The Complete Sherlock Holmes

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  “That certainly did seem strange.”

  “Of course, with her weak heart and dropsy one couldn’t expect that she could get about with him, but he spent two hours every evening in her room. He might well do what he could, for she has been a rare good friend to him. But that’s all over, too. He never goes near her. And she takes it to heart. She is brooding and sulky and drinking, Mr. Holmes–drinking like a fish.”

  “Did she drink before this estrangement?”

  “Well, she took her glass, but now it is often a whole bottle of an evening. So Stephens, the butler, told me. It’s all changed, Mr. Holmes, and there is something damned rotten about it. But then, again, what is master doing down at the old church crypt at night? And who is the man that meets him there?”

  Holmes rubbed his hands.

  “Go on, Mr. Mason. You get more and more interesting.”

  “It was the butler who saw him go. Twelve o’clock at night and raining hard. So next night I was up at the house and, sure enough, master was off again. Stephens and I went after him, but it was jumpy work, for it would have been a bad job if he had seen us. He’s a terrible man with his fists if he gets started, and no respecter of persons. So we were shy of getting too near, but we marked him down all right. It was the haunted crypt that he was making for, and there was a man waiting for him there.”

  “What is this haunted crypt?”

  “Well, sir, there is an old ruined chapel in the park. It is so old that nobody could fix its date. And under it there’s a crypt which has a bad name among us. It’s a dark, damp, lonely place by day, but there are few in that county that would have the nerve to go near it at night. But master’s not afraid. He never feared anything in his life. But what is he doing there in the night-time?”

  “Wait a bit!” said Holmes. “You say there is another man there. It must be one of your own stablemen, or someone from the house! Surely you have only to spot who it is and question him?”

  “It’s no one I know.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because I have seen him, Mr. Holmes. It was on that second night. Sir Robert turned and passed us–me and Stephens, quaking in the bushes like two bunny-rabbits, for there was a bit of moon that night. But we could hear the other moving about behind. We were not afraid of him. So we up when Sir Robert was gone and pretended we were just having a walk like in the moonlight, and so we came right on him as casual and innocent as you please. ‘Hullo, mate! who may you be?’ says I. I guess he had not heard us coming, so he looked over his shoulder with a face as if he had seen the devil coming out of hell. He let out a yell, and away he went as hard as he could lick it in the darkness. He could run!–I’ll give him that. In a minute he was out of sight and hearing, and who he was, or what he was, we never found.”

  “But you saw him clearly in the moonlight?”

  “Yes, I would swear to his yellow face–a mean dog, I should say. What could he have in common with Sir Robert?”

  Holmes sat for some time lost in thought.

  “Who keeps Lady Beatrice Falder company?” he asked at last.

  “There is her maid, Carrie Evans. She has been with her this five years.”

  “And is, no doubt, devoted?”

  Mr. Mason shuffled uncomfortably.

  “She’s devoted enough,” he answered at last. “But I won’t say to whom.”

  “Ah!” said Holmes.

  “I can’t tell tales out of school.”

  “I quite understand, Mr. Mason. Of course, the situation is clear enough. From Dr. Watson’s description of Sir Robert I can realize that no woman is safe from him. Don’t you think the quarrel between brother and sister may lie there?”

  “Well, the scandal has been pretty clear for a long time.”

  “But she may not have seen it before. Let us suppose that she has suddenly found it out. She wants to get rid of the woman. Her brother will not permit it. The invalid, with her weak heart and inability to get about, has no means of enforcing her will. The hated maid is still tied to her. The lady refuses to speak, sulks, takes to drink. Sir Robert in his anger takes her pet spaniel away from her. Does not all this hang together?”

  “Well, it might do–so far as it goes.”

  “Exactly! As far as it goes. How would all that bear upon the visits by night to the old crypt? We can’t fit that into our plot.”

  “No, sir, and there is something more that I can’t fit in. Why should Sir Robert want to dig up a dead body?”

  Holmes sat up abruptly.

  “We only found it out yesterday–after I had written to you. Yesterday Sir Robert had gone to London, so Stephens and I went down to the crypt. It was all in order, sir, except that in one corner was a bit of a human body.”

  “You informed the police, I suppose?”

  Our visitor smiled grimly.

  “Well, sir, I think it would hardly interest them. It was just the head and a few bones of a mummy. It may have been a thousand years old. But it wasn’t there before. That I’ll swear, and so will Stephens. It had been stowed away in a corner and covered over with a board, but that corner had always been empty before.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “Well, we just left it there.”

  “That was wise. You say Sir Robert was away yesterday. Has he returned?”

  “We expect him back to-day.”

  “When did Sir Robert give away his sister’s dog?”

  “It was just a week ago to-day. The creature was howling outside the old well-house, and Sir Robert was in one of his tantrums that morning. He caught it up, and I thought he would have killed it. Then he gave it to Sandy Bain, the jockey, and told him to take the dog to old Barnes at the Green Dragon, for he never wished to see it again.”

  Holmes sat for some time in silent thought. He had lit the oldest and foulest of his pipes.

  “I am not clear yet what you want me to do in this matter, Mr. Mason,” he said at last. “Can’t you make it more definite?”

  “Perhaps this will make it more definite, Mr. Holmes,” said our visitor.

  He took a paper from his pocket, and, unwrapping it carefully, he exposed a charred fragment of bone.

  Holmes examined it with interest.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “There is a central heating furnace in the cellar under Lady Beatrice’s room. It’s been off for some time, but Sir Robert complained of cold and had it on again. Harvey runs it–he’s one of my lads. This very morning he came to me with this which he found raking out the cinders. He didn’t like the look of it.”

  “Nor do I,” said Holmes. “What do you make of it, Watson?”

  It was burned to a black cinder, but there could be no question as to its anatomical significance.

  “It’s the upper condyle of a human femur,” said I.

  “Exactly!” Holmes had become very serious. “When does this lad tend to the furnace?”

  “He makes it up every evening and then leaves it.”

  “Then anyone could visit it during the night?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you enter it from outside?”

  “There is one door from outside. There is another which leads up by a stair to the passage in which Lady Beatrice’s room is situated.”

  “These are deep waters, Mr. Mason; deep and rather dirty. You say that Sir Robert was not at home last night?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then, whoever was burning bones, it was not he.”

  “That’s true, sir.”

  “What is the name of that inn you spoke of?”

  “The Green Dragon.”

  “Is there good fishing in that part of Berkshire?” The honest trainer showed very clearly upon his face that he was convinced that yet another lunatic had come into his harassed life.

  “Well, sir, I’ve heard there are trout in the mill-stream and pike in the Hall lake.”

  “That’s good enough. Watson and I are famous fishermen
–are we not, Watson? You may address us in future at the Green Dragon. We should reach it to-night. I need not say that we don’t want to see you, Mr. Mason, but a note will reach us, and no doubt I could find you if I want you. When we have gone a little farther into the matter I will let you have a considered opinion.”

  Thus it was that on a bright May evening Holmes and I found ourselves alone in a first-class carriage and bound for the little “halt-on-demand” station of Shoscombe. The rack above us was covered with a formidable litter of rods, reels, and baskets. On reaching our destination a short drive took us to an old-fashioned tavern, where a sporting host, Josiah Barnes, entered eagerly into our plans for the extirpation of the fish of the neighbourhood.

  “What about the Hall lake and the chance of a pike?” said Holmes.

  The face of the innkeeper clouded.

  “That wouldn’t do, sir. You might chance to find yourself in the lake before you were through.”

  “How’s that, then?”

  “It’s Sir Robert, sir. He’s terrible jealous of touts. If you two strangers were as near his training quarters as that he’d be after you as sure as fate. He ain’t taking no chances, Sir Robert ain’t.”

  “I’ve heard he has a horse entered for the Derby.”

  “Yes, and a good colt, too. He carries all our money for the race, and all Sir Robert’s into the bargain. By the way”–he looked at us with thoughtful eyes–“I suppose you ain’t on the turf yourselves?”

  “No, indeed. Just two weary Londoners who badly need some good Berkshire air.”

  “Well, you are in the right place for that. There is a deal of it lying about. But mind what I have told you about Sir Robert. He’s the sort that strikes first and speaks afterwards. Keep clear of the park.”

  “Surely, Mr. Barnes! We certainly shall. By the way, that was a most beautiful spaniel that was whining in the hall.”

  “I should say it was. That was the real Shoscombe breed. There ain’t a better in England.”

  “I am a dog-fancier myself,” said Holmes. “Now, if it is a fair question, what would a prize dog like that cost?”

  “More than I could pay, sir. It was Sir Robert himself who gave me this one. That’s why I have to keep it on a lead. It would be off to the Hall in a jiffy if I gave it its head.”

  “We are getting some cards in our hand, Watson,” said Holmes when the landlord had left us. “It’s not an easy one to play, but we may see our way in a day or two. By the way, Sir Robert is still in London, I hear. We might, perhaps, enter the sacred domain to-night without fear of bodily assault. There are one or two points on which I should like reassurance.”

  “Have you any theory, Holmes?”

  “Only this, Watson, that something happened a week or so ago which has cut deep into the life of the Shoscombe household. What is that something? We can only guess at it from its effects. They seem to be of a curiously mixed character. But that should surely help us. It is only the colourless, uneventful case which is hopeless.

  “Let us consider our data. The brother no longer visits the beloved invalid sister. He gives away her favourite dog. Her dog, Watson! Does that suggest nothing to you?”

  “Nothing but the brother’s spite.”

  “Well, it might be so. Or–well, there is an alternative. Now to continue our review of the situation from the time that the quarrel, if there is a quarrel, began. The lady keeps her room, alters her habits, is not seen save when she drives out with her maid, refuses to stop at the stables to greet her favourite horse, and apparently takes to drink. That covers the case, does it not?”

  “Save for the business in the crypt.”

  “That is another line of thought. There are two, and I beg you will not tangle them. Line A, which concerns Lady Beatrice, has a vaguely sinister flavour, has it not?”

  “I can make nothing of it.”

  “Well, now, let us take up line B, which concerns Sir Robert. He is mad keen upon winning the Derby. He is in the hands of the Jews, and may at any moment be sold up and his racing stables seized by his creditors. He is a daring and desperate man. He derives his income from his sister. His sister’s maid is his willing tool. So far we seem to be on fairly safe ground, do we not?”

  “But the crypt?”

  “Ah, yes, the crypt! Let us suppose, Watson–it is merely a scandalous supposition, a hypothesis put forward for argument’s sake–that Sir Robert has done away with his sister.”

  “My dear Holmes, it is out of the question.”

  “Very possibly, Watson. Sir Robert is a man of an honourable stock. But you do occasionally find a carrion crow among the eagles. Let us for a moment argue upon this supposition. He could not fly the country until he had realized his fortune, and that fortune could only be realized by bringing off this coup with Shoscombe Prince. Therefore, he has still to stand his ground. To do this he would have to dispose of the body of his victim, and he would also have to find a substitute who would impersonate her. With the maid as his confidante that would not be impossible. The woman’s body might be conveyed to the crypt, which is a place so seldom visited, and it might be secretly destroyed at night in the furnace, leaving behind it such evidence as we have already seen. What say you to that, Watson?”

  “Well, it is all possible if you grant the original monstrous supposition.”

  “I think that there is a small experiment which we may try to-morrow, Watson, in order to throw some light on the matter. Meanwhile, if we mean to keep up our characters, I suggest that we have our host in for a glass of his own wine and hold some high converse upon eels and dace, which seems to be the straight road to his affections. We may chance to come upon some useful local gossip in the process.”

  In the morning Holmes discovered that we had come without our spoon-bait for jack, which absolved us from fishing for the day. About eleven o’clock we started for a walk, and he obtained leave to take the black spaniel with us.

  “This is the place,” said he as we came to two high park gates with heraldic griffins towering above them. “About midday, Mr. Barnes informs me, the old lady takes a drive, and the carriage must slow down while the gates are opened. When it comes through, and before it gathers speed, I want you, Watson, to stop the coachman with some question. Never mind me. I shall stand behind this holly-bush and see what I can see.”

  It was not a long vigil. Within a quarter of an hour we saw the big open yellow barouche coming down the long avenue, with two splendid, high-stepping gray carriage horses in the shafts. Holmes crouched behind his bush with the dog. I stood unconcernedly swinging a cane in the roadway. A keeper ran out and the gates swung open.

  The carriage had slowed to a walk, and I was able to get a good look at the occupants. A highly coloured young woman with flaxen hair and impudent eyes sat on the left. At her right was an elderly person with rounded back and a huddle of shawls about her face and shoulders which proclaimed the invalid. When the horses reached the highroad I held up my hand with an authoritative gesture, and as the coachman pulled up I inquired if Sir Robert was at Shoscombe Old Place.

  At the same moment Holmes stepped out and released the spaniel. With a joyous cry it dashed forward to the carriage and sprang upon the step. Then in a moment its eager greeting changed to furious rage, and it snapped at the black skirt above it.

  “Drive on! Drive on!” shrieked a harsh voice. The coachman lashed the horses, and we were left standing in the roadway.

  “Well, Watson, that’s done it,” said Holmes as he fastened the lead to the neck of the excited spaniel. “He thought it was his mistress, and he found it was a stranger. Dogs don’t make mistakes.”

  “But it was the voice of a man!” I cried.

  “Exactly! We have added one card to our hand, Watson, but it needs careful playing, all the same.”

  My companion seemed to have no further plans for the day, and we did actually use our fishing tackle in the mill-stream, with the result that we had a dish of trout for our supper.
It was only after that meal that Holmes showed signs of renewed activity. Once more we found ourselves upon the same road as in the morning, which led us to the park gates. A tall, dark figure was awaiting us there, who proved to be our London acquaintance, Mr. John Mason, the trainer.

  “Good-evening, gentlemen,” said he. “I got your note, Mr. Holmes. Sir Robert has not returned yet, but I hear that he is expected to-night.”

  “How far is this crypt from the house?” asked Holmes.

  “A good quarter of a mile.”

  “Then I think we can disregard him altogether.”

  “I can’t afford to do that, Mr. Holmes. The moment he arrives he will want to see me to get the last news of Shoscombe Prince.”

  “I see! In that case we must work without you, Mr. Mason. You can show us the crypt and then leave us.”

  It was pitch-dark and without a moon, but Mason led us over the grass-lands until a dark mass loomed up in front of us which proved to be the ancient chapel. We entered the broken gap which was once the porch, and our guide, stumbling among heaps of loose masonry, picked his way to the corner of the building, where a steep stair led down into the crypt. Striking a match, he illuminated the melancholy place–dismal and evil-smelling, with ancient crumbling walls of rough-hewn stone, and piles of coffins, some of lead and some of stone, extending upon one side right up to the arched and groined roof which lost itself in the shadows above our heads. Holmes had lit his lantern, which shot a tiny tunnel of vivid yellow light upon the mournful scene. Its rays were reflected back from the coffin-plates, many of them adorned with the griffin and coronet of this old family which carried its honours even to the gate of Death.

  “You spoke of some bones, Mr. Mason. Could you show them before you go?”

  “They are here in this corner.” The trainer strode across and then stood in silent surprise as our light was turned upon the place. “They are gone,” said he.

  “So I expected,” said Holmes, chuckling. “I fancy the ashes of them might even now be found in that oven which had already consumed a part.”

  “But why in the world would anyone want to burn the bones of a man who has been dead a thousand years?” asked John Mason.