Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated)

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  “Yes, we’ve had a scare in this part lately. Old Acton, who is one of our county magnates, had his house broken into last Monday. No great damage done, but the fellows are still at large.”

  “No clue?” asked Holmes, cocking his eye at the Colonel.

  “None as yet. But the affair is a petty one, one of our little country crimes, which must seem too small for your attention, Mr. Holmes, after this great international affair.”

  Holmes waved away the compliment, though his smile showed that it had pleased him.

  “Was there any feature of interest?”

  “I fancy not. The thieves ransacked the library and got very little for their pains. The whole place was turned upside down, drawers burst open, and presses ransacked, with the result that an odd volume of Pope’s ‘Homer,’ two plated candlesticks, an ivory letter-weight, a small oak barometer, and a ball of twine are all that have vanished.”

  “What an extraordinary assortment!” I exclaimed.

  “Oh, the fellows evidently grabbed hold of everything they could get.”

  Holmes grunted from the sofa.

  “The county police ought to make something of that,” said he; “why, it is surely obvious that—”

  But I held up a warning finger.

  “You are here for a rest, my dear fellow. For Heaven’s sake don’t get started on a new problem when your nerves are all in shreds.”

  Holmes shrugged his shoulders with a glance of comic resignation towards the Colonel, and the talk drifted away into less dangerous channels.

  It was destined, however, that all my professional caution should be wasted, for next morning the problem obtruded itself upon us in such a way that it was impossible to ignore it, and our country visit took a turn which neither of us could have anticipated. We were at breakfast when the Colonel’s butler rushed in with all his propriety shaken out of him.

  “Have you heard the news, sir?” he gasped. “At the Cunningham’s sir!”

  “Burglary!” cried the Colonel, with his coffee-cup in mid-air.

  “Murder!”

  The Colonel whistled. “By Jove!” said he. “Who’s killed, then? The J.P. or his son?”

  “Neither, sir. It was William the coachman. Shot through the heart, sir, and never spoke again.”

  “Who shot him, then?”

  “The burglar, sir. He was off like a shot and got clean away. He’d just broke in at the pantry window when William came on him and met his end in saving his master’s property.”

  “What time?”

  “It was last night, sir, somewhere about twelve.”

  “Ah, then, we’ll step over afterwards,” said the Colonel, coolly settling down to his breakfast again. “It’s a baddish business,” he added when the butler had gone; “he’s our leading man about here, is old Cunningham, and a very decent fellow too. He’ll be cut up over this, for the man has been in his service for years and was a good servant. It’s evidently the same villains who broke into Acton’s.”

  “And stole that very singular collection,” said Holmes, thoughtfully.

  “Precisely.”

  “Hum! It may prove the simplest matter in the world, but all the same at first glance this is just a little curious, is it not? A gang of burglars acting in the country might be expected to vary the scene of their operations, and not to crack two cribs in the same district within a few days. When you spoke last night of taking precautions I remember that it passed through my mind that this was probably the last parish in England to which the thief or thieves would be likely to turn their attention — which shows that I have still much to learn.”

  “I fancy it’s some local practitioner,” said the Colonel. “In that case, of course, Acton’s and Cunningham’s are just the places he would go for, since they are far the largest about here.”

  “And richest?”

  “Well, they ought to be, but they’ve had a lawsuit for some years which has sucked the blood out of both of them, I fancy. Old Acton has some claim on half Cunningham’s estate, and the lawyers have been at it with both hands.”

  “If it’s a local villain there should not be much difficulty in running him down,” said Holmes with a yawn. “All right, Watson, I don’t intend to meddle.”

  “Inspector Forrester, sir,” said the butler, throwing open the door.

  The official, a smart, keen-faced young fellow, stepped into the room. “Good-morning, Colonel,” said he; “I hope I don’t intrude, but we hear that Mr. Holmes of Baker Street is here.”

  The Colonel waved his hand towards my friend, and the Inspector bowed.

  “We thought that perhaps you would care to step across, Mr. Holmes.”

  “The fates are against you, Watson,” said he, laughing. “We were chatting about the matter when you came in, Inspector. Perhaps you can let us have a few details.” As he leaned back in his chair in the familiar attitude I knew that the case was hopeless.

  “We had no clue in the Acton affair. But here we have plenty to go on, and there’s no doubt it is the same party in each case. The man was seen.”

  “Ah!”

  “Yes, sir. But he was off like a deer after the shot that killed poor William Kirwan was fired. Mr. Cunningham saw him from the bedroom window, and Mr. Alec Cunningham saw him from the back passage. It was quarter to twelve when the alarm broke out. Mr. Cunningham had just got into bed, and Mr. Alec was smoking a pipe in his dressing-gown. They both heard William the coachman calling for help, and Mr. Alec ran down to see what was the matter. The back door was open, and as he came to the foot of the stairs he saw two men wrestling together outside. One of them fired a shot, the other dropped, and the murderer rushed across the garden and over the hedge. Mr. Cunningham, looking out of his bedroom, saw the fellow as he gained the road, but lost sight of him at once. Mr. Alec stopped to see if he could help the dying man, and so the villain got clean away. Beyond the fact that he was a middle-sized man and dressed in some dark stuff, we have no personal clue; but we are making energetic inquiries, and if he is a stranger we shall soon find him out.”

  “What was this William doing there? Did he say anything before he died?”

  “Not a word. He lives at the lodge with his mother, and as he was a very faithful fellow we imagine that he walked up to the house with the intention of seeing that all was right there. Of course this Acton business has put every one on their guard. The robber must have just burst open the door — the lock has been forced — when William came upon him.”

  “Did William say anything to his mother before going out?”

  “She is very old and deaf, and we can get no information from her. The shock has made her half-witted, but I understand that she was never very bright. There is one very important circumstance, however. Look at this!”

  He took a small piece of torn paper from a note-book and spread it out upon his knee.

  “This was found between the finger and thumb of the dead man. It appears to be a fragment torn from a larger sheet. You will observe that the hour mentioned upon it is the very time at which the poor fellow met his fate. You see that his murderer might have torn the rest of the sheet from him or he might have taken this fragment from the murderer. It reads almost as though it were an appointment.”

  Holmes took up the scrap of paper, a fac-simile of which is here reproduced.

  d at quarter to twelve learn what maybe

  “Presuming that it is an appointment,” continued the Inspector, “it is of course a conceivable theory that this William Kirwan — though he had the reputation of being an honest man, may have been in league with the thief. He may have met him there, may even have helped him to break in the door, and then they may have fallen out between themselves.”

  “This writing is of extraordinary interest,” said Holmes, who had been examining it with intense concentration. “These are much deeper waters than I had thought.” He sank his head upon his hands, while the Inspector smiled at the effect which his case had had upon the famo
us London specialist.

  “Your last remark,” said Holmes, presently, “as to the possibility of there being an understanding between the burglar and the servant, and this being a note of appointment from one to the other, is an ingenious and not entirely impossible supposition. But this writing opens up—” He sank his head into his hands again and remained for some minutes in the deepest thought. When he raised his face again, I was surprised to see that his cheek was tinged with colour, and his eyes as bright as before his illness. He sprang to his feet with all his old energy.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said he, “I should like to have a quiet little glance into the details of this case. There is something in it which fascinates me extremely. If you will permit me, Colonel, I will leave my friend Watson and you, and I will step round with the Inspector to test the truth of one or two little fancies of mine. I will be with you again in half an hour.”

  An hour and half had elapsed before the Inspector returned alone.

  “Mr. Holmes is walking up and down in the field outside,” said he. “He wants us all four to go up to the house together.”

  “To Mr. Cunningham’s?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What for?”

  The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t quite know, sir. Between ourselves, I think Mr. Holmes had not quite got over his illness yet. He’s been behaving very queerly, and he is very much excited.”

  “I don’t think you need alarm yourself,” said I. “I have usually found that there was method in his madness.”

  “Some folks might say there was madness in his method,” muttered the Inspector. “But he’s all on fire to start, Colonel, so we had best go out if you are ready.”

  We found Holmes pacing up and down in the field, his chin sunk upon his breast, and his hands thrust into his trousers pockets.

  “The matter grows in interest,” said he. “Watson, your country-trip has been a distinct success. I have had a charming morning.”

  “You have been up to the scene of the crime, I understand,” said the Colonel.

  “Yes; the Inspector and I have made quite a little reconnaissance together.”

  “Any success?”

  “Well, we have seen some very interesting things. I’ll tell you what we did as we walk. First of all, we saw the body of this unfortunate man. He certainly died from a revolver wound as reported.”

  “Had you doubted it, then?”

  “Oh, it is as well to test everything. Our inspection was not wasted. We then had an interview with Mr. Cunningham and his son, who were able to point out the exact spot where the murderer had broken through the garden-hedge in his flight. That was of great interest.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Then we had a look at this poor fellow’s mother. We could get no information from her, however, as she is very old and feeble.”

  “And what is the result of your investigations?”

  “The conviction that the crime is a very peculiar one. Perhaps our visit now may do something to make it less obscure. I think that we are both agreed, Inspector that the fragment of paper in the dead man’s hand, bearing, as it does, the very hour of his death written upon it, is of extreme importance.”

  “It should give a clue, Mr. Holmes.”

  “It does give a clue. Whoever wrote that note was the man who brought William Kirwan out of his bed at that hour. But where is the rest of that sheet of paper?”

  “I examined the ground carefully in the hope of finding it,” said the Inspector.

  “It was torn out of the dead man’s hand. Why was some one so anxious to get possession of it? Because it incriminated him. And what would he do with it? Thrust it into his pocket, most likely, never noticing that a corner of it had been left in the grip of the corpse. If we could get the rest of that sheet it is obvious that we should have gone a long way towards solving the mystery.”

  “Yes, but how can we get at the criminal’s pocket before we catch the criminal?”

  “Well, well, it was worth thinking over. Then there is another obvious point. The note was sent to William. The man who wrote it could not have taken it; otherwise, of course, he might have delivered his own message by word of mouth. Who brought the note, then? Or did it come through the post?”

  “I have made inquiries,” said the Inspector. “William received a letter by the afternoon post yesterday. The envelope was destroyed by him.”

  “Excellent!” cried Holmes, clapping the Inspector on the back. “You’ve seen the postman. It is a pleasure to work with you. Well, here is the lodge, and if you will come up, Colonel, I will show you the scene of the crime.”

  We passed the pretty cottage where the murdered man had lived, and walked up an oak-lined avenue to the fine old Queen Anne house, which bears the date of Malplaquet upon the lintel of the door. Holmes and the Inspector led us round it until we came to the side gate, which is separated by a stretch of garden from the hedge which lines the road. A constable was standing at the kitchen door.

  “Throw the door open, officer,” said Holmes. “Now, it was on those stairs that young Mr. Cunningham stood and saw the two men struggling just where we are. Old Mr. Cunningham was at that window — the second on the left — and he saw the fellow get away just to the left of that bush. Then Mr. Alec ran out and knelt beside the wounded man. The ground is very hard, you see, and there are no marks to guide us.” As he spoke two men came down the garden path, from round the angle of the house. The one was an elderly man, with a strong, deep-lined, heavy-eyed face; the other a dashing young fellow, whose bright, smiling expression and showy dress were in strange contract with the business which had brought us there.

  “Still at it, then?” said he to Holmes. “I thought you Londoners were never at fault. You don’t seem to be so very quick, after all.”

  “Ah, you must give us a little time,” said Holmes good-humoredly.

  “You’ll want it,” said young Alec Cunningham. “Why, I don’t see that we have any clue at all.”

  “There’s only one,” answered the Inspector. “We thought that if we could only find — Good heavens, Mr. Holmes! What is the matter?”

  My poor friend’s face had suddenly assumed the most dreadful expression. His eyes rolled upwards, his features writhed in agony, and with a suppressed groan he dropped on his face upon the ground. Horrified at the suddenness and severity of the attack, we carried him into the kitchen, where he lay back in a large chair, and breathed heavily for some minutes. Finally, with a shamefaced apology for his weakness, he rose once more.

  “Watson would tell you that I have only just recovered from a severe illness,” he explained. “I am liable to these sudden nervous attacks.”

  “Shall I send you home in my trap?” asked old Cunningham.

  “Well, since I am here, there is one point on which I should like to feel sure. We can very easily verify it.”

  “What was it?”

  “Well, it seems to me that it is just possible that the arrival of this poor fellow William was not before, but after, the entrance of the burglary into the house. You appear to take it for granted that, although the door was forced, the robber never got in.”

  “I fancy that is quite obvious,” said Mr. Cunningham, gravely. “Why, my son Alec had not yet gone to bed, and he would certainly have heard any one moving about.”

  “Where was he sitting?”

  “I was smoking in my dressing-room.”

  “Which window is that?”

  “The last on the left next my father’s.”

  “Both of your lamps were lit, of course?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “There are some very singular points here,” said Holmes, smiling. “Is it not extraordinary that a burglary — and a burglar who had had some previous experience — should deliberately break into a house at a time when he could see from the lights that two of the family were still afoot?”

  “He must have been a cool hand.”

  �
�Well, of course, if the case were not an odd one we should not have been driven to ask you for an explanation,” said young Mr. Alec. “But as to your ideas that the man had robbed the house before William tackled him, I think it a most absurd notion. Wouldn’t we have found the place disarranged, and missed the things which he had taken?”

  “It depends on what the things were,” said Holmes. “You must remember that we are dealing with a burglar who is a very peculiar fellow, and who appears to work on lines of his own. Look, for example, at the queer lot of things which he took from Acton’s — what was it? — a ball of string, a letter-weight, and I don’t know what other odds and ends.”

  “Well, we are quite in your hands, Mr. Holmes,” said old Cunningham. “Anything which you or the Inspector may suggest will most certainly be done.”

  “In the first place,” said Holmes, “I should like you to offer a reward — coming from yourself, for the officials may take a little time before they would agree upon the sum, and these things cannot be done too promptly. I have jotted down the form here, if you would not mind signing it. Fifty pounds was quite enough, I thought.”

  “I would willingly give five hundred,” said the J.P., taking the slip of paper and the pencil which Holmes handed to him. “This is not quite correct, however,” he added, glancing over the document.

  “I wrote it rather hurriedly.”

  “You see you begin, ‘Whereas, at about a quarter to one on Tuesday morning an attempt was made,’ and so on. It was at a quarter to twelve, as a matter of fact.”

  I was pained at the mistake, for I knew how keenly Holmes would feel any slip of the kind. It was his specialty to be accurate as to fact, but his recent illness had shaken him, and this one little incident was enough to show me that he was still far from being himself. He was obviously embarrassed for an instant, while the Inspector raised his eyebrows, and Alec Cunningham burst into a laugh. The old gentleman corrected the mistake, however, and handed the paper back to Holmes.

  “Get it printed as soon as possible,” he said; “I think your idea is an excellent one.”

  Holmes put the slip of paper carefully away into his pocket-book.