And thus was solved the mystery of the sinister house with the copper
beeches in front of the door. Mr. Rucastle survived, but was always a
broken man, kept alive solely through the care of his devoted wife.
They still live with their old servants, who probably know so much of
Rucastle's past life that he finds it difficult to part from them.
Mr. Fowler and Miss Rucastle were married, by special license, in
Southampton the day after their flight, and he is now the holder of a
government appointment in the island of Mauritius. As to Miss Violet
Hunter, my friend Holmes, rather to my disappointment, manifested no
further interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of
one of his problems, and she is now the head of a private school at
Walsall, where I believe that she has met with considerable success.
THE MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
SILVER BLAZE
"I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go," said Holmes, as we
sat down together to our breakfast one morning.
"Go! Where to?"
"To Dartmoor; to King's Pyland."
I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that he had not
already been mixed upon this extraordinary case, which was the one
topic of conversation through the length and breadth of England. For
a whole day my companion had rambled about the room with his chin
upon his chest and his brows knitted, charging and recharging his
pipe with the strongest black tobacco, and absolutely deaf to any of
my questions or remarks. Fresh editions of every paper had been sent
up by our news agent, only to be glanced over and tossed down into a
corner. Yet, silent as he was, I knew perfectly well what it was over
which he was brooding. There was but one problem before the public
which could challenge his powers of analysis, and that was the
singular disappearance of the favorite for the Wessex Cup, and the
tragic murder of its trainer. When, therefore, he suddenly announced
his intention of setting out for the scene of the drama it was only
what I had both expected and hoped for.
"I should be most happy to go down with you if I should not be in the
way," said I.
"My dear Watson, you would confer a great favor upon me by coming.
And I think that your time will not be misspent, for there are points
about the case which promise to make it an absolutely unique one. We
have, I think, just time to catch our train at Paddington, and I will
go further into the matter upon our journey. You would oblige me by
bringing with you your very excellent field-glass."
And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself in the
corner of a first-class carriage flying along en route for Exeter,
while Sherlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face framed in his
ear-flapped travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle of fresh
papers which he had procured at Paddington. We had left Reading far
behind us before he thrust the last one of them under the seat, and
offered me his cigar-case.
"We are going well," said he, looking out the window and glancing at
his watch. "Our rate at present is fifty-three and a half miles an
hour."
"I have not observed the quarter-mile posts," said I.
"Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this line are sixty yards
apart, and the calculation is a simple one. I presume that you have
looked into this matter of the murder of John Straker and the
disappearance of Silver Blaze?"
"I have seen what the Telegraph and the Chronicle have to say."
"It is one of those cases where the art of the reasoner should be
used rather for the sifting of details than for the acquiring of
fresh evidence. The tragedy has been so uncommon, so complete and of
such personal importance to so many people, that we are suffering
from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis. The
difficulty is to detach the framework of fact--of absolute undeniable
fact--from the embellishments of theorists and reporters. Then,
having established ourselves upon this sound basis, it is our duty to
see what inferences may be drawn and what are the special points upon
which the whole mystery turns. On Tuesday evening I received
telegrams from both Colonel Ross, the owner of the horse, and from
Inspector Gregory, who is looking after the case, inviting my
cooperation.
"Tuesday evening!" I exclaimed. "And this is Thursday morning. Why
didn't you go down yesterday?"
"Because I made a blunder, my dear Watson--which is, I am afraid, a
more common occurrence than any one would think who only knew me
through your memoirs. The fact is that I could not believe it
possible that the most remarkable horse in England could long remain
concealed, especially in so sparsely inhabited a place as the north
of Dartmoor. From hour to hour yesterday I expected to hear that he
had been found, and that his abductor was the murderer of John
Straker. When, however, another morning had come, and I found that
beyond the arrest of young Fitzroy Simpson nothing had been done, I
felt that it was time for me to take action. Yet in some ways I feel
that yesterday has not been wasted."
"You have formed a theory, then?"
"At least I have got a grip of the essential facts of the case. I
shall enumerate them to you, for nothing clears up a case so much as
stating it to another person, and I can hardly expect your
co-operation if I do not show you the position from which we start."
I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar, while Holmes,
leaning forward, with his long, thin forefinger checking off the
points upon the palm of his left hand, gave me a sketch of the events
which had led to our journey.
"Silver Blaze," said he, "is from the Somomy stock, and holds as
brilliant a record as his famous ancestor. He is now in his fifth
year, and has brought in turn each of the prizes of the turf to
Colonel Ross, his fortunate owner. Up to the time of the catastrophe
he was the first favorite for the Wessex Cup, the betting being three
to one on him. He has always, however, been a prime favorite with the
racing public, and has never yet disappointed them, so that even at
those odds enormous sums of money have been laid upon him. It is
obvious, therefore, that there were many people who had the strongest
interest in preventing Silver Blaze from being there at the fall of
the flag next Tuesday.
"The fact was, of course, appreciated at King's Pyland, where the
Colonel's training-stable is situated. Every precaution was taken to
guard the favorite. The trainer, John Straker, is a retired jockey
who rode in Colonel Ross's colors before he became too heavy for the
weighing-chair. He has served the Colonel for five years as jockey
and for seven as trainer, and has always shown himself to be a
zealous and honest servant. Under him were three lads; for the
establishment was a small one, containing only four horses in all.
One of these lads sat up each night in the stable, while the others
slept in the loft. All three bore excellent characters. John Straker,
who is a married man, lived in a small villa about two hundred yards
from the stables. He has no children, keeps one maid-servant, and is
comfortably off. The country round is very lonely, but about half a
mile to the north there is a small cluster of villas which have been
built by a Tavistock contractor for the use of invalids and others
who may wish to enjoy the pure Dartmoor air. Tavistock itself lies
two miles to the west, while across the moor, also about two miles
distant, is the larger training establishment of Mapleton, which
belongs to Lord Backwater, and is managed by Silas Brown. In every
other direction the moor is a complete wilderness, inhabited only by
a few roaming gypsies. Such was the general situation last Monday
night when the catastrophe occurred.
"On that evening the horses had been exercised and watered as usual,
and the stables were locked up at nine o'clock. Two of the lads
walked up to the trainer's house, where they had supper in the
kitchen, while the third, Ned Hunter, remained on guard. At a few
minutes after nine the maid, Edith Baxter, carried down to the
stables his supper, which consisted of a dish of curried mutton. She
took no liquid, as there was a water-tap in the stables, and it was
the rule that the lad on duty should drink nothing else. The maid
carried a lantern with her, as it was very dark and the path ran
across the open moor.
"Edith Baxter was within thirty yards of the stables, when a man
appeared out of the darkness and called to her to stop. As he stepped
into the circle of yellow light thrown by the lantern she saw that he
was a person of gentlemanly bearing, dressed in a gray suit of
tweeds, with a cloth cap. He wore gaiters, and carried a heavy stick
with a knob to it. She was most impressed, however, by the extreme
pallor of his face and by the nervousness of his manner. His age, she
thought, would be rather over thirty than under it.
"'Can you tell me where I am?' he asked. 'I had almost made up my
mind to sleep on the moor, when I saw the light of your lantern.'
"'You are close to the King's Pyland training-stables,' said she.
"'Oh, indeed! What a stroke of luck!' he cried. 'I understand that a
stable-boy sleeps there alone every night. Perhaps that is his supper
which you are carrying to him. Now I am sure that you would not be
too proud to earn the price of a new dress, would you?' He took a
piece of white paper folded up out of his waistcoat pocket. 'See that
the boy has this to-night, and you shall have the prettiest frock
that money can buy.'
"She was frightened by the earnestness of his manner, and ran past
him to the window through which she was accustomed to hand the meals.
It was already opened, and Hunter was seated at the small table
inside. She had begun to tell him of what had happened, when the
stranger came up again.
"'Good-evening,' said he, looking through the window. 'I wanted to
have a word with you.' The girl has sworn that as he spoke she
noticed the corner of the little paper packet protruding from his
closed hand.
"'What business have you here?' asked the lad.
"'It's business that may put something into your pocket,' said the
other. 'You've two horses in for the Wessex Cup--Silver Blaze and
Bayard. Let me have the straight tip and you won't be a loser. Is it
a fact that at the weights Bayard could give the other a hundred
yards in five furlongs, and that the stable have put their money on
him?'
"'So, you're one of those damned touts!' cried the lad. 'I'll show
you how we serve them in King's Pyland.' He sprang up and rushed
across the stable to unloose the dog. The girl fled away to the
house, but as she ran she looked back and saw that the stranger was
leaning through the window. A minute later, however, when Hunter
rushed out with the hound he was gone, and though he ran all round
the buildings he failed to find any trace of him."
"One moment," I asked. "Did the stable-boy, when he ran out with the
dog, leave the door unlocked behind him?"
"Excellent, Watson, excellent!" murmured my companion. "The
importance of the point struck me so forcibly that I sent a special
wire to Dartmoor yesterday to clear the matter up. The boy locked the
door before he left it. The window, I may add, was not large enough
for a man to get through.
"Hunter waited until his fellow-grooms had returned, when he sent a
message to the trainer and told him what had occurred. Straker was
excited at hearing the account, although he does not seem to have
quite realized its true significance. It left him, however, vaguely
uneasy, and Mrs. Straker, waking at one in the morning, found that he
was dressing. In reply to her inquiries, he said that he could not
sleep on account of his anxiety about the horses, and that he
intended to walk down to the stables to see that all was well. She
begged him to remain at home, as she could hear the rain pattering
against the window, but in spite of her entreaties he pulled on his
large mackintosh and left the house.
"Mrs. Straker awoke at seven in the morning, to find that her husband
had not yet returned. She dressed herself hastily, called the maid,
and set off for the stables. The door was open; inside, huddled
together upon a chair, Hunter was sunk in a state of absolute stupor,
the favorite's stall was empty, and there were no signs of his
trainer.
"The two lads who slept in the chaff-cutting loft above the
harness-room were quickly aroused. They had heard nothing during the
night, for they are both sound sleepers. Hunter was obviously under
the influence of some powerful drug, and as no sense could be got out
of him, he was left to sleep it off while the two lads and the two
