mean, and for whom could it be but for her?"
"We will do all that can be done, Mr. Green. Not a moment will be
lost. Leave it in our hands. Now Watson," he added as our client
hurried away, "he will set the regular forces on the move. We are, as
usual, the irregulars, and we must take our own line of action. The
situation strikes me as so desperate that the most extreme measures
are justified. Not a moment is to be lost in getting to Poultney
Square.
"Let us try to reconstruct the situation," said he as we drove
swiftly past the Houses of Parliament and over Westminster Bridge.
"These villains have coaxed this unhappy lady to London, after first
alienating her from her faithful maid. If she has written any letters
they have been intercepted. Through some confederate they have
engaged a furnished house. Once inside it, they have made her a
prisoner, and they have become possessed of the valuable jewellery
which has been their object from the first. Already they have begun
to sell part of it, which seems safe enough to them, since they have
no reason to think that anyone is interested in the lady's fate. When
she is released she will, of course, denounce them. Therefore, she
must not be released. But they cannot keep her under lock and key
forever. So murder is their only solution."
"That seems very clear."
"Now we will take another line of reasoning. When you follow two
separate chains of thought, Watson, you will find some point of
intersection which should approximate to the truth. We will start
now, not from the lady but from the coffin and argue backward. That
incident proves, I fear, beyond all doubt that the lady is dead. It
points also to an orthodox burial with proper accompaniment of
medical certificate and official sanction. Had the lady been
obviously murdered, they would have buried her in a hole in the back
garden. But here all is open and regular. What does this mean? Surely
that they have done her to death in some way which has deceived the
doctor and simulated a natural end--poisoning, perhaps. And yet how
strange that they should ever let a doctor approach her unless he
were a confederate, which is hardly a credible proposition."
"Could they have forged a medical certificate?"
"Dangerous, Watson, very dangerous. No, I hardly see them doing that.
Pull up, cabby! This is evidently the undertaker's, for we have just
passed the pawnbroker's. Would go in, Watson? Your appearance
inspires confidence. Ask what hour the Poultney Square funeral takes
place to-morrow."
The woman in the shop answered me without hesitation that it was to
be at eight o'clock in the morning. "You see, Watson, no mystery;
everything above-board! In some way the legal forms have undoubtedly
been complied with, and they think that they have little to fear.
Well, there's nothing for it now but a direct frontal attack. Are you
armed?"
"My stick!"
"Well, well, we shall be strong enough. 'Thrice is he armed who hath
his quarrel just.' We simply can't afford to wait for the police or
to keep within the four corners of the law. You can drive off, cabby.
Now, Watson, we'll just take our luck together, as we have
occasionally in the past."
He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark house in the centre of
Poultney Square. It was opened immediately, and the figure of a tall
woman was outlined against the dim-lit hall.
"Well, what do you want?" she asked sharply, peering at us through
the darkness.
"I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger," said Holmes.
"There is no such person here," she answered, and tried to close the
door, but Holmes had jammed it with his foot.
"Well, I want to see the man who lives here, whatever he may call
himself," said Holmes firmly.
She hesitated. Then she threw open the door. "Well, come in!" said
she. "My husband is not afraid to face any man in the world." She
closed the door behind us and showed us into a sitting-room on the
right side of the hall, turning up the gas as she left us. "Mr.
Peters will be with you in an instant," she said.
Her words were literally true, for we had hardly time to look around
the dusty and moth-eaten apartment in which we found ourselves before
the door opened and a big, clean-shaven bald-headed man stepped
lightly into the room. He had a large red face, with pendulous
cheeks, and a general air of superficial benevolence which was marred
by a cruel, vicious mouth.
"There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen," he said in an
unctuous, make-everything-easy voice. "I fancy that you have been
misdirected. Possibly if you tried farther down the street--"
"That will do; we have no time to waste," said my companion firmly.
"You are Henry Peters, of Adelaide, late the Rev. Dr. Shlessinger, of
Baden and South America. I am as sure of that as that my own name is
Sherlock Holmes."
Peters, as I will now call him, started and stared hard at his
formidable pursuer. "I guess your name does not frighten me, Mr.
Holmes," said he coolly. "When a man's conscience is easy you can't
rattle him. What is your business in my house?"
"I want to know what you have done with the Lady Frances Carfax, whom
you brought away with you from Baden."
"I'd be very glad if you could tell me where that lady may be,"
Peters answered coolly. "I've a bill against her for a nearly a
hundred pounds, and nothing to show for it but a couple of trumpery
pendants that the dealer would hardly look at. She attached herself
to Mrs. Peters and me at Baden--it is a fact that I was using another
name at the time--and she stuck on to us until we came to London. I
paid her bill and her ticket. Once in London, she gave us the slip,
and, as I say, left these out-of-date jewels to pay her bills. You
find her, Mr. Holmes, and I'm your debtor."
In mean to find her," said Sherlock Holmes. "I'm going through this
house till I do find her."
"Where is your warrant?"
Holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket. "This will have to serve
till a better one comes."
"Why, you're a common burglar."
"So you might describe me," said Holmes cheerfully. "My companion is
also a dangerous ruffian. And together we are going through your
house."
Our opponent opened the door.
"Fetch a policeman, Annie!" said he. There was a whisk of feminine
skirts down the passage, and the hall door was opened and shut.
"Our time is limited, Watson," said Holmes. "If you try to stop us,
Peters, you will most certainly get hurt. Where is that coffin which
was brought into your house?"
"What do you want with the coffin? It is in use. There is a body in
it."
"I must see the body."
"Never with my consent."
"Then without it." With a quick movement Holmes pushed the fellow to
one side and passed into the hall. A door half opened stood
immediately before us. We entered. It was the dining-room. On the
table, under a half-lit chandelier, the coffin was lying. Holmes
turned up the gas and raised the lid. Deep down in the recesses of
the coffin lay an emaciated figure. The glare from the lights above
beat down upon an aged and withered face. By no possible process of
cruelty, starvation, or disease could this wornout wreck be the still
beautiful Lady Frances. Holmes's face showed his amazement, and also
his relief.
"Thank God!" he muttered. "It's someone else."
"Ah, you've blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said
Peters, who had followed us into the room.
"Who is the dead woman?"
"Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse of my wife's,
Rose Spender by name, whom we found in the Brixton Workhouse
Infirmary. We brought her round here, called in Dr. Horsom, of 13
Firbank Villas--mind you take the address, Mr. Holmes--and had her
carefully tended, as Christian folk should. On the third day she
died--certificate says senile decay--but that's only the doctor's
opinion, and of course you know better. We ordered her funeral to be
carried out by Stimson and Co., of the Kennington Road, who will bury
her at eight o'clock to-morrow morning. Can you pick any hole in
that, Mr. Holmes? You've made a silly blunder, and you may as well
own up to it. I'd give something for a photograph of your gaping,
staring face when you pulled aside that lid expecting to see the Lady
Frances Carfax and only found a poor old woman of ninety."
Holmes's expression was as impassive as ever under the jeers of his
antagonist, but his clenched hands betrayed his acute annoyance.
"I am going through your house," said he.
"Are you, though!" cried Peters as a woman's voice and heavy steps
sounded in the passage. "We'll soon see about that. This way,
officers, if you please. These men have forced their way into my
house, and I cannot get rid of them. Help me to put them out."
A sergeant and a constable stood in the doorway. Holmes drew his card
from his case.
"This is my name and address. This is my friend, Dr. Watson."
"Bless you, sir, we know you very well," said the sergeant, "but you
can't stay here without a warrant."
"Of course not. I quite understand that."
"Arrest him!" cried Peters.
"We know where to lay our hands on this gentleman if he is wanted,"
said the sergeant majestically, "but you'll have to go, Mr. Holmes."
"Yes, Watson, we shall have to go."
A minute later we were in the street once more. Holmes was as cool as
ever, but I was hot with anger and humiliation. The sergeant had
followed us.
"Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but that's the law."
"Exactly, Sergeant, you could not do otherwise."
"I expect there was good reason for your presence there. If there is
anything I can do--"
"It's a missing lady, Sergeant, and we think she is in that house. I
expect a warrant presently."
"Then I'll keep my eye on the parties, Mr. Holmes. If anything comes
along, I will surely let you know."
It was only nine o'clock, and we were off full cry upon the trail at
once. First we drove to Brixton Workhoused Infirmary, where we found
that it was indeed the truth that a charitable couple had called some
days before, that they had claimed an imbecile old woman as a former
servant, and that they had obtained permission to take her away with
them. No surprise was expressed at the news that she had since died.
The doctor was our next goal. He had been called in, had found the
woman dying of pure senility, had actually seen her pass away, and
had signed the certificate in due form. "I assure you that everything
was perfectly normal and there was no room for foul play in the
matter," said he. Nothing in the house had struck him as suspicious
save that for people of their class it was remarkable that they
should have no servant. So far and no further went the doctor.
Finally we found our way to Scotland Yard. There had been
difficulties of procedure in regard to the warrant. Some delay was
inevitable. The magistrate's signature might not be obtained until
next morning. If Holmes would call about nine he could go down with
Lestrade and see it acted upon. So ended the day, save that near
midnight our friend, the sergeant, called to say that he had seen
flickering lights here and there in the windows of the great dark
house, but that no one had left it and none had entered. We could but
pray for patience and wait for the morrow.
Sherlock Holmes was too irritable for conversation and too restless
for sleep. I left him smoking hard, with his heavy, dark brows
knotted together, and his long, nervous fingers tapping upon the arms
of his chair, as he turned over in his mind every possible solution
of the mystery. Several times in the course of the night I heard him
prowling about the house. Finally, just after I had been called in
the morning, he rushed into my room. He was in his dressing-gown, but
his pale, hollow-eyed face told me that his night had been a
sleepless one.
"What time was the funeral? Eight, was it not?" he asked eagerly.
"Well, it is 7.20 now. Good heavens, Watson, what has become of any
brains that God has given me? Quick, man, quick! It's life or
death--a hundred chances on death to one on life. I'll never forgive
myself, never, if we are too late!"
Five minutes had not passed before we were flying in a hansom down
Baker Street. But even so it was twenty-five to eight as we passed
Big Ben, and eight struck as we tore down the Brixton Road. But
others were late as well as we. Ten minutes after the hour the hearse
