THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS
When I glance over my notes and records of
the Sherlock Holmes cases between the years
’82 and ’90, I am faced by so many which
present strange and interesting features that
it is no easy matter to know which to choose
and which to leave. Some, however, have already
gained publicity through the papers, and others
have not offered a field for those peculiar
qualities which my friend possessed in so
high a degree, and which it is the object
of these papers to illustrate. Some, too,
have baffled his analytical skill, and would
be, as narratives, beginnings without an ending,
while others have been but partially cleared
up, and have their explanations founded rather
upon conjecture and surmise than on that absolute
logical proof which was so dear to him. There
is, however, one of these last which was so
remarkable in its details and so startling
in its results that I am tempted to give some
account of it in spite of the fact that there
are points in connection with it which never
have been, and probably never will be, entirely
cleared up.
The year ’87 furnished us with a long series
of cases of greater or less interest, of which
I retain the records. Among my headings under
this one twelve months I find an account of
the adventure of the Paradol Chamber, of the
Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a luxurious
club in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse,
of the facts connected with the loss of the
British barque Sophy Anderson, of the singular
adventures of the Grice Patersons in the island
of Uffa, and finally of the Camberwell poisoning
case. In the latter, as may be remembered,
Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the
dead man’s watch, to prove that it had been
wound up two hours before, and that therefore
the deceased had gone to bed within that time—a
deduction which was of the greatest importance
in clearing up the case. All these I may sketch
out at some future date, but none of them
present such singular features as the strange
train of circumstances which I have now taken
up my pen to describe.
It was in the latter days of September, and
the equinoctial gales had set in with exceptional
violence. All day the wind had screamed and
the rain had beaten against the windows, so
that even here in the heart of great, hand-made
London we were forced to raise our minds for
the instant from the routine of life and to
recognise the presence of those great elemental
forces which shriek at mankind through the
bars of his civilisation, like untamed beasts
in a cage. As evening drew in, the storm grew
higher and louder, and the wind cried and
sobbed like a child in the chimney. Sherlock
Holmes sat moodily at one side of the fireplace
cross-indexing his records of crime, while
I at the other was deep in one of Clark Russell’s
fine sea-stories until the howl of the gale
from without seemed to blend with the text,
and the splash of the rain to lengthen out
into the long swash of the sea waves. My wife
was on a visit to her mother’s, and for
a few days I was a dweller once more in my
old quarters at Baker Street.
“Why,” said I, glancing up at my companion,
“that was surely the bell. Who could come
to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?”
“Except yourself I have none,” he answered.
“I do not encourage visitors.”
“A client, then?”
“If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less
would bring a man out on such a day and at
such an hour. But I take it that it is more
likely to be some crony of the landlady’s.”
Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture,
however, for there came a step in the passage
and a tapping at the door. He stretched out
his long arm to turn the lamp away from himself
and towards the vacant chair upon which a
newcomer must sit.
“Come in!” said he.
The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty
at the outside, well-groomed and trimly clad,
with something of refinement and delicacy
in his bearing. The streaming umbrella which
he held in his hand, and his long shining
waterproof told of the fierce weather through
which he had come. He looked about him anxiously
in the glare of the lamp, and I could see
that his face was pale and his eyes heavy,
like those of a man who is weighed down with
some great anxiety.
“I owe you an apology,” he said, raising
his golden pince-nez to his eyes. “I trust
that I am not intruding. I fear that I have
brought some traces of the storm and rain
into your snug chamber.”
“Give me your coat and umbrella,” said
Holmes. “They may rest here on the hook
and will be dry presently. You have come up
from the south-west, I see.”
“Yes, from Horsham.”
“That clay and chalk mixture which I see
upon your toe caps is quite distinctive.”
“I have come for advice.”
“That is easily got.”
“And help.”
“That is not always so easy.”
“I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard
from Major Prendergast how you saved him in
the Tankerville Club scandal.”
“Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused
of cheating at cards.”
“He said that you could solve anything.”
“He said too much.”
“That you are never beaten.”
“I have been beaten four times—three times
by men, and once by a woman.”
“But what is that compared with the number
of your successes?”
“It is true that I have been generally successful.”
“Then you may be so with me.”
“I beg that you will draw your chair up
to the fire and favour me with some details
as to your case.”
“It is no ordinary one.”
“None of those which come to me are. I am
the last court of appeal.”
“And yet I question, sir, whether, in all
your experience, you have ever listened to
a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of
events than those which have happened in my
own family.”
“You fill me with interest,” said Holmes.
“Pray give us the essential facts from the
commencement, and I can afterwards question
you as to those details which seem to me to
be most important.”
The young man pulled his chair up and pushed
his wet feet out towards the blaze.
“My name,” said he, “is John Openshaw,
but my own affairs have, as far as I can understand,
little to do with this awful business. It
is a hereditary matter; so in order to give
you an idea of the facts, I must go back to
the commencement of the affair.
“You must know that my grandfather had two
sons—my uncle Elias and my father Joseph.
My father had a small factory at Coventry,
which he enlarged at the time of the invention
of bicycling. He was a patentee of the Openshaw
unbreakable tire, and his business met with
such success that he was able to sell it and
to retire upon a handsome competence.
“My uncle Elias emigrated to America when
he was a young man and became a planter in
Florida, where he was reported to have done
very well. At the time of the war he fought
in Jackson’s army, and afterwards under
Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When
Lee laid down his arms my uncle returned to
his plantation, where he remained for three
or four years. About 1869 or 1870 he came
back to Europe and took a small estate in
Sussex, near Horsham. He had made a very considerable
fortune in the States, and his reason for
leaving them was his aversion to the negroes,
and his dislike of the Republican policy in
extending the franchise to them. He was a
singular man, fierce and quick-tempered, very
foul-mouthed when he was angry, and of a most
retiring disposition. During all the years
that he lived at Horsham, I doubt if ever
he set foot in the town. He had a garden and
two or three fields round his house, and there
he would take his exercise, though very often
for weeks on end he would never leave his
room. He drank a great deal of brandy and
smoked very heavily, but he would see no society
and did not want any friends, not even his
own brother.
“He didn’t mind me; in fact, he took a
fancy to me, for at the time when he saw me
first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This
would be in the year 1878, after he had been
eight or nine years in England. He begged
my father to let me live with him and he was
very kind to me in his way. When he was sober
he used to be fond of playing backgammon and
draughts with me, and he would make me his
representative both with the servants and
with the tradespeople, so that by the time
that I was sixteen I was quite master of the
house. I kept all the keys and could go where
I liked and do what I liked, so long as I
did not disturb him in his privacy. There
was one singular exception, however, for he
had a single room, a lumber-room up among
the attics, which was invariably locked, and
which he would never permit either me or anyone
else to enter. With a boy’s curiosity I
have peeped through the keyhole, but I was
never able to see more than such a collection
of old trunks and bundles as would be expected
in such a room.
“One day—it was in March, 1883—a letter
with a foreign stamp lay upon the table in
front of the colonel’s plate. It was not
a common thing for him to receive letters,
for his bills were all paid in ready money,
and he had no friends of any sort. ‘From
India!’ said he as he took it up, ‘Pondicherry
postmark! What can this be?’ Opening it
hurriedly, out there jumped five little dried
orange pips, which pattered down upon his
plate. I began to laugh at this, but the laugh
was struck from my lips at the sight of his
face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were protruding,
his skin the colour of putty, and he glared
at the envelope which he still held in his
trembling hand, ‘K. K. K.!’ he shrieked,
and then, ‘My God, my God, my sins have
overtaken me!’
“ ‘What is it, uncle?’ I cried.
“ ‘Death,’ said he, and rising from
the table he retired to his room, leaving
me palpitating with horror. I took up the
envelope and saw scrawled in red ink upon
the inner flap, just above the gum, the letter
K three times repeated. There was nothing
else save the five dried pips. What could
be the reason of his overpowering terror?
I left the breakfast-table, and as I ascended
the stair I met him coming down with an old
rusty key, which must have belonged to the
attic, in one hand, and a small brass box,
like a cashbox, in the other.
“ ‘They may do what they like, but I’ll
checkmate them still,’ said he with an oath.
‘Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my
room to-day, and send down to Fordham, the
Horsham lawyer.’
“I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer
arrived I was asked to step up to the room.
The fire was burning brightly, and in the
grate there was a mass of black, fluffy ashes,
as of burned paper, while the brass box stood
open and empty beside it. As I glanced at
the box I noticed, with a start, that upon
the lid was printed the treble K which I had
read in the morning upon the envelope.
“ ‘I wish you, John,’ said my uncle,
‘to witness my will. I leave my estate,
with all its advantages and all its disadvantages,
to my brother, your father, whence it will,
no doubt, descend to you. If you can enjoy
it in peace, well and good! If you find you
cannot, take my advice, my boy, and leave
it to your deadliest enemy. I am sorry to
give you such a two-edged thing, but I can’t
say what turn things are going to take. Kindly
sign the paper where Mr. Fordham shows you.’
“I signed the paper as directed, and the
lawyer took it away with him. The singular
incident made, as you may think, the deepest
impression upon me, and I pondered over it
and turned it every way in my mind without
being able to make anything of it. Yet I could
not shake off the vague feeling of dread which
it left behind, though the sensation grew
less keen as the weeks passed and nothing
happened to disturb the usual routine of our
lives. I could see a change in my uncle, however.
He drank more than ever, and he was less inclined
for any sort of society. Most of his time
he would spend in his room, with the door
locked upon the inside, but sometimes he would
emerge in a sort of drunken frenzy and would
burst out of the house and tear about the
garden with a revolver in his hand, screaming
out that he was afraid of no man, and that
he was not to be cooped up, like a sheep in
a pen, by man or devil. When these hot fits
were over, however, he would rush tumultuously
in at the door and lock and bar it behind
him, like a man who can brazen it out no longer
against the terror which lies at the roots
of his soul. At such times I have seen his
face, even on a cold day, glisten with moisture,
as though it were new raised from a basin.
“Well, to come to an end of the matter,
Mr. Holmes, and not to abuse your patience,
there came a night when he made one of those
drunken sallies from which he never came back.
We found him, when we went to search for him,
face downward in a little green-scummed pool,
which lay at the foot of the garden. There
was no sign of any violence, and the water
was but two feet deep, so that the jury, having
regard to his known eccentricity, brought
in a verdict of ‘suicide.’ But I, who
knew how he winced from the very thought of
death, had much ado to persuade myself that
he had gone out of his way to meet it. The
matter passed, however, and my father entered
into possession of the estate, and of some £14,000,
which lay to his credit at the bank.”
“One moment,” Holmes interposed, “your
statement is, I foresee, one of the most remarkable
to which I have ever listened. Let me have
the date of the reception by your uncle of
the letter, and the date of his supposed suicide.”
“The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His
death was seven weeks later, upon the night
of May 2nd.”
“Thank you. Pray proceed.”
“When my father took over the Horsham property,
he, at my request, made a careful examination
of the attic, which had been always locked
up. We found the brass box there, although
its contents had been destroyed. On the inside
of the cover was a paper label, with the initials
of K. K. K. repeated upon it, and ‘Letters,
memoranda, receipts, and a register’ written
beneath. These, we presume, indicated the
nature of the papers which had been destroyed
by Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was
nothing of much importance in the attic save
a great many scattered papers and note-books
bearing upon my uncle’s life in America.
Some of them were of the war time and showed
that he had done his duty well and had borne
the repute of a brave soldier. Others were
of a date during the reconstruction of the
Southern states, and were mostly concerned
with politics, for he had evidently taken
a strong part in opposing the carpet-bag politicians
who had been sent down from the North.
“Well, it was the beginning of ’84 when
my father came to live at Horsham, and all
went as well as possible with us until the
January of ’85. On the fourth day after
the new year I heard my father give a sharp
cry of surprise as we sat together at the
breakfast-table. There he was, sitting with
a newly opened envelope in one hand and five
dried orange pips in the outstretched palm
of the other one. He had always laughed at
what he called my cock-and-bull story about
the colonel, but he looked very scared and
puzzled now that the same thing had come upon
himself.
“ ‘Why, what on earth does this mean,
John?’ he stammered.
“My heart had turned to lead. ‘It is K.
K. K.,’ said I.
“He looked inside the envelope. ‘So it
is,’ he cried. ‘Here are the very letters.
But what is this written above them?’
“ ‘Put the papers on the sundial,’
I read, peeping over his shoulder.
“ ‘What papers? What sundial?’ he asked.
“ ‘The sundial in the garden. There is
no other,’ said I; ‘but the papers must
be those that are destroyed.’
“ ‘Pooh!’ said he, gripping hard at
his courage. ‘We are in a civilised land
here, and we can’t have tomfoolery of this
kind. Where does the thing come from?’
“ ‘From Dundee,’ I answered, glancing
at the postmark.
“ ‘Some preposterous practical joke,’
said he. ‘What have I to do with sundials
and papers? I shall take no notice of such
nonsense.’
“ ‘I should certainly speak to the police,’
I said.
“ ‘And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing
of the sort.’
“ ‘Then let me do so?’
“ ‘No, I forbid you. I won’t have a
fuss made about such nonsense.’
“It was in vain to argue with him, for he
was a very obstinate man. I went about, however,
with a heart which was full of forebodings.
“On the third day after the coming of the
letter my father went from home to visit an
old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is
in command of one of the forts upon Portsdown
Hill. I was glad that he should go, for it
seemed to me that he was farther from danger
when he was away from home. In that, however,
I was in error. Upon the second day of his
absence I received a telegram from the major,
imploring me to come at once. My father had
fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which
abound in the neighbourhood, and was lying
senseless, with a shattered skull. I hurried
to him, but he passed away without having
ever recovered his consciousness. He had,
as it appears, been returning from Fareham
in the twilight, and as the country was unknown
to him, and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury
had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict
of ‘death from accidental causes.’ Carefully
as I examined every fact connected with his
death, I was unable to find anything which
could suggest the idea of murder. There were
no signs of violence, no footmarks, no robbery,
no record of strangers having been seen upon
the roads. And yet I need not tell you that
my mind was far from at ease, and that I was
well-nigh certain that some foul plot had
been woven round him.
“In this sinister way I came into my inheritance.
You will ask me why I did not dispose of it?
I answer, because I was well convinced that
our troubles were in some way dependent upon
an incident in my uncle’s life, and that
the danger would be as pressing in one house
as in another.
“It was in January, ’85, that my poor
father met his end, and two years and eight
months have elapsed since then. During that
time I have lived happily at Horsham, and
I had begun to hope that this curse had passed
away from the family, and that it had ended
with the last generation. I had begun to take
comfort too soon, however; yesterday morning
the blow fell in the very shape in which it
had come upon my father.”
The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled
envelope, and turning to the table he shook
out upon it five little dried orange pips.
“This is the envelope,” he continued.
“The postmark is London—eastern division.
Within are the very words which were upon
my father’s last message: ‘K. K. K.’;
and then ‘Put the papers on the sundial.’ ”
“What have you done?” asked Holmes.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“To tell the truth”—he sank his face
into his thin, white hands—“I have felt
helpless. I have felt like one of those poor
rabbits when the snake is writhing towards
it. I seem to be in the grasp of some resistless,
inexorable evil, which no foresight and no
precautions can guard against.”
“Tut! tut!” cried Sherlock Holmes. “You
must act, man, or you are lost. Nothing but
energy can save you. This is no time for despair.”
“I have seen the police.”
“Ah!”
“But they listened to my story with a smile.
I am convinced that the inspector has formed
the opinion that the letters are all practical
jokes, and that the deaths of my relations
were really accidents, as the jury stated,
and were not to be connected with the warnings.”
Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air.
“Incredible imbecility!” he cried.
“They have, however, allowed me a policeman,
who may remain in the house with me.”
“Has he come with you to-night?”
“No. His orders were to stay in the house.”
Again Holmes raved in the air.
“Why did you come to me,” he cried, “and,
above all, why did you not come at once?”
“I did not know. It was only to-day that
I spoke to Major Prendergast about my troubles
and was advised by him to come to you.”
“It is really two days since you had the
letter. We should have acted before this.
You have no further evidence, I suppose, than
that which you have placed before us—no
suggestive detail which might help us?”
“There is one thing,” said John Openshaw.
He rummaged in his coat pocket, and, drawing
out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted paper,
he laid it out upon the table. “I have some
remembrance,” said he, “that on the day
when my uncle burned the papers I observed
that the small, unburned margins which lay
amid the ashes were of this particular colour.
I found this single sheet upon the floor of
his room, and I am inclined to think that
it may be one of the papers which has, perhaps,
fluttered out from among the others, and in
that way has escaped destruction. Beyond the
mention of pips, I do not see that it helps
us much. I think myself that it is a page
from some private diary. The writing is undoubtedly
my uncle’s.”
Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over
the sheet of paper, which showed by its ragged
edge that it had indeed been torn from a book.
It was headed, “March, 1869,” and beneath
were the following enigmatical notices:
“4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.
“7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore,
and
        John Swain, of St. Augustine.
“9th. McCauley cleared.
“10th. John Swain cleared.
“12th. Visited Paramore. All well.”
“Thank you!” said Holmes, folding up the
paper and returning it to our visitor. “And
now you must on no account lose another instant.
We cannot spare time even to discuss what
you have told me. You must get home instantly
and act.”
“What shall I do?”
“There is but one thing to do. It must be
done at once. You must put this piece of paper
which you have shown us into the brass box
which you have described. You must also put
in a note to say that all the other papers
were burned by your uncle, and that this is
the only one which remains. You must assert
that in such words as will carry conviction
with them. Having done this, you must at once
put the box out upon the sundial, as directed.
Do you understand?”
“Entirely.”
“Do not think of revenge, or anything of
the sort, at present. I think that we may
gain that by means of the law; but we have
our web to weave, while theirs is already
woven. The first consideration is to remove
the pressing danger which threatens you. The
second is to clear up the mystery and to punish
the guilty parties.”
“I thank you,” said the young man, rising
and pulling on his overcoat. “You have given
me fresh life and hope. I shall certainly
do as you advise.”
“Do not lose an instant. And, above all,
take care of yourself in the meanwhile, for
I do not think that there can be a doubt that
you are threatened by a very real and imminent
danger. How do you go back?”
“By train from Waterloo.”
“It is not yet nine. The streets will be
crowded, so I trust that you may be in safety.
And yet you cannot guard yourself too closely.”
“I am armed.”
“That is well. To-morrow I shall set to
work upon your case.”
“I shall see you at Horsham, then?”
“No, your secret lies in London. It is there
that I shall seek it.”
“Then I shall call upon you in a day, or
in two days, with news as to the box and the
papers. I shall take your advice in every
particular.” He shook hands with us and
took his leave. Outside the wind still screamed
and the rain splashed and pattered against
the windows. This strange, wild story seemed
to have come to us from amid the mad elements—blown
in upon us like a sheet of sea-weed in a gale—and
now to have been reabsorbed by them once more.
Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence,
with his head sunk forward and his eyes bent
upon the red glow of the fire. Then he lit
his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he
watched the blue smoke-rings as they chased
each other up to the ceiling.
“I think, Watson,” he remarked at last,
“that of all our cases we have had none
more fantastic than this.”
“Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four.”
“Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet
this John Openshaw seems to me to be walking
amid even greater perils than did the Sholtos.”
“But have you,” I asked, “formed any
definite conception as to what these perils
are?”
“There can be no question as to their nature,”
he answered.
“Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K.,
and why does he pursue this unhappy family?”
Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed
his elbows upon the arms of his chair, with
his finger-tips together. “The ideal reasoner,”
he remarked, “would, when he had once been
shown a single fact in all its bearings, deduce
from it not only all the chain of events which
led up to it but also all the results which
would follow from it. As Cuvier could correctly
describe a whole animal by the contemplation
of a single bone, so the observer who has
thoroughly understood one link in a series
of incidents should be able to accurately
state all the other ones, both before and
after. We have not yet grasped the results
which the reason alone can attain to. Problems
may be solved in the study which have baffled
all those who have sought a solution by the
aid of their senses. To carry the art, however,
to its highest pitch, it is necessary that
the reasoner should be able to utilise all
the facts which have come to his knowledge;
and this in itself implies, as you will readily
see, a possession of all knowledge, which,
even in these days of free education and encyclopaedias,
is a somewhat rare accomplishment. It is not
so impossible, however, that a man should
possess all knowledge which is likely to be
useful to him in his work, and this I have
endeavoured in my case to do. If I remember
rightly, you on one occasion, in the early
days of our friendship, defined my limits
in a very precise fashion.”
“Yes,” I answered, laughing. “It was
a singular document. Philosophy, astronomy,
and politics were marked at zero, I remember.
Botany variable, geology profound as regards
the mud-stains from any region within fifty
miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy
unsystematic, sensational literature and crime
records unique, violin-player, boxer, swordsman,
lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco.
Those, I think, were the main points of my
analysis.”
Holmes grinned at the last item. “Well,”
he said, “I say now, as I said then, that
a man should keep his little brain-attic stocked
with all the furniture that he is likely to
use, and the rest he can put away in the lumber-room
of his library, where he can get it if he
wants it. Now, for such a case as the one
which has been submitted to us to-night, we
need certainly to muster all our resources.
Kindly hand me down the letter K of the American
Encyclopaediawhich stands upon the shelf beside
you. Thank you. Now let us consider the situation
and see what may be deduced from it. In the
first place, we may start with a strong presumption
that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong
reason for leaving America. Men at his time
of life do not change all their habits and
exchange willingly the charming climate of
Florida for the lonely life of an English
provincial town. His extreme love of solitude
in England suggests the idea that he was in
fear of someone or something, so we may assume
as a working hypothesis that it was fear of
someone or something which drove him from
America. As to what it was he feared, we can
only deduce that by considering the formidable
letters which were received by himself and
his successors. Did you remark the postmarks
of those letters?”
“The first was from Pondicherry, the second
from Dundee, and the third from London.”
“From East London. What do you deduce from
that?”
“They are all seaports. That the writer
was on board of a ship.”
“Excellent. We have already a clue. There
can be no doubt that the probability—the
strong probability—is that the writer was
on board of a ship. And now let us consider
another point. In the case of Pondicherry,
seven weeks elapsed between the threat and
its fulfilment, in Dundee it was only some
three or four days. Does that suggest anything?”
“A greater distance to travel.”
“But the letter had also a greater distance
to come.”
“Then I do not see the point.”
“There is at least a presumption that the
vessel in which the man or men are is a sailing-ship.
It looks as if they always send their singular
warning or token before them when starting
upon their mission. You see how quickly the
deed followed the sign when it came from Dundee.
If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer
they would have arrived almost as soon as
their letter. But, as a matter of fact, seven
weeks elapsed. I think that those seven weeks
represented the difference between the mail-boat
which brought the letter and the sailing vessel
which brought the writer.”
“It is possible.”
“More than that. It is probable. And now
you see the deadly urgency of this new case,
and why I urged young Openshaw to caution.
The blow has always fallen at the end of the
time which it would take the senders to travel
the distance. But this one comes from London,
and therefore we cannot count upon delay.”
“Good God!” I cried. “What can it mean,
this relentless persecution?”
“The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously
of vital importance to the person or persons
in the sailing-ship. I think that it is quite
clear that there must be more than one of
them. A single man could not have carried
out two deaths in such a way as to deceive
a coroner’s jury. There must have been several
in it, and they must have been men of resource
and determination. Their papers they mean
to have, be the holder of them who it may.
In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be
the initials of an individual and becomes
the badge of a society.”
“But of what society?”
“Have you never—” said Sherlock Holmes,
bending forward and sinking his voice—“have
you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?”
“I never have.”
Holmes turned over the leaves of the book
upon his knee. “Here it is,” said he presently:
“ ‘Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from
the fanciful resemblance to the sound produced
by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret society
was formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers
in the Southern states after the Civil War,
and it rapidly formed local branches in different
parts of the country, notably in Tennessee,
Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida.
Its power was used for political purposes,
principally for the terrorising of the negro
voters and the murdering and driving from
the country of those who were opposed to its
views. Its outrages were usually preceded
by a warning sent to the marked man in some
fantastic but generally recognised shape—a
sprig of oak-leaves in some parts, melon seeds
or orange pips in others. On receiving this
the victim might either openly abjure his
former ways, or might fly from the country.
If he braved the matter out, death would unfailingly
come upon him, and usually in some strange
and unforeseen manner. So perfect was the
organisation of the society, and so systematic
its methods, that there is hardly a case upon
record where any man succeeded in braving
it with impunity, or in which any of its outrages
were traced home to the perpetrators. For
some years the organisation flourished in
spite of the efforts of the United States
government and of the better classes of the
community in the South. Eventually, in the
year 1869, the movement rather suddenly collapsed,
although there have been sporadic outbreaks
of the same sort since that date.’
“You will observe,” said Holmes, laying
down the volume, “that the sudden breaking
up of the society was coincident with the
disappearance of Openshaw from America with
their papers. It may well have been cause
and effect. It is no wonder that he and his
family have some of the more implacable spirits
upon their track. You can understand that
this register and diary may implicate some
of the first men in the South, and that there
may be many who will not sleep easy at night
until it is recovered.”
“Then the page we have seen—”
“Is such as we might expect. It ran, if
I remember right, ‘sent the pips to A, B,
and C’—that is, sent the society’s warning
to them. Then there are successive entries
that A and B cleared, or left the country,
and finally that C was visited, with, I fear,
a sinister result for C. Well, I think, Doctor,
that we may let some light into this dark
place, and I believe that the only chance
young Openshaw has in the meantime is to do
what I have told him. There is nothing more
to be said or to be done to-night, so hand
me over my violin and let us try to forget
for half an hour the miserable weather and
the still more miserable ways of our fellow
men.” 
It had cleared in the morning, and the sun
was shining with a subdued brightness through
the dim veil which hangs over the great city.
Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when
I came down.
“You will excuse me for not waiting for
you,” said he; “I have, I foresee, a very
busy day before me in looking into this case
of young Openshaw’s.”
“What steps will you take?” I asked.
“It will very much depend upon the results
of my first inquiries. I may have to go down
to Horsham, after all.”
“You will not go there first?”
“No, I shall commence with the City. Just
ring the bell and the maid will bring up your
coffee.”
As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper
from the table and glanced my eye over it.
It rested upon a heading which sent a chill
to my heart.
“Holmes,” I cried, “you are too late.”
“Ah!” said he, laying down his cup, “I
feared as much. How was it done?” He spoke
calmly, but I could see that he was deeply
moved.
“My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and
the heading ‘Tragedy Near Waterloo Bridge.’
Here is the account:
“ ‘Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable
Cook, of the H Division, on duty near Waterloo
Bridge, heard a cry for help and a splash
in the water. The night, however, was extremely
dark and stormy, so that, in spite of the
help of several passers-by, it was quite impossible
to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was
given, and, by the aid of the water-police,
the body was eventually recovered. It proved
to be that of a young gentleman whose name,
as it appears from an envelope which was found
in his pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose
residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured
that he may have been hurrying down to catch
the last train from Waterloo Station, and
that in his haste and the extreme darkness
he missed his path and walked over the edge
of one of the small landing-places for river
steamboats. The body exhibited no traces of
violence, and there can be no doubt that the
deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate
accident, which should have the effect of
calling the attention of the authorities to
the condition of the riverside landing-stages.’ ”
We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes
more depressed and shaken than I had ever
seen him.
“That hurts my pride, Watson,” he said
at last. “It is a petty feeling, no doubt,
but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal
matter with me now, and, if God sends me health,
I shall set my hand upon this gang. That he
should come to me for help, and that I should
send him away to his death—!” He sprang
from his chair and paced about the room in
uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon
his sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and
unclasping of his long thin hands.
“They must be cunning devils,” he exclaimed
at last. “How could they have decoyed him
down there? The Embankment is not on the direct
line to the station. The bridge, no doubt,
was too crowded, even on such a night, for
their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see
who will win in the long run. I am going out
now!”
“To the police?”
“No; I shall be my own police. When I have
spun the web they may take the flies, but
not before.”
All day I was engaged in my professional work,
and it was late in the evening before I returned
to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come
back yet. It was nearly ten o’clock before
he entered, looking pale and worn. He walked
up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece from
the loaf he devoured it voraciously, washing
it down with a long draught of water.
“You are hungry,” I remarked.
“Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have
had nothing since breakfast.”
“Nothing?”
“Not a bite. I had no time to think of it.”
“And how have you succeeded?”
“Well.”
“You have a clue?”
“I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young
Openshaw shall not long remain unavenged.
Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish
trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!”
“What do you mean?”
He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing
it to pieces he squeezed out the pips upon
the table. Of these he took five and thrust
them into an envelope. On the inside of the
flap he wrote “S. H. for J. O.” Then he
sealed it and addressed it to “Captain James
Calhoun, Barque Lone Star, Savannah, Georgia.”
“That will await him when he enters port,”
said he, chuckling. “It may give him a sleepless
night. He will find it as sure a precursor
of his fate as Openshaw did before him.”
“And who is this Captain Calhoun?”
“The leader of the gang. I shall have the
others, but he first.”
“How did you trace it, then?”
He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket,
all covered with dates and names.
“I have spent the whole day,” said he,
“over Lloyd’s registers and files of the
old papers, following the future career of
every vessel which touched at Pondicherry
in January and February in ’83. There were
thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were
reported there during those months. Of these,
one, the Lone Star, instantly attracted my
attention, since, although it was reported
as having cleared from London, the name is
that which is given to one of the states of
the Union.”
“Texas, I think.”
“I was not and am not sure which; but I
knew that the ship must have an American origin.”
“What then?”
“I searched the Dundee records, and when
I found that the barque Lone Star was there
in January, ’85, my suspicion became a certainty.
I then inquired as to the vessels which lay
at present in the port of London.”
“Yes?”
“The Lone Star had arrived here last week.
I went down to the Albert Dock and found that
she had been taken down the river by the early
tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah.
I wired to Gravesend and learned that she
had passed some time ago, and as the wind
is easterly I have no doubt that she is now
past the Goodwins and not very far from the
Isle of Wight.”
“What will you do, then?”
“Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the
two mates, are as I learn, the only native-born
Americans in the ship. The others are Finns
and Germans. I know, also, that they were
all three away from the ship last night. I
had it from the stevedore who has been loading
their cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship
reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried
this letter, and the cable will have informed
the police of Savannah that these three gentlemen
are badly wanted here upon a charge of murder.”
There is ever a flaw, however, in the best
laid of human plans, and the murderers of
John Openshaw were never to receive the orange
pips which would show them that another, as
cunning and as resolute as themselves, was
upon their track. Very long and very severe
were the equinoctial gales that year. We waited
long for news of the Lone Star of Savannah,
but none ever reached us. We did at last hear
that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a shattered
stern-post of a boat was seen swinging in
the trough of a wave, with the letters “L.
S.” carved upon it, and that is all which
we shall ever know of the fate of the Lone
Star.
