that every time she was compelled to leave the baby alone the mother
was waiting to get at it. Day and night the nurse covered the child,
and day and night the silent, watchful mother seemed to be lying in
wait as a wolf waits for a lamb. It must read most incredible to you,
and yet I beg you to take it seriously, for a child's life and a
man's sanity may depend upon it.
At last there came one dreadful day when the facts could no longer be
concealed from the husband. The nurse's nerve had given way; she
could stand the strain no longer, and she made a clean breast of it
all to the man. To him it seemed as wild a tale as it may now seem to
you. He knew his wife to be a loving wife, and, save for the assaults
upon her stepson, a loving mother. Why, then, should she wound her
own dear little baby? He told the nurse that she was dreaming, that
her suspicions were those of a lunatic, and that such libels upon her
mistress were not to be tolerated. While they were talking a sudden
cry of pain was heard. Nurse and master rushed together to the
nursery. Imagine his feelings, Mr. Holmes, as he saw his wife rise
from a kneeling position beside the cot and saw blood upon the
child's exposed neck and upon the sheet. With a cry of horror, he
turned his wife's face to the light and saw blood all round her lips.
It was she--she beyond all question--who had drunk the poor baby's
blood.
So the matter stands. She is now confined to her room. There has been
no explanation. The husband is half demented. He knows, and I know,
little of vampirism beyond the name. We had thought it was some wild
tale of foreign parts. And yet here in the very heart of the English
Sussex--well, all this can be discussed with you in the morning. Will
you see me? Will you use your great powers in aiding a distracted
man? If so, kindly wire to Ferguson, Cheeseman's, Lamberley, and I
will be at your rooms by ten o'clock.
Yours faithfully,
Robert Ferguson.
P. S. I believe your friend Watson played Rugby for Blackheath when I
was three-quarter for Richmond. It is the only personal introduction
which I can give.
"Of course I remembered him," said I as I laid down the letter. "Big
Bob Ferguson, the finest three-quarter Richmond ever had. He was
always a good-natured chap. It's like him to be so concerned over a
friend's case."
Holmes looked at me thoughtfully and shook his head.
"I never get your limits, Watson," said he. "There are unexplored
possibilities about you. Take a wire down, like a good fellow. 'Will
examine your case with pleasure.'"
"Your case!"
"We must not let him think that this agency is a home for the
weak-minded. Of course it is his case. Send him that wire and let the
matter rest till morning."
Promptly at ten o'clock next morning Ferguson strode into our room. I
had remembered him as a long, slab-sided man with loose limbs and a
fine turn of speed which had carried him round many an opposing back.
There is surely nothing in life more painful than to meet the wreck
of a fine athlete whom one has known in his prime. His great frame
had fallen in, his flaxen hair was scanty, and his shoulders were
bowed. I fear that I roused corresponding emotions in him.
"Hullo, Watson," said he, and his voice was still deep and hearty.
"You don't look quite the man you did when I threw you over the ropes
into the crowd at the Old Deer Park. I expect I have changed a bit
also. But it's this last day or two that has aged me. I see by your
telegram, Mr. Holmes, that it is no use my pretending to be anyone's
deputy."
"It is simpler to deal direct," said Holmes.
"Of course it is. But you can imagine how difficult it is when you
are speaking of the one woman whom you are bound to protect and help.
What can I do? How am I to go to the police with such a story? And
yet the kiddies have got to be protected. Is it madness, Mr. Holmes?
Is it something in the blood? Have you any similar case in your
experience? For God's sake, give me some advice, for I am at my wit's
end."
"Very naturally, Mr. Ferguson. Now sit here and pull yourself
together and give me a few clear answers. I can assure you that I am
very far from being at my wit's end, and that I am confident we shall
find some solution. First of all, tell me what steps you have taken.
Is your wife still near the children?"
"We had a dreadful scene. She is a most loving woman, Mr. Holmes. If
ever a woman loved a man with all her heart and soul, she loves me.
She was cut to the heart that I should have discovered this horrible,
this incredible, secret. She would not even speak. She gave no answer
to my reproaches, save to gaze at me with a sort of wild, despairing
look in her eyes. Then she rushed to her room and locked herself in.
Since then she has refused to see me. She has a maid who was with her
before her marriage, Dolores by name--a friend rather than a servant.
She takes her food to her."
"Then the child is in no immediate danger?"
"Mrs. Mason, the nurse, has sworn that she will not leave it night or
day. I can absolutely trust her. I am more uneasy about poor little
Jack, for, as I told you in my note, he has twice been assaulted by
her."
"But never wounded?"
"No, she struck him savagely. It is the more terrible as he is a poor
little inoffensive cripple." Ferguson's gaunt features softened as he
spoke of his boy. "You would think that the dear lad's condition
would soften anyone's heart. A fall in childhood and a twisted spine,
Mr. Holmes. But the dearest, most loving heart within."
Holmes had picked up the letter of yesterday and was reading it over.
"What other inmates are there in your house, Mr. Ferguson?"
"Two servants who have not been long with us. One stable-hand,
Michael, who sleeps in the house. My wife, myself, my boy Jack, baby,
Dolores, and Mrs. Mason. That is all."
"I gather that you did not know your wife well at the time of your
marriage?"
"I had only known her a few weeks."
"How long had this maid Dolores been with her?"
"Some years."
"Then your wife's character would really be better known by Dolores
than by you?"
"Yes, you may say so."
Holmes made a note.
"I fancy," said he, "that I may be of more use at Lamberley than
here. It is eminently a case for personal investigation. If the lady
remains in her room, our presence could not annoy or inconvenience
her. Of course, we would stay at the inn."
Ferguson gave a gesture of relief.
"It is what I hoped, Mr. Holmes. There is an excellent train at two
from Victoria if you could come."
"Of course we could come. There is a lull at present. I can give you
my undivided energies. Watson, of course, comes with us. But there
are one or two points upon which I wish to be very sure before I
start. This unhappy lady, as I understand it, has appeared to assault
both the children, her own baby and your little son?"
"That is so."
"But the assaults take different forms, do they not? She has beaten
your son."
"Once with a stick and once very savagely with her hands."
"Did she give no explanation why she struck him?"
"None save that she hated him. Again and again she said so."
"Well, that is not unknown among stepmothers. A posthumous jealousy,
we will say. Is the lady jealous by nature?"
"Yes, she is very jealous--jealous with all the strength of her fiery
tropical love."
"But the boy--he is fifteen, I understand, and probably very
developed in mind, since his body has been circumscribed in action.
Did he give you no explanation of these assaults?"
"No, he declared there was no reason."
"Were they good friends at other times?"
"No, there was never any love between them."
"Yet you say he is affectionate?"
"Never in the world could there be so devoted a son. My life is his
life. He is absorbed in what I say or do."
Once again Holmes made a note. For some time he sat lost in thought.
"No doubt you and the boy were great comrades before this second
marriage. You were thrown very close together, were you not?"
"Very much so."
"And the boy, having so affectionate a nature, was devoted, no doubt,
to the memory of his mother?"
"Most devoted."
"He would certainly seem to be a most interesting lad. There is one
other point about these assaults. Were the strange attacks upon the
baby and the assaults upon your son at the same period?"
"In the first case it was so. It was as if some frenzy had seized
her, and she had vented her rage upon both. In the second case it was
only Jack who suffered. Mrs. Mason had no complaint to make about the
baby."
"That certainly complicates matters."
"I don't quite follow you, Mr. Holmes."
"Possibly not. One forms provisional theories and waits for time or
fuller knowledge to explode them. A bad habit, Mr. Ferguson, but
human nature is weak. I fear that your old friend here has given an
exaggerated view of my scientific methods. However, I will only say
at the present stage that your problem does not appear to me to be
insoluble, and that you may expect to find us at Victoria at two
o'clock."
It was evening of a dull, foggy November day when, having left our
bags at the Chequers, Lamberley, we drove through the Sussex clay of
a long winding lane and finally reached the isolated and ancient
farmhouse in which Ferguson dwelt. It was a large, straggling
building, very old in the centre, very new at the wings with towering
Tudor chimneys and a lichen-spotted, high-pitched roof of Horsham
slabs. The doorsteps were worn into curves, and the ancient tiles
which lined the porch were marked with the rebus of a cheese and a
man after the original builder. Within, the ceilings were corrugated
with heavy oaken beams, and the uneven floors sagged into sharp
curves. An odour of age and decay pervaded the whole crumbling
building.
There was one very large central room into which Ferguson led us.
Here, in a huge old-fashioned fireplace with an iron screen behind it
dated 1670, there blazed and spluttered a splendid log fire.
The room, as I gazed round, was a most singular mixture of dates and
of places. The half-panelled walls may well have belonged to the
original yeoman farmer of the seventeenth century. They were
ornamented, however, on the lower part by a line of well-chosen
modern water-colours; while above, where yellow plaster took the
place of oak, there was hung a fine collection of South American
utensils and weapons, which had been brought, no doubt, by the
Peruvian lady upstairs. Holmes rose, with that quick curiosity which
sprang from his eager mind, and examined them with some care. He
returned with his eyes full of thought.
"Hullo!" he cried. "Hullo!"
A spaniel had lain in a basket in the corner. It came slowly forward
towards its master, walking with difficulty. Its hind legs moved
irregularly and its tail was on the ground. It licked Ferguson's
hand.
"What is it, Mr. Holmes?"
"The dog. What's the matter with it?"
"That's what puzzled the vet. A sort of paralysis. Spinal
meningitis, he thought. But it is passing. He'll be all right
soon--won't you, Carlo?"
A shiver of assent passed through the drooping tail. The dog's
mournful eyes passed from one of us to the other. He knew that we
were discussing his case.
"Did it come on suddenly?"
"In a single night."
"How long ago?"
"It may have been four months ago."
"Very remarkable. Very suggestive."
"What do you see in it, Mr. Holmes?"
"A confirmation of what I had already thought."
"For God's sake, what do you think, Mr. Holmes? It may be a mere
intellectual puzzle to you, but it is life and death to me! My wife a
would-be murderer--my child in constant danger! Don't play with me,
Mr. Holmes. It is too terribly serious."
The big Rugby three-quarter was trembling all over. Holmes put his
hand soothingly upon his arm.
"I fear that there is pain for you, Mr. Ferguson, whatever the
solution may be," said he. "I would spare you all I can. I cannot say
more for the instant, but before I leave this house I hope I may have
something definite."
"Please God you may! If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will go up
to my wife's room and see if there has been any change."
He was away some minutes, during which Holmes resumed his examination
of the curiosities upon the wall. When our host returned it was clear
