morning, and make sure that this curious and inconclusive
investigation has no untoward ending."
I confess that I had not up to now taken a very serious view of the
case, which had seemed to me rather grotesque and bizarre than
dangerous. That a man should lie in wait for and follow a very
handsome woman is no unheard-of thing, and if he had so little
audacity that he not only dared not address her, but even fled from
her approach, he was not a very formidable assailant. The ruffian
Woodley was a very different person, but, except on one occasion, he
had not molested our client, and now he visited the house of
Carruthers without intruding upon her presence. The man on the
bicycle was doubtless a member of those week-end parties at the Hall
of which the publican had spoken; but who he was or what he wanted
was as obscure as ever. It was the severity of Holmes's manner and
the fact that he slipped a revolver into his pocket before leaving
our rooms which impressed me with the feeling that tragedy might
prove to lurk behind this curious train of events.
A rainy night had been followed by a glorious morning, and the
heath-covered country-side with the glowing clumps of flowering gorse
seemed all the more beautiful to eyes which were weary of the duns
and drabs and slate-greys of London. Holmes and I walked along the
broad, sandy road inhaling the fresh morning air, and rejoicing in
the music of the birds and the fresh breath of the spring. From a
rise of the road on the shoulder of Crooksbury Hill we could see the
grim Hall bristling out from amidst the ancient oaks, which, old as
they were, were still younger than the building which they
surrounded. Holmes pointed down the long tract of road which wound, a
reddish yellow band, between the brown of the heath and the budding
green of the woods. Far away, a black dot, we could see a vehicle
moving in our direction. Holmes gave an exclamation of impatience.
"I had given a margin of half an hour," said he. "If that is her trap
she must be making for the earlier train. I fear, Watson, that she
will be past Charlington before we can possibly meet her."
From the instant that we passed the rise we could no longer see the
vehicle, but we hastened onwards at such a pace that my sedentary
life began to tell upon me, and I was compelled to fall behind.
Holmes, however, was always in training, for he had inexhaustible
stores of nervous energy upon which to draw. His springy step never
slowed until suddenly, when he was a hundred yards in front of me, he
halted, and I saw him throw up his hand with a gesture of grief and
despair. At the same instant an empty dog-cart, the horse cantering,
the reins trailing, appeared round the curve of the road and rattled
swiftly towards us.
"Too late, Watson; too late!" cried Holmes, as I ran panting to his
side. "Fool that I was not to allow for that earlier train! It's
abduction, Watson--abduction! Murder! Heaven knows what! Block the
road! Stop the horse! That's right. Now, jump in, and let us see if I
can repair the consequences of my own blunder."
We had sprung into the dog-cart, and Holmes, after turning the horse,
gave it a sharp cut with the whip, and we flew back along the road.
As we turned the curve the whole stretch of road between the Hall and
the heath was opened up. I grasped Holmes's arm.
"That's the man!" I gasped.
A solitary cyclist was coming towards us. His head was down and his
shoulders rounded as he put every ounce of energy that he possessed
on to the pedals. He was flying like a racer. Suddenly he raised his
bearded face, saw us close to him, and pulled up, springing from his
machine. That coal-black beard was in singular contrast to the pallor
of his face, and his eyes were as bright as if he had a fever. He
stared at us and at the dog-cart. Then a look of amazement came over
his face.
"Halloa! Stop there!" he shouted, holding his bicycle to block our
road. "Where did you get that dog-cart? Pull up, man!" he yelled,
drawing a pistol from his side pocket. "Pull up, I say, or, by
George, I'll put a bullet into your horse."
Holmes threw the reins into my lap and sprang down from the cart.
"You're the man we want to see. Where is Miss Violet Smith?" he said,
in his quick, clear way.
"That's what I am asking you. You're in her dog-cart. You ought to
know where she is."
"We met the dog-cart on the road. There was no one in it. We drove
back to help the young lady."
"Good Lord! Good Lord! what shall I do?" cried the stranger, in an
ecstasy of despair. "They've got her, that hellhound Woodley and the
blackguard parson. Come, man, come, if you really are her friend.
Stand by me and we'll save her, if I have to leave my carcass in
Charlington Wood."
He ran distractedly, his pistol in his hand, towards a gap in the
hedge. Holmes followed him, and I, leaving the horse grazing beside
the road, followed Holmes.
"This is where they came through," said he, pointing to the marks of
several feet upon the muddy path. "Halloa! Stop a minute! Who's this
in the bush?"
It was a young fellow about seventeen, dressed like an ostler, with
leather cords and gaiters. He lay upon his back, his knees drawn up,
a terrible cut upon his head. He was insensible, but alive. A glance
at his wound told me that it had not penetrated the bone.
"That's Peter, the groom," cried the stranger. "He drove her. The
beasts have pulled him off and clubbed him. Let him lie; we can't do
him any good, but we may save her from the worst fate that can befall
a woman."
We ran frantically down the path, which wound among the trees. We had
reached the shrubbery which surrounded the house when Holmes pulled
up.
"They didn't go to the house. Here are their marks on the left--here,
beside the laurel bushes! Ah, I said so!"
As he spoke a woman's shrill scream--a scream which vibrated with a
frenzy of horror--burst from the thick green clump of bushes in front
of us. It ended suddenly on its highest note with a choke and a
gurgle.
"This way! This way! They are in the bowling alley," cried the
stranger, darting through the bushes. "Ah, the cowardly dogs! Follow
me, gentlemen! Too late! too late! by the living Jingo!"
We had broken suddenly into a lovely glade of greensward surrounded
by ancient trees. On the farther side of it, under the shadow of a
mighty oak, there stood a singular group of three people. One was a
woman, our client, drooping and faint, a handkerchief round her
mouth. Opposite her stood a brutal, heavy-faced, red-moustached young
man, his gaitered legs parted wide, one arm akimbo, the other waving
a riding-crop, his whole attitude suggestive of triumphant bravado.
Between them an elderly, grey-bearded man, wearing a short surplice
over a light tweed suit, had evidently just completed the wedding
service, for he pocketed his prayer-book as we appeared and slapped
the sinister bridegroom upon the back in jovial congratulation.
"They're married!" I gasped.
"Come on!" cried our guide; "come on!" He rushed across the glade,
Holmes and I at his heels. As we approached, the lady staggered
against the trunk of the tree for support. Williamson, the
ex-clergyman, bowed to us with mock politeness, and the bully Woodley
advanced with a shout of brutal and exultant laughter.
"You can take your beard off, Bob," said he. "I know you right
enough. Well, you and your pals have just come in time for me to be
able to introduce you to Mrs. Woodley."
Our guide's answer was a singular one. He snatched off the dark beard
which had disguised him and threw it on the ground, disclosing a
long, sallow, clean-shaven face below it. Then he raised his revolver
and covered the young ruffian, who was advancing upon him with his
dangerous riding-crop swinging in his hand.
"Yes," said our ally, "I am Bob Carruthers, and I'll see this woman
righted if I have to swing for it. I told you what I'd do if you
molested her, and, by the Lord, I'll be as good as my word!"
"You're too late. She's my wife!"
"No, she's your widow."
His revolver cracked, and I saw the blood spurt from the front of
Woodley's waistcoat. He spun round with a scream and fell upon his
back, his hideous red face turning suddenly to a dreadful mottled
pallor. The old man, still clad in his surplice, burst into such a
string of foul oaths as I have never heard, and pulled out a revolver
of his own, but before he could raise it he was looking down the
barrel of Holmes's weapon.
"Enough of this," said my friend, coldly. "Drop that pistol! Watson,
pick it up! Hold it to his head! Thank you. You, Carruthers, give me
that revolver. We'll have no more violence. Come, hand it over!"
"Who are you, then?"
"My name is Sherlock Holmes."
"Good Lord!"
"You have heard of me, I see. I will represent the official police
until their arrival. Here, you!" he shouted to a frightened groom who
had appeared at the edge of the glade. "Come here. Take this note as
hard as you can ride to Farnham." He scribbled a few words upon a
leaf from his note-book. "Give it to the superintendent at the
police-station. Until he comes I must detain you all under my
personal custody."
The strong, masterful personality of Holmes dominated the tragic
scene, and all were equally puppets in his hands. Williamson and
Carruthers found themselves carrying the wounded Woodley into the
house, and I gave my arm to the frightened girl. The injured man was
laid on his bed, and at Holmes's request I examined him. I carried my
report to where he sat in the old tapestry-hung dining-room with his
two prisoners before him.
"He will live," said I.
"What!" cried Carruthers, springing out of his chair. "I'll go
upstairs and finish him first. Do you tell me that that girl, that
angel, is to be tied to Roaring Jack Woodley for life?"
"You need not concern yourself about that," said Holmes. "There are
two very good reasons why she should under no circumstances be his
wife. In the first place, we are very safe in questioning Mr.
Williamson's right to solemnize a marriage."
"I have been ordained," cried the old rascal.
"And also unfrocked."
"Once a clergyman, always a clergyman."
"I think not. How about the license?"
"We had a license for the marriage. I have it here in my pocket."
"Then you got it by a trick. But in any case a forced marriage is no
marriage, but it is a very serious felony, as you will discover
before you have finished. You'll have time to think the point out
during the next ten years or so, unless I am mistaken. As to you,
Carruthers, you would have done better to keep your pistol in your
pocket."
"I begin to think so, Mr. Holmes; but when I thought of all the
precaution I had taken to shield this girl--for I loved her, Mr.
Holmes, and it is the only time that ever I knew what love was--it
fairly drove me mad to think that she was in the power of the
greatest brute and bully in South Africa, a man whose name is a holy
terror from Kimberley to Johannesburg. Why, Mr. Holmes, you'll hardly
believe it, but ever since that girl has been in my employment I
never once let her go past this house, where I knew these rascals
were lurking, without following her on my bicycle just to see that
she came to no harm. I kept my distance from her, and I wore a beard
so that she should not recognise me, for she is a good and
high-spirited girl, and she wouldn't have stayed in my employment
long if she had thought that I was following her about the country
roads."
"Why didn't you tell her of her danger?"
"Because then, again, she would have left me, and I couldn't bear to
face that. Even if she couldn't love me it was a great deal to me
just to see her dainty form about the house, and to hear the sound of
her voice."
"Well," said I, "you call that love, Mr. Carruthers, but I should
call it selfishness."
"Maybe the two things go together. Anyhow, I couldn't let her go.
Besides, with this crowd about, it was well that she should have
someone near to look after her. Then when the cable came I knew they
were bound to make a move."
"What cable?"
Carruthers took a telegram from his pocket.
"That's it," said he.
It was short and concise:
The old man is dead.
"Hum!" said Holmes. "I think I see how things worked, and I can
understand how this message would, as you say, bring them to a head.
But while we wait you might tell me what you can."
