McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have been
under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying his
son to Turner's daughter, who is, presumably, heiress to the estate,
and that in such a very cocksure manner, as if it were merely a case
of a proposal and all else would follow? It is the more strange,
since we know that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The
daughter told us as much. Do you not deduce something from that?"
"We have got to the deductions and the inferences," said Lestrade,
winking at me. "I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes,
without flying away after theories and fancies."
"You are right," said Holmes demurely; "you do find it very hard to
tackle the facts."
"Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult
to get hold of," replied Lestrade with some warmth.
"And that is--"
"That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that all
theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine."
"Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog," said Holmes,
laughing. "But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm
upon the left."
"Yes, that is it." It was a widespread, comfortable-looking building,
two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon
the grey walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys, however,
gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of this horror still
lay heavy upon it. We called at the door, when the maid, at Holmes'
request, showed us the boots which her master wore at the time of his
death, and also a pair of the son's, though not the pair which he had
then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight
different points, Holmes desired to be led to the court-yard, from
which we all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.
Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as
this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker
Street would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed and
darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his
eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was
bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the
veins stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils
seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his
mind was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a
question or remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only
provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he
made his way along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by
way of the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as
is all that district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon
the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on either side.
Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he
made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked
behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while I
watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the conviction
that every one of his actions was directed towards a definite end.
The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some
fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the Hatherley
Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods
which lined it upon the farther side we could see the red, jutting
pinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner's dwelling. On
the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew very thick, and there
was a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between the
edge of the trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade showed
us the exact spot at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so
moist was the ground, that I could plainly see the traces which had
been left by the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see
by his eager face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be
read upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking
up a scent, and then turned upon my companion.
"What did you go into the pool for?" he asked.
"I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or
other trace. But how on earth--"
"Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its
inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there
it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been
had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed
all over it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and
they have covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body.
But here are three separate tracks of the same feet." He drew out a
lens and lay down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking
all the time rather to himself than to us. "These are young
McCarthy's feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so
that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That
bears out his story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground.
Then here are the father's feet as he paced up and down. What is
this, then? It is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening.
And this? Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too,
quite unusual boots! They come, they go, they come again--of course
that was for the cloak. Now where did they come from?" He ran up and
down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we were
well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great
beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced his way
to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon his face with
a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained there,
turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to
me to be dust into an envelope and examining with his lens not only
the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could reach. A
jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he carefully
examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the wood
until he came to the highroad, where all traces were lost.
"It has been a case of considerable interest," he remarked, returning
to his natural manner. "I fancy that this grey house on the right
must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with
Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having done that, we may
drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the cab, and I shall be
with you presently."
It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back
into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he had
picked up in the wood.
"This may interest you, Lestrade," he remarked, holding it out. "The
murder was done with it."
"I see no marks."
"There are none."
"How do you know, then?"
"The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few days.
There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It corresponds
with the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon."
"And the murderer?"
"Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears
thick-soled shooting-boots and a grey cloak, smokes Indian cigars,
uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket.
There are several other indications, but these may be enough to aid
us in our search."
Lestrade laughed. "I am afraid that I am still a sceptic," he said.
"Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a hard-headed
British jury."
"Nous verrons," answered Holmes calmly. "You work your own method,
and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall
probably return to London by the evening train."
"And leave your case unfinished?"
"No, finished."
"But the mystery?"
"It is solved."
"Who was the criminal, then?"
"The gentleman I describe."
"But who is he?"
"Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a
populous neighbourhood."
Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am a practical man," he said,
"and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a
left-handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the
laughing-stock of Scotland Yard."
"All right," said Holmes quietly. "I have given you the chance. Here
are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before I leave."
Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where we
found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in thought
with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds himself in a
perplexing position.
"Look here, Watson," he said when the cloth was cleared "just sit
down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don't
know quite what to do, and I should value your advice. Light a cigar
and let me expound."
"Pray do so."
"Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about young
McCarthy's narrative which struck us both instantly, although they
impressed me in his favour and you against him. One was the fact that
his father should, according to his account, cry 'Cooee!' before
seeing him. The other was his singular dying reference to a rat. He
mumbled several words, you understand, but that was all that caught
the son's ear. Now from this double point our research must commence,
and we will begin it by presuming that what the lad says is
absolutely true."
"What of this 'Cooee!' then?"
"Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The son,
as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that he was
within earshot. The 'Cooee!' was meant to attract the attention of
whoever it was that he had the appointment with. But 'Cooee' is a
distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used between Australians.
There is a strong presumption that the person whom McCarthy expected
to meet him at Boscombe Pool was someone who had been in Australia."
"What of the rat, then?"
Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it
out on the table. "This is a map of the Colony of Victoria," he said.
"I wired to Bristol for it last night." He put his hand over part of
the map. "What do you read?"
"ARAT," I read.
"And now?" He raised his hand.
"BALLARAT."
"Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his son
only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name
of his murderer. So and so, of Ballarat."
"It is wonderful!" I exclaimed.
"It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down
considerably. The possession of a grey garment was a third point
which, granting the son's statement to be correct, was a certainty.
We have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception of
an Australian from Ballarat with a grey cloak."
"Certainly."
"And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only be
approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could hardly
wander."
"Quite so."
"Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the ground
I gained the trifling details which I gave to that imbecile Lestrade,
as to the personality of the criminal."
"But how did you gain them?"
"You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles."
"His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length of
his stride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces."
"Yes, they were peculiar boots."
"But his lameness?"
"The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than his
left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped--he was
lame."
"But his left-handedness."
"You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded by
the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from immediately
behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can that be unless
it were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that tree during
the interview between the father and son. He had even smoked there. I
found the ash of a cigar, which my special knowledge of tobacco ashes
enables me to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as you know,
devoted some attention to this, and written a little monograph on the
ashes of 140 different varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette
tobacco. Having found the ash, I then looked round and discovered the
stump among the moss where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar,
of the variety which are rolled in Rotterdam."
"And the cigar-holder?"
