The Victorian Mystery Megapack: 27 Classic Mystery Tales

by Charles Dickens

  The jury retired, and were absent three long hours, and it became known that they could not agree. Ultimately, they returned into court, and pronounced a verdict of “Not guilty.” In Scotland the verdict must and would have been not proven.

  And so Job Panton went free, but an evil odour seemed to cling about him; he was shunned by his former companions, and many a suspicious glance was directed to him, and many a bated murmur was uttered as he passed by, until in a while he went forth beyond the seas, to the far wild west, as some said, and his haunts knew him no more.

  The mystery is still a mystery; but how near I came to solving the problem of Dead Wood Hall it is for the reader to judge.

  THE BISHOP’S CRIME, by R.C. Lehmann

  The first adventure of Picklock Holes

  I was sitting alone in my room at 10.29 on the night of the 14th of last November. I had been doing a good deal of work lately, and I was tired. Moreover, I had had more than one touch of that old Afghan fever, which always seemed to be much more inclined to touch than to go. However, we can’t have everything here to please us; and as I had only the other day attended two bankers and a Lord Mayor for measles, I had no real cause to complain of my prospects. I had drawn the old armchair in which I was sitting close to the fire, and, not having any bread handy, I was occupied in toasting my feet at the blaze when suddenly the clock on the mantelpiece struck the half hour, and Picklock Holes stood by my side. I was too much accustomed to his proceedings to express any surprise at seeing him thus, but I own that I was itching to ask him how he had managed to get into my house without ringing the bell. However, I refrained, and motioned him to a chair.

  “My friend,” said this extraordinary man, without the least preface, “you’ve been smoking again. You know you have; it’s not the least use denying it.” I absolutely gasped with astonishment, and gazed at him almost in terror. ow had he guessed my secret? He read my thoughts and smiled.

  “Oh, simply enough. That spot on your shirt-cuff is black. But it might have bee yellow, or green, or blue, or brown, or rainbow-coloured. But I know you smoke Rainbow mixture, and as your canary there in the corner has just gone blind, I know further that bird’s-eye is one of the component parts of the mixture.”

  “Holes,” I cried, dropping my old meerschaum out of my mouth in my amazement; “I don’t believe you’re a man at all—you’re a devil.”

  “Thank you for the compliment,” he replied, without moving a muscle of his marble face. “You ought not to sup—” He was going to have added “pose,” but the first syllable seemed to suggest a new train of thought (in which, I may add, there was no second class whatever) to my inexplicable friend.

  “No,” he said; “the devilled bones were not good. Don’t interrupt me; you had devilled bones for supper, or rather you would have had them, only you didn’t like them. Do you see that match? A small piece is broken off the bottom, but enough is left to show it was once a lucifer—in other words, a devil. It is lying at the feet of the skeleton which you use for your anatomical investigations, and therefore I naturally conclude that you had devilled bones for supper. You didn’t eat them, for not a single bone of the skeleton is missing. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You do,” I said, marvelling more than ever at the extraordinary perspicacity of the man. As a matter of fact, my supper had consisted of bread and cheese; but I felt it would be in extremely bad taste for a struggling medical practitioner like myself to contradict a detective whose fame had extended to the ends of the earth.

  I picked up my pipe, and relit it, and, and for a few moments, we sat in silence. At last I ventured to address him.

  “Anything new?” I said.

  “No, not exactly new,” he said, wearily, passing his sinewy hand over his expressionless brow. “Have you a special Evening Standard? I conclude you have, as I see no other evening papers here. Do you mind handing it to me?”

  There was no deceiving this weird creature. I took the paper he mentioned from my study table, and handed it to him.

  “Now listen,” said Holes, and then read in a voice devoid of any sign of emotion, the following paragraph:—“This morning, as Mrs. Drabley, a lady of independent means, was walking in Piccadilly, she inadvertently stepped on a piece of orange-peel, and fell heavily on the pavement. She was carried into the shop of Messrs. Salver and Tankard, the well-known silversmiths, and it was at first thought she had broken her right leg. However, on being examined by a medical man who happened to be passing, she was pronounced to be suffering from nothing worse than a severe bruise, and, in the course of half-an-hour, she recovered sufficiently to be able to proceed on her business. This is the fifth accident caused by orange-peel at the same place within the last week.

  “It is scandalous!” I broke in. “This mania for dropping orange-peel is decimating London. Curiously enough I happen to be the medical man who—”

  “Yes, I know; you are the medical man who was passing.”

  “Holes,” I ejaculated, “you are a magician.”

  “No, not a magician; only a humble seeker after truth, who uses as a basis of his deduction some slight point that others are too blind to grasp. Now you think the matter ends there. I don’t. I mean to discover who dropped that orange-peel. Will you help me?”

  “Of course I will, but how do you mean to proceed? There must be thousands of people who eat oranges every day in London.”

  “Be accurate, my dear fellow, whatever you do. There are 78,965, not counting girls. But this piece was not dropped by a girl.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Never mind; it is sufficient that I do know it. Read this,” he continued, pointing to another column of the paper. This is what I read:—

  “MISSIONARY ENTERPRISE.—a great conference of American and Colonial bishops was held in Exeter Hall this afternoon. The proceedings opened with an impassioned speech from the Bishop of FLORIDA—”

  “Never mind the rest,” said Holes, “that’s quite enough. Now read this”:—

  “The magnificent silver bowl to be presented to the Bishop of FLORIDA by some of his English friends is now on view at Messrs. SALVER AND TANKARD’S in Piccadilly. It is a noble specimen of the British silversmith’s art.” An elaborate description followed.

  “These paragraphs,” continued Holes in his usual impassive manner, “give me the clue I want. Florida is an orange-growing country. Let us call on the Bishop.”

  In a moment we had put on our hats, and in another moment we were in a Hansom on our way to the Bishop’s lodgings in Church Street, Soho. Holes gained admittance by means of his skeleton key.

  We passed noiselessly up the stairs, and, without knocking, entered the Bishop’s bedroom. He was in his nightgown, and the sight of two strangers visibly alarmed him.

  “I am a detective,” began Holes.

  “Oh,” said the Bishop, turning pale. “Then I presume you have called about that curate who disappeared in the alligator swamp close to my episcopal palace in Florida. It is not true that I killed him. He—”

  “Tush,” said Holes, “we are come about weightier matters. This morning at half-past eleven your lordship was standing outside the shop of Salver and Tankard looking at your presentation bowl. You were eating an orange. You stowed the greater part of the peel in your coat-tail pocket, but you dropped, maliciously dropped, one piece on the pavement. Shortly afterwards a stout lady passing by trod on it and fell. Have you anything to say?”

  The Bishop made a movement, but Holes was before-hand with him. He dashed to a long black coat that hung behind the door, inserted his hand deftly in the pocket, and pulled out the fragmentary remains of a large Florida orange.

  “As I supposed,” he said, “a piece is missing.”

  But the miserable prelate had fallen senseless on the floor, where we left him.

  “Holes,” I said, “this is one of your very best. How on earth did you know you would find that orange-peel in his coat?”

  “I didn’t f
ind it there,” replied my friend; “I brought it with me, and had it in my hand when I put it in his pocket. I knew I should have to use strong measures with so desperate a character. My dear fellow, all these matters require tact and imagination.”

  And that was how we brought home the orange-peel to the Bishop.

  THE MOONSTONE, by Wilkie Collins (Part 1)

  PROLOGUE

  THE STORMING OF SERINGAPATAM (1799)

  Extracted from a Family Paper

  I address these lines—written in India—to my relatives in England.

  My object is to explain the motive which has induced me to refuse the right hand of friendship to my cousin, John Herncastle. The reserve which I have hitherto maintained in this matter has been misinterpreted by members of my family whose good opinion I cannot consent to forfeit. I request them to suspend their decision until they have read my narrative. And I declare, on my word of honour, that what I am now about to write is, strictly and literally, the truth.

  The private difference between my cousin and me took its rise in a great public event in which we were both concerned—the storming of Seringapatam, under General Baird, on the 4th of May, 1799.

  In order that the circumstances may be clearly understood, I must revert for a moment to the period before the assault, and to the stories current in our camp of the treasure in jewels and gold stored up in the Palace of Seringapatam.

  II

  One of the wildest of these stories related to a Yellow Diamond—a famous gem in the native annals of India.

  The earliest known traditions describe the stone as having been set in the forehead of the four-handed Indian god who typifies the Moon. Partly from its peculiar colour, partly from a superstition which represented it as feeling the influence of the deity whom it adorned, and growing and lessening in lustre with the waxing and waning of the moon, it first gained the name by which it continues to be known in India to this day—the name of the Moonstone. A similar superstition was once prevalent, as I have heard, in ancient Greece and Rome; not applying, however (as in India), to a diamond devoted to the service of a god, but to a semi-transparent stone of the inferior order of gems, supposed to be affected by the lunar influences—the moon, in this latter case also, giving the name by which the stone is still known to collectors in our own time.

  The adventures of the Yellow Diamond begin with the eleventh century of the Christian era.

  At that date, the Mohammedan conqueror, Mahmoud of Ghizni, crossed India; seized on the holy city of Somnauth; and stripped of its treasures the famous temple, which had stood for centuries—the shrine of Hindoo pilgrimage, and the wonder of the Eastern world.

  Of all the deities worshipped in the temple, the moon-god alone escaped the rapacity of the conquering Mohammedans. Preserved by three Brahmins, the inviolate deity, bearing the Yellow Diamond in its forehead, was removed by night, and was transported to the second of the sacred cities of India—the city of Benares.

  Here, in a new shrine—in a hall inlaid with precious stones, under a roof supported by pillars of gold—the moon-god was set up and worshipped. Here, on the night when the shrine was completed, Vishnu the Preserver appeared to the three Brahmins in a dream.

  The deity breathed the breath of his divinity on the Diamond in the forehead of the god. And the Brahmins knelt and hid their faces in their robes. The deity commanded that the Moonstone should be watched, from that time forth, by three priests in turn, night and day, to the end of the generations of men. And the Brahmins heard, and bowed before his will. The deity predicted certain disaster to the presumptuous mortal who laid hands on the sacred gem, and to all of his house and name who received it after him. And the Brahmins caused the prophecy to be written over the gates of the shrine in letters of gold.

  One age followed another—and still, generation after generation, the successors of the three Brahmins watched their priceless Moonstone, night and day. One age followed another until the first years of the eighteenth Christian century saw the reign of Aurungzebe, Emperor of the Moguls. At his command havoc and rapine were let loose once more among the temples of the worship of Brahmah. The shrine of the four-handed god was polluted by the slaughter of sacred animals; the images of the deities were broken in pieces; and the Moonstone was seized by an officer of rank in the army of Aurungzebe.

  Powerless to recover their lost treasure by open force, the three guardian priests followed and watched it in disguise. The generations succeeded each other; the warrior who had committed the sacrilege perished miserably; the Moonstone passed (carrying its curse with it) from one lawless Mohammedan hand to another; and still, through all chances and changes, the successors of the three guardian priests kept their watch, waiting the day when the will of Vishnu the Preserver should restore to them their sacred gem. Time rolled on from the first to the last years of the eighteenth Christian century. The Diamond fell into the possession of Tippoo, Sultan of Seringapatam, who caused it to be placed as an ornament in the handle of a dagger, and who commanded it to be kept among the choicest treasures of his armoury. Even then—in the palace of the Sultan himself—the three guardian priests still kept their watch in secret. There were three officers of Tippoo’s household, strangers to the rest, who had won their master’s confidence by conforming, or appearing to conform, to the Mussulman faith; and to those three men report pointed as the three priests in disguise.

  III

  So, as told in our camp, ran the fanciful story of the Moonstone. It made no serious impression on any of us except my cousin—whose love of the marvellous induced him to believe it. On the night before the assault on Seringapatam, he was absurdly angry with me, and with others, for treating the whole thing as a fable. A foolish wrangle followed; and Herncastle’s unlucky temper got the better of him. He declared, in his boastful way, that we should see the Diamond on his finger, if the English army took Seringapatam. The sally was saluted by a roar of laughter, and there, as we all thought that night, the thing ended.

  Let me now take you on to the day of the assault. My cousin and I were separated at the outset. I never saw him when we forded the river; when we planted the English flag in the first breach; when we crossed the ditch beyond; and, fighting every inch of our way, entered the town. It was only at dusk, when the place was ours, and after General Baird himself had found the dead body of Tippoo under a heap of the slain, that Herncastle and I met.

  We were each attached to a party sent out by the general’s orders to prevent the plunder and confusion which followed our conquest. The camp-followers committed deplorable excesses; and, worse still, the soldiers found their way, by a guarded door, into the treasury of the Palace, and loaded themselves with gold and jewels. It was in the court outside the treasury that my cousin and I met, to enforce the laws of discipline on our own soldiers. Herncastle’s fiery temper had been, as I could plainly see, exasperated to a kind of frenzy by the terrible slaughter through which we had passed. He was very unfit, in my opinion, to perform the duty that had been entrusted to him.

  There was riot and confusion enough in the treasury, but no violence that I saw. The men (if I may use such an expression) disgraced themselves good-humouredly. All sorts of rough jests and catchwords were bandied about among them; and the story of the Diamond turned up again unexpectedly, in the form of a mischievous joke. “Who’s got the Moonstone?” was the rallying cry which perpetually caused the plundering, as soon as it was stopped in one place, to break out in another. While I was still vainly trying to establish order, I heard a frightful yelling on the other side of the courtyard, and at once ran towards the cries, in dread of finding some new outbreak of the pillage in that direction.

  I got to an open door, and saw the bodies of two Indians (by their dress, as I guessed, officers of the palace) lying across the entrance, dead.

  A cry inside hurried me into a room, which appeared to serve as an armoury. A third Indian, mortally wounded, was sinking at the feet of a man whose back was towards me. The man
turned at the instant when I came in, and I saw John Herncastle, with a torch in one hand, and a dagger dripping with blood in the other. A stone, set like a pommel, in the end of the dagger’s handle, flashed in the torchlight, as he turned on me, like a gleam of fire. The dying Indian sank to his knees, pointed to the dagger in Herncastle’s hand, and said, in his native language—“The Moonstone will have its vengeance yet on you and yours!” He spoke those words, and fell dead on the floor.

  Before I could stir in the matter, the men who had followed me across the courtyard crowded in. My cousin rushed to meet them, like a madman. “Clear the room!” he shouted to me, “and set a guard on the door!” The men fell back as he threw himself on them with his torch and his dagger. I put two sentinels of my own company, on whom I could rely, to keep the door. Through the remainder of the night, I saw no more of my cousin.

  Early in the morning, the plunder still going on, General Baird announced publicly by beat of drum, that any thief detected in the fact, be he whom he might, should be hung. The provost-marshal was in attendance, to prove that the General was in earnest; and in the throng that followed the proclamation, Herncastle and I met again.

  He held out his hand, as usual, and said, “Good morning.”