The Adventure of the Reigate Squire
It was some time before the health of my friend
Mr. Sherlock Holmes
recovered from the strain caused by his immense
exertions in the spring
of ‘87. The whole question of the Netherland-Sumatra
Company and of the
colossal schemes of Baron Maupertuis are too
recent in the minds of the
public, and are too intimately concerned with
politics and finance to be
fitting subjects for this series of sketches.
They led, however, in an
indirect fashion to a singular and complex
problem which gave my friend
an opportunity of demonstrating the value
of a fresh weapon among the
many with which he waged his life-long battle
against crime.
On referring to my notes I see that it was
upon the 14th of April that
I received a telegram from Lyons which informed
me that Holmes was
lying ill in the Hotel Dulong. Within twenty-four
hours I was in his
sick-room, and was relieved to find that there
was nothing formidable in
his symptoms. Even his iron constitution,
however, had broken down
under the strain of an investigation which
had extended over two months,
during which period he had never worked less
than fifteen hours a day,
and had more than once, as he assured me,
kept to his task for five days
at a stretch. Even the triumphant issue of
his labors could not save him
from reaction after so terrible an exertion,
and at a time when Europe
was ringing with his name and when his room
was literally ankle-deep
with congratulatory telegrams I found him
a prey to the blackest
depression. Even the knowledge that he had
succeeded where the police of
three countries had failed, and that he had
outmanoeuvred at every point
the most accomplished swindler in Europe,
was insufficient to rouse him
from his nervous prostration.
Three days later we were back in Baker Street
together; but it was
evident that my friend would be much the better
for a change, and the
thought of a week of spring time in the country
was full of attractions
to me also. My old friend, Colonel Hayter,
who had come under my
professional care in Afghanistan, had now
taken a house near Reigate in
Surrey, and had frequently asked me to come
down to him upon a visit. On
the last occasion he had remarked that if
my friend would only come
with me he would be glad to extend his hospitality
to him also. A little
diplomacy was needed, but when Holmes understood
that the establishment
was a bachelor one, and that he would be allowed
the fullest freedom,
he fell in with my plans and a week after
our return from Lyons we were
under the Colonel’s roof. Hayter was a fine
old soldier who had seen
much of the world, and he soon found, as I
had expected, that Holmes and
he had much in common.
On the evening of our arrival we were sitting
in the Colonel’s gun-room
after dinner, Holmes stretched upon the sofa,
while Hayter and I looked
over his little armory of Eastern weapons.
“By the way,” said he suddenly, “I think
I’ll take one of these pistols
upstairs with me in case we have an alarm.”
“An alarm!” said I.
“Yes, we’ve had a scare in this part lately.
Old Acton, who is one of
our county magnates, had his house broken
into last Monday. No great
damage done, but the fellows are still at
large.”
“No clue?” asked Holmes, cocking his eye
at the Colonel.
“None as yet. But the affair is a petty
one, one of our little country
crimes, which must seem too small for your
attention, Mr. Holmes, after
this great international affair.”
Holmes waved away the compliment, though his
smile showed that it had
pleased him.
“Was there any feature of interest?”
“I fancy not. The thieves ransacked the
library and got very little for
their pains. The whole place was turned upside
down, drawers burst open,
and presses ransacked, with the result that
an odd volume of Pope’s
‘Homer,’ two plated candlesticks, an ivory
letter-weight, a small oak
barometer, and a ball of twine are all that
have vanished.”
“What an extraordinary assortment!” I
exclaimed.
“Oh, the fellows evidently grabbed hold
of everything they could get.”
Holmes grunted from the sofa.
“The county police ought to make something
of that,” said he; “why, it
is surely obvious that--”
But I held up a warning finger.
“You are here for a rest, my dear fellow.
For Heaven’s sake don’t get
started on a new problem when your nerves
are all in shreds.”
Holmes shrugged his shoulders with a glance
of comic resignation towards
the Colonel, and the talk drifted away into
less dangerous channels.
It was destined, however, that all my professional
caution should be
wasted, for next morning the problem obtruded
itself upon us in such a
way that it was impossible to ignore it, and
our country visit took a
turn which neither of us could have anticipated.
We were at breakfast
when the Colonel’s butler rushed in with
all his propriety shaken out of
him.
“Have you heard the news, sir?” he gasped.
“At the Cunningham’s sir!”
“Burglary!” cried the Colonel, with his
coffee-cup in mid-air.
“Murder!”
The Colonel whistled. “By Jove!” said
he. “Who’s killed, then? The J.P.
or his son?”
“Neither, sir. It was William the coachman.
Shot through the heart, sir,
and never spoke again.”
“Who shot him, then?”
“The burglar, sir. He was off like a shot
and got clean away. He’d just
broke in at the pantry window when William
came on him and met his end
in saving his master’s property.”
“What time?”
“It was last night, sir, somewhere about
twelve.”
“Ah, then, we’ll step over afterwards,”
said the Colonel, coolly
settling down to his breakfast again. “It’s
a baddish business,” he
added when the butler had gone; “he’s
our leading man about here, is old
Cunningham, and a very decent fellow too.
He’ll be cut up over this, for
the man has been in his service for years
and was a good servant. It’s
evidently the same villains who broke into
Acton’s.”
“And stole that very singular collection,”
said Holmes, thoughtfully.
“Precisely.”
“Hum! It may prove the simplest matter in
the world, but all the same
at first glance this is just a little curious,
is it not? A gang of
burglars acting in the country might be expected
to vary the scene of
their operations, and not to crack two cribs
in the same district within
a few days. When you spoke last night of taking
precautions I remember
that it passed through my mind that this was
probably the last parish
in England to which the thief or thieves would
be likely to turn their
attention--which shows that I have still much
to learn.”
“I fancy it’s some local practitioner,”
said the Colonel. “In that case,
of course, Acton’s and Cunningham’s are
just the places he would go for,
since they are far the largest about here.”
“And richest?”
“Well, they ought to be, but they’ve had
a lawsuit for some years which
has sucked the blood out of both of them,
I fancy. Old Acton has some
claim on half Cunningham’s estate, and the
lawyers have been at it with
both hands.”
“If it’s a local villain there should
not be much difficulty in running
him down,” said Holmes with a yawn. “All
right, Watson, I don’t intend
to meddle.”
“Inspector Forrester, sir,” said the butler,
throwing open the door.
The official, a smart, keen-faced young fellow,
stepped into the room.
“Good-morning, Colonel,” said he; “I
hope I don’t intrude, but we hear
that Mr. Holmes of Baker Street is here.”
The Colonel waved his hand towards my friend,
and the Inspector bowed.
“We thought that perhaps you would care
to step across, Mr. Holmes.”
“The fates are against you, Watson,” said
he, laughing. “We were
chatting about the matter when you came in,
Inspector. Perhaps you
can let us have a few details.” As he leaned
back in his chair in the
familiar attitude I knew that the case was
hopeless.
“We had no clue in the Acton affair. But
here we have plenty to go on,
and there’s no doubt it is the same party
in each case. The man was
seen.”
“Ah!”
“Yes, sir. But he was off like a deer after
the shot that killed poor
William Kirwan was fired. Mr. Cunningham saw
him from the bedroom
window, and Mr. Alec Cunningham saw him from
the back passage. It was
quarter to twelve when the alarm broke out.
Mr. Cunningham had just got
into bed, and Mr. Alec was smoking a pipe
in his dressing-gown. They
both heard William the coachman calling for
help, and Mr. Alec ran down
to see what was the matter. The back door
was open, and as he came to
the foot of the stairs he saw two men wrestling
together outside. One of
them fired a shot, the other dropped, and
the murderer rushed across the
garden and over the hedge. Mr. Cunningham,
looking out of his bedroom,
saw the fellow as he gained the road, but
lost sight of him at once. Mr.
Alec stopped to see if he could help the dying
man, and so the villain
got clean away. Beyond the fact that he was
a middle-sized man and
dressed in some dark stuff, we have no personal
clue; but we are making
energetic inquiries, and if he is a stranger
we shall soon find him
out.”
“What was this William doing there? Did
he say anything before he died?”
“Not a word. He lives at the lodge with
his mother, and as he was a
very faithful fellow we imagine that he walked
up to the house with
the intention of seeing that all was right
there. Of course this Acton
business has put every one on their guard.
The robber must have just
burst open the door--the lock has been forced--when
William came upon
him.”
“Did William say anything to his mother
before going out?”
“She is very old and deaf, and we can get
no information from her. The
shock has made her half-witted, but I understand
that she was never
very bright. There is one very important circumstance,
however. Look at
this!”
He took a small piece of torn paper from a
note-book and spread it out
upon his knee.
“This was found between the finger and thumb
of the dead man. It appears
to be a fragment torn from a larger sheet.
You will observe that the
hour mentioned upon it is the very time at
which the poor fellow met his
fate. You see that his murderer might have
torn the rest of the sheet
from him or he might have taken this fragment
from the murderer. It
reads almost as though it were an appointment.”
Holmes took up the scrap of paper, a fac-simile
of which is here
reproduced.
at quarter to twelve
learn what
maybe
“Presuming that it is an appointment,”
continued the Inspector, “it is
of course a conceivable theory that this William
Kirwan--though he had
the reputation of being an honest man, may
have been in league with the
thief. He may have met him there, may even
have helped him to break in
the door, and then they may have fallen out
between themselves.”
“This writing is of extraordinary interest,”
said Holmes, who had been
examining it with intense concentration. “These
are much deeper waters
than I had thought.” He sank his head upon
his hands, while the Inspector
smiled at the effect which his case had had
upon the famous London
specialist.
“Your last remark,” said Holmes, presently,
“as to the possibility of
there being an understanding between the burglar
and the servant, and
this being a note of appointment from one
to the other, is an ingenious
and not entirely impossible supposition. But
this writing opens up--” He
sank his head into his hands again and remained
for some minutes in the
deepest thought. When he raised his face again,
I was surprised to see
that his cheek was tinged with color, and
his eyes as bright as before
his illness. He sprang to his feet with all
his old energy.
“I’ll tell you what,” said he, “I
should like to have a quiet little
glance into the details of this case. There
is something in it which
fascinates me extremely. If you will permit
me, Colonel, I will leave my
friend Watson and you, and I will step round
with the Inspector to test
the truth of one or two little fancies of
mine. I will be with you again
in half an hour.”
An hour and half had elapsed before the Inspector
returned alone.
“Mr. Holmes is walking up and down in the
field outside,” said he. “He
wants us all four to go up to the house together.”
“To Mr. Cunningham’s?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What for?”
The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. “I
don’t quite know, sir. Between
ourselves, I think Mr. Holmes had not quite
got over his illness yet.
He’s been behaving very queerly, and he
is very much excited.”
“I don’t think you need alarm yourself,”
said I. “I have usually found
that there was method in his madness.”
“Some folks might say there was madness
in his method,” muttered the
Inspector. “But he’s all on fire to start,
Colonel, so we had best go
out if you are ready.”
We found Holmes pacing up and down in the
field, his chin sunk upon his
breast, and his hands thrust into his trousers
pockets.
“The matter grows in interest,” said he.
“Watson, your country-trip has
been a distinct success. I have had a charming
morning.”
“You have been up to the scene of the crime,
I understand,” said the
Colonel.
“Yes; the Inspector and I have made quite
a little reconnaissance
together.”
“Any success?”
“Well, we have seen some very interesting
things. I’ll tell you what we
did as we walk. First of all, we saw the body
of this unfortunate man.
He certainly died from a revolver wound as
reported.”
“Had you doubted it, then?”
“Oh, it is as well to test everything. Our
inspection was not wasted. We
then had an interview with Mr. Cunningham
and his son, who were able
to point out the exact spot where the murderer
had broken through the
garden-hedge in his flight. That was of great
interest.”
“Naturally.”
“Then we had a look at this poor fellow’s
mother. We could get no
information from her, however, as she is very
old and feeble.”
“And what is the result of your investigations?”
“The conviction that the crime is a very
peculiar one. Perhaps our visit
now may do something to make it less obscure.
I think that we are both
agreed, Inspector that the fragment of paper
in the dead man’s hand,
bearing, as it does, the very hour of his
death written upon it, is of
extreme importance.”
“It should give a clue, Mr. Holmes.”
“It does give a clue. Whoever wrote that
note was the man who brought
William Kirwan out of his bed at that hour.
But where is the rest of
that sheet of paper?”
“I examined the ground carefully in the
hope of finding it,” said the
Inspector.
“It was torn out of the dead man’s hand.
Why was some one so anxious to
get possession of it? Because it incriminated
him. And what would he do
with it? Thrust it into his pocket, most likely,
never noticing that a
corner of it had been left in the grip of
the corpse. If we could get
the rest of that sheet it is obvious that
we should have gone a long way
towards solving the mystery.”
“Yes, but how can we get at the criminal’s
pocket before we catch the
criminal?”
“Well, well, it was worth thinking over.
Then there is another obvious
point. The note was sent to William. The man
who wrote it could not have
taken it; otherwise, of course, he might have
delivered his own message
by word of mouth. Who brought the note, then?
Or did it come through the
post?”
“I have made inquiries,” said the Inspector.
“William received a letter
by the afternoon post yesterday. The envelope
was destroyed by him.”
“Excellent!” cried Holmes, clapping the
Inspector on the back. “You’ve
seen the postman. It is a pleasure to work
with you. Well, here is the
lodge, and if you will come up, Colonel, I
will show you the scene of
the crime.”
We passed the pretty cottage where the murdered
man had lived, and
walked up an oak-lined avenue to the fine
old Queen Anne house, which
bears the date of Malplaquet upon the lintel
of the door. Holmes and
the Inspector led us round it until we came
to the side gate, which is
separated by a stretch of garden from the
hedge which lines the road. A
constable was standing at the kitchen door.
“Throw the door open, officer,” said Holmes.
“Now, it was on those
stairs that young Mr. Cunningham stood and
saw the two men struggling
just where we are. Old Mr. Cunningham was
at that window--the second on
the left--and he saw the fellow get away just
to the left of that bush.
Then Mr. Alec ran out and knelt beside the
wounded man. The ground is
very hard, you see, and there are no marks
to guide us.” As he spoke two
men came down the garden path, from round
the angle of the house. The
one was an elderly man, with a strong, deep-lined,
heavy-eyed face; the
other a dashing young fellow, whose bright,
smiling expression and showy
dress were in strange contrast with the business
which had brought us
there.
“Still at it, then?” said he to Holmes.
“I thought you Londoners were
never at fault. You don’t seem to be so
very quick, after all.”
“Ah, you must give us a little time,”
said Holmes good-humoredly.
“You’ll want it,” said young Alec Cunningham.
“Why, I don’t see that we
have any clue at all.”
“There’s only one,” answered the Inspector.
“We thought that if we could
only find--Good heavens, Mr. Holmes! What
is the matter?”
My poor friend’s face had suddenly assumed
the most dreadful expression.
His eyes rolled upwards, his features writhed
in agony, and with a
suppressed groan he dropped on his face upon
the ground. Horrified
at the suddenness and severity of the attack,
we carried him into the
kitchen, where he lay back in a large chair,
and breathed heavily for
some minutes. Finally, with a shamefaced apology
for his weakness, he
rose once more.
“Watson would tell you that I have only
just recovered from a severe
illness,” he explained. “I am liable to
these sudden nervous attacks.”
“Shall I send you home in my trap?” asked
old Cunningham.
“Well, since I am here, there is one point
on which I should like to
feel sure. We can very easily verify it.”
“What was it?”
“Well, it seems to me that it is just possible
that the arrival of
this poor fellow William was not before, but
after, the entrance of
the burglar into the house. You appear to
take it for granted that,
although the door was forced, the robber never
got in.”
“I fancy that is quite obvious,” said
Mr. Cunningham, gravely. “Why, my
son Alec had not yet gone to bed, and he would
certainly have heard any
one moving about.”
“Where was he sitting?”
“I was smoking in my dressing-room.”
“Which window is that?”
“The last on the left next my father’s.”
“Both of your lamps were lit, of course?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“There are some very singular points here,”
said Holmes, smiling. “Is
it not extraordinary that a burglar--and a
burglar who had had some
previous experience--should deliberately break
into a house at a time
when he could see from the lights that two
of the family were still
afoot?”
“He must have been a cool hand.”
“Well, of course, if the case were not an
odd one we should not have
been driven to ask you for an explanation,”
said young Mr. Alec. “But as
to your ideas that the man had robbed the
house before William tackled
him, I think it a most absurd notion. Wouldn’t
we have found the place
disarranged, and missed the things which he
had taken?”
“It depends on what the things were,”
said Holmes. “You must remember
that we are dealing with a burglar who is
a very peculiar fellow, and
who appears to work on lines of his own. Look,
for example, at the
queer lot of things which he took from Acton’s--what
was it?--a ball of
string, a letter-weight, and I don’t know
what other odds and ends.”
“Well, we are quite in your hands, Mr. Holmes,”
said old Cunningham.
“Anything which you or the Inspector may
suggest will most certainly be
done.”
“In the first place,” said Holmes, “I
should like you to offer a
reward--coming from yourself, for the officials
may take a little time
before they would agree upon the sum, and
these things cannot be done
too promptly. I have jotted down the form
here, if you would not mind
signing it. Fifty pounds was quite enough,
I thought.”
“I would willingly give five hundred,”
said the J.P., taking the slip
of paper and the pencil which Holmes handed
to him. “This is not quite
correct, however,” he added, glancing over
the document.
“I wrote it rather hurriedly.”
“You see you begin, ‘Whereas, at about
a quarter to one on Tuesday
morning an attempt was made,’ and so on.
It was at a quarter to twelve,
as a matter of fact.”
I was pained at the mistake, for I knew how
keenly Holmes would feel any
slip of the kind. It was his specialty to
be accurate as to fact, but
his recent illness had shaken him, and this
one little incident was
enough to show me that he was still far from
being himself. He was
obviously embarrassed for an instant, while
the Inspector raised his
eyebrows, and Alec Cunningham burst into a
laugh. The old gentleman
corrected the mistake, however, and handed
the paper back to Holmes.
“Get it printed as soon as possible,”
he said; “I think your idea is an
excellent one.”
Holmes put the slip of paper carefully away
into his pocket-book.
“And now,” said he, “it really would
be a good thing that we should all
go over the house together and make certain
that this rather erratic
burglar did not, after all, carry anything
away with him.”
Before entering, Holmes made an examination
of the door which had been
forced. It was evident that a chisel or strong
knife had been thrust
in, and the lock forced back with it. We could
see the marks in the wood
where it had been pushed in.
“You don’t use bars, then?” he asked.
“We have never found it necessary.”
“You don’t keep a dog?”
“Yes, but he is chained on the other side
of the house.”
“When do the servants go to bed?”
“About ten.”
“I understand that William was usually in
bed also at that hour.”
“Yes.”
“It is singular that on this particular
night he should have been up.
Now, I should be very glad if you would have
the kindness to show us
over the house, Mr. Cunningham.”
A stone-flagged passage, with the kitchens
branching away from it, led
by a wooden staircase directly to the first
floor of the house. It came
out upon the landing opposite to a second
more ornamental stair which
came up from the front hall. Out of this landing
opened the drawing-room
and several bedrooms, including those of Mr.
Cunningham and his son.
Holmes walked slowly, taking keen note of
the architecture of the house.
I could tell from his expression that he was
on a hot scent, and yet
I could not in the least imagine in what direction
his inferences were
leading him.
“My good sir,” said Mr. Cunningham with
some impatience, “this is surely
very unnecessary. That is my room at the end
of the stairs, and my
son’s is the one beyond it. I leave it to
your judgment whether it was
possible for the thief to have come up here
without disturbing us.”
“You must try round and get on a fresh scent,
I fancy,” said the son
with a rather malicious smile.
“Still, I must ask you to humor me a little
further. I should like, for
example, to see how far the windows of the
bedrooms command the front.
This, I understand is your son’s room”--he
pushed open the door--“and
that, I presume, is the dressing-room in which
he sat smoking when the
alarm was given. Where does the window of
that look out to?” He stepped
across the bedroom, pushed open the door,
and glanced round the other
chamber.
“I hope that you are satisfied now?” said
Mr. Cunningham, tartly.
“Thank you, I think I have seen all that
I wished.”
“Then if it is really necessary we can go
into my room.”
“If it is not too much trouble.”
The J. P. shrugged his shoulders, and led
the way into his own chamber,
which was a plainly furnished and commonplace
room. As we moved across
it in the direction of the window, Holmes
fell back until he and I were
the last of the group. Near the foot of the
bed stood a dish of oranges
and a carafe of water. As we passed it Holmes,
to my unutterable
astonishment, leaned over in front of me and
deliberately knocked the
whole thing over. The glass smashed into a
thousand pieces and the fruit
rolled about into every corner of the room.
“You’ve done it now, Watson,” said he,
coolly. “A pretty mess you’ve
made of the carpet.”
I stooped in some confusion and began to pick
up the fruit,
understanding for some reason my companion
desired me to take the blame
upon myself. The others did the same, and
set the table on its legs
again.
“Hullo!” cried the Inspector, “where’s
he got to?”
Holmes had disappeared.
“Wait here an instant,” said young Alec
Cunningham. “The fellow is off
his head, in my opinion. Come with me, father,
and see where he has got
to!”
They rushed out of the room, leaving the Inspector,
the Colonel, and me
staring at each other.
“‘Pon my word, I am inclined to agree
with Master Alec,” said the
official. “It may be the effect of this
illness, but it seems to me
that--”
His words were cut short by a sudden scream
of “Help! Help! Murder!”
With a thrill I recognized the voice of that
of my friend. I rushed
madly from the room on to the landing. The
cries, which had sunk down
into a hoarse, inarticulate shouting, came
from the room which we had
first visited. I dashed in, and on into the
dressing-room beyond. The
two Cunninghams were bending over the prostrate
figure of Sherlock
Holmes, the younger clutching his throat with
both hands, while the
elder seemed to be twisting one of his wrists.
In an instant the three
of us had torn them away from him, and Holmes
staggered to his feet,
very pale and evidently greatly exhausted.
“Arrest these men, Inspector,” he gasped.
“On what charge?”
“That of murdering their coachman, William
Kirwan.”
The Inspector stared about him in bewilderment.
“Oh, come now, Mr.
Holmes,” said he at last, “I’m sure
you don’t really mean to--”
“Tut, man, look at their faces!” cried
Holmes, curtly.
Never certainly have I seen a plainer confession
of guilt upon human
countenances. The older man seemed numbed
and dazed with a heavy, sullen
expression upon his strongly-marked face.
The son, on the other hand,
had dropped all that jaunty, dashing style
which had characterized him,
and the ferocity of a dangerous wild beast
gleamed in his dark eyes
and distorted his handsome features. The Inspector
said nothing, but,
stepping to the door, he blew his whistle.
Two of his constables came at
the call.
“I have no alternative, Mr. Cunningham,”
said he. “I trust that this may
all prove to be an absurd mistake, but you
can see that--Ah, would you?
Drop it!” He struck out with his hand, and
a revolver which the younger
man was in the act of cocking clattered down
upon the floor.
“Keep that,” said Holmes, quietly putting
his foot upon it; “you will
find it useful at the trial. But this is what
we really wanted.” He held
up a little crumpled piece of paper.
“The remainder of the sheet!” cried the
Inspector.
“Precisely.”
“And where was it?”
“Where I was sure it must be. I’ll make
the whole matter clear to you
presently. I think, Colonel, that you and
Watson might return now, and
I will be with you again in an hour at the
furthest. The Inspector and I
must have a word with the prisoners, but you
will certainly see me back
at luncheon time.”
Sherlock Holmes was as good as his word, for
about one o’clock he
rejoined us in the Colonel’s smoking-room.
He was accompanied by a
little elderly gentleman, who was introduced
to me as the Mr. Acton
whose house had been the scene of the original
burglary.
“I wished Mr. Acton to be present while
I demonstrated this small matter
to you,” said Holmes, “for it is natural
that he should take a keen
interest in the details. I am afraid, my dear
Colonel, that you must
regret the hour that you took in such a stormy
petrel as I am.”
“On the contrary,” answered the Colonel,
warmly, “I consider it the
greatest privilege to have been permitted
to study your methods of
working. I confess that they quite surpass
my expectations, and that I
am utterly unable to account for your result.
I have not yet seen the
vestige of a clue.”
“I am afraid that my explanation may disillusion
you but it has always
been my habit to hide none of my methods,
either from my friend Watson
or from any one who might take an intelligent
interest in them. But,
first, as I am rather shaken by the knocking
about which I had in
the dressing-room, I think that I shall help
myself to a dash of your
brandy, Colonel. My strength had been rather
tried of late.”
“I trust that you had no more of those nervous
attacks.”
Sherlock Holmes laughed heartily. “We will
come to that in its turn,”
said he. “I will lay an account of the case
before you in its due order,
showing you the various points which guided
me in my decision. Pray
interrupt me if there is any inference which
is not perfectly clear to
you.
“It is of the highest importance in the
art of detection to be able
to recognize, out of a number of facts, which
are incidental and which
vital. Otherwise your energy and attention
must be dissipated instead of
being concentrated. Now, in this case there
was not the slightest doubt
in my mind from the first that the key of
the whole matter must be
looked for in the scrap of paper in the dead
man’s hand.
“Before going into this, I would draw your
attention to the fact that,
if Alec Cunningham’s narrative was correct,
and if the assailant, after
shooting William Kirwan, had instantly fled,
then it obviously could not
be he who tore the paper from the dead man’s
hand. But if it was not he,
it must have been Alec Cunningham himself,
for by the time that the old
man had descended several servants were upon
the scene. The point is a
simple one, but the Inspector had overlooked
it because he had started
with the supposition that these county magnates
had had nothing to do
with the matter. Now, I make a point of never
having any prejudices,
and of following docilely wherever fact may
lead me, and so, in the
very first stage of the investigation, I found
myself looking a little
askance at the part which had been played
by Mr. Alec Cunningham.
“And now I made a very careful examination
of the corner of paper which
the Inspector had submitted to us. It was
at once clear to me that it
formed part of a very remarkable document.
Here it is. Do you not now
observe something very suggestive about it?”
“It has a very irregular look,” said the
Colonel.
“My dear sir,” cried Holmes, “there
cannot be the least doubt in the
world that it has been written by two persons
doing alternate words.
When I draw your attention to the strong t’s
of ‘at’ and ‘to’, and ask
you to compare them with the weak ones of
‘quarter’ and ‘twelve,’ you
will instantly recognize the fact. A very
brief analysis of these
four words would enable you to say with the
utmost confidence that the
‘learn’ and the ‘maybe’ are written
in the stronger hand, and the ‘what’
in the weaker.”
“By Jove, it’s as clear as day!” cried
the Colonel. “Why on earth should
two men write a letter in such a fashion?”
“Obviously the business was a bad one, and
one of the men who distrusted
the other was determined that, whatever was
done, each should have an
equal hand in it. Now, of the two men, it
is clear that the one who
wrote the ‘at’ and ‘to’ was the ringleader.”
“How do you get at that?”
“We might deduce it from the mere character
of the one hand as compared
with the other. But we have more assured reasons
than that for supposing
it. If you examine this scrap with attention
you will come to the
conclusion that the man with the stronger
hand wrote all his words
first, leaving blanks for the other to fill
up. These blanks were not
always sufficient, and you can see that the
second man had a squeeze
to fit his ‘quarter’ in between the ‘at’
and the ‘to,’ showing that the
latter were already written. The man who wrote
all his words first is
undoubtedly the man who planned the affair.”
“Excellent!” cried Mr. Acton.
“But very superficial,” said Holmes. “We
come now, however, to a point
which is of importance. You may not be aware
that the deduction of a
man’s age from his writing is one which
been has brought to considerable
accuracy by experts. In normal cases one can
place a man in his true
decade with tolerable confidence. I say normal
cases, because ill-health
and physical weakness reproduce the signs
of old age, even when the
invalid is a youth. In this case, looking
at the bold, strong hand of
the one, and the rather broken-backed appearance
of the other, which
still retains its legibility although the
t’s have begun to lose their
crossing, we can say that the one was a young
man and the other was
advanced in years without being positively
decrepit.”
“Excellent!” cried Mr. Acton again.
“There is a further point, however, which
is subtler and of greater
interest. There is something in common between
these hands. They belong
to men who are blood-relatives. It may be
most obvious to you in the
Greek e’s, but to me there are many small
points which indicate the same
thing. I have no doubt at all that a family
mannerism can be traced in
these two specimens of writing. I am only,
of course, giving you
the leading results now of my examination
of the paper. There were
twenty-three other deductions which would
be of more interest to experts
than to you. They all tend to deepen the impression
upon my mind that
the Cunninghams, father and son, had written
this letter.
“Having got so far, my next step was, of
course, to examine into the
details of the crime, and to see how far they
would help us. I went up
to the house with the Inspector, and saw all
that was to be seen. The
wound upon the dead man was, as I was able
to determine with absolute
confidence, fired from a revolver at the distance
of something over
four yards. There was no powder-blackening
on the clothes. Evidently,
therefore, Alec Cunningham had lied when he
said that the two men were
struggling when the shot was fired. Again,
both father and son agreed
as to the place where the man escaped into
the road. At that point,
however, as it happens, there is a broadish
ditch, moist at the bottom.
As there were no indications of bootmarks
about this ditch, I was
absolutely sure not only that the Cunninghams
had again lied, but that
there had never been any unknown man upon
the scene at all.
“And now I have to consider the motive of
this singular crime. To get
at this, I endeavored first of all to solve
the reason of the original
burglary at Mr. Acton’s. I understood, from
something which the Colonel
told us, that a lawsuit had been going on
between you, Mr. Acton, and
the Cunninghams. Of course, it instantly occurred
to me that they had
broken into your library with the intention
of getting at some document
which might be of importance in the case.”
“Precisely so,” said Mr. Acton. “There
can be no possible doubt as to
their intentions. I have the clearest claim
upon half of their present
estate, and if they could have found a single
paper--which, fortunately,
was in the strong-box of my solicitors--they
would undoubtedly have
crippled our case.”
“There you are,” said Holmes, smiling.
“It was a dangerous, reckless
attempt, in which I seem to trace the influence
of young Alec. Having
found nothing they tried to divert suspicion
by making it appear to be
an ordinary burglary, to which end they carried
off whatever they could
lay their hands upon. That is all clear enough,
but there was much that
was still obscure. What I wanted above all
was to get the missing part
of that note. I was certain that Alec had
torn it out of the dead man’s
hand, and almost certain that he must have
thrust it into the pocket of
his dressing-gown. Where else could he have
put it? The only question
was whether it was still there. It was worth
an effort to find out, and
for that object we all went up to the house.
“The Cunninghams joined us, as you doubtless
remember, outside the
kitchen door. It was, of course, of the very
first importance that they
should not be reminded of the existence of
this paper, otherwise they
would naturally destroy it without delay.
The Inspector was about to
tell them the importance which we attached
to it when, by the luckiest
chance in the world, I tumbled down in a sort
of fit and so changed the
conversation.
“Good heavens!” cried the Colonel, laughing,
“do you mean to say all our
sympathy was wasted and your fit an imposture?”
“Speaking professionally, it was admirably
done,” cried I, looking in
amazement at this man who was forever confounding
me with some new phase
of his astuteness.
“It is an art which is often useful,”
said he. “When I recovered I
managed, by a device which had perhaps some
little merit of ingenuity,
to get old Cunningham to write the word ‘twelve,’
so that I might
compare it with the ‘twelve’ upon the
paper.”
“Oh, what an ass I have been!” I exclaimed.
“I could see that you were commiserating
me over my weakness,” said
Holmes, laughing. “I was sorry to cause
you the sympathetic pain which
I know that you felt. We then went upstairs
together, and having entered
the room and seen the dressing-gown hanging
up behind the door, I
contrived, by upsetting a table, to engage
their attention for the
moment, and slipped back to examine the pockets.
I had hardly got the
paper, however--which was, as I had expected,
in one of them--when the
two Cunninghams were on me, and would, I verily
believe, have murdered
me then and there but for your prompt and
friendly aid. As it is, I feel
that young man’s grip on my throat now,
and the father has twisted my
wrist round in the effort to get the paper
out of my hand. They saw that
I must know all about it, you see, and the
sudden change from absolute
security to complete despair made them perfectly
desperate.
“I had a little talk with old Cunningham
afterwards as to the motive of
the crime. He was tractable enough, though
his son was a perfect demon,
ready to blow out his own or anybody else’s
brains if he could have got
to his revolver. When Cunningham saw that
the case against him was so
strong he lost all heart and made a clean
breast of everything. It seems
that William had secretly followed his two
masters on the night when
they made their raid upon Mr. Acton’s, and
having thus got them into
his power, proceeded, under threats of exposure,
to levy blackmail upon
them. Mr. Alec, however, was a dangerous man
to play games of that
sort with. It was a stroke of positive genius
on his part to see in the
burglary scare which was convulsing the country
side an opportunity of
plausibly getting rid of the man whom he feared.
William was decoyed up
and shot, and had they only got the whole
of the note and paid a little
more attention to detail in the accessories,
it is very possible that
suspicion might never have been aroused.”
“And the note?” I asked.
Sherlock Holmes placed the subjoined paper
before us.
If you will only come round at quarter to
twelve
to the east gate you will learn what
will very much surprise you and maybe [sic]
be of the greatest service to you and also
to Annie Morrison. But say nothing to anyone
upon the matter.
“It is very much the sort of thing that
I expected,” said he. “Of
course, we do not yet know what the relations
may have been between Alec
Cunningham, William Kirwan, and Annie Morrison.
The results shows that
the trap was skillfully baited. I am sure
that you cannot fail to be
delighted with the traces of heredity shown
in the p’s and in the tails
of the g’s. The absence of the i-dots in
the old man’s writing is also
most characteristic. Watson, I think our quiet
rest in the country has
been a distinct success, and I shall certainly
return much invigorated
to Baker Street to-morrow.”
