"But why Turkish?" asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
gazing fix-
edly at my boots. I was reclining in a cane-backed
chair at the
moment, and my protruded feet had attracted his ever-active
attention.
"English," I answered in some surprise. "I
got them at
Latimer's, in Oxford Street."
Holmes smiled with an expression of weary patience.
"The bath!" he said; "the bath! Why the relaxing
and expen-
sive Turkish rather than the invigorating home-made
article?"
"Because for the last few days I have been
feeling rheumatic
and old. A Turkish bath is what we call an alterative
in
medicine -- a fresh starting-point, a cleanser of
the system.
"By the way, Holmes," I added, "I have no doubt
the
connection between my boots and a Turkish bath is
a perfectly
self-evident one to a logical mind, and yet I should
be obliged to
you if you would indicate it."
"The train of reasoning is not very obscure,
Watson," said
Holmes with a mischievous twinkle. "It belongs to
the same
elementary class of deduction which I should illustrate
if I were
to ask you who shared your cab in your drive this
morning."
"I don't admit that a fresh illustration is
an explanation," said
I with some asperity.
"Bravo, Watson! A very dignified and logical
remonstrance.
Let me see, what were the points? Take the last one
first -- the
cab. You observe that you have some splashes on the
left sleeve
and shoulder of your coat. Had you sat in the centre
of a hansom
you would probably have had no splashes, and if you
had they
would certainly have been symmetrical. Therefore it
is clear that
you sat at the side. Therefore it is equally clear
that you had a
companion."
"That is very evident."
"Absurdly commonplace, is it not?"
"But the boots and the bath?"
"Equally childish. You are in the habit of
doing up your boots
in a certain way. I see them on this occasion fastened
with an
elaborate double bow, which is not your usual method
of tying
them. You have, therefore, had them off. Who has tied
them? A
bootmaker -- or the boy at the bath. It is unlikely
that it is the
bootmaker, since your boots are nearly new. Well,
what re-
mains? The bath. Absurd, is it not? But, for all that,
the Turkish
bath has served a purpose."
"What is that?"
"You say that you have had it because you need
a change. Let
me suggest that you take one. How would Lausanne do,
my dear
Watson -- first-class tickets and all expenses paid
on a princely
scale?"
"Splendid! But why?"
Holmes leaned back in his armchair and took
his notebook
from his pocket.
"One of the most dangerous classes in the world,"
said he,
"is the drifting and friendless woman. She is the
most harmless
and often the most useful of mortals, but she is the
inevitable
inciter of crime in others. She is helpless. She is
migratory. She
has sufficient means to take her from country to country
and
from hotel to hotel. She is lost, as often as not,
in a maze
of obscure pensions and boarding-houses. She is a
stray chicken
in a world of foxes. When she is gobbled up she is
hardly
missed. I much fear that some evil has come to the
Lady Frances
Carfax."
I was relieved at this sudden descent from
the general to the
particular. Holmes consulted his notes.
"Lady Frances," he continued, "is the sole
survivor of the
direct family of the late Earl of Rufton. The estates
went, as you
may remember, in the male line. She was left with
limited
means, but with some very remarkable old Spanish jewellery
of
silver and curiously cut diamonds to which she was
fondly
attached -- too attached, for she refused to leave
them with her
banker and always carried them about with her. A rather
pathetic
figure, the Lady Frances, a beautiful woman, still
in fresh mid-
dle age, and yet, by a strange chance, the last derelict
of what
only twenty years ago was a goodly fleet."
"What has happened to her, then?"
"Ah, what has happened to the Lady Frances?
Is she alive or
dead? There is our problem. She is a lady of precise
habits, and
for four years it has been her invariable custom to
write every
second week to Miss Dobney, her old governess, who
has long
retired and lives in Camberwell. It is this Miss Dobney
who has
consulted me. Nearly five weeks have passed without
a word.
The last letter was from the Hotel National at Lausanne.
Lady
Frances seems to have left there and given no address.
The
family are anxious, and as they are exceedingly wealthy
no sum
wlll be spared if we can clear the matter up."
"Is Miss Dobney the only source of information?
Surely she
had other correspondents?"
"There is one correspondent who is a sure draw,
Watson.
That is the bank. Single ladies must live, and their
passbooks are
compressed diaries. She banks at Silvester's. I have
glanced over
her account. The last check but one paid her bill
at Lausanne
but it was a large one and probably left her with
cash in hand.
Only one check has been drawn since."
"To whom, and where?"
"To Miss Marie Devine. There is nothing to
show where
the check was drawn. It was cashed at the Credit Lyonnais
at Montpellier less than three weeks ago. The sum
was fifty
pounds."
"And who is Miss Marie Devine?"
"That also I have been able to discover. Miss
Marie Devine
was the maid of Lady Frances Carfax. Why she should
have
paid her this check we have not yet determined. I
have no
doubt, however, that your researches will soon clear
the matter
up."
"My researches!"
"Hence the health-giving expedition to Lausanne.
You know
that I cannot possibly leave London while old Abrahams
is in
such mortal terror of his life. Besides, on general
principles it is
best that I should not leave the country. Scotland
Yard feels
lonely without me, and it causes an unhealthy excitement
among
the criminal classes. Go, then, my dear Watson, and
if my
humble counsel can ever be valued at so extravagant
a rate as
two pence a word, it waits your disposal night and
day at the end
of the Continental wire."
Two days later found me at the Hotel National
at Lausanne,
where I received every courtesy at the hands of M.
Moser, the
well-known manager. Lady Frances, as he informed me,
had
stayed there for several weeks. She had been much
liked by all
who met her. Her age was not more than forty. She
was still
handsome and bore every sign of having in her youth
been a very
lovely woman. M. Moser knew nothing of any valuable
jewellery,
but it had been remarked by the servants that the
heavy trunk in
the lady's bedroom was always scrupulously locked.
Marie
Devine, the maid, was as popular as her mistress.
She was
actually engaged to one of the head waiters in the
hotel, and
there was no difficulty in getting her address. It
was 11 Rue de
Trajan, Montpellier. All this I jotted down and felt
that Holmes
himself could not have been more adroit in collecting
his facts.
Only one corner still remained in the shadow.
No light which I
possessed could clear up the cause for the lady's
sudden depar-
ture. She was very happy at Lausanne. There was every
reason
to believe that she intended to remain for the season
in her
luxurious rooms overlooking the lake. And yet she
had left at a
single day's notice, which involved her in the useless
payment of
a week's rent. Only Jules Vibart, the lover of the
maid, had any
suggestion to offer. He connected the sudden departure
with the
visit to the hotel a day or two before of a tall,
dark, bearded
man. "Un sauvage -- un veritable sauvage!" cried Jules
Vibart.
The man had rooms somewhere in the town. He had been
seen
talking earnestly to Madame on the promenade by the
lake. Then
he had called. She had refused to see him. He was
English, but
of his name there was no record. Madame had left the
place
immediately afterwards. Jules Vibart, and, what was
of more
importance, Jules Vibart's sweetheart, thought that
this call and
this departure were cause and effect. Only one thing
Jules would
not discuss. That was the reason why Marie had left
her mis-
tress. Of that he could or would say nothing. If I
wished to
know, I must go to Montpellier and ask her.
So ended the first chapter of my inquiry. The
second was
devoted to the place which Lady Frances Carfax had
sought
when she left Lausanne. Concerning this there had
been some
secrecy, which confirmed the idea that she had gone
with the
intention of throwing someone off her track. Otherwise
why
should not her luggage have been openly labelled for
Baden?
Both she and it reached the Rhenish spa by some circuitous
route. This much I gathered from the manager of Cook's
local
office. So to Baden I went, after dispatching to Holmes
an
account of all my proceedings and receiving in reply
a telegram
of half-humorous commendation.
At Baden the track was not difficult to follow.
Lady Frances
had stayed at the Englischer Hof for a fortnight.
While there she
had made the acquaintance of a Dr. Shlessinger and
his wife, a
missionary from South America. Like most lonely ladies,
Lady
Frances found her comfort and occupation in religion.
Dr. Shles-
singer's remarkable personality, his whole-hearted
devotion, and
the fact that he was recovering from a disease contracted
in the
exercise of his apostolic duties affected her deeply.
She had
helped Mrs. Shlessinger in the nursing of the convalescent
saint.
He spent his day, as the manager described it to me,
upon a
lounge-chair on the veranda, with an attendant lady
upon either
side of him. He was preparing a map of the Holy Land,
with
special reference to the kingdom of the Midianites,
upon which
he was writing a monograph. Finally, having improved
much in
health, he and his wife had returned to London, and
Lady
Frances had started thither in their company. This
was just three
weeks before, and the manager had heard nothing since.
As to
the maid, Marie, she had gone off some days beforehand
in
floods of tears, after informing the other maids that
she was
leaving service forever. Dr. Shlessinger had paid
the bill of the
whole party before his departure.
"By the way," said the landlord in conclusion,
"you are not
the only friend of Lady Frances Carfax who is inquiring
after her
just now. Only a week or so ago we had a man here
upon the
same errand."
"Did he give a name?" I asked.
"None; but he was an Englishman, though of
an unusual
type."
"A savage?" said I, linking my facts after
the fashion of my
illustrious friend.
"Exactly. That describes him very well. He
is a bulky, bearded,
sunburned fellow, who looks as if he would be more
at home in
a farmers' inn than in a fashionable hotel. A hard,
fierce man, I
should think, and one whom I should be sorry to offend."
Already the mystery began to define itself,
as figures grow
clearer with the lifting of a fog. Here was this good
and pious
lady pursued from place to place by a sinister and
unrelenting
figure. She feared him, or she would not have fled
from Lausanne.
He had still followed. Sooner or later he would overtake
her.
Had he already overtaken her? Was that the secret
of her contin-
ued silence? Could the good people who were her companions
not screen her from his violence or his blackmail?
What horrible
purpose, what deep design, lay behind this long pursuit?
There
was the problem which I had to solve.
To Holmes I wrote showing how rapidly and surely
I had got
down to the roots of the matter. In reply I had a
telegram asking
for a description of Dr. Shlessinger's left ear. Holmes's
ideas of
humour are strange and occasionally offensive, so
I took no
notice of his ill-timed jest -- indeed, I had already
reached Mont-
pellier in my pursuit of the maid, Marie, before his
message
came.
I had no difficulty in finding the ex-servant
and in learning all
that she could tell me. She was a devoted creature,
who
had only
left her mistress because she was sure that she was
in good
hands, and because her own approaching marriage made
a sepa-
ration inevitable in any case. Her mistress had, as
she confessed
with distress, shown some irritability of temper towards
her
during their stay in Baden, and had even questioned
her once as
if she had suspicions of her honesty, and this had
made the
parting easier than it would otherwise have been.
Lady Frances
had given her fifty pounds as a wedding-present. Like
me, Marie
viewed with deep distrust the stranger who had driven
her mis-
tress from Lausanne. With her own eyes she had seen
him seize
the lady's wrist with great violence on the public
promenade by
the lake. He was a fierce and terrible man. She believed
that it
was out of dread of him that Lady Frances had accepted
the
escort of the Shlessingers to London. She had never
spoken to
Marie about it, but many little signs had convinced
the maid that
her mistress lived in a state of continual nervous
apprehension.
So far she had got in her narrative, when suddenly
she sprang
from her chair and her face was convulsed with surprise
and
fear. "See!" she cried. "The miscreant follows still!
There is the
very man of whom I speak."
Through the open sitting-room window I saw
a huge, swarthy
man with a bristling black beard walking slowly down
the centre
of the street and staring eagerly at the numbers of
the houses. It
was clear that, like myself, he was on the track of
the maid.
Acting upon the impulse of the moment, I rushed out
and
accosted him.
"You are an Englishman," I said.
"What if I am?" he asked with a most villainous
scowl.
"May I ask what your name is?"
"No, you may not," said he with decision.
The situation was awkward, but the most direct
way is often
the best.
"Where is the Lady Frances Carfax?" I asked.
He stared at me in amazement.
"What have you done with her? Why have you
pursued her? I
insist upon an answer!" said I.
The fellow gave a bellow of anger and sprang
upon me like a
tiger. I have held my own in many a struggle, but
the man had a
grip of iron and the fury of a fiend. His hand was
on my throat
and my senses were nearly gone before an unshaven
French
ouvrier in a blue blouse darted out from a cabaret
opposite, with
a cudgel in his hand, and struck my assailant a sharp
crack over
the forearm, which made him leave go his hold. He
stood for an
instant fuming with rage and uncertain whether he
should not
renew his attack. Then, with a snarl of anger, he
left me and
entered the cottage from which I had just come. I
turned to thank
my preserver, who stood beside me in the roadway.
"Well, Watson," said he, "a very pretty hash
you have made
of it! I rather think you had better come back with
me to London
by the night express."
An hour afterwards, Sherlock Holmes, in his
usual garb and
style, was seated in my private room at the hotel.
His explana-
tion of his sudden and opportune appearance was simplicity
itself, for, finding that he could get away from London,
he
determined to head me off at the next obvious point
of my
travels. In the disguise of a workingman he had sat
in the
cabaret waiting for my appearance.
"And a singularly consistent investigation
you have made, my
dear Watson," said he. "I cannot at the moment recall
any
possible blunder which you have omitted. The total
effect of
your proceeding has been to give the alarm everywhere
and yet
to discover nothing."
"Perhaps you would have done no better," I
answered bitterly.
"There is no 'perhaps' about it. I have done
better. Here is the
Hon. Philip Green, who is a fellow-lodger with you
in this hotel,
and we may find him the starting-point for a more
successful
investigation."
A card had come up on a salver, and it was
followed by the
same bearded ruffian who had attacked me in the street.
He
started when he saw me.
"What is this, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. "I had
your note and
I have come. But what has this man to do with the
matter?"
"This is my old friend and associate, Dr. Watson,
who is
helping us in this affair."
The stranger held out a huge, sunburned hand,
with a few
words of apology.
"I hope I didn't harm you. When you accused
me of hurting her
I lost my grip of myself. Indeed, I'm not responsible
in these
days. My nerves are like live wires. But this situation
is beyond
me. What I want to know, in the first place, Mr. Holmes,
is,
how in the world you came to hear of my existence
at all."
"I am in touch with Miss Dobney, Lady Frances's
governess."
"Old Susan Dobney with the mob cap! I remember
her well."
"And she remembers you. It was in the days
before -- before
you found it better to go to South Africa."
"Ah, I see you know my whole story. I need
hide nothing
from you. I swear to you, Mr. Holmes, that there never
was in
this world a man who loved a woman with a more wholehearted
love than I had for Frances. I was a wild youngster,
I know --
not worse than others of my class. But her mind was
pure as
snow. She could not bear a shadow of coarseness. So,
when she
came to hear of things that I had done, she would
bave no more
to say to me. And yet she loved me -- that is the
wonder of
it! -- loved me well enough to remain single all her
sainted days
just for my sake alone. When the years had passed
and I had
made my money at Barberton I thought perhaps I could
seek her
out and soften her. I had heard that she was still
unmarried. I
found her at Lausanne and tried all I knew. She weakened,
I
think, but her will was strong, and when next I called
she had
left the town. I traced her to Baden, and then after
a time heard
that her maid was here. I'm a rough fellow, fresh
from a rough
life, and when Dr. Watson spoke to me as he did I
lost hold of
myself for a moment. But for God's sake tell me what
has
become of the Lady Frances."
"That is for us to find out," said Sherlock
Holmes with
peculiar gravity. "What is your London address, Mr.
Green?"
"The Langham Hotel will find me."
"Then may I recommend that you return there
and be on hand
in case I should want you? I have no desire to encourage
false
hopes, but you may rest assured that all that can
be done will be
done for the safety of Lady Frances. I can say no
more for the
instant. I will leave you this card so that you may
be able to keep
in touch with us. Now, Watson, if you will pack your
bag I will
cable to Mrs. Hudson to make one of her best efforts
for two
hungry travellers at 7:30 to-morrow."
A telegram was awaiting us when we reached our
Baker Street
rooms, which Holmes read with an exclamation of interest
and
threw across to me. "Jagged or torn," was the message,
and the
place of origin, Baden.
"What is this?" I asked.
"It is everything," Holmes answered. "You may
remember
my seemingly irrelevant question as to this clerical
gentleman's
left ear. You did not answer it."
"I had left Baden and could not inquire."
"Exactly. For this reason I sent a duplicate
to the manager of
the Englischer Hof, whose answer lies here."
"What does it show?"
"It shows, my dear Watson, that we are dealing
with an
exceptionally astute and dangerous man. The Rev. Dr.
Shlessinger,
missionary from South America, is none other than
Holy Peters,
one of the most unscrupulous rascals that Australia
has ever
evolved -- and for a young country it has turned out
some very
finished types. His particular specialty is the beguiling
of lonely
ladies by playing upon their religious feelings, and
his so-called
wife, an Englishwoman named Fraser, is a worthy helpmate.
The nature of his tactics suggested his identity to
me, and this
physical peculiarity -- he was badly bitten in a saloon-fight
at
Adelaide in '89 -- confirmed my suspicion. This poor
lady is in
the hands of a most infernal couple, who will stick
at nothing,
Watson. That she is already dead is a very likely
supposition. If
not, she is undoubtedly in some sort of confinement
and unable
to write to Miss Dobney or her other friends. It is
always
possible that she never reached London, or that she
has passed
through it, but the former is improbable, as, with
their system of
registration, it is not easy for foreigners to play
tricks with the
Continental police; and the latter is also unlikely,
as these rogues
could not hope to find any other place where it would
be as easy
to keep a person under restraint. All my instincts
tell me that she
is in London, but as we have at present no possible
means of
telling where, we can only take the obvious steps,
eat our dinner,
and possess our souls in patience. Later in the evening
I will
stroll down and have a word with friend Lestrade at
Scotland
Yard."
But neither the official police nor Holmes's
own small but
very efficient organization sufficed to clear away
the mystery.
Amid the crowded millions of London the three persons
we
sought were as completely obliterated as if they had
never lived.
Advertisements were tried, and failed. Clues were
followed, and
led to nothing. Every criminal resort which Shlessinger
might
frequent was drawn in vain. His old associates were
watched
but they kept clear of him. And then suddenly, after
a week of
helpless suspense, there came a flash of light. A
silver-and-
brilliant pendant of old Spanish design had been pawned
at
Bovington's, in Westminster Road. The pawner was a
large
clean-shaven man of clerical appearance. His name
and address
were demonstrably false. The ear had escaped notice,
but the
description was surely that of Shlessinger.
Three times had our bearded friend from the
Langham called
for news -- the third time within an hour of this
fresh develop-
ment. His clothes were getting looser on his great
body. He
seemed to be wilting away in his anxiety. "If you
will only give
me something to do!" was his constant wail. At last
Holmes
could oblige him.
"He has begun to pawn the jewels. We should
get him now."
"But does this mean that any harm has befallen
the Lady
Frances?"
Holmes shook his head very gravely.
"Supposing that they have held her prisoner
up to now, it is
clear that they cannot let her loose without their
own destruction.
We must prepare for the worst."
"What can I do?"
"These people do not know you by sight?"
"No."
"It is possible that he will go to some other
pawnbroker in the
future. In that case, we must begin again. On the
other hand, he
has had a fair price and no questions asked, so if
he is in need of
ready-money he will probably come back to Bovington's.
I will
give you a note to them, and they will let you wait
in the shop. If
the fellow comes you will follow him home. But no
indiscretion
and, above all, no violence. I put you on your honour
that you
will take no step without my knowledge and consent."
For two days the Hon. Philip Green (he was,
I may mention
the son of the famous admiral of that name who commanded
the
Sea of Azof fleet in the Crimean War) brought us no
news. On
the evening of the third he rushed into our sitting-room,
pale,
trembling, with every muscle of his powerful frame
quivering
with excitement.
"We have him! We have him!" he cried.
He was incoherent in his agitation. Holmes
soothed him with a
few words and thrust him into an armchair.
"Come, now, give us the order of events," said
he.
"She came only an hour ago. It was the wife,
this time, but
the pendant she brought was the fellow of the other.
She is a tall,
pale woman, with ferret eyes."
"That is the lady," said Holmes.
"She left the office and I followed her. She
walked up the
Kennington Road, and I kept behind her. Presently
she went into
a shop. Mr. Holmes, it was an undertaker's."
My companion started. "Well?" he asked in that
vibrant
voice which told of the fiery soul behind the cold
gray face.
"She was talking to the woman behind the counter.
I entered
as well. 'It is late,' I heard her say, or words to
that effect. The
woman was excusing herself. 'It should be there before
now,'
she answered. 'It took longer, being out of the ordinary.'
They
both stopped and looked at me, so I asked some question
and
then left the shop."
"You did excellently well. What happened next?"
"The woman came out, but I had hid myself in
a doorway.
Her suspicions had been aroused, I think, for she
looked round
her. Then she called a cab and got in. I was lucky
enough to get
another and so to follow her. She got down at last
at No. 36
Poultney Square, Brixton. I drove past, left my cab
at the corner
of the square, and watched the house."
"Did you see anyone?"
"The windows were all in darkness save one
on the lower
floor. The blind was down, and I could not see in.
I was
standing there, wondering what I should do next, when
a cov-
ered van drove up with two men in it. They descended,
took
something out of the van, and carried it up the steps
to the hall
door. Mr. Holmes, it was a coffin."
"Ah!"
"For an instant I was on the point of rushing
in. The door had
been opened to admit the men and their burden. It
was the
woman who had opened it. But as I stood there she
caught a
glimpse of me, and I think that she recognized me.
I saw her
start, and she hastily closed the door. I remembered
my promise
to you, and here I am."
"You have done excellent work," said Holmes,
scribbling a
few words upon a half-sheet of paper. "We can do nothing
legal
without a warrant, and you can serve the cause best
by taking
this note down to the authorities and getting one.
There may be
some difficulty, but I should think that the sale
of the jewellery
should be sufficient. Lestrade will see to all details."
"But they may murder her in the meanwhile.
What could the
coffin mean, and for whom could it be but for her?"
"We will do all that can be done, Mr. Green.
Not a moment
will be lost. Leave it in our hands. Now, Watson,"
he added as
our client hurried away, "he will set the regular
forces on the
move. We are, as usual, the irregulars, and we must
take our
own line of action. The situation strikes me as so
desperate that
the most extreme measures are justified. Not a moment
is to be
lost in getting to Poultney Square.
"Let us try to reconstruct the situation,"
said he as we drove
swiftly past the Houses of Parliament and over Westminster
Bridge. "These villains have coaxed this unhappy lady
to Lon-
don, after first alienating her from her faithful
maid. If she has
written any letters they have been intercepted. Through
some
confederate they have engaged a furnished house. Once
inside it,
they have made her a prisoner, and they have become
possessed
of the valuable jewellery which has been their object
from the
first. Already they have begun to sell part of it,
which seems safe
enough to them, since they have no reason to think
that anyone
is interested in the lady's fate. When she is released
she will, of
course, denounce them. Therefore, she must not be
released. But
they cannot keep her under lock and key forever. So
murder is
their only solution."
"That seems very clear."
"Now we will take another line of reasoning.
When you
follow two separate chains of thought, Watson, you
will find
some point of intersection which should approximate
to the truth.
We will start now, not from the lady but from the
coffin and
argue backward. That incident proves, I fear, beyond
all doubt
that the lady is dead. It points also to an orthodox
burial with
proper accompaniment of medical certificate and official
sanc-
tion. Had the lady been obviously murdered, they would
have
buried her in a hole in the back garden. But here
all is open and
regular. What does that mean? Surely that they have
done her to
death in some way which has deceived the doctor and
simulated
a natural end -- poisoning, perhaps. And yet how strange
that they
should ever let a doctor approach her unless he were
a confeder-
ate, which is hardly a credible proposition."
"Could they have forged a medical certificate?"
"Dangerous, Watson, very dangerous. No, I hardly
see them
doing that. Pull up, cabby! This is evidently the
undertaker's, for
we have just passed the pawnbroker's. Would you go
in, Wat-
son? Your appearance inspires confidence. Ask what
hour the
Poultney Square funeral takes place to-morrow."
The woman in the shop answered me without hesitation
that it
was to be at eight o'clock in the morning. "You see,
Watson, no
mystery; everything aboveboard! In some way the legal
forms
have undoubtedly been complied with, and they think
that they
have little to fear. Well, there's nothing for it
now but a direct
frontal attack. Are you armed?"
"My stick!"
"Well, well, we shall be strong enough. 'Thrice
is he armed
who hath his quarrel just.' We simply can't afford
to wait for the
police or to keep within the four corners of the law.
You can
drive off, cabby. Now, Watson, we'll just take our
luck to-
gether, as we have occasionally done in the past."
He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark
house in the
centre of Poultney Square. It was opened immediately,
and the
figure of a tall woman was outlined against the dim-lit
hall.
"Well, what do you want?" she asked sharply,
peering at us
through the darkness.
"I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger," said
Holmes.
"There is no such person here," she answered,
and tried to
close the door, but Holmes had jammed it with his
foot.
"Well, I want to see the man who lives here,
whatever he
may call himself," said Holmes firmly.
She hesitated. Then she threw open the door.
"Well, come
in!" said she. "My husband is not afraid to face any
man in the
world." She closed the door behind us and showed us
into a
sitting-room on the right side of the hall, turning
up the gas as
she left us. "Mr. Peters will be with you in an instant,"
she
said.
Her words were literally true, for we had hardly
time to look
around the dusty and moth-eaten apartment in which
we found
ourselves before the door opened and a big, clean-shaven
bald-
headed man stepped lightly into the room. He had a
large red
face, with pendulous cheeks, and a general air of
superficial
benevolence which was marred by a cruel, vicious mouth.
"There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen,"
he said in
an unctuous, make-everything-easy voice. "I fancy
that you
have been misdirected. Possibly if you tried farther
down the
street --"
"That will do; we have no time to waste," said
my compan-
ion firmly. "You are Henry Peters, of Adelaide, late
the Rev.
Dr. Shlessinger, of Baden and South America. I am
as sure of
that as that my own name is Sherlock Holmes."
Peters, as I will now call him, started and
stared hard at
his formidable pursuer. "I guess your name does not
frighten
me, Mr. Holmes," said he coolly. "When a man's conscience
is easy you can't rattle him. What is your business
in my
house?"
"I want to know what you have done with the
Lady Frances
Carfax, whom you brought away with you from Baden."
"I'd be very glad if you could tell me where
that lady may
be," Peters answered coolly. "I've a bill against
her for nearly a
hundred pounds, and nothing to show for it but a couple
of
trumpery pendants that the dealer would hardly look
at. She
attached herself to Mrs. Peters and me at Baden --
it is a fact that
I was using another name at the time -- and she stuck
on to us
until we came to London. I paid her bill and her ticket.
Once in
London, she gave us the slip, and, as I say, left
these out-of-date
jewels to pay her bills. You find her, Mr. Holmes,
and I'm your
debtor."
"I mean to find her," said Sherlock Holmes.
"I'm going
through this house till I do find her."
"Where is your warrant?"
Holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket.
"This will have
to serve till a better one comes."
"Why, you are a common burglar."
"So you might describe me," said Holmes cheerfully.
"My
companion is also a dangerous ruffian. And together
we are
going through your house."
Our opponent opened the door.
"Fetch a policeman, Annie!" said he. There
was a whisk of
feminine skirts down the passage, and the hall door
was opened
and shut.
"Our time is limited, Watson," said Holmes.
"If you try to
stop us, Peters, you will most certainly get hurt.
Where
is that
coffin which was brought into your house?"
"What do you want with the coffin? It is in
use. There is a
body in it."
"I must see that body."
"Never with my consent."
"Then without it." With a quick movement Holmes
pushed
the fellow to one side and passed into the hall. A
door half
opened stood immediately before us. We entered. It
was the
dining-room. On the table, under a half-lit chandelier,
the coffin
was lying. Holmes turned up the gas and raised the
lid. Deep
down in the recesses of the coffin lay an emaciated
figure. The
glare from the lights above beat down upon an aged
and withered
face. By no possible process of cruelty, starvation,
or disease
could this worn-out wreck be the still beautiful Lady
Frances.
Holmes's face showed his amazement, and also his relief.
"Thank God!" he muttered. "It's someone else."
"Ah, you've blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes,"
said Peters, who had followed us into the room.
"Who is this dead woman?"
"Well, if you really must know, she is an old
nurse of my
wife's, Rose Spender by name, whom we found in the
Brixton
Workhouse Infirmary. We brought her round here, called
in Dr.
Horsom, of 13 Firbank Villas -- mind you take the
address, Mr.
Holmes -- and had her carefully tended, as Christian
folk should.
On the third day she died -- certificate says senile
decay -- but
that's only the doctor's opinion, and of course you
know better.
We ordered her funeral to be carried out by Stimson
and Co., of
the Kennington Road, who will bury her at eight o'clock
to-
morrow morning. Can you pick any hole in that, Mr.
Holmes?
You've made a silly blunder, and you may as well own
up to it.
I'd give something for a photograph of your gaping,
staring face
when you pulled aside that lid expecting to see the
Lady Frances
Carfax and only found a poor old woman of ninety."
Holmes's expression was as impassive as ever
under the jeers
of his antagonist, but his clenched hands betrayed
his acute
annoyance.
"I am going through your house," said he.
"Are you, though!" cried Peters as a woman's
voice and
heavy steps sounded in the passage. "We'll soon see
about that.
This way, officers, if you please. These men have
forced their
way into my house, and I cannot get rid of them. Help
me to put
them out."
A sergeant and a constable stood in the doorway.
Holmes
drew his card from his case.
"This is my name and address. This is my friend,
Dr. Watson."
"Bless you, sir, we know you very well," said
the sergeant,
"but you can't stay here without a warrant."
"Of course not. I quite understand that."
"Arrest him!" cried Peters.
"We know where to lay our hands on this gentleman
if he is
wanted," said the sergeant majestically, "but you'll
have to go,
Mr. Holmes."
"Yes, Watson, we shall have to go."
A minute later we were in the street once more.
Holmes was
as cool as ever, but I was hot with anger and humiliation.
The
sergeant had followed us.
"Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but that's the law."
"Exactly, Sergeant, you could not do otherwise."
"I expect there was good reason for your presence
there. If
there is anything I can do --"
"It's a missing lady, Sergeant, and we think
she is in that
house. I expect a warrant presently."
"Then I'll keep my eye on the parties, Mr.
Holmes. If any-
thing comes along, I will surely let you know."
It was only nine o'clock, and we were off full
cry upon the
trail at once. First we drove to Brixton Workhouse
Infirmary,
where we found that it was indeed the truth that a
charitable
couple had called-some days before, that they had
claimed an
imbecile old woman as a former servant, and that they
had
obtained permission to take her away with them. No
surprise was
expressed at the news that she had since died.
The doctor was our next goal. He had been called
in, had
found the woman dying of pure senility, had actually
seen her
pass away, and had signed the certificate in due form.
"I assure
you that everything was perfectly normal and there
was no room
for foul play in the matter," said he. Nothing in
the house had
struck him as suspicious save that for people of their
class it was
remarkable that they should have no servant. So far
and no
farther went the doctor.
Finally we found our way to Scotland Yard.
There had been
difficulties of procedure in regard to the warrant.
Some delay
was inevitable. The magistrate's signature might not
be obtained
until next morning. If Holmes would call about nine
he could go
down with Lestrade and see it acted upon. So ended
the day,
save that near midnight our friend, the sergeant,
called to say
that he had seen flickering lights here and there
in the windows
of the great dark house, but that no one had left
it and none
had entered. We could but pray for patience and wait
for the
morrow.
Sherlock Holmes was too irritable for conversation
and too
restless for sleep. I left him smoking hard, with
his heavy, dark
brows knotted together, and his long, nervous fingers
tapping
upon the arms of his chair, as he turned over in his
mind every
possible solution of the mystery. Several times in
the course of
the night I heard him prowling about the house. Finally,
just
after I had been called in the morning, he rushed
into my room.
He was in his dressing-gown, but his pale, hollow-eyed
face told
me that his night had been a sleepless one.
"What time was the funeral? Eight, was it not?"
he asked
eagerly. "Well, it is 7:20 now. Good heavens, Watson,
what has
become of any brains that God has given me? Quick,
man, quick!
It's life or death -- a hundred chances on death to
one on life. I'll
never forgive myself, never, if we are too late!"
Five minutes had not passed before we were
flying in a
hansom down Baker Street. But even so it was twenty-five
to
eight as we passed Big Ben, and eight struck as we
tore down
the Brixton Road. But others were late as well as
we. Ten
minutes after the hour the hearse was still standing
at the door of
the house, and even as our foaming horse came to a
halt the
coffin, supported by three men, appeared on the threshold.
Holmes
darted forward and barred their way.
"Take it back!" he cried, laying his hand on
the breast of the
foremost. "Take it back this instant!"
"What the devil do you mean? Once again I ask
you, where is
your warrant?" shouted the furious Peters, his big
red face
glaring over the farther erid of the coffin.
"The warrant is on its way. This coffin shall
remain in the
house until it comes."
The authority in Holmes's voice had its effect
upon the bear-
ers. Peters had suddenly vanished into the house,
and they
obeyed these new orders. "Quick, Watson, quick! Here
is a
screw-driver!" he shouted as the coffin was replaced
upon the
table. "Here's one for you, my man! A sovereign if
the lid
comes off in a minute! Ask no questions -- work away!
That's
good! Another! And another! Now pull all together!
It's giving!
It's giving! Ah, that does it at last."
With a united effort we tore off the coffin-lid.
As we did so
there came from the inside a stupefying and overpowering
smell
of chloroform. A body lay within, its head all wreathed
in
cotton-wool, which had been soaked in the narcotic.
Holmes
plucked it off and disclosed the statuesque face of
a hand-
some and spiritual woman of middle age. In an instant
he had
passed his arm round the figure and raised her to
a sitting
position.
"Is she gone, Watson? Is there a spark left?
Surely we are not
too late!"
For half an hour it seemed that we were. What
with actual
suffocation, and what with the poisonous fumes of
the chloro-
form, the Lady Frances seemed to have passed the last
point of
recall. And then, at last, with artificial respiration,
with injected
ether, with every device that science could suggest,
some flutter
of life, some quiver of the eyelids, some dimming
of a mirror,
spoke of the slowly returning life. A cab had driven
up, and
Holmes, parting the blind, looked out at it. "Here
is Lestrade
with his warrant," said he. "He will find that his
birds have
flown. And here," he added as a heavy step hurried
along the
passage, "is someone who has a better right to nurse
this lady than
we have. Good morning, Mr. Green; I think that the
sooner we
can move the Lady Frances the better. Meanwhile, the
funeral
may proceed, and the poor old woman who still lies
in that
coffin may go to her last resting-place alone."
"Should you care to add the case to your annals,
my dear
Watson," said Holmes that evening, "it can only be
as an
example of that temporary eclipse to which even the
best-balanced
mind may be exposed. Such slips are common to all
mortals,
and the greatest is he who can recognize and repair
them. To this
modified credit I may, perhaps, make some claim. My
night was
haunted by the thought that somewhere a clue, a strange
sen-
tence, a curious observation, had come under my notice
and had
been too easily dismissed. Then, suddenly, in the
gray of the
morning, the words came back to me. It was the remark
of the
undertaker's wife, as reported by Philip Green. She
had said, 'It
should be there before now. It took longer, being
out of the
ordinary.' It was the coffin of which she spoke. It
had been out
of the ordinary. That could only mean that it had
been made to
some special measurement. But why? Why? Then in an
instant I
remembered the deep sides, and the little wasted figure
at the
bottom. Why so large a coffin for so small a body?
To leave
room for another body. Both would be buried under
the one
certificate. It had all been so clear, if only my
own sight had not
been dimmed. At eight the Lady Frances would be buried.
Our
one chance was to stop the coffin before it left the
house.
"It was a desperate chance that we might find
her alive, but it
was a chance, as the result showed. These people had
never, to
my knowledge, done a murder. They might shrink from
actual
violence at the last. They could bury her with no
sign of how she
met her end, and even if she were exhumed there was
a chance
for them. I hoped that such considerations might prevail
with
them. You can reconstruct the scene well enough. You
saw the
horrible den upstairs, where the poor lady had been
kept so
long. They rushed in and overpowered her with their
chloro-
form, carried her down, poured more into the coffin
to insure
against her waking, and then screwed down the lid.
A clever
device, Watson. It is new to me in the annals of crime.
If
our ex-missionary friends escape the clutches of Lestrade,
I
shall expect to hear of some brilliant incidents in
their future
career." |
