that he could sit up. He was dazed in mind, and every now and then
was shaken by a paroxysm of pain. In broken words he explained that
he had no notion what had occurred to him, save that terrific pangs
had suddenly shot through him, and that it had taken all his
fortitude to reach the bank.
"Here is a book," I said, taking up the little volume, "which first
brought light into what might have been forever dark. It is Out of
Doors, by the famous observer, J. G. Wood. Wood himself very nearly
perished from contact with this vile creature, so he wrote with a
very full knowledge. Cyanea capillata is the miscreant's full name,
and he can be as dangerous to life as, and far more painful than, the
bite of the cobra. Let me briefly give this extract.
"If the bather should see a loose roundish mass of tawny membranes
and fibres, something like very large handfuls of lion's mane and
silver paper, let him beware, for this is the fearful stinger, Cyanea
capillata.
Could our sinister acquaintance be more clearly described?
"He goes on to tell of his own encounter with one when swimming off
the coast of Kent. He found that the creature radiated almost
invisible filaments to the distance of fifty feet, and that anyone
within that circumference from the deadly centre was in danger of
death. Even at a distance the effect upon Wood was almost fatal.
"The multitudinous threads caused light scarlet lines upon the skin
which on closer examination resolved into minute dots or pustules,
each dot charged as it were with a red-hot needle making its way
through the nerves.
"The local pain was, as he explains, the least part of the exquisite
torment.
"Pangs shot through the chest, causing me to fall as if struck by a
bullet. The pulsation would cease, and then the heart would give six
or seven leaps as if it would force its way through the chest.
"It nearly killed him, although he had only been exposed to it in the
disturbed ocean and not in the narrow calm waters of a bathing-pool.
He says that he could hardly recognize himself afterwards, so white,
wrinkled and shrivelled was his face. He gulped down brandy, a whole
bottleful, and it seems to have saved his life. There is the book,
Inspector. I leave it with you, and you cannot doubt that it contains
a full explanation of the tragedy of poor McPherson."
"And incidentally exonerates me," remarked Ian Murdoch with a wry
smile. "I do not blame you, Inspector, nor you, Mr. Holmes, for your
suspicions were natural. I feel that on the very eve of my arrest I
have only cleared myself by sharing the fate of my poor friend."
"No, Mr. Murdoch. I was already upon the track, and had I been out as
early as I intended I might well have saved you from this terrific
experience."
"But how did you know, Mr. Holmes?"
"I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for
trifles. That phrase 'the Lion's Mane' haunted my mind. I knew that I
had seen it somewhere in an unexpected context. You have seen that it
does describe the creature. I have no doubt that it was floating on
the water when McPherson saw it, and that this phrase was the only
one by which he could convey to us a warning as to the creature which
had been his death."
"Then I, at least, am cleared," said Murdoch, rising slowly to his
feet. "There are one or two words of explanation which I should give,
for I know the direction in which your inquiries have run. It is true
that I loved this lady, but from the day when she chose my friend
McPherson my one desire was to help her to happiness. I was well
content to stand aside and act as their go-between. Often I carried
their messages, and it was because I was in their confidence and
because she was so dear to me that I hastened to tell her of my
friend's death, lest someone should forestall me in a more sudden and
heartless manner. She would not tell you, sir, of our relations lest
you should disapprove and I might suffer. But with your leave I must
try to get back to The Gables, for my bed will be very welcome."
Stackhurst held out his hand. "Our nerves have all been at
concert-pitch," said he. "Forgive what is past, Murdoch. We shall
understand each other better in the future." They passed out together
with their arms linked in friendly fashion. The inspector remained,
staring at me in silence with his ox-like eyes.
"Well, you've done it!" he cried at last. "I had read of you, but I
never believed it. It's wonderful!"
I was forced to shake my head. To accept such praise was to lower
one's own standards.
"I was slow at the outset--culpably slow. Had the body been found in
the water I could hardly have missed it. It was the towel which
misled me. The poor fellow had never thought to dry himself, and so I
in turn was led to believe that he had never been in the water. Why,
then, should the attack of any water creature suggest itself to me?
That was where I went astray. Well, well, Inspector, I often ventured
to chaff you gentlemen of the police force, but Cyanea capillata very
nearly avenged Scotland Yard."
THE ADVENTURE OF THE VEILED LODGER
When one considers that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was in active practice
for twenty-three years, and that during seventeen of these I was
allowed to cooperate with him and to keep notes of his doings, it
will be clear that I have a mass of material at my command. The
problem has always been not to find but to choose. There is the long
row of year-books which fill a shelf, and there are the
dispatch-cases filled with documents, a perfect quarry for the
student not only of crime but of the social and official scandals of
the late Victorian era. Concerning these latter, I may say that the
writers of agonized letters, who beg that the honour of their
families or the reputation of famous forebears may not be touched,
have nothing to fear. The discretion and high sense of professional
honour which have always distinguished my friend are still at work in
the choice of these memoirs, and no confidence will be abused. I
deprecate, however, in the strongest way the attempts which have been
made lately to get at and to destroy these papers. The source of
these outrages is known, and if they are repeated I have Mr. Holmes's
authority for saying that the whole story concerning the politician,
the lighthouse, and the trained cormorant will be given to the
public. There is at least one reader who will understand.
It is not reasonable to suppose that every one of these cases gave
Holmes the opportunity of showing those curious gifts of instinct and
observation which I have endeavoured to set forth in these memoirs.
Sometimes he had with much effort to pick the fruit, sometimes it
fell easily into his lap. But the most terrible human tragedies were
often involved in those cases which brought him the fewest personal
opportunities, and it is one of these which I now desire to record.
In telling it, I have made a slight change of name and place, but
otherwise the facts are as stated.
One forenoon--it was late in 1896--I received a hurried note from
Holmes asking for my attendance. When I arrived I found him seated in
a smoke-laden atmosphere, with an elderly, motherly woman of the
buxom landlady type in the corresponding chair in front of him.
"This is Mrs. Merrilow, of South Brixton," said my friend with a wave
of the hand. "Mrs. Merrilow does not object to tobacco, Watson, if
you wish to indulge your filthy habits. Mrs. Merrilow has an
interesting story to tell which may well lead to further developments
in which your presence may be useful."
"Anything I can do--"
"You will understand, Mrs. Merrilow, that if I come to Mrs. Ronder I
should prefer to have a witness. You will make her understand that
before we arrive."
"Lord bless you, Mr. Holmes," said our visitor, "she is that anxious
to see you that you might bring the whole parish at your heels!"
"Then we shall come early in the afternoon. Let us see that we have
our facts correct before we start. If we go over them it will help
Dr. Watson to understand the situation. You say that Mrs. Ronder has
been your lodger for seven years and that you have only once seen her
face."
"And I wish to God I had not!" said Mrs. Merrilow.
"It was, I understand, terribly mutilated."
"Well, Mr. Holmes, you would hardly say it was a face at all. That's
how it looked. Our milkman got a glimpse of her once peeping out of
the upper window, and he dropped his tin and the milk all over the
front garden. That is the kind of face it is. When I saw her--I
happened on her unawares--she covered up quick, and then she said,
'Now, Mrs. Merrilow, you know at last why it is that I never raise my
veil.'"
"Do you know anything about her history?"
"Nothing at all."
"Did she give references when she came?"
"No, sir, but she gave hard cash, and plenty of it. A quarter's rent
right down on the table in advance and no arguing about terms. In
these times a poor woman like me can't afford to turn down a chance
like that."
"Did she give any reason for choosing your house?"
"Mine stands well back from the road and is more private than most.
Then, again, I only take the one, and I have no family of my own. I
reckon she had tried others and found that mine suited her best. It's
privacy she is after, and she is ready to pay for it."
"You say that she never showed her face from first to last save on
the one accidental occasion. Well, it is a very remarkable story,
most remarkable, and I don't wonder that you want it examined."
"I don't, Mr. Holmes. I am quite satisfied so long as I get my rent.
You could not have a quieter lodger, or one who gives less trouble."
"Then what has brought matters to a head?"
"Her health, Mr. Holmes. She seems to be wasting away. And there's
something terrible on her mind. 'Murder!' she cries. 'Murder!' And
once I heard her: 'You cruel beast! You monster!' she cried. It was
in the night, and it fair rang through the house and sent the shivers
through me. So I went to her in the morning. 'Mrs. Ronder,' I says,
'if you have anything that is troubling your soul, there's the
clergy,' I says, 'and there's the police. Between them you should get
some help.' 'For God's sake, not the police!' says she, 'and the
clergy can't change what is past. And yet,' she says, 'it would ease
my mind if someone knew the truth before I died.' 'Well,' says I, 'if
you won't have the regulars, there is this detective man what we read
about'--beggin' your pardon, Mr. Holmes. And she, she fair jumped at
it. 'That's the man,' says she. 'I wonder I never thought of it
before. Bring him here, Mrs. Merrilow, and if he won't come, tell him
I am the wife of Ronder's wild beast show. Say that, and give him the
name Abbas Parva. Here it is as she wrote it, Abbas Parva. 'That will
bring him if he's the man I think he is.'"
"And it will, too," remarked Holmes. "Very good, Mrs. Merrilow. I
should like to have a little chat with Dr. Watson. That will carry us
till lunch-time. About three o'clock you may expect to see us at your
house in Brixton."
Our visitor had no sooner waddled out of the room--no other verb can
describe Mrs. Merrilow's method of progression--than Sherlock Holmes
threw himself with fierce energy upon the pile of commonplace books
in the corner. For a few minutes there was a constant swish of the
leaves, and then with a grunt of satisfaction he came upon what he
sought. So excited was he that he did not rise, but sat upon the
floor like some strange Buddha, with crossed legs, the huge books all
round him, and one open upon his knees.
"The case worried me at the time, Watson. Here are my marginal notes
to prove it. I confess that I could make nothing of it. And yet I was
convinced that the coroner was wrong. Have you no recollection of the
Abbas Parva tragedy?"
"None, Holmes."
"And yet you were with me then. But certainly my own impression was
very superficial. For there was nothing to go by, and none of the
parties had engaged my services. Perhaps you would care to read the
papers?"
"Could you not give me the points?"
"That is very easily done. It will probably come back to your memory
as I talk. Ronder, of course, was a household word. He was the rival
of Wombwell, and of Sanger, one of the greatest showmen of his day.
There is evidence, however, that he took to drink, and that both he
and his show were on the down grade at the time of the great tragedy.
The caravan had halted for the night at Abbas Parva, which is a small
