have done it."
"Certainly," said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the
door. "I let you know, then, that I have caught him!"
"What! where?" shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips and
glancing about him like a rat in a trap.
"Oh, it won't do--really it won't," said Holmes suavely. "There is no
possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too
transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that it
was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That's right!
Sit down and let us talk it over."
Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a glitter
of moisture on his brow. "It--it's not actionable," he stammered.
"I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves,
Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a
petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the
course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong."
The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his
breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on
the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands in his
pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to us.
"The man married a woman very much older than himself for her money,"
said he, "and he enjoyed the use of the money of the daughter as long
as she lived with them. It was a considerable sum, for people in
their position, and the loss of it would have made a serious
difference. It was worth an effort to preserve it. The daughter was
of a good, amiable disposition, but affectionate and warm-hearted in
her ways, so that it was evident that with her fair personal
advantages, and her little income, she would not be allowed to remain
single long. Now her marriage would mean, of course, the loss of a
hundred a year, so what does her stepfather do to prevent it? He
takes the obvious course of keeping her at home and forbidding her to
seek the company of people of her own age. But soon he found that
that would not answer forever. She became restive, insisted upon her
rights, and finally announced her positive intention of going to a
certain ball. What does her clever stepfather do then? He conceives
an idea more creditable to his head than to his heart. With the
connivance and assistance of his wife he disguised himself, covered
those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked the face with a moustache
and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice into an
insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the girl's short
sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by
making love himself."
"It was only a joke at first," groaned our visitor. "We never thought
that she would have been so carried away."
"Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very
decidedly carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that her
stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for an
instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman's
attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly expressed
admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was
obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as it would go if a
real effect were to be produced. There were meetings, and an
engagement, which would finally secure the girl's affections from
turning towards anyone else. But the deception could not be kept up
forever. These pretended journeys to France were rather cumbrous. The
thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in such a
dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression upon the
young lady's mind and prevent her from looking upon any other suitor
for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a
Testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility of something
happening on the very morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished
Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and so uncertain as
to his fate, that for ten years to come, at any rate, she would not
listen to another man. As far as the church door he brought her, and
then, as he could go no farther, he conveniently vanished away by the
old trick of stepping in at one door of a four-wheeler and out at the
other. I think that was the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!"
Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes had
been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer upon
his pale face.
"It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes," said he, "but if you are
so very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is you who
are breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing actionable
from the first, but as long as you keep that door locked you lay
yourself open to an action for assault and illegal constraint."
"The law cannot, as you say, touch you," said Holmes, unlocking and
throwing open the door, "yet there never was a man who deserved
punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he
ought to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!" he continued,
flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man's face, "it
is not part of my duties to my client, but here's a hunting crop
handy, and I think I shall just treat myself to--" He took two swift
steps to the whip, but before he could grasp it there was a wild
clatter of steps upon the stairs, the heavy hall door banged, and
from the window we could see Mr. James Windibank running at the top
of his speed down the road.
"There's a cold-blooded scoundrel!" said Holmes, laughing, as he
threw himself down into his chair once more. "That fellow will rise
from crime to crime until he does something very bad, and ends on a
gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not entirely devoid of
interest."
"I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning," I
remarked.
"Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr. Hosmer
Angel must have some strong object for his curious conduct, and it
was equally clear that the only man who really profited by the
incident, as far as we could see, was the stepfather. Then the fact
that the two men were never together, but that the one always
appeared when the other was away, was suggestive. So were the tinted
spectacles and the curious voice, which both hinted at a disguise, as
did the bushy whiskers. My suspicions were all confirmed by his
peculiar action in typewriting his signature, which, of course,
inferred that his handwriting was so familiar to her that she would
recognise even the smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated
facts, together with many minor ones, all pointed in the same
direction."
"And how did you verify them?"
"Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I knew
the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed
description. I eliminated everything from it which could be the
result of a disguise--the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I
sent it to the firm, with a request that they would inform me whether
it answered to the description of any of their travellers. I had
already noticed the peculiarities of the typewriter, and I wrote to
the man himself at his business address asking him if he would come
here. As I expected, his reply was typewritten and revealed the same
trivial but characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter
from Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the
description tallied in every respect with that of their employee,
James Windibank. Voil?tout!"
"And Miss Sutherland?"
"If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old
Persian saying, 'There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub,
and danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.' There is
as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the
world."
THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY
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' 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 grey 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 Farm-house 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
