St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and you may
rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend
and colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have no news of her
husband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!"
We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its own
grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse's head, and springing
down, I followed Holmes up the small, winding gravel-drive which led
to the house. As we approached, the door flew open, and a little
blonde woman stood in the opening, clad in some sort of light
mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck
and wrists. She stood with her figure outlined against the flood of
light, one hand upon the door, one half-raised in her eagerness, her
body slightly bent, her head and face protruded, with eager eyes and
parted lips, a standing question.
"Well?" she cried, "well?" And then, seeing that there were two of
us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she saw that my
companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
"No good news?"
"None."
"No bad?"
"No."
"Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for you have had
a long day."
"This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to me
in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for
me to bring him out and associate him with this investigation."
"I am delighted to see you," said she, pressing my hand warmly. "You
will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our
arrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly
upon us."
"My dear madam," said I, "I am an old campaigner, and if I were not I
can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be of any
assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeed
happy."
"Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the lady as we entered a well-lit
dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had been laid out,
"I should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions, to
which I beg that you will give a plain answer."
"Certainly, madam."
"Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor given to
fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion."
"Upon what point?"
"In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?"
Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question. "Frankly,
now!" she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at
him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.
"Frankly, then, madam, I do not."
"You think that he is dead?"
"I do."
"Murdered?"
"I don't say that. Perhaps."
"And on what day did he meet his death?"
"On Monday."
"Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it
is that I have received a letter from him to-day."
Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanised.
"What!" he roared.
"Yes, to-day." She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper
in the air.
"May I see it?"
"Certainly."
He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon
the table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I had left
my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The envelope was a
very coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark and with
the date of that very day, or rather of the day before, for it was
considerably after midnight.
"Coarse writing," murmured Holmes. "Surely this is not your husband's
writing, madam."
"No, but the enclosure is."
"I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and
inquire as to the address."
"How can you tell that?"
"The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried
itself. The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that
blotting-paper has been used. If it had been written straight off,
and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This man has
written the name, and there has then been a pause before he wrote the
address, which can only mean that he was not familiar with it. It is,
of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles.
Let us now see the letter. Ha! there has been an enclosure here!"
"Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring."
"And you are sure that this is your husband's hand?"
"One of his hands."
"One?"
"His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual
writing, and yet I know it well."
"Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge
error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in
patience.
"Neville.
Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, no
water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a dirty
thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very much in
error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And you have no
doubt that it is your husband's hand, madam?"
"None. Neville wrote those words."
"And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the
clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is
over."
"But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes."
"Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. The
ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him."
"No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!"
"Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only
posted to-day."
"That is possible."
"If so, much may have happened between."
"Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well
with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I should know
if evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him last he cut
himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room rushed upstairs
instantly with the utmost certainty that something had happened. Do
you think that I would respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant
of his death?"
"I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may
be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And
in this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to
corroborate your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write
letters, why should he remain away from you?"
"I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable."
"And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?"
"No."
"And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?"
"Very much so."
"Was the window open?"
"Yes."
"Then he might have called to you?"
"He might."
"He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?"
"Yes."
"A call for help, you thought?"
"Yes. He waved his hands."
"But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the
unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?"
"It is possible."
"And you thought he was pulled back?"
"He disappeared so suddenly."
"He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the room?"
"No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the
Lascar was at the foot of the stairs."
"Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary
clothes on?"
"But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat."
"Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?"
"Never."
"Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?"
"Never."
"Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about
which I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little
supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day to-morrow."
A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our
disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after
my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when
he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days, and even
for a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts,
looking at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed
it or convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon
evident to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He
took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown,
and then wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and
cushions from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a
sort of Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged,
with an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front
of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old
briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner
of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent,
motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline
features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a
sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found the summer sun
shining into the apartment. The pipe was still between his lips, the
smoke still curled upward, and the room was full of a dense tobacco
haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag which I had seen upon
the previous night.
"Awake, Watson?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Game for a morning drive?"
"Certainly."
"Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy
sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out." He chuckled to himself
as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the
sombre thinker of the previous night.
As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was
stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished
when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the
horse.
"I want to test a little theory of mine," said he, pulling on his
boots. "I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of
one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from
here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now."
"And where is it?" I asked, smiling.
"In the bathroom," he answered. "Oh, yes, I am not joking," he
continued, seeing my look of incredulity. "I have just been there,
and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag.
Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock."
We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the
bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with
the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and
away we dashed down the London Road. A few country carts were
stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of
villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a
dream.
"It has been in some points a singular case," said Holmes, flicking
the horse on into a gallop. "I confess that I have been as blind as a
mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at
all."
In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from
their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side.
Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and
dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found
ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force,
and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the
horse's head while the other led us in.
"Who is on duty?" asked Holmes.
"Inspector Bradstreet, sir."
"Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?" A tall, stout official had come down
the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. "I
wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet." "Certainly, Mr.
Holmes. Step into my room here." It was a small, office-like room,
with a huge ledger upon the table, and a telephone projecting from
the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?"
"I called about that beggarman, Boone--the one who was charged with
being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of
Lee."
"Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries."
"So I heard. You have him here?"
"In the cells."
"Is he quiet?"
"Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel."
