“There are certainly some indications,” I returned cautiously. “It is evident, for instance, that the owner of the satchel is an enthusiast for English literature.”
“But not one of very long standing.”
“Why so?”
“The book describing the history of English literature, worthy volume though it is, is introductory in nature and written for a general audience. The fact that it is clearly new, and evidently recently purchased, suggests that its owner, however enthusiastic he might be, is not yet in an advanced stage of literary scholarship.”
“That may be so,” I returned, “but the book is inscribed, and thus may be a present from a friend. In which case, of course, you cannot so reliably judge the owner’s level of sophistication and scholarship from it.”
“Generally speaking,” said Holmes, “that would be a sound observation. Your attention to detail does you credit.”
“Thank you.”
“In this particular case, however, your reasoning is erroneous.”
“Why?”
“There are two distinct parts to the inscription. The first part, at the top, consists of the initials ‘A. K.’, the second part is the remainder, ‘Kindest regards. Your friend, D. W.’, if I recall it aright.”
“These two parts, as you call them, seemed all one to me.”
“Not at all. Not only are the initials ‘A. K.’ in a different hand, they are written with a different pen.”
“Let us see,” said Harte, unfastening the satchel and taking out the book.
“You may be correct,” I conceded as I examined the inscription.
“I am certain of it,” said Holmes. “The ‘K’ in ‘A. K.’ is formed quite differently from the ‘K’ in ‘Kindest regards’. Now, this suggests that the owner of the book, whom we must presume is this ‘A. K.’ – for the book is undoubtedly a new one and has not been owned by anyone before – bought the book himself and wrote his initials in it, and only subsequently asked his friend to inscribe it. You will note that the inscription says neither ‘To A. K.’ nor ‘From D. W.’ but simply ‘Kindest regards, your friend, D. W.’”
“But why should he ask his friend to write in his book if his friend did not buy the book for him?” asked Harte in a tone of puzzlement.
“The friend may not have bought the book,” returned Holmes, “but it appears likely that he has played a significant part in the business.”
“What do you mean?”
“Simply that the friend – ‘D. W.’ – is almost certainly the author of the book.”
I glanced at the book’s title page. “Of course, you must be right!” I cried as I read the name of Professor David Walters of Trinity College, Cambridge.
“It seems likely, then, that ‘A. K.’ – the man you met on the train, Mr Harte – had bought himself this book while in Cambridge to attend a lecture. There is a little gummed label on the inside of the back cover, giving the name of the bookshop. No doubt the brown paper and string in the satchel came from that shop, too. We do not know whether the lecture that ‘A. K.’ attended was given by Professor Walters, but whether it was or not, ‘A. K.’ must have approached Professor Walters at some time during the day and asked him to inscribe this book for him. If the two men were strangers, Professor Walters would surely have satisfied the request by writing ‘Best wishes’, or something of the sort. But he has specifically called himself ‘Your friend, D. W.’, so we must suppose that the two men are well acquainted. Professor Walters is an eminent figure in the world of scholars, and it is a fair assumption that many of his acquaintances are from that same class of society, including, perhaps, the man calling himself Dr Kennett. We are, you see, slowly but surely building up a picture of that gentleman.”
“It is not conclusive,” I observed.
“No, it is not, I agree, but the balance of probability surely lies upon that side. Dr Kennett is certainly highly intelligent and highly educated, as Mr Harte’s testimony of their lengthy literary discussion attests. In any investigation, it is of course preferable if one can deduce one fact from another, and then a third from the second, and so on. Sometimes, however, the data are so meagre that it is not possible to make such deductions with any certainty. In that case, one must construct a tentative hypothesis, and be prepared to alter it at any time, if new facts come to light. The process is somewhat akin to the erection of his wigwam by a Red Indian. None of the poles he uses, taken alone, can possibly support the wigwam, but when he has several poles leaning together, each providing mutual support for the others, the structure can stand. Thus it is in this case: none of the deductions we can make from the satchel or its contents are certain. Taken all together, however, they lend fairly sturdy support to the wigwam of our hypothesis, and we can thus feel a reasonable degree of confidence in our conclusions. If we turn now to the other volume in the satchel, Dickens’s David Copperfield: this appears to have been read before, but not more than once, I should say. It is not by any means what might be described as ‘a well-thumbed copy’, and in fact appears to be a fairly recent edition.”
“That is true,” I agreed.
“Now, while it is possible that Dr Kennett had already read David Copperfield in a different edition when he was younger, it seems most likely, taking the condition of this volume together with his remarks about the book, that it is a novel he has come to for the first time only recently, in maturity.”
“That had not struck me before,” said Harte in a considered tone, “but now that I recall again his conversation, I am inclined to think that what you suggest is correct.”
“But as Kennett himself observed, David Copperfield is commonly given to children of fourteen and fifteen years of age. How is it, then, that such an intelligent and cultured man as Kennett should never have read the book before?”
“Perhaps because all his intellectual energies have been applied to other subjects,” I suggested.
“It is possible,” said Holmes. “Perhaps, like John Stuart Mill, he had an education which was rigorously devoted to scientific and technical subjects, to the exclusion of the more artistic aspects of human life. Mill writes somewhere that because of the intense educational process to which he was subjected, which had been devised by his father, he heard scarcely a note of music or a word of poetry until he was an adult. But in this case, other, simpler, explanations are possible.”
“What do you have in mind?” asked Harte.
“That the man calling himself Dr Kennett is not in fact English. If that were so, he might, of course, be highly educated, and perhaps familiar with the literature of his own country, but not with that of England.”
“He certainly sounded English,” observed Harte. “He had no particular accent that I could discern.”
“Well it is, of course, possible that although foreign, he has been a fluent English-speaker for many years. Some foreign English-speakers – those from France and the other Latin countries, for instance – never really lose their original accents, no matter how long they live in England, but for others – some Germans and Scandinavians, for instance – the speaking of English seems to come more naturally, and after living here for a few years many of them could pass for natives. Perhaps it is so with Kennett. The conjecture that he is a foreigner is, of course, but one of half a dozen different possible explanations, but I will not trouble you with the others, all of which I was able to eliminate in light of the data presented to us by the satchel. May I now draw your attention to the inscription on the inside of the satchel?”
“It is scarcely decipherable,” I remarked, as Harte turned back the flap so we could see. “The lettering has been almost completely worn away.”
Holmes shook his head. “Not worn away,” said he, “but deliberately scratched away, probably with a small penknife. The general hue of the inside of the satchel is a somewhat grubby grey; but you can see that where the letters have been obliterated, the colour is slightly lighter, indicating that the obliteration of the
name has been done relatively recently, perhaps within the last year or two. For some reason, the owner of this satchel has wished to conceal his identity.”
“Perhaps it belonged previously to someone else,” I suggested, “and the new owner simply wished to remove the previous owner’s name.”
“I think not, Watson. For it is evident that although he has deliberately scratched away most of the name, he has left the initial letters untouched. They are, as you see, ‘A. K.’, the same initials as in the books. Clearly, he does not care if the initials are seen – he can, after all, make up a new name to match them – but it is vitally important to him that his true name is never seen. This suggests, although not conclusively, that he has reason to suppose that his true name is one that would be recognized. There is corroboration in the satchel, incidentally, that whatever the English scholar’s true name is, it is not Kennett; for the space taken up by the second name in the satchel is definitely too short to accommodate ‘Kennett’, and, in any case, so far as I could determine with the aid of a lens, it ends with an ‘s’.”
I nodded my agreement on the point.
“May I further draw your attention to the smaller letters and figures below the excised name?” Holmes continued.
“I noticed them earlier,” I remarked. “There is the name ‘KARL’, followed by a three and an eight. What the name ‘KARL’ might signify, I cannot imagine, although as it is a Germanic name, it lends support to your hypothesis that the satchel’s owner is not a native Englishman. As to the numbers, perhaps they constitute some sort of code, inscribed by the manufacturer of the satchel, or by the shop from which it was purchased.”
“And yet,” remarked Holmes, “the numbers have been inscribed with the same pen and ink as the rest of the lettering.”
“Why, so they have!” cried Harte.
“This suggests that they are figures of significance for the owner of the satchel. As to ‘KARL’, that may not be a personal name at all. The obliterated letters above, following the initials ‘A. K.’, must surely be the owner’s name, so why would a second name be inscribed in the satchel? Now ‘KARL’ has a full stop after it, which suggests it may be an abbreviation. It is therefore at least possible, it seems to me, that it is an abbreviation for the German name of what we know as Charles University in Prague, the oldest university in Central Europe. If that is so, the figures may well be the date – 1838 – when the satchel was purchased by A. K. as a young student. That would suggest that he was born about 1820, which would make him about sixty-one or sixty-two now. Did the man on the train appear to be of that age, Mr Harte?”
“Almost exactly, I should say.”
“Very well, then. The supposition is confirmed, not conclusively, but very strongly. That the satchel has been owned by A. K. for many years is indicated also by the numerous repairs which have been made to it, some of which appear to have been made many years ago. The shoulder strap, for instance, is clearly a replacement for an earlier one – the colour and texture of the leather are slightly different from the rest of the satchel – but such a strap might well be expected to last for twenty years or more, and the present one has the appearance of having been in place for a good ten years.”
“Where does this bring us to?” enquired Harte after a moment.
“It brings us to the true identity of the satchel’s owner,” returned Holmes, taking his pipe from his pocket and beginning to fill it. “It has taken me some time to explain to you my reasoning from the clues which the satchel and its contents presented. It is always far more laborious and time-consuming to explain such reasoning than it is to perform it. Sophocles, in one of his plays, describes man’s thought as ‘wind-swift’, and that is an accurate observation. But a perception that occupies one for less than a second is likely to take several minutes to explain. Dr Watson has sometimes considered that my occasional neglect to explain to him my reasoning springs from some perverse urge to secrecy; but generally it is that I simply do not have the time for explanations. My perceptions may be so swift as to seem like instantaneous intuitions, but the explanation of them is always likely to prove a somewhat lengthy monologue.
“To return now to specifics, and to the true identity of the English scholar,” continued Holmes after a moment, putting a match to his pipe, “we conjecture from the indications available to us that he is intelligent and cultured. He is possibly a foreigner, although he speaks English like a native. He is probably about sixty-two years of age, and may be a graduate of Prague University. He is a personal acquaintance of the eminent Professor Walters of Cambridge, and although something of a novice in the field of English literature, he is probably eminent in some field himself, for he has made great efforts to conceal his identity. Though his name is not Kennett, his initials are ‘A. K.’ and his second name ends with an ‘s’. In short, Mr Harte, the man you conversed with so amicably on the train can be none other than Adolf Kraus.”
The solicitor shook his head in evident puzzlement. “The name sounds vaguely familiar,” said he, “but I cannot quite place it.”
“Surely,” I interjected, “you do not mean the former Prime Minister of Bohemia?”
“Precisely, Watson. He is, according to my reference book, sixty-two years of age. He first attended Prague University in 1838, and continued his studies subsequently at Vienna, and at Cambridge, here in England. He later returned to teach at Prague, where he became Professor of Cultural History in 1861. During his stay in England, incidentally, he met and subsequently married Constance Dowling, daughter of the professor of moral philosophy, a circumstance which would, of course, have served to improve his English accent.”
“But what on earth is he doing here, sequestered in one of the most rural corners of England?” I asked in astonishment.
“Leading as quiet a life as possible, I imagine.”
“But why?”
“Do you not recall the troubles in Bohemia, a few years ago, which reached a climax with riots in the streets of Prague?”
“I heard something of the matter at the time,” I replied, “though I cannot claim a very thorough understanding of what lay behind it all. As far as I recall, it blew over fairly quickly.”
Holmes shook his head. “I rather suspect that for some it did not blow over at all,” said he. “Lives were lost, and no doubt grudges were borne, when the authorities used force to put down the riots. Adolf Kraus was prime minister at the time, and was blamed by some elements for what had happened. To what extent that censure was justified, I do not know, but I do know that two separate attempts were later made upon his life, and that he and his family were hounded out of the country.”
Harte’s features expressed incredulity. “I cannot believe that the gentleman I met on the train could be guilty of any dishonourable act,” said he.
“From my own information, I should be inclined to agree with you,” responded Holmes, “but, of course, it matters little what you or I believe.”
“I understand,” said Harte, nodding his head. “It is your opinion, then, that Kraus is in hiding from his enemies?”
“That is what we must assume. It would explain why he and his family have chosen to live in what sounds from your account to be one of the most isolated houses in southern England. But I fear that his enemies have once more caught up with him, and that his life is once more in peril. The man you saw hiding in the bushes at Owl’s Hill must have been an advance scout for the assassins. Now that they have found their quarry, they will waste no time in exacting their revenge. Adolf Kraus’s life hangs by a thread at the moment, and with each hour that passes his peril increases. Now, Mr Harte, perhaps you will understand the sense of urgency that overwhelmed me in Baker Street, and understand, too, why arms may be necessary. We must at all costs prevent the terrible crime that is in prospect!”
“I am dumbfounded!” cried Harte after a moment. “I can scarcely credit that it is true! I simply wished to return the old gentleman’s satchel to him, but it seems I
have become embroiled in a deadly conspiracy! It is clear now why the woman at Owl’s Hill lied to me. She must be Kraus’s wife, and she probably feared that I had some connection with the people pursuing her husband. No doubt when I saw her expressing anger towards him, she was berating him for his carelessness in losing his satchel, and thus, as she saw it, placing his life in danger.”
“It must be so. Now we must warn them of the real danger that threatens.”
“Surely we should notify the authorities at once?”
“I wired the Chief Constable of Suffolk from London,” returned Holmes. “But our first priority must be to warn Kraus himself of the grave peril in which he stands. If we had delayed our journey in order to discuss the matter with the authorities, it is likely that before they could act, Kraus would be dead. There are occasions when, for better or worse, a man must act upon his own judgement, or know that the issue is lost. I sent a wire also to Owl’s Hill, but it was, of necessity, a mere brief warning. It may serve, at least, to put them on their guard. But only in person can we explain to them the nature of the danger, how we know of it, and what our interest in the matter is.”
“You have acted very promptly,” I remarked. “I cannot think that there is anything more you could have done.”
My friend nodded his head. “Thank you, Watson,” said he. “It is good of you to say so. Now the matter lies somewhat precariously in the lap of the gods.”
Our train reached Little Gissingham station a little after twenty to seven. It was a fine evening, and though the sun was far in the west, the air was still warm and only the lightest of breezes stirred the blossom on the trees by the station master’s house. As that official examined our tickets, Holmes asked him if many visitors had alighted at the station that day. He shook his head and declared that there had been few travellers and all of them had been local folk.
“That is good news, at least,” remarked Harte, as we made our way up the short track towards the village. “For it means we have arrived before Herr Kraus’s enemies.”
Mammoth Book The Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes (Mammoth Books) Page 28