“No, certainly not. No one knew.”
“Where is Bannister now?”
“He was very ill, poor fellow! I left him collapsed in the chair. I was in such a hurry to come to you.”
“You left your door open?”
“I locked up the papers first.”
“Then it amounts to this, Mr. Soames, that, unless the Indian student recognised the roll as being proofs, the man who tampered with them came upon them accidentally without knowing that they were there.”
Daulat Ras.
Frederick Dorr Steele, Collier’s, 1904
“So it seems to me.”
Holmes gave an enigmatic smile.
“Well,” said he, “let us go round. Not one of your cases, Watson—mental, not physical.15 All right; come if you want to. Now, Mr. Soames—at your disposal!”
The sitting-room of our client opened by a long, low, latticed window on to the ancient lichen-tinted court of the old college. A Gothic arched door led to a worn stone staircase. On the ground floor was the tutor’s room. Above were three students, one on each story. It was already twilight when we reached the scene of our problem. Holmes halted and looked earnestly at the window. Then he approached it, and, standing on tiptoe with his neck craned, he looked into the room.
“He must have entered through the door. There is no opening except the one pane,” said our learned guide.
“Dear me!” said Holmes, and he smiled in a singular way as he glanced at our companion. “Well, if there is nothing to be learned here, we had best go inside.”
The lecturer unlocked the outer door and ushered us into his room. We stood at the entrance while Holmes made an examination of the carpet.
“I am afraid there are no signs here,” said he. “One could hardly hope for any upon so dry a day. Your servant seems to have quite recovered. You left him in a chair, you say; which chair?”
“By the window there.”
“I see. Near this little table. You can come in now. I have finished with the carpet. Let us take the little table first. Of course, what has happened is very clear. The man entered and took the papers, sheet by sheet, from the central table. He carried them over to the window table, because from there he could see if you came across the courtyard, and so could effect an escape.”
“With his neck craned, he looked into the room.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1904
“As a matter of fact, he could not,” said Soames, “for I entered by the side-door.”
“Ah, that’s good! Well, anyhow, that was in his mind. Let me see the three strips. No finger impressions—no! Well, he carried over this one first, and he copied it. How long would it take him to do that, using every possible contraction? A quarter of an hour, not less. Then he tossed it down and seized the next. He was in the midst of that when your return caused him to make a very hurried retreat—very hurried, since he had not time to replace the papers which would tell you that he had been there. You were not aware of any hurrying feet on the stair as you entered the outer door?”
“No, I can’t say I was.”
“Well, he wrote so furiously that he broke his pencil, and had, as you observe, to sharpen it again. This is of interest, Watson. The pencil was not an ordinary one. It was above the usual size, with a soft lead; the outer colour was dark blue, the maker’s name was printed in silver lettering, and the piece remaining is only about an inch and a half long. Look for such a pencil, Mr. Soames, and you have got your man. When I add that he possesses a large and very blunt knife, you have an additional aid.”
Mr. Soames was somewhat overwhelmed by this flood of information. “I can follow the other points,” said he, “but really, in this matter of the length—”
Holmes held out a small chip with the letters NN and a space of clear wood after them.
“You see?”
“No, I fear that even now—”
“Watson, I have always done you an injustice. There are others. What could this NN be? It is at the end of a word. You are aware that Johann Faber16 is the most common maker’s name. Is it not clear that there is just as much of the pencil left as usually follows the Johann?”17 He held the small table sideways to the electric light. “I was hoping that if the paper on which he wrote was thin some trace of it might come through upon this polished surface. No, I see nothing. I don’t think there is anything more to be learned here. Now for the central table. This small pellet is, I presume, the black doughy mass you spoke of. Roughly pyramidal in shape and hollowed out, I perceive. As you say, there appear to be grains of sawdust in it. Dear me, this is very interesting. And the cut—a positive tear, I see. It began with a thin scratch and ended in a jagged hole. I am much indebted to you for directing my attention to this case, Mr. Soames. Where does that door lead to?”
“To my bedroom.”
“Have you been in it since your adventure?”
“No; I came straight away for you.”
“I should like to have a glance round. What a charming, old-fashioned room! Perhaps you will kindly wait a minute until I have examined the floor. No, I see nothing. What about this curtain? You hang your clothes behind it. If anyone were forced to conceal himself in this room he must do it there, since the bed is too low and the wardrobe too shallow. No one there, I suppose?”
As Holmes drew the curtain I was aware, from some little rigidity and alertness of his attitude, that he was prepared for an emergency. As a matter of fact, the drawn curtain disclosed nothing but three or four suits of clothes hanging from a line of pegs. Holmes turned away, and stooped suddenly to the floor.
“Halloa! What’s this?” said he.
It was a small pyramid of black, putty-like stuff, exactly like the one upon the table of the study. Holmes held it out on his open palm in the glare of the electric light.
“Your visitor seems to have left traces in your bedroom as well as in your sitting-room, Mr. Soames.”
“What could he have wanted there?”
“I think it is clear enough. You came back by an unexpected way, and so he had no warning until you were at the very door. What could he do? He caught up everything which would betray him, and he rushed into your bedroom to conceal himself.”
“Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, do you mean to tell me that all the time I was talking to Bannister in this room we had the man prisoner if we had only known it?”
“So I read it.”
“Surely there is another alternative, Mr. Holmes? I don’t know whether you observed my bedroom window?”
“Lattice-paned, lead framework, three separate windows, one swinging on hinge, and large enough to admit a man.”
“Exactly. And it looks out on an angle of the courtyard so as to be partly invisible. The man might have effected his entrance there, left traces as he passed through the bedroom, and, finally, finding the door open, have escaped that way.”
Holmes shook his head impatiently.
“Let us be practical,” said he. “I understand you to say that there are three students who use this stair and are in the habit of passing your door?”
“Yes, there are.”
“And they are all in for this examination?”
“Yes.”
“Have you any reason to suspect any one of them more than the others?”
Soames hesitated.
“It is a very delicate question,” said he. “One hardly likes to throw suspicion where there are no proofs.”
“Let us hear the suspicions. I will look after the proofs.”
“I will tell you, then, in a few words the character of the three men who inhabit these rooms. The lower of the three is Gilchrist, a fine scholar and athlete, plays in the Rugby team and the cricket team for the college, and got his Blue for the hurdles and the long jump.18 He is a fine, manly fellow. His father was the notorious Sir Jabez Gilchrist, who ruined himself on the turf. My scholar has been left very poor, but he is hard-working and industrious. He will do well.
“The
second floor is inhabited by Daulat Ras, the Indian. He is a quiet, inscrutable fellow, as most of those Indians are. He is well up in his work, though his Greek is his weak subject. He is steady and methodical.
“The top floor belongs to Miles McLaren. He is a brilliant fellow when he chooses to work—one of the brightest intellects of the University; but he is wayward, dissipated, and unprincipled. He was nearly expelled over a card scandal in his first year. He has been idling all this term, and he must look forward with dread to the examination.”
“Then it is he whom you suspect?”
“I dare not go so far as that. But, of the three, he is perhaps the least unlikely.”
“Exactly. Now, Mr. Soames, let us have a look at your servant, Bannister.”
He was a little, white-faced, clean-shaven, grizzly-haired fellow of fifty. He was still suffering from this sudden disturbance of the quiet routine of his life. His plump face was twitching with his nervousness, and his fingers could not keep still.
Gilchrist.
Frederick Dorr Steele, Collier’s, 1904
“We are investigating this unhappy business, Bannister,” said his master.
“Yes, sir.”
“I understand,” said Holmes, “that you left your key in the door?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was it not very extraordinary that you should do this on the very day when there were these papers inside?”
“It was most unfortunate, sir. But I have occasionally done the same thing at other times.”
“When did you enter the room?”
“It was about half-past four. That is Mr. Soames’s tea-time.”
“How long did you stay?”
“When I saw that he was absent I withdrew at once.”
“Did you look at these papers on the table?”
“No, sir; certainly not.”
Miles McLaren.
Frederick Dorr Steele, Collier’s, 1904
“How came you to leave the key in the door?”
“I had the tea-tray in my hand. I thought I would come back for the key. Then I forgot.”
“Has the outer door a spring lock?”
“No, sir.”
“Then it was open all the time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any one in the room could get out?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When Mr. Soames returned and called for you, you were very much disturbed?”
“Yes, sir. Such a thing has never happened during the many19 years that I have been here. I nearly fainted, sir.”
“So I understand. Where were you when you began to feel bad?”
“Where was I, sir? Why, here, near the door.”
“That is singular, because you sat down in that chair over yonder near the corner. Why did you pass these other chairs?”
“I don’t know, sir, it didn’t matter to me where I sat.”
“I really don’t think he knew much about it, Mr. Holmes. He was looking very bad—quite ghastly.”
“You stayed here when your master left?”
“Only for a minute or so. Then I locked the door and went to my room.”
“Whom do you suspect?”
“Oh, I would not venture to say, sir. I don’t believe there is any gentleman in this University who is capable of profiting by such an action. No, sir, I’ll not believe it.”
“Thank you; that will do,” said Holmes. “Oh, one more word. You have not mentioned to any of the three gentlemen whom you attend that anything is amiss?”
“No, sir; not a word.”
“You haven’t seen any of them?”
“No, sir.”
“Very good. Now, Mr. Soames, we will take a walk in the quadrangle, if you please.”
“How came you to leave the key in the door?”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1904
Three yellow squares of light shone above us in the gathering gloom.
“Your three birds are all in their nests,” said Holmes, looking up. “Halloa! What’s that? One of them seems restless enough.”
It was the Indian, whose dark silhouette appeared suddenly upon the blind. He was pacing swiftly up and down his room.
“I should like to have a peep at each of them,” said Holmes. “Is it possible?”
“No difficulty in the world,” Soames answered. “This set of rooms is quite the oldest in the college, and it is not unusual for visitors to go over them. Come along, and I will personally conduct you.”
“No names, please!” said Holmes, as we knocked at Gilchrist’s door. A tall, flaxen-haired, slim young fellow opened it, and made us welcome when he understood our errand. There were some really curious pieces of mediæval domestic architecture within. Holmes was so charmed with one of them that he insisted on drawing it on his note-book, broke his pencil, had to borrow one from our host, and finally borrowed a knife to sharpen his own. The same curious accident happened to him in the rooms of the Indian—a silent, little, hook-nosed fellow, who eyed us askance and was obviously glad when Holmes’s architectural studies had come to an end. I could not see that in either case Holmes had come upon the clue for which he was searching. Only at the third did our visit prove abortive. The outer door would not open to our knock, and nothing more substantial than a torrent of bad language came from behind it. “I don’t care who you are. You can go to blazes!” roared the angry voice. “To-morrow’s the exam., and I won’t be drawn by anyone.”
Three yellow squares of light shone above us in the gathering gloom.
Charles Raymond Macaulay, Return of Sherlock Holmes (McClure Phillips), 1905
“He insisted on drawing it in his note-book.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1904
“A rude fellow,” said our guide, flushing with anger as we withdrew down the stair. “Of course, he did not realize that it was I who was knocking, but none the less his conduct was very uncourteous, and, indeed, under the circumstances, rather suspicious.”
Holmes’s response was a curious one.
“Can you tell me his exact height?” he asked.
“Really, Mr. Holmes, I cannot undertake to say. He is taller than the Indian, not so tall as Gilchrist. I suppose five foot six would be about it.”
“That is very important,” said Holmes. “And now, Mr. Soames, I wish you good-night.”
Our guide cried aloud in his astonishment and dismay. “Good gracious, Mr. Holmes, you are surely not going to leave me in this abrupt fashion! You don’t seem to realize the position. To-morrow is the examination. I must take some definite action to-night. I cannot allow the examination to be held if one of the papers has been tampered with. The situation must be faced.”
“You must leave it as it is. I shall drop round early to-morrow morning and chat the matter over. It is possible that I may be in a position then to indicate some course of action. Meanwhile you change nothing—nothing at all.”
“Very good, Mr. Holmes.”
“You can be perfectly easy in your mind. We shall certainly find some way out of your difficulties. I will take the black clay with me, also the pencil cuttings. Good-bye.”
When we were out in the darkness of the quadrangle we again looked up at the windows. The Indian still paced his room. The others were invisible.
“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” Holmes asked as we came out into the main street. “Quite a little parlour game—sort of three-card trick, is it not? There are your three men. It must be one of them. You take your choice. Which is yours?”
“The foul-mouthed fellow at the top. He is the one with the worst record. And yet that Indian was a sly fellow also. Why should he be pacing his room all the time?”
“There is nothing in that. Many men do it when they are trying to learn anything by heart.”
“He looked at us in a queer way.”
“So would you if a flock of strangers came in on you when you were preparing for an examination next day, and every moment was of value. No
, I see nothing in that. Pencils, too, and knives—all was satisfactory. But that fellow does puzzle me.”
“Who?”
“Why, Bannister, the servant. What’s his game in the matter?”
“He impressed me as being a perfectly honest man.”
“So he did me. That’s the puzzling part. Why should a perfectly honest man—well, well, here’s a large stationer’s. We shall begin our researches here.”
There were only four stationers of any consequences in the town, and at each Holmes produced his pencil chips and bid high for a duplicate. All were agreed that one could be ordered, but that it was not a usual size of pencil, and that it was seldom kept in stock. My friend did not appear to be depressed by his failure, but shrugged his shoulders in half-humorous resignation.
“No good, my dear Watson. This, the best and only final clue, has run to nothing. But, indeed, I have little doubt that we can build up a sufficient case without it. By Jove! my dear fellow, it is nearly nine, and the landlady babbled of green peas20 at seven-thirty. What with your eternal tobacco, Watson, and your irregularity at meals,21 I expect that you will get notice to quit, and that I shall share your downfall—not, however, before we have solved the problem of the nervous tutor, the careless servant, and the three enterprising students.”
Holmes made no further allusion to the matter that day, though he sat lost in thought for a long time after our belated dinner. At eight in the morning he came into my room just as I finished my toilet.
“Well, Watson,” said he, “it is time we went down to St. Luke’s. Can you do without breakfast?”
“Certainly.”
“Soames will be in a dreadful fidget until we are able to tell him something positive.”
“Have you anything positive to tell him?”
“I think so.”
“You have formed a conclusion?”
“Yes, my dear Watson; I have solved the mystery.”
“But what fresh evidence could you have got?”
“Aha! It is not for nothing that I have turned myself out of bed at the untimely hour of six. I have put in two hours’ hard work and covered at least five miles, with something to show for it. Look at that!”
The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Short Stories: The Return of Sherlock Holmes, His Last Bow and The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes (Non-slipcased edition) (Vol. 2) (The Annotated Books) Page 34