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow,        
limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude,        
and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous             
limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual strength of body and          
of character. His tangled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding,            
drooping eyebrows combined to give an air of dignity and power to           
his appearance, but his face was of an ashen white, while his lips and      
the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was        
clear to me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and          
chronic disease.                                                            
  "Pray sit down on the sofa," said Holmes gently. "You had my note?"       
  "Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to         
see me here to avoid scandal."                                              
  "I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall."                      
  "And why did you wish to see me?" He looked across at my companion        
with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question was already          
answered.                                                                   
  "Yes," said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. "It is      
so. I know all about McCarthy."                                             
  The old man sank his face in his hands. "God help me!" he cried.          
"But I would not have let the young man come to harm. I give you my         
word that I would have spoken out if it went against him at the             
Assizes."                                                                   
  "I am glad to hear you say so," said Holmes gravely.                      
  "I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It             
would break her heart-it will break her heart when she hears that I am      
arrested."                                                                  
  "It may not come to that," said Holmes.                                   
  "What?"                                                                   
  "I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter           
who required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests. Young      
McCarthy must be got off, however."                                         
  "I am a dying man," said old Turner. "I have had diabetes for years.      
My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a month. Yet I         
would rather die under my own roof than in a jail."                         
  Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a      
bundle of paper before him. "Just tell us the truth," he said. "I           
shall jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can             
witness it. Then I could produce your confession at the last extremity      
to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use it unless        
it is absolutely needed."                                                   
  "It's as well," said the old man; "it's a question whether I shall        
live to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I should wish          
to spare Alice the shock. And now I will make the thing clear to            
you; it has been a long time in the acting, but will not take me            
long to tell."                                                              
  "You didn't know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil                  
incarnate. I tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of such a      
man as he. His grip has been upon me these twenty years, and he has         
blasted my life. I'll tell you first how I came to be in his power.         
  "It was in the early '60's at the diggings. I was a young chap then,      
hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything; I got          
among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took        
to the bush, and in a word became what you would call over here a           
highway robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life          
of it, sticking up a station from time to time, or stopping the wagons      
on the road to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I          
went under, and our party is still remembered in the colony as the          
Ballarat Gang.                                                              
  "One day a gold convoy came down from Ballust to Melbourne, and we        
lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers and six of      
us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of their saddles at        
the first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before we         
got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon-driver, who was      
this very man McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had though him            
shot him then, but I spared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes        
fixed on my face, as though to remember every feature. We got away          
with the gold, became wealthy men, and made our way over to England         
without being suspected. There I parted from my old pals and                
determined to settle down to a quiet and respectable life. I bought         
this estate, which chanced to be in the market, and I set myself to do      
a little with my money, to make up for the way in which I had earned        
it. I married, too, and though my wife died young she left me my            
dear little Alice. Even when she was just a baby her wee hand seemed        
to lead me down the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a          
word, I turned over a new leaf and did my best to make up for the           
past. All was going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon me.               
  "I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in              
Regent Street with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his foot.         
  "'Here we are, Jack,' says he, touching me on the arm; 'we'll be          
as good as a family to you. There's two of us, me and my son, and           
you can have the keeping of us. If you don't-it's a fine,                   
law-abiding country is England, and there's always a policeman              
within hail.'                                                               
  "Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking them      
off, and there they have lived rent free on my best land ever since.        
There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness; turn where I          
would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It grew worse      
as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her knowing my       
past than of the police. Whatever he wanted he must have, and whatever      
it was I gave him without question, land, money, houses, until at last      
he asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for Alice.                
  "His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was         
known to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that his         
lad should step into the whole property. But there I was firm. I would      
not have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that I had any               
dislike to the lad, but his blood was in him, and that was enough. I        
stood firm. McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do his worst. We were      
to meet at the pool midway between our houses to talk it over.              
  "When I went down there I found him talking with his son, so I            
smoked a cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone.           
But as I listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in me           
seemed, to come uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my                
daughter with as little regard for what she might think as if she were      
a slut from off the streets. It drove me mad to think that I and all        
that I held most dear should be in the power of such a man as this.         
Could I not snap the bond? I was already a dying and a desperate            
man. Though clear of mind and fairly strong of limb, I knew that my         
own fate was sealed. But my memory and my girl! Both could be saved if      
I could but silence that foul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes.                 
  "I would do it again. Deeply as I have sinned, I have led a life          
of martyrdom to atone for it. But that my girl should be entangled          
in the same meshes which held me was more than I could suffer. I            
struck him down with no more compunction than if he had been some foul      
and venomous beast. His cry brought back his son; but I had gained the      
cover of the wood, though I was forced to go back to fetch the cloak        
which I had dropped in my flight. That is the true story, gentlemen,        
of all that occurred."                                                      
  Well, it is not for me to judge you," said Holmes as the old man          
signed the statement which had been drawn out. "I pray that we may          
never be exposed to such a temptation."                                     
  "I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?"                          
  "In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you         
will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the           
Assizes. I will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is condemned I        
shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by mortal         
eye; and your secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe with      
us."                                                                        
  "Farewell, then," said the old man solemnly. "Your own deathbeds,         
when they come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace             
which you have given to mine." Tottering and shaking in all his             
giant frame, he stumbled slowly from the room.                              
  "God help us!" said Holmes after a long silence. "Why does fate play      
such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case          
as this that I do not think of Baxter's words, and say, 'There, but         
for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.'"                               
  James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of a          
number of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and                 
submitted to the defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven              
months after our interview, but he is now dead; and there is every          
prospect that the son and daughter may come to live happily together        
in ignorance of the black cloud which rests upon their past.                
                            -THE END-