Speaker 1: 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 in scenery perfect leave Paddington by
the eleven fifteen. 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 An Struther 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 mister Sherlock Holmes's 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 traveler. 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 paddingson station.
Sherlock Holmes was pacing up and down the platform, his tall,
gaunt figure, made even gaunter and taller by his long
gray traveling 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 biased. 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 toss them
up on to 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
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 and Herefordshire.
The largest landed proprietor in that part is a mister
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 Heatherley, was lent to
mister Charles McCarthy, who was also an ex Australian. The
men had known each other in the colony, so that
it was not unnatural that when they came to settle
down that 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 appeared to have avoided the society
of the neighboring 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 neighborhood. McCarthy
kept two servants, a man and girl. Turner had a
considerable household, some half dozen in the least. That is
as much as I have been able to gather about
the families. Now for the facts. On June third, that
is 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 it free from that appointment, he never came back alive.
From Hatherley Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool as 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 gamekeeper in the employ of mister Turner. Both these
witnesses deposed that mister McCarthy was walking alone. The gamekeeper
adds that within a few minutes of his seeing mister
McCarthy pass he had seen his son, mister Jane Miss McCarthy,
going the same way with a gun under his arm.
To the best of his belief, the father was actually
in sight at the time and the son was following him.
He thought no more of the matter until he heard
in the evening of the tragedy that had occurred. The
two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder,
the gamekeeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is
thickly wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and
reeds round the edge. A girl of fourteen, Patience Moran,
who is the daughter of the lodge keeper of the
Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the woods picking flowers.
She states that while she was there she saw at
the border of the wooden close by the lake, mister
McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared to be
having a violent quarrel. She heard mister McCarthy the elder,
using very strong language to his son, and she saw
the latter raise up his hand as if to strike
his father. She was so frightened by their violence that
she ran away and told her mother when she reached
home that she had left the two McCarthy's quarreling near
Boscomb Pool Pool, and that she was afraid that they
were going to fight. She had hardly said the words
when young mister McCarthy came running up to the lodge
to say that he had found his father dead in
the wood and to ask for the help of the
lodge keeper. He was much excited, without either his gun
or his hat, and his right hand and sleeve were
observed to be stained with fresh blood. On following him,
they found the dead body stretched out upon the grasp
side the pool. The head had been beaten in by
repeated blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries
were such as might very well have been inflicted by
the butt end of his son's gun, which was found
lying on the grass within a few paces of the body.
Under these circumstances, the young man was instantly arrested, and
a verdict of wilful murder having been returned at the
inquest on Tuesday, he was on Wednesday brought before the
Magistrates at Ross, who have referred the case to the
next assizes. Those are the main facts of the case
as they came out before the coroner and the police court.
I could hardly imagine a more damning case, I remarked.
If ever circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal, it does
so here. Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing, answered
Holmes thoughtfully. It may seem to point very straight to
one thing, but if you shift your own point of
view a little, you may find it pointing in an
equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different. It must be confess, however,
that the case looks exceedingly grave against the young man.
It is very possible that he is indeed the culbrit
There are several people in the neighborhood, however, and among
them Miss Turner, the daughter of the neighboring landowner, who
believe in his innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom
you may recollect in connection with the study in Scarlet,
to work out the case in his interest. Lestrade, being
rather puzzled, has referred the case to me, and hence
it is that two middle aged gentlemen are flying westward
fifty miles an hour instead of quietly digesting their breakfasts
at home. I am afraid, said I, that the facts
are so obvious that you will find little credit to
be gained out of this case. There is nothing more
deceptive than an obvious fact, he answered, laughing. Besides, we
may chance to hit upon some other obvious facts which
may have been by no means obvious to mister Lestrade.
You know me too well to think that I am
boasting when I say that I shall either confirm or
destroy his theory by means which he is quite incapable
of employing, or even of understanding. To take the first
example to hand, I very clearly perceive that in your
bedroom the window is upon the right hand side. And
yet I question whether miss Lestrade would have noticed even
so self evident a thing as that, How on earth,
my dear fellow. I know you well, I know the
military neatness which characterizes you. You shave every morning, and
in this season you shave by the sunlight. But since
your shaving is less and less complete as we get
farther back on the left side, and until it becomes
positively slovenly as we get round the angle of the jaw,
it is surely very clear that that side is less
illuminated than the other. I could not imagine a man
of your habits looking at himself in an equal light
in being satisfied with such a result. I only quote
this as a trivial example of observation and inference. Therein
lies my metier, and it is just possible that it
may be of some service in the investigation which lies
before us. There are one or two minor points which
are brought out in the inquest in which are worth considering.
What are they? It appears that his arrest did not
take place at once, but after the return to Hatherley Farm,
on the Inspector of Constabulary informing him that he was
a prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised to
hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts.
This observation of his had the natural effect of removing
any traces of doubt which might have remained in the
minds of the coroner's jury. It was a confession I
ejaculated no, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence.
Coming on top of such a damning series of events,
it was at the least a most suspicious remark. On
the contrary, said Holmes, it is the brightest rift which
I can at present see in the clouds. However innocent
he might be, he could not be such an absolute
imbecile as not to see that the circumstances were very
black against him. Had he appeared surprised at his own
arrest or feigned indignation at it, I should have looked
upon it as highly suspicious, because such surprise or anger
would not be natural under the circumstances, and yet might
appear to be the best policy to a scheming man.
His frank acceptance of the situation marks him as either
an innocent man, or else as a man of considerable
self restraint and firmness. As to his remark about his deserts,
It was also not unnatural if you consider that he
stood beside the dead body of his father, and that
there is no doubt that he had that very day
so far forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words
with him, and even according to the little girl, whose
evidence is so important, to raise his hand as if
to strike him the self. Reproach and contrition which are
displayed in his remark appear to me to be the
signs of a healthy mind, rather than of a guilty one.
I shook my head. Many men have been hanged on
far slighter evidence, I remarked. So they have, and many
men have been wrongfully hanged. What is the young man's
own account of the matter? It is, I am afraid,
not very encouraging to his support, as though there are
one or two points in it which are suggestive. You
will find it here and may read it for yourself.
He picked out from his bundle a copy of the
local Herefordshire paper, and, having turned down the sheet, he
pointed out the paragraph in which the un fortunate young
man had given his own statement of what had occurred.
I settled myself down in the corner of the carriage
and read it very carefully. It ran in this way.
Mister James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was
then called and gave evidence as follows. I had been
away from home for three days at Bristol, and had
only just returned upon the morning of last Monday the third.
My father was absent from home at the time of
my arrival, and I was informed by the maid that
he had driven over to Ross with John Cobb, the groom.
Shortly after my return, I heard the wheels of his
trap in the yard, and looking out of my window,
I saw him get out and walk rapidly out of
the yard, though I was not aware in which direction
he was going. I then took my gun and strolled
out in the direction of the Boscombe Pool, with the
intention of visiting the rabbit warren, which is upon the
other side. On my way, I saw William Crowder, the gamekeeper,
as he had stated in his evidence, but he is
mistaken in thinking that I was following my father. I
had no idea that he was in front of me.
When about a hundred yards from the pool, I heard
a cry of COUI, which is an unusual signal between
my father and myself. I then hurried forward and found
him standing by the pool. He appeared to be much
surprised at seeing me, and asked me rather roughly what
I was doing there. A conversation ensued which led to
high words and almost blows. For my father was a
man of a very violent temper. Seeing that his passion
was becoming ungovernable, I left him in returned towards Hatherly Farm.
I had not gone more than one hundred fifty yards, however,
when I heard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused
me to run back again. I found my father expiring
upon the ground, with his head terribly injured. I dropped
my gun and held him in my arms, but he
almost instantly expired. I knelt beside him for some minutes,
and then made my way to mister Turner's lodge keeper
his house, being the nearest to ask for assistance. I
saw no one near my father when I returned, and
I have no idea how he came by his injuries.
He was not a popular man, being somewhat cold and
forbidding in his manners, but he had, as far as
I know, no active enemies. I know nothing further of
the matter. The coroner did your father make any statement
to you before he died, Witness. He mumbled a few words,
but I could only catch some allusion to a rat.
The coroner. What did you understand by that? Witness? It
conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was delirious,
the Coroner. What was the point upon which in your
father had this final quarrel? Witness, I should prefer not
to answer the Coroner. I am afraid that I must
press it. Witness, it is really impossible for me to
tell you. I can assure you that it has nothing
to do with the sad tragedy which followed. The Coroner.
That is for the court to decide. I need not
point out to you that your refusal to answer will
prejudice your case considerably in any future proceedings which may arise. Witness.
I still must refuse the Coroner. I understand that the
cry of coui was a common signal between you and
your father, Witness, it was the coroner. How was it
then that he uttered it before he saw you, and
before he even knew that you would return from Bristol, Witness,
with considerable confusion, I do not know, a juryman, did
you see nothing which aroused your suspicions when you returned
on hearing the cry and found your father fatally injured. Witness,
nothing definite, the coroner, What do you mean, Witness. I
was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into
the open that I could think of nothing except my father.
Yet I have a vague impression that as I ran forward,
something lay upon the ground to the left of me.
It seemed to be something gray in color, a coat
of some sort, or a plaid. Perhaps. When I rose
from my father, I looked round for it, but it
was gone. Do you mean that it had disappeared before
you went to help? Yes, it was gone. You cannot
say what it was. No, I had a feeling something
was there. How far from the body a dozen yards
or so, and how far from the edge of the
wood about the same. Then, if it was removed, it
was while you were within a dozen yards of it, Yes,
but with my back towards it. This concluded the examination
of the witness. I see, said I as I glanced
down the column that the coroner, in his concluding remarks,
was rather severe upon young McCarthy. He calls attention and
with reason to the discrepancy about his father having signaled
to him before seeing him, and also to his refusal
to give details of his conversation with his father, and
his singular account of his father's dying words. They are all,
as he remarks, very much against the son. Holmes laughed
softly to himself and stretched himself out upon the cushioned seat.
Both you and the Corrodor have been at some Paines,
said he to single out the very strongest points in
the young man's favor. Don't you see that you alternately
give him credit for having too much imagination and too little?
Too little if he could not invent a cause of
quarrel which would give him the sympathy of the jury,
too much, if he evolved from his own inner consciousness,
anything so outree as a dying reference to a rat
and the incident of the vanishing cloth. No, Sir, I
shall approach this case from the point of view that
what this young man says is true, and we shall
see whither that hypothesis will lead us. And now here
is my pocket, Petrarch, And not another word shall I
say of this case until we are on the scene
of action. We lunch at Swindon, and I see that
we shall be there in twenty minutes. It was nearly
four o'clock when we, at last, after passing through the
beautiful Stroud Valley and over the broad gleaming Severn, found
ourselves at the pretty little country town of Ross. A
lean ferret like man, furtive and sly looking, was waiting
for us upon the platform. In spite of the light
brown dustcoat and leather leggings which he wore in deference
to his rustic surroundings, I had no difficulty in recognizing
Lestrade of Scotland. Yard. With him, we drove to the
Hereford Arms, where room had already been engaged for us.
I have ordered a carriage, said Lestrade, as we sat
over a cup of tea. I knew your energetic nature
and that you would not be happy until you had
been on the scene of the crime. It was very
nice and complimentary of you, Holmes answered, it is entirely
a question of barometric pressure. Lestrade looked startled. I do
not quite follow, he said, how is the glass twenty nine?
I see no wind and not a cloud in the sky.
I have a case full of cigarettes here which needs smoking,
and the sofa is very much superior to the usual
country hotel abomination. I do not think that it is
probable that I shall use the carriage to night, Lustrade
laughed indulgently. You have no doubt already formed your conclusions
from the newspapers, he said. The case is as plain
as a pikestaff, and the more one goes into it,
the plainer it becomes. Still. Of course, one can't refuse
a lady in such a very positive one. Too. She
has heard of you and would have your opinion, though
I repeatedly told her that there was nothing which you
could do which I had not already done. Why, bless
my soul, here is her carriage at the door. He
had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one
of the most lovely young women that I have ever
seen in my life, her violet eyes shining, her lips parted,
a pink flush upon her cheeks. All thought of her
natural reserve lost in her overpowering excitement and concern. Oh,
mister Sherlock Holmes, she cried, glancing from one to the
other of us, and finally, with a woman's quick intuition
fastening upon my companion, I am so glad that you
have come. I have driven down to tell you. So
I know, oh, that James didn't do it. I know it,
and I want you to start upon your work knowing
it too. Never let yourself doubt upon that point. We
have known each other since we were little children, and
I know his faults as no one else does. But
he is too tender hearted to hurt a fly. Such
a charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him.
I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner, said, Sherlock Holmes.
You may rely upon my doing all that I can.
But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion.
Do you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you
not yourself think that he is innocent? I think that
it is very probable. There now, she cried, throwing back
her head and looking defiantly at Lestrade. You hear he
gives me hopes. Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. I am afraid
that my colleague has been a little quick in forming
his conclusions, he said, But he is right. Oh, I
know that he is right. James never did it. And
about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that
the reason why he would not speak about it to
the coroner is because I was concerned in it in
what way? Asked Holmes. It is no time for me
to hide anything. James and his father had many disagreements
about me. Mister MacCarthy was very anxious that there should
be a marriage between us. James and I have always
loved each other as brother and sister. But of course
he is young and has seen very little of life yet,
and and well, naturally he did not wish to do
anything like that yet. So there were quarrels, and this,
I am sure was one of them. And your father,
asked Holmes, was he in favor of such a union? No,
he was averse to it. Also, No one but mister
McCarthy was in favor of it. A quick blush passed
over her fresh young face as Holmes shot one of
his keen questioning glances at her. Thank you for this information,
said he. May I see your father if I call
to morrow. I am afraid the doctor won't allow it.
The doctor, yes, have you not heard? Poor father has
never been strong for years back, but this has broken
him down completely. He is taken to his bed and
doctor Willows says that he is a wreck and that
his nervous system is shattered. Mister mc carthy was the
only man alive who had known Dad in the old
days in Victoria. Ha, in Victoria. That is important. Yes,
at the mines, quite so, at the gold mines, where
as I understand mister Turner made his money. Yes, certainly,
Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance
to me. You will tell me if you have any
news tomorrow. No doubt you will go to the prison
to see James. Oh. If you do, mister Holmes, do
tell him that I know him to be innocent. I will,
miss Turner. I must go home now, for Dad is
very ill and he misses me. So if I leave him,
good bye, and God help you in your undertaking. She
hurried from the room as impulsively as she had entered,
and we heard the wheels of her carriage rattle off
down the street. I am ashamed of you, Holmes, said Lestrade,
with dignity, after a few minutes silence. Why should you
raise up hopes which you are bound to disappoint. I
am not over tender of heart, but I call it cruel.
I think that I see my way to clearing. James
mc carthy said, Holmes, have you in order to see
him in prison, yes, but only for you and me.
Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We
have still time to take a train to Hereford and
see him to night. Ample, then let us do so.
Wats an. I fear that you will find it very slow,
But I shall only be away a couple of hours.
I walked down to the station with them, and then
wandered through the streets of the little town, finally returning
to the hotel, where I lay upon the sofa and
tried to interest myself in a yellow backed novel. The
puny plot of the story was so thin, however, when
compared to the deep mystery through which we were groping,
and I found my attention wander so continually from the action,
to the fact that I at last flung it across
the room and gave myself up entirely to a consideration
of the events of the day. Supposing that this unhappy
young man's story were absolutely truth, and what hellish thing,
what absolutely unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between
the time when he parted from his father and the
moment when drawn back by his screams, he rushed into
the glade. It was something terrible and deadly. What could
it be? Might not the nature of the injuries reveal
something to my medical instincts? I rang the bell and
called for the weekly country paper, which contained a verbatim
account of the inquest. In the surgeon's deposition, it was
stated that the posterior third of the left parietal bone
and left half of the occipital bone had been shattered
by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. I marked
the spot upon my own head. Clearly, such a blow
must have been struck from behind. That was to some
extent in favor of the accused, as when seen quarreling,
he was face to face with his father. Still it
did not go for very much for the older man
my have turned his back before the blow fell. Still
it might be worth while to call Holmes' attention to it.
Then there was the peculiar dying reference to a rat.
What could that mean? It could not be delirium. A
man dying from a sudden bload as not commonly become delirious. No,
it was more likely to be an attempt to explain
how he met his fate. But what could it indicate?
I cuddled my brains to find some possible explanation, and
then the incident of the gray cloth seen by young McCarthy.
If that were true, the murderer must have dropped some
part of his dress, presumably his overcoat, in his flight,
and must have had the hardihood to return and to
carry it away at the instant when the sun was
kneeling with his back turned not a dozen paces off.
What a tissue of mysteries and improbabilities the whole thing was.
I did not wonder at Lestrade's opinion, and yet I
had so much faith in Sherlock Holmes's insight that I
could not lose hope as long as every fresh fact
seemed to strengthen his conviction of young McCarthy's. It was
late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, for
Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town. The glass
still keeps very high, he remarked, as he sat down.
It is of importance that it should not rain before
we are able to go over the ground. On the
other hand, a man should be at his very best
and keenness for such a nice work as that, and
I did not wish to do it when fagged by
a long journey. I have seen young MacCarthy, and what
did you learn from him? Nothing? Could he throw no light,
none at all. I was inclined to think at one
time that he knew who had done it and was
screening him or her. But I am convinced now that
he is as puzzled as every one else. He is
not a very quick witted use, though comely to look at,
and I should think sound at heart. I cannot admire
his taste, I remarked. If it is indeed a fact
that he was averse to a marriage with so charming
a young lady as this mister berner, Ah, thereby hangs
a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly, insanely in
love with her, but some two years ago, when he
was only a lad, and before he really knew her,
for she had been away five years at a boarding school.
What does the idiot do but get into the clutches
of a bar maid in Bristol and marry her at
a registry office. No one knows a word of the matter,
but you can imagine how madning it must be to
him to be upbraided for not doing what he would
give his very eyes to do, but which he knows
to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer frenzy of this
sort which made him throw his hands up into the
air when his father, at their last interview, was goading
him on to propose to Miss Turner. On the other hand,
he had no means of supporting himself, and his father,
who was by all accounts a very hard man, would
have thrown him over utterly had he known the truth.
It was with his bar made wife that he had
spent the last three days in Bristol, and his father
did not know where he was. Mark that point, it
is of importance good has come out of evil, however,
for the barmaid, finding from the papers that he is
in serious trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown
him over utterly, and has written to him to say
that she has a husband already in the Bermuda dockyard,
so that there is really no tie between them. I
think that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for
all that he has suffered. But if he is innocent,
who has done it? Ah? Who? I would call your
attention very particularly to two points. One is that the
murdered man had an appointment with someone at the pool,
and that the someone could not have been his son,
for his son was away and he did not know
when he would return. The second is that the murdered
man was heard to cry cooie before he knew that
his son had returned. Those are the crucial points upon
which the case depends. And now let us talk about
George Meredith, if you please, and we shall leave all
minor matters until tomorrow. There was no rain as home
had foretold, and the morning broke bright and cloudless. At
nine o'clock Less Strade called for us with the carriage,
and we set off for Hazily Farm in the Boscombe Pool.
Very serious news this morning, the Strade observed. It is
said that mister Turner of the whole is so ill
that his life is despaired. Of an elderly man, I presume,
said Holmes, about sixty, but his constitution has been shattered
by his life abroad, and he has been in failing
health for some time. This business has had a very
bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of McCarthy's,
and I may add a great benefactor to him, for
I have learned that he gave him heavily farm rent free. Indeed,
that is interesting, said Holmes. Oh, yes, in a hundred
other ways he has helped him. Everybody about here speaks
of his kindness to him. Really, does it not strike
you as a little singular that this 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 turn his daughter, who is presumably
heiress to the estate, and that in such a very
coture manner, as if it were merely a case of 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 deduces and
the inferences, said Lestrade, winking at me. I find it
hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes was out 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 still the contrary are
the merest moonshine. Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog,
said Holmes, laughing, But I am very much mistake. And
if this is not Hatterly 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 gray walls. The drawn blinds and 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's request, showed us
the boots which her master wore at the time of
his death, and also a pair of the suns, though
not the pair which he had then had. Having measured
these very carefully from seven or eight different points, Holmes
desire to be led to the courtyard, from which we
all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe pool
Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot. Upon such
ascent as this, men who had only known the quiet
thinker and logician of Baker Street would have failed to
recognize 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 nostril 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 Heatherley farm and the private park of
the wealthy mister 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 land owner's dwelling.
On the heathery 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. The strage 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 was 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
weaponer traits. But how on earth, Oh, tut tut, I
have no time. That left foot of yours with it
inward twist is all over the place. A mole could
trace it, and their advantishes among the wreaths. Oh, how
simple it would have all 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 in this Ha ha, what have we here?
Tiptoes tiptoes square to quite unusual. Boots, they come, they go,
they come again. Of course I 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 beach, the largest tree in the neighborhood.
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
he also carefully examined and retained. Then he followed a
pathway through the wood until he came to the high road,
where all traces were lost. It has been a case
of considerable interest, he remarked, returning to his natural manner.
I fancy that this gray 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've 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 where its thick soled, shooting boots and a
gray cloak. Smokes Indian cigars, uses a cigar holder, and
clarries a blunt penknife in his pocket. There are several
other indications, but these may be enough to aid us
in our search. The Strade laughed, I am afraid that
I am still a skeptic. He saides, are all very well,
but we have to deal with a hard headed British jury.
Nou vent, 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 is the criminal? Then the gentleman
I describe? But who is he? Surely it would not
be difficult to find out that this is not such
a populous neighborhood. 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 your 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 pain 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 when
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 mac carthy's narrative which
struck us both instantly, although they impressed me in his
favor and you against him. One was the fact that
his father should, according to his account, cry coui 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 coui? Then, well, obviously it could not
have been meant for the sun. The sun, as far
as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance
that he was within earshot. The coui was meant to
attract the attention of whoever it was that he had
the appointment with. But coui is a distinctly Australian cry,
and one which is used between Australians. There is a
strong presumption that the person whom MacCarthy 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,
A rat? I read, And now he raised his hand. Balarat.
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 gray garment
was a third point, which, granting the Sun'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 gray 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 astrade 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
might 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 it, 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 one hundred and forty 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 Rottendam, and
the cigar holder I could see that the end had
not been in his mouth, therefore he used to hold her.
The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but
the cut was not a clean one, so I deduced
a blunt penknife. Holmes, I said, you have drawn a
net round this man, from which he cannot escape, and
you have saved an innocent human life, as truly as
if you had cut the cord which was hanging him.
I see the direction in which all this points the
culprit is mister John Turner, cried the hotel waiter, opening
the door of our sitting room and uttering in a visitor.
The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure.
His slow limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance
of decrepitude, and yet his hard, deep lined, craggy features,
and his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of
unusual strength of body and of character. His tangled beard,
grizzled hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows combined to give an
air of dignity and power to his appearance. But his
face was of an ashen white, while his lips and
the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade
of blue. It was clear to me at a glance
that he was in the grip of some deadly and
chronic disease. Pray, sit down on the sofa, said Holmes gently.
You had my note, Yes, the lodge keeper brought it up.
You said that you wished to see me here to
avoid scandal. I thought people would talk if I went
to the hall. And why did you wish to see me?
He looked across at my companion with despair in his
weary eyes, as though his question was already answered. Yes,
said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. It
is so I know all about MacCarthy. The old man
sank his face in his hands. God help me, he cried.
But I would not have let the young man come
to harm. I give you my word that I would
have spoken out if it went again to him at
the assizes. I am glad to hear you say so,
said Holmes gravely. I would have spoken now had it
not been for my dear girl. It would break her heart.
It will break her heart when she hears that I
am arrested. It may not come to that, said Holmes.
What I am no official agent. I understand that it
was your daughter who required my presence here, and I
am acting in her interests. Young MacCarthy must be got off. However,
I am a dying man, said old Turner. I have
had diabetes for years. My doctor says it is a
question whether I shall live a month. Yet I would
rather die under my own roof than in a jail.
Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his
pen in his hand and a bundle of paper before him.
Just tell us the truth, he said. I shall jot
down the facts, you will sign it, and Watson here
can witness it. Then I could produce your confession at
the last extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you
that I shall not use it unless it is absolutely needed.
It's as well, said the old man. It's a question
whether I shall live to the assizes. So it matters
little to me, but I should wish to spare Alice
the shock. And now I will make the thing clear
to you. It has been a long time in the acting,
but it will not take me long to tell you
didn't know this dead man McCarthy. He was a devil incarnate.
I tell you that God keep you out of the
clutches of such a man as he. His grip has
been upon me these twenty years, and he has blasted
my life. I'll tell you first how I came to
be in his power. It was in the early sixties
at the Diggings. I was a young chap then, hot
blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything
I got among bad companions. Took to drink, had no
luck with my care, took to the bush, and a
word became what you would call over here a highway rubber.
There were six of us, and we had a wild,
free life of it, sticking up a station from time
to time, or stopping the wagons on the road to
the Diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I
went under, and our party is still remembered in the
colony as the Ballarat gang. One day a gold convoy
came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and we lay in
wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers
and six of us, so it was a close thing,
but we emptied four of their saddles. At the first volley,
three of our boys were killed. However, before we got
the swag, I put my pistol to the head of
the wagon driver, who was this very man McCarthy. I
wished to the Lord that I had shot him then,
but I spared him, though I saw his wicked little
eyes fixed on my face, as though to remember every feature.
We got away with the gold, became wealthy men, and
made our way over to England without being suspected. There
I parted from my old pals and determined to settle
down to a quiet and respectable life. I bought this estate,
which chanced to be in the market, and I set
myself to do a little good with my money to
make up for the way in which I had earned it.
I married, too, and though my wife died young, she
left me my dear little Alice, even when she was
just a baby. Her wee hand seemed to lead me
down the right path, as nothing else had ever done.
In a word, I turned over a new leaf and
did my best to make up for the past. All
was going well when MacCarthy laid his grip upon me.
I had gone up to town about an investment, and
I met him in Regent Street with hardly a coat
to his back or a boot to his foot. Here
we are, jack, says he, touching me on the arm.
We'll be as good as a family to you. There's
two of us, me and my son, and you can
have the keeping of us if you don't. It's a fine,
law abiding country is England, and there's always a policeman
within hail well down. They came to the West Country.
There was no shaking them off, and there they have
lived rent free on my best land ever since. There
was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness. Turned
where I would, there was his cunning, grinning face at
my elbow. It grew worse as Alice grew up, for
he soon saw I was more afraid of her knowing
my past than of the police. Whatever he wanted he
must have, and whatever it was I gave him without question, land, money, houses,
until at last he asked a thing which I could
not give he asked for alice. His son, you see,
had grown up, and so had my girl, and as
I was known to be in weak health, it seemed
to find stroke to him that his lad should step
into the whole property. But there I was firm. I
would not have his cursed stock mixed with mine. Not
that I had any dislike to the lad, but his
blood was in him, and that was enough. I stood firm.
MacCarthy threatened, I braved him to do his worst. We
were to meet at the pool midway between our houses
to talk it over. When I went down there, I
found him talking with his son. So I smoked a
cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone.
But as I listened to his talk, all that was
black and bitter in me seemed to come uppermost. He
was urging his son to marry my daughter, with his
little regard for what she might think, as if she
were a slut from off the streets. It drove me
mad to think that I and all that I held
most dear, should be in the power of such a
man as this. Could I not snap the bond. I
was already a dying and desperate man, though clear of
mind and fairly strong of limb. I knew that my
own fate was sealed, but my memory and my girl
both could be saved if I could but silence that
foul tongue. I did it, mister Holmes. I would do
it again, deeply as I have sinned. I have led
a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that
my girl should be entangled in the same meshes which
held me was more than I could suffer. I struck
him down with no more compunction than if he had
been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought back
his son, but I had gained the cover of the wood,
though I was forced to go back to fetch the
cloak which I had dropped in my flight. That is
the true story, gentlemen, of all that occurred. Well, it
is not for me to judge, you, said Holmes, as
the old man signed the statement which had been drawn out.
I pray that we may never be exposed to such
a temptation. I pray not, sir. And what do you
intend to do in view of your health? Nothing. You
are yourself aware that you will soon have to answer
for your deed at a higher court than the Assizes.
I will keep your confession, and if MacCarthy is condemned,
I shall be forced to use it. If not, it
shall never be seen by mortal eye. And your secret,
whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe with us. Farewell, then,
said the old man, solemnly. Your own death beds, when
they come, will be the easier for the thought of
the peace which you have given to mine. Tottering and
shaking in all his giant frame, he stumbled slowly from
the room. God help us, said Holmes, after a long silence.
Why does fate play such tricks with poor helpless worms.
I never hear of such a case as this that
I do not think of Baxter's words and say, there
but for the grace of God, go Sherlock Holmes. James
McCarthy was a quick at the assizes on the strength
of a number of objections which had been drawn out
by Holmes and submitted to the defending council. Old Turner
lived for seven months after our interview. But he is
now dead, and there is every prospect that the son
and daughter may come to live happily together in ignorance
of the black cloud which rests upon their past.