MY DEAR MR SHERLOCK HOLMES,
I know of your reputation and am aware that you have taken an interest in the deaths of Victor Furnival and his sister, Mrs Eardley. I therefore venture to give you the following account, confident that you will recognise it for the truth that it is:
When first I met Victor Furnival, he was the manager of a large sugar-cane plantation on the island of St Anthony in the West Indies, and had a reputation as a brutal and merciless overseer. I was master of a small tramp vessel at the time, sailing about the Caribbean and happy enough with my lot. Sometimes, when we put in at Trianna Bay, which was the largest town on St Anthony, I would meet up with Furnival, and other Englishmen that were there, and we would drink and play cards, as men tend to do when they are far from home. It was a rough place, full of rough people and with no pretensions to gentility; but even there, among such people, Furnival was known for his vicious tongue and his bullying, blustering manner.
Among those with whom we sometimes played cards and passed the time was Captain Abel Jex, who owned a small boat and traded among the nearby islands. Occasionally, he picked up pearls from the local fishermen, which he sold to a dealer in Trianna Bay; but there was a persistent rumour that those he sold were the poorer ones and that he was building up a secret cache of really fine pearls to pay for a life of ease when he finally gave up the sea. I had always doubted this rumour, but it was confirmed to me one day by the man himself. I was in Trianna Bay and ran across Captain Jex down by the harbour. He told me that he had come to town to have his pearls valued by an expert from Jamaica who was staying there for a few days and that the appraisal had been very favourable. Evidently pleased with himself, he showed me the pearls, as we sat in a bar by the harbour. From a small velvet pouch, he tipped on to his hand a dozen of the most perfect and lustrous pearls I had ever seen. What they might be worth, I could not say, but I would guess that they might set a man up for life. I motioned to him to put them away, for I saw that we were being observed by other men in the bar, men of the vilest antecedents, who would think nothing of slitting Jex’s throat to get hold of his treasure.
Later that day, I was obliged to see Furnival on business, so I walked out to his house, which lay in an isolated spot, ten minutes from the town. As I approached the front door, I heard raised voices from within the house, which I recognised as those of Furnival and his sister, Mrs Eardley. She had come out from England to live with her brother the previous year, after her husband had died and, to speak plainly, was generally disliked. She was a mean, grasping, shrewish woman, whose presence seemed to have made Furnival even more ill-tempered and disagreeable than before.
‘You fool!’ I heard her cry in a harsh tone. ‘You must seize your chances! Or do you want to rot forever in this stinking place?’
I did not know what they were discussing, nor had any wish to know. I knocked on the door, was admitted by the servant and heard no more. That evening, I attended Furnival’s house again, for dinner. I had thought, from what he told me earlier, that there would be half a dozen of us there, but in the event the only other visitor was Captain Jex. The four of us played cards for a while after dinner; but I found Mrs Eardley’s company so intolerable that I presently made some excuse and left, returning to my ship in the harbour.
In the middle of the night, I was roughly awakened by a party of soldiers from the nearby military garrison and informed that I was being arrested for the murder of Captain Jex, who had been found beside the road with his head crushed in. I protested my innocence, but it did me no good and I was sent to trial in Jamaica. I will not detail the court proceedings, a full account of which can be found in the Caribbean Law Reports, but note merely that the entire case against me was built on a series of lies by Furnival and his sister. In particular, they both stated that Captain Jex and I had quarrelled on the evening of his death, which was completely untrue, and that they had heard Jex cry out, a short time after he had left their house and, upon going to investigate, had seen me running away, which was also completely untrue.
Of course, what had happened was clear to me, as was the meaning of the words I had overheard Mrs Eardley speak to her brother. Furnival and his sister had learnt of the pearls Jex was carrying, had plotted together to murder him to get their hands on them, and had planned to divert suspicion by putting the blame on to me. Had it been only the two of them testifying against me, I might yet have avoided a guilty verdict; but they had evidently bribed or threatened others, for a number of people I had never even seen before came forward to testify enthusiastically against me. The only thing that saved me from the hangman’s noose was the question of the pearls. I, of course, did not have them and nor could they be found anywhere else, as a result of which the prosecution scarcely mentioned them at all, even though they were the obvious motive for the crime. Instead, it was alleged that Jex and I had quarrelled over some other matter and, inflamed by drink, had come to blows. This allowed the defence counsel to argue, from various incidental considerations, that, whatever had occurred, Jex had probably struck the first blow. This argument was accepted by the jury and, thus, although found guilty of causing Jex’s death, I was spared the gallows and sentenced instead to ten years’ hard labour in the penal colony on Halifax Island.
There I passed a decade of my life, suffering for a crime I did not commit, and sustained only by a burning hatred of those whose lies had condemned me. Thus, when I was at last released to the world once more, a sick, broken man, I resolved that I would devote my last breath to hunting down Furnival and his sister. Shortly after my release, a clerk’s error led to an incorrect report that I had died, but I did not trouble to correct the error. What did I care? I had no life, other than to seek justice for Jex and revenge for myself. I learnt that Furnival and his sister had returned to England several years earlier, and it was not long before I followed them there, assuming for my own satisfaction the name of Captain Jex, the man they had murdered. The meagre savings I had from before my imprisonment were just sufficient to pay for my passage and keep me for a little while, and that, for me, was enough.
Once in England, it took me little time to track Furnival down and I discovered that he was living as a respectable, highly regarded man of substance in south London. For some time I followed him about, until I knew his habits almost as well as my own. One day, at Norwood station, our eyes met for a moment, but then the train I was on pulled away and I do not think he recognised me. One thing I had remembered about Furnival was his deep loathing of spiders. I had therefore brought with me a large specimen of the black tarantula. At first, I was unsure how I might use it; but when I learnt of his interest in native curios, I at once thought of putting the spider in a carved box and sending it to him through the post.
The rest you know. I had not expected that the mere sight of the creature would bring about the death of my enemy, although I cannot say in all honesty that that outcome causes me any regret. When I learnt what had occurred, I tried to recover the spider, but without success. I was immensely relieved when I read that you had captured it, for my greatest fear was that Furnival’s niece, or some other innocent, would be harmed by it.
Now I am dying and by the time you read these lines my tongue will be stilled forever, but I rejoice that some degree of justice has at last been meted out to the true murderers of Captain Jex. For the peace of your soul, pray that you never fall foul of anyone so vicious and callous as Victor Furnival and his sister.
CAPTAIN DAVID McNEILL
‘What a dreadful business,’ I remarked as we finished reading. ‘But it illustrates, I suppose, that even the most banal suburban existence may conceal the strangest of secrets.’
‘Indeed,’ said Holmes. ‘And it illustrates, also, Watson, the truth of the old adage, that the darkest deeds cast the longest shadows.’
The Adventure of The Tomb on the Hill
My note-book records that it was in the third week of February, 1883, that the singular business of Mr Dryson’s
strange oil painting was brought to the attention of my friend, Sherlock Holmes. It was a cold, wet period and I was reading in the morning paper of the flooding that had afflicted many low-lying parts of the country, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. A moment later, a smartly dressed, middle-aged gentleman was shown into our sitting-room and introduced himself as Everard Dryson.
‘What can we do for you, Mr Dryson?’ said Holmes, taking his visitor’s hat and coat and ushering him into a chair by the fireside.
‘The fact is,’ returned Dryson, ‘I have had the strangest experience. I really can’t think what to make of it and I was hoping you might be able to look into it for me.’
‘Certainly,’ said Holmes, rubbing his hands together in delight at the prospect of an interesting commission. A new case of any sort was welcome to him, for he had had little to do for two or three days and had begun to chafe at this enforced idleness. ‘Pray, let us have the details.’
‘It is soon told,’ said the other. ‘I am a bachelor and have a house just round the corner from here, in Gloucester Place. One of my interests is in oil paintings, of which I now have a fair number. There is no particular theme to my collection – I simply buy what takes my fancy – although I do have a taste for landscapes and rural scenes. About three months ago, I bought a painting entitled The Tomb on the Hill from the Marchmont Gallery in Bond Street. It depicts a raised stone tomb in a rural setting, with trees about it, fields in the background and so on. I thought when I first saw it that it had perhaps been inspired by that well-known painting of Poussin’s, but in fact I understand that the scene depicted is not an imaginary one, but a real one, in the north of England. Apparently, some member of the Eldersly family who had soldiered abroad for many years willed that when he died his tomb should be placed on a hill overlooking his estates in Yorkshire. Anyhow, in the foreground a rustic figure is inspecting the tomb and wandering about are a number of small animals. Visible on the side of the tomb are several lines of carved lettering. You will understand in a moment why I am mentioning these details.
‘Yesterday, I was out for most of the afternoon. When I returned I was informed by my housekeeper, Mrs Larchfield, that two workmen had called in my absence to deliver a flat wooden crate, such as might have contained a large painting. She told them that we were not expecting such a delivery, but they showed her a handwritten note with my name and address on it, so she let them in and they carried their crate into the drawing-room. While one of them was unfastening the crate, the other had a sort of coughing fit and asked her if he could trouble her for a glass of water. She was a little dubious about leaving them alone in the drawing-room, but as the man was still coughing, she could hardly refuse his request. When she returned with the water, she was surprised to see that they had not proceeded to open their crate.
‘“The fact is, madam,” said the one who seemed to be in charge, “that I have realised that you are right and we are wrong. This sheet of paper with Mr Dryson’s name and address on it is an old one which we have been given in error. We shall have to go back to the shop and get the matter sorted out. I am very sorry that we have troubled you.”
‘With that, the men picked up their wooden crate again and left the house with it. This all struck Mrs Larchfield as rather odd, and after the men had gone she had a good look round the drawing-room to make sure that they had not stolen anything. When I came home she told me all about it and I, too, made a careful examination of the room but found nothing amiss. It was only later, after supper, that I noticed a very strange thing.
‘I had been thinking about the Marchmont Gallery and wondering if the delivery men had come from there, and I suppose it was this train of thought that made me look at the last painting I had bought from them, The Tomb on the Hill, to which I referred. No doubt when I had had a look round the room earlier, I had merely glanced at this painting and had not really looked closely at it. Now I saw to my utter astonishment that although the picture and frame appeared exactly as before in almost every way, there was one small but crucial change. The words carved on the tomb were now quite different from what they had been.’
‘How very curious,’ remarked Holmes. His tone was one of puzzlement, but there was an unmistakable look of delight upon his face, as of a wine connoisseur who has just taken his first sip of a particularly fine vintage. ‘Were there any obvious signs that the painting had been altered by hand?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Then we must assume that while your housekeeper was out of the room, the men substituted a painting that was in their packing-case for the one hanging on the wall.’
‘I suppose you must be right.’
‘Is the new painting an inferior copy of the original?’
Dryson shook his head. ‘It is signed by the same artist, A.R. Philips. Of course, I realise that the signature in itself would prove nothing, but the picture does appear to be by the same hand. Besides, my painting is not particularly valuable. It is not by an “Old Master”, or anything like that, but by a young artist who is currently active.’
‘Do you know anything of the artist?’
‘Not really. I seem to remember hearing that he has a studio out Putney way and has exhibited at the Royal Academy. I believe he is moderately popular without being very well known, if you know what I mean. If you are right, he must have painted two or more versions of the same scene, I suppose, although why he should do so and why someone should wish to steal mine and leave another in its place, I cannot imagine.’
‘Hum! I think I should like to see this painting, Mr Dryson,’ said Holmes, rising to his feet. ‘Would that be possible?’
‘Certainly. We can walk round to my house in just a few minutes.’
Entering Mr Dryson’s drawing-room was somewhat like entering an Aladdin’s cave, so full was it of objets d’art of all types, shapes and sizes. The painting we had come to see was hanging in a prominent place to the right of the window. It was a fairly large picture, the overall size including the frame being about two feet wide and two and a half feet tall. Depicted in it, as Holmes’s client had described, was a large stone tomb. Around the tomb were a few young trees and beyond it the land dropped away to a broad fertile plain which stretched far into the distance, to where a row of purple hills marked the horizon. On the plain, a few sheep were dotted about and in the far distance was a small fountain of some kind, with a jumble of rocks about it, upon which the water was falling. In the foreground, a rustic figure in leather gaiters and a battered soft hat was leaning on a stout staff as he gazed upon the tomb. About his feet and a little behind him, among the trees, were a few small rabbits, and two or three ducks were waddling past the tomb. Clearly visible on the side of the tomb were the following lines:
Death where is thy victory?
Peace doth fill these parks
While water from the fountain
Doth sparkle on the rocks
‘Do you recall the tomb inscription on your own picture?’ Holmes asked his client.
‘Yes,’ answered Dryson. ‘I made a note of it in case you asked.’ He passed us a sheet of note-paper, upon which I read the following:
For thirty years my feet marched
On from east and west
To each corner of the dew-laden far south
Never resting then, now laid down at last.
‘This inscription would certainly not win any poetry prizes,’ said Holmes with a chuckle. ‘Do you know which of them – if either – is on the tomb in Yorkshire?’
‘I’m afraid I have no idea.’
‘Are there any other differences between this picture and your own?’
‘That little fountain in the distance is not on mine,’ replied Dryson. ‘Apart from that, the only difference I can see is in the number of ducks and rabbits. There are definitely more of both in this picture.’
Holmes then carefully lifted the picture from the wall and turned it round. ‘Hum!’ said he. ‘The back of this picture has rec
ently been removed and then replaced, using the original tacks. There is a label on the back from the Marchmont Gallery, so this picture is from the same source as your own, Mr Dryson. You had no idea when you purchased your picture that there was another one, almost identical to it?’
‘No, I hadn’t. I had seen it in Marchmont’s window for a few days and looked at it several times, wondering if I should get it. Eventually I went in and enquired about it and the proprietor, a Mr Appleby, informed me that they were selling it as agents for a client of theirs, a widow whose late husband had amassed quite a large collection of works of art which she now wished to trim a little, as she was about to move to a smaller house. He told me the price she was asking for the picture and I went home to consider the matter further. The next day, having made my mind up, I returned and made them an offer – which was a little less than the asking price – and two days later I had a note from them to say that the seller had accepted my offer.’
‘Do you know the seller’s name?’
‘No. I don’t think it was ever mentioned.’
‘I think we should try to find out a little more about these pictures. Will you come to the Marchmont Gallery with us, Mr Dryson? They are more likely to give us the information we seek if you are present.’
Dryson was quite amenable to accompanying us and fifteen minutes later we were pushing open the door of the gallery, where we were welcomed by a tall, bald-headed man, who introduced himself to us as Mr Appleby.
‘My friend, Mr Dryson, recently bought a painting here,’ said Holmes.
The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes Page 24