


      I have never known my friend to be in better form, both mental
      and physical, than in the year ’95. His increasing fame had
      brought with it an immense practice, and I should be guilty of an
      indiscretion if I were even to hint at the identity of some of
      the illustrious clients who crossed our humble threshold in Baker
      Street. Holmes, however, like all great artists, lived for his
      art’s sake, and, save in the case of the Duke of Holdernesse, I
      have seldom known him claim any large reward for his inestimable
      services. So unworldly was he—or so capricious—that he frequently
      refused his help to the powerful and wealthy where the problem
      made no appeal to his sympathies, while he would devote weeks of
      most intense application to the affairs of some humble client
      whose case presented those strange and dramatic qualities which
      appealed to his imagination and challenged his ingenuity.

      In this memorable year ’95, a curious and incongruous succession
      of cases had engaged his attention, ranging from his famous
      investigation of the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca—an inquiry
      which was carried out by him at the express desire of His
      Holiness the Pope—down to his arrest of Wilson, the notorious
      canary-trainer, which removed a plague-spot from the East End of
      London. Close on the heels of these two famous cases came the
      tragedy of Woodman’s Lee, and the very obscure circumstances
      which surrounded the death of Captain Peter Carey. No record of
      the doings of Mr. Sherlock Holmes would be complete which did not
      include some account of this very unusual affair.

      During the first week of July, my friend had been absent so often
      and so long from our lodgings that I knew he had something on
      hand. The fact that several rough-looking men called during that
      time and inquired for Captain Basil made me understand that
      Holmes was working somewhere under one of the numerous disguises
      and names with which he concealed his own formidable identity. He
      had at least five small refuges in different parts of London, in
      which he was able to change his personality. He said nothing of
      his business to me, and it was not my habit to force a
      confidence. The first positive sign which he gave me of the
      direction which his investigation was taking was an extraordinary
      one. He had gone out before breakfast, and I had sat down to mine
      when he strode into the room, his hat upon his head and a huge
      barbed-headed spear tucked like an umbrella under his arm.

      “Good gracious, Holmes!” I cried. “You don’t mean to say that you
      have been walking about London with that thing?”

      “I drove to the butcher’s and back.”

      “The butcher’s?”

      “And I return with an excellent appetite. There can be no
      question, my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before
      breakfast. But I am prepared to bet that you will not guess the
      form that my exercise has taken.”

      “I will not attempt it.”

      He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.

      “If you could have looked into Allardyce’s back shop, you would
      have seen a dead pig swung from a hook in the ceiling, and a
      gentleman in his shirt sleeves furiously stabbing at it with this
      weapon. I was that energetic person, and I have satisfied myself
      that by no exertion of my strength can I transfix the pig with a
      single blow. Perhaps you would care to try?”

      “Not for worlds. But why were you doing this?”

      “Because it seemed to me to have an indirect bearing upon the
      mystery of Woodman’s Lee. Ah, Hopkins, I got your wire last
      night, and I have been expecting you. Come and join us.”

      Our visitor was an exceedingly alert man, thirty years of age,
      dressed in a quiet tweed suit, but retaining the erect bearing of
      one who was accustomed to official uniform. I recognized him at
      once as Stanley Hopkins, a young police inspector, for whose
      future Holmes had high hopes, while he in turn professed the
      admiration and respect of a pupil for the scientific methods of
      the famous amateur. Hopkins’s brow was clouded, and he sat down
      with an air of deep dejection.

      “No, thank you, sir. I breakfasted before I came round. I spent
      the night in town, for I came up yesterday to report.”

      “And what had you to report?”

      “Failure, sir, absolute failure.”

      “You have made no progress?”

      “None.”

      “Dear me! I must have a look at the matter.”

      “I wish to heavens that you would, Mr. Holmes. It’s my first big
      chance, and I am at my wits’ end. For goodness’ sake, come down
      and lend me a hand.”

      “Well, well, it just happens that I have already read all the
      available evidence, including the report of the inquest, with
      some care. By the way, what do you make of that tobacco pouch,
      found on the scene of the crime? Is there no clue there?”

      Hopkins looked surprised.

      “It was the man’s own pouch, sir. His initials were inside it.
      And it was of sealskin,—and he was an old sealer.”

      “But he had no pipe.”

      “No, sir, we could find no pipe. Indeed, he smoked very little,
      and yet he might have kept some tobacco for his friends.”

      “No doubt. I only mention it because, if I had been handling the
      case, I should have been inclined to make that the starting-point
      of my investigation. However, my friend, Dr. Watson, knows
      nothing of this matter, and I should be none the worse for
      hearing the sequence of events once more. Just give us some short
      sketches of the essentials.”

      Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.

      “I have a few dates here which will give you the career of the
      dead man, Captain Peter Carey. He was born in ’45—fifty years of
      age. He was a most daring and successful seal and whale fisher.
      In 1883 he commanded the steam sealer _Sea Unicorn_, of Dundee.
      He had then had several successful voyages in succession, and in
      the following year, 1884, he retired. After that he travelled for
      some years, and finally he bought a small place called Woodman’s
      Lee, near Forest Row, in Sussex. There he has lived for six
      years, and there he died just a week ago to-day.

      “There were some most singular points about the man. In ordinary
      life, he was a strict Puritan—a silent, gloomy fellow. His
      household consisted of his wife, his daughter, aged twenty, and
      two female servants. These last were continually changing, for it
      was never a very cheery situation, and sometimes it became past
      all bearing. The man was an intermittent drunkard, and when he
      had the fit on him he was a perfect fiend. He has been known to
      drive his wife and daughter out of doors in the middle of the
      night and flog them through the park until the whole village
      outside the gates was aroused by their screams.

      “He was summoned once for a savage assault upon the old vicar,
      who had called upon him to remonstrate with him upon his conduct.
      In short, Mr. Holmes, you would go far before you found a more
      dangerous man than Peter Carey, and I have heard that he bore the
      same character when he commanded his ship. He was known in the
      trade as Black Peter, and the name was given him, not only on
      account of his swarthy features and the colour of his huge beard,
      but for the humours which were the terror of all around him. I
      need not say that he was loathed and avoided by every one of his
      neighbours, and that I have not heard one single word of sorrow
      about his terrible end.

      “You must have read in the account of the inquest about the man’s
      cabin, Mr. Holmes, but perhaps your friend here has not heard of
      it. He had built himself a wooden outhouse—he always called it
      the ‘cabin’—a few hundred yards from his house, and it was here
      that he slept every night. It was a little, single-roomed hut,
      sixteen feet by ten. He kept the key in his pocket, made his own
      bed, cleaned it himself, and allowed no other foot to cross the
      threshold. There are small windows on each side, which were
      covered by curtains and never opened. One of these windows was
      turned towards the high road, and when the light burned in it at
      night the folk used to point it out to each other and wonder what
      Black Peter was doing in there. That’s the window, Mr. Holmes,
      which gave us one of the few bits of positive evidence that came
      out at the inquest.

      “You remember that a stonemason, named Slater, walking from
      Forest Row about one o’clock in the morning—two days before the
      murder—stopped as he passed the grounds and looked at the square
      of light still shining among the trees. He swears that the shadow
      of a man’s head turned sideways was clearly visible on the blind,
      and that this shadow was certainly not that of Peter Carey, whom
      he knew well. It was that of a bearded man, but the beard was
      short and bristled forward in a way very different from that of
      the captain. So he says, but he had been two hours in the
      public-house, and it is some distance from the road to the
      window. Besides, this refers to the Monday, and the crime was
      done upon the Wednesday.

      “On the Tuesday, Peter Carey was in one of his blackest moods,
      flushed with drink and as savage as a dangerous wild beast. He
      roamed about the house, and the women ran for it when they heard
      him coming. Late in the evening, he went down to his own hut.
      About two o’clock the following morning, his daughter, who slept
      with her window open, heard a most fearful yell from that
      direction, but it was no unusual thing for him to bawl and shout
      when he was in drink, so no notice was taken. On rising at seven,
      one of the maids noticed that the door of the hut was open, but
      so great was the terror which the man caused that it was midday
      before anyone would venture down to see what had become of him.
      Peeping into the open door, they saw a sight which sent them
      flying, with white faces, into the village. Within an hour, I was
      on the spot and had taken over the case.

      “Well, I have fairly steady nerves, as you know, Mr. Holmes, but
      I give you my word, that I got a shake when I put my head into
      that little house. It was droning like a harmonium with the flies
      and bluebottles, and the floor and walls were like a
      slaughter-house. He had called it a cabin, and a cabin it was,
      sure enough, for you would have thought that you were in a ship.
      There was a bunk at one end, a sea-chest, maps and charts, a
      picture of the _Sea Unicorn_, a line of logbooks on a shelf, all
      exactly as one would expect to find it in a captain’s room. And
      there, in the middle of it, was the man himself—his face twisted
      like a lost soul in torment, and his great brindled beard stuck
      upward in his agony. Right through his broad breast a steel
      harpoon had been driven, and it had sunk deep into the wood of
      the wall behind him. He was pinned like a beetle on a card. Of
      course, he was quite dead, and had been so from the instant that
      he had uttered that last yell of agony.

      “I know your methods, sir, and I applied them. Before I permitted
      anything to be moved, I examined most carefully the ground
      outside, and also the floor of the room. There were no
      footmarks.”

      “Meaning that you saw none?”

      “I assure you, sir, that there were none.”

      “My good Hopkins, I have investigated many crimes, but I have
      never yet seen one which was committed by a flying creature. As
      long as the criminal remains upon two legs so long must there be
      some indentation, some abrasion, some trifling displacement which
      can be detected by the scientific searcher. It is incredible that
      this blood-bespattered room contained no trace which could have
      aided us. I understand, however, from the inquest that there were
      some objects which you failed to overlook?”

      The young inspector winced at my companion’s ironical comments.

      “I was a fool not to call you in at the time Mr. Holmes. However,
      that’s past praying for now. Yes, there were several objects in
      the room which called for special attention. One was the harpoon
      with which the deed was committed. It had been snatched down from
      a rack on the wall. Two others remained there, and there was a
      vacant place for the third. On the stock was engraved ‘SS. _Sea
      Unicorn_, Dundee.’ This seemed to establish that the crime had
      been done in a moment of fury, and that the murderer had seized
      the first weapon which came in his way. The fact that the crime
      was committed at two in the morning, and yet Peter Carey was
      fully dressed, suggested that he had an appointment with the
      murderer, which is borne out by the fact that a bottle of rum and
      two dirty glasses stood upon the table.”

      “Yes,” said Holmes; “I think that both inferences are
      permissible. Was there any other spirit but rum in the room?”

      “Yes, there was a tantalus containing brandy and whisky on the
      sea-chest. It is of no importance to us, however, since the
      decanters were full, and it had therefore not been used.”

      “For all that, its presence has some significance,” said Holmes.
      “However, let us hear some more about the objects which do seem
      to you to bear upon the case.”

      “There was this tobacco-pouch upon the table.”

      “What part of the table?”

      “It lay in the middle. It was of coarse sealskin—the
      straight-haired skin, with a leather thong to bind it. Inside was
      ‘P.C.’ on the flap. There was half an ounce of strong ship’s
      tobacco in it.”

      “Excellent! What more?”

      Stanley Hopkins drew from his pocket a drab-covered notebook. The
      outside was rough and worn, the leaves discoloured. On the first
      page were written the initials “J.H.N.” and the date “1883.”
      Holmes laid it on the table and examined it in his minute way,
      while Hopkins and I gazed over each shoulder. On the second page
      were the printed letters “C.P.R.,” and then came several sheets
      of numbers. Another heading was “Argentine,” another “Costa
      Rica,” and another “San Paulo,” each with pages of signs and
      figures after it.

      “What do you make of these?” asked Holmes.

      “They appear to be lists of Stock Exchange securities. I thought
      that ‘J.H.N.’ were the initials of a broker, and that ‘C.P.R.’
      may have been his client.”

      “Try Canadian Pacific Railway,” said Holmes.

      Stanley Hopkins swore between his teeth, and struck his thigh
      with his clenched hand.

      “What a fool I have been!” he cried. “Of course, it is as you
      say. Then ‘J.H.N.’ are the only initials we have to solve. I have
      already examined the old Stock Exchange lists, and I can find no
      one in 1883, either in the house or among the outside brokers,
      whose initials correspond with these. Yet I feel that the clue is
      the most important one that I hold. You will admit, Mr. Holmes,
      that there is a possibility that these initials are those of the
      second person who was present—in other words, of the murderer. I
      would also urge that the introduction into the case of a document
      relating to large masses of valuable securities gives us for the
      first time some indication of a motive for the crime.”

      Sherlock Holmes’s face showed that he was thoroughly taken aback
      by this new development.

      “I must admit both your points,” said he. “I confess that this
      notebook, which did not appear at the inquest, modifies any views
      which I may have formed. I had come to a theory of the crime in
      which I can find no place for this. Have you endeavoured to trace
      any of the securities here mentioned?”

      “Inquiries are now being made at the offices, but I fear that the
      complete register of the stockholders of these South American
      concerns is in South America, and that some weeks must elapse
      before we can trace the shares.”

      Holmes had been examining the cover of the notebook with his
      magnifying lens.

      “Surely there is some discolouration here,” said he.

      “Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain. I told you that I picked the book
      off the floor.”

      “Was the blood-stain above or below?”

      “On the side next the boards.”

      “Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after the
      crime was committed.”

      “Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated that point, and I conjectured
      that it was dropped by the murderer in his hurried flight. It lay
      near the door.”

      “I suppose that none of these securities have been found among
      the property of the dead man?”

      “No, sir.”

      “Have you any reason to suspect robbery?”

      “No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched.”

      “Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case. Then there was
      a knife, was there not?”

      “A sheath-knife, still in its sheath. It lay at the feet of the
      dead man. Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband’s
      property.”

      Holmes was lost in thought for some time.

      “Well,” said he, at last, “I suppose I shall have to come out and
      have a look at it.”

      Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.

      “Thank you, sir. That will, indeed, be a weight off my mind.”

      Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.

      “It would have been an easier task a week ago,” said he. “But
      even now my visit may not be entirely fruitless. Watson, if you
      can spare the time, I should be very glad of your company. If you
      will call a four-wheeler, Hopkins, we shall be ready to start for
      Forest Row in a quarter of an hour.”

      Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles
      through the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of
      that great forest which for so long held the Saxon invaders at
      bay—the impenetrable “weald,” for sixty years the bulwark of
      Britain. Vast sections of it have been cleared, for this is the
      seat of the first iron-works of the country, and the trees have
      been felled to smelt the ore. Now the richer fields of the North
      have absorbed the trade, and nothing save these ravaged groves
      and great scars in the earth show the work of the past. Here, in
      a clearing upon the green slope of a hill, stood a long, low,
      stone house, approached by a curving drive running through the
      fields. Nearer the road, and surrounded on three sides by bushes,
      was a small outhouse, one window and the door facing in our
      direction. It was the scene of the murder.

      Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced us
      to a haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man,
      whose gaunt and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror
      in the depths of her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years of
      hardship and ill-usage which she had endured. With her was her
      daughter, a pale, fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed defiantly
      at us as she told us that she was glad that her father was dead,
      and that she blessed the hand which had struck him down. It was a
      terrible household that Black Peter Carey had made for himself,
      and it was with a sense of relief that we found ourselves in the
      sunlight again and making our way along a path which had been
      worn across the fields by the feet of the dead man.

      The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled,
      shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the farther
      side. Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket and had
      stooped to the lock, when he paused with a look of attention and
      surprise upon his face.

      “Someone has been tampering with it,” he said.

      There could be no doubt of the fact. The woodwork was cut, and
      the scratches showed white through the paint, as if they had been
      that instant done. Holmes had been examining the window.

      “Someone has tried to force this also. Whoever it was has failed
      to make his way in. He must have been a very poor burglar.”

      “This is a most extraordinary thing,” said the inspector, “I
      could swear that these marks were not here yesterday evening.”

      “Some curious person from the village, perhaps,” I suggested.

      “Very unlikely. Few of them would dare to set foot in the
      grounds, far less try to force their way into the cabin. What do
      you think of it, Mr. Holmes?”

      “I think that fortune is very kind to us.”

      “You mean that the person will come again?”

      “It is very probable. He came expecting to find the door open. He
      tried to get in with the blade of a very small penknife. He could
      not manage it. What would he do?”

      “Come again next night with a more useful tool.”

      “So I should say. It will be our fault if we are not there to
      receive him. Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin.”

      The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the furniture
      within the little room still stood as it had been on the night of
      the crime. For two hours, with most intense concentration, Holmes
      examined every object in turn, but his face showed that his quest
      was not a successful one. Once only he paused in his patient
      investigation.

      “Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?”

      “No, I have moved nothing.”

      “Something has been taken. There is less dust in this corner of
      the shelf than elsewhere. It may have been a book lying on its
      side. It may have been a box. Well, well, I can do nothing more.
      Let us walk in these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few
      hours to the birds and the flowers. We shall meet you here later,
      Hopkins, and see if we can come to closer quarters with the
      gentleman who has paid this visit in the night.”

      It was past eleven o’clock when we formed our little ambuscade.
      Hopkins was for leaving the door of the hut open, but Holmes was
      of the opinion that this would rouse the suspicions of the
      stranger. The lock was a perfectly simple one, and only a strong
      blade was needed to push it back. Holmes also suggested that we
      should wait, not inside the hut, but outside it, among the bushes
      which grew round the farther window. In this way we should be
      able to watch our man if he struck a light, and see what his
      object was in this stealthy nocturnal visit.

      It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it
      something of the thrill which the hunter feels when he lies
      beside the water-pool, and waits for the coming of the thirsty
      beast of prey. What savage creature was it which might steal upon
      us out of the darkness? Was it a fierce tiger of crime, which
      could only be taken fighting hard with flashing fang and claw, or
      would it prove to be some skulking jackal, dangerous only to the
      weak and unguarded?

      In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting for
      whatever might come. At first the steps of a few belated
      villagers, or the sound of voices from the village, lightened our
      vigil, but one by one these interruptions died away, and an
      absolute stillness fell upon us, save for the chimes of the
      distant church, which told us of the progress of the night, and
      for the rustle and whisper of a fine rain falling amid the
      foliage which roofed us in.

      Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which
      precedes the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click
      came from the direction of the gate. Someone had entered the
      drive. Again there was a long silence, and I had begun to fear
      that it was a false alarm, when a stealthy step was heard upon
      the other side of the hut, and a moment later a metallic scraping
      and clinking. The man was trying to force the lock. This time his
      skill was greater or his tool was better, for there was a sudden
      snap and the creak of the hinges. Then a match was struck, and
      next instant the steady light from a candle filled the interior
      of the hut. Through the gauze curtain our eyes were all riveted
      upon the scene within.

      The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a
      black moustache, which intensified the deadly pallor of his face.
      He could not have been much above twenty years of age. I have
      never seen any human being who appeared to be in such a pitiable
      fright, for his teeth were visibly chattering, and he was shaking
      in every limb. He was dressed like a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket
      and knickerbockers, with a cloth cap upon his head. We watched
      him staring round with frightened eyes. Then he laid the
      candle-end upon the table and disappeared from our view into one
      of the corners. He returned with a large book, one of the
      logbooks which formed a line upon the shelves. Leaning on the
      table, he rapidly turned over the leaves of this volume until he
      came to the entry which he sought. Then, with an angry gesture of
      his clenched hand, he closed the book, replaced it in the corner,
      and put out the light. He had hardly turned to leave the hut when
      Hopkin’s hand was on the fellow’s collar, and I heard his loud
      gasp of terror as he understood that he was taken. The candle was
      relit, and there was our wretched captive, shivering and cowering
      in the grasp of the detective. He sank down upon the sea-chest,
      and looked helplessly from one of us to the other.

      “Now, my fine fellow,” said Stanley Hopkins, “who are you, and
      what do you want here?”

      The man pulled himself together, and faced us with an effort at
      self-composure.

      “You are detectives, I suppose?” said he. “You imagine I am
      connected with the death of Captain Peter Carey. I assure you
      that I am innocent.”

      “We’ll see about that,” said Hopkins. “First of all, what is your
      name?”

      “It is John Hopley Neligan.”

      I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.

      “What are you doing here?”

      “Can I speak confidentially?”

      “No, certainly not.”

      “Why should I tell you?”

      “If you have no answer, it may go badly with you at the trial.”

      The young man winced.

      “Well, I will tell you,” he said. “Why should I not? And yet I
      hate to think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life.
      Did you ever hear of Dawson and Neligan?”

      I could see, from Hopkins’s face, that he never had, but Holmes
      was keenly interested.

      “You mean the West Country bankers,” said he. “They failed for a
      million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall, and Neligan
      disappeared.”

      “Exactly. Neligan was my father.”

      At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a
      long gap between an absconding banker and Captain Peter Carey
      pinned against the wall with one of his own harpoons. We all
      listened intently to the young man’s words.

      “It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson had retired. I
      was only ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to
      feel the shame and horror of it all. It has always been said that
      my father stole all the securities and fled. It is not true. It
      was his belief that if he were given time in which to realize
      them, all would be well and every creditor paid in full. He
      started in his little yacht for Norway just before the warrant
      was issued for his arrest. I can remember that last night when he
      bade farewell to my mother. He left us a list of the securities
      he was taking, and he swore that he would come back with his
      honour cleared, and that none who had trusted him would suffer.
      Well, no word was ever heard from him again. Both the yacht and
      he vanished utterly. We believed, my mother and I, that he and
      it, with the securities that he had taken with him, were at the
      bottom of the sea. We had a faithful friend, however, who is a
      business man, and it was he who discovered some time ago that
      some of the securities which my father had with him had
      reappeared on the London market. You can imagine our amazement. I
      spent months in trying to trace them, and at last, after many
      doubtings and difficulties, I discovered that the original seller
      had been Captain Peter Carey, the owner of this hut.

      “Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found that he
      had been in command of a whaler which was due to return from the
      Arctic seas at the very time when my father was crossing to
      Norway. The autumn of that year was a stormy one, and there was a
      long succession of southerly gales. My father’s yacht may well
      have been blown to the north, and there met by Captain Peter
      Carey’s ship. If that were so, what had become of my father? In
      any case, if I could prove from Peter Carey’s evidence how these
      securities came on the market it would be a proof that my father
      had not sold them, and that he had no view to personal profit
      when he took them.

      “I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the captain,
      but it was at this moment that his terrible death occurred. I
      read at the inquest a description of his cabin, in which it
      stated that the old logbooks of his vessel were preserved in it.
      It struck me that if I could see what occurred in the month of
      August, 1883, on board the _Sea Unicorn_, I might settle the
      mystery of my father’s fate. I tried last night to get at these
      logbooks, but was unable to open the door. To-night I tried again
      and succeeded, but I find that the pages which deal with that
      month have been torn from the book. It was at that moment I found
      myself a prisoner in your hands.”

      “Is that all?” asked Hopkins.

      “Yes, that is all.” His eyes shifted as he said it.

      “You have nothing else to tell us?”

      He hesitated.

      “No, there is nothing.”

      “You have not been here before last night?”

      “No.

      “Then how do you account for _that_?” cried Hopkins, as he held
      up the damning notebook, with the initials of our prisoner on the
      first leaf and the blood-stain on the cover.

      The wretched man collapsed. He sank his face in his hands, and
      trembled all over.

      “Where did you get it?” he groaned. “I did not know. I thought I
      had lost it at the hotel.”

      “That is enough,” said Hopkins, sternly. “Whatever else you have
      to say, you must say in court. You will walk down with me now to
      the police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very much obliged to
      you and to your friend for coming down to help me. As it turns
      out your presence was unnecessary, and I would have brought the
      case to this successful issue without you, but, none the less, I
      am grateful. Rooms have been reserved for you at the Brambletye
      Hotel, so we can all walk down to the village together.”

      “Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” asked Holmes, as we
      travelled back next morning.

      “I can see that you are not satisfied.”

      “Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied. At the same
      time, Stanley Hopkins’s methods do not commend themselves to me.
      I am disappointed in Stanley Hopkins. I had hoped for better
      things from him. One should always look for a possible
      alternative, and provide against it. It is the first rule of
      criminal investigation.”

      “What, then, is the alternative?”

      “The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing. It
      may give us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow
      it to the end.”

      Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He
      snatched one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a
      triumphant chuckle of laughter.

      “Excellent, Watson! The alternative develops. Have you telegraph
      forms? Just write a couple of messages for me: ‘Sumner, Shipping
      Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on, to arrive ten
      to-morrow morning.—Basil.’ That’s my name in those parts. The
      other is: ‘Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46 Lord Street, Brixton.
      Come breakfast to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if
      unable to come.—Sherlock Holmes.’ There, Watson, this infernal
      case has haunted me for ten days. I hereby banish it completely
      from my presence. To-morrow, I trust that we shall hear the last
      of it forever.”

      Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and
      we sat down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs. Hudson
      had prepared. The young detective was in high spirits at his
      success.

      “You really think that your solution must be correct?” asked
      Holmes.

      “I could not imagine a more complete case.”

      “It did not seem to me conclusive.”

      “You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask for?”

      “Does your explanation cover every point?”

      “Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the Brambletye
      Hotel on the very day of the crime. He came on the pretence of
      playing golf. His room was on the ground-floor, and he could get
      out when he liked. That very night he went down to Woodman’s Lee,
      saw Peter Carey at the hut, quarrelled with him, and killed him
      with the harpoon. Then, horrified by what he had done, he fled
      out of the hut, dropping the notebook which he had brought with
      him in order to question Peter Carey about these different
      securities. You may have observed that some of them were marked
      with ticks, and the others—the great majority—were not. Those
      which are ticked have been traced on the London market, but the
      others, presumably, were still in the possession of Carey, and
      young Neligan, according to his own account, was anxious to
      recover them in order to do the right thing by his father’s
      creditors. After his flight he did not dare to approach the hut
      again for some time, but at last he forced himself to do so in
      order to obtain the information which he needed. Surely that is
      all simple and obvious?”

      Holmes smiled and shook his head.

      “It seems to me to have only one drawback, Hopkins, and that is
      that it is intrinsically impossible. Have you tried to drive a
      harpoon through a body? No? Tut, tut my dear sir, you must really
      pay attention to these details. My friend Watson could tell you
      that I spent a whole morning in that exercise. It is no easy
      matter, and requires a strong and practised arm. But this blow
      was delivered with such violence that the head of the weapon sank
      deep into the wall. Do you imagine that this anæmic youth was
      capable of so frightful an assault? Is he the man who hobnobbed
      in rum and water with Black Peter in the dead of the night? Was
      it his profile that was seen on the blind two nights before? No,
      no, Hopkins, it is another and more formidable person for whom we
      must seek.”

      The detective’s face had grown longer and longer during Holmes’s
      speech. His hopes and his ambitions were all crumbling about him.
      But he would not abandon his position without a struggle.

      “You can’t deny that Neligan was present that night, Mr. Holmes.
      The book will prove that. I fancy that I have evidence enough to
      satisfy a jury, even if you are able to pick a hole in it.
      Besides, Mr. Holmes, I have laid my hand upon _my_ man. As to
      this terrible person of yours, where is he?”

      “I rather fancy that he is on the stair,” said Holmes, serenely.
      “I think, Watson, that you would do well to put that revolver
      where you can reach it.” He rose and laid a written paper upon a
      side-table. “Now we are ready,” said he.

      There had been some talking in gruff voices outside, and now Mrs.
      Hudson opened the door to say that there were three men inquiring
      for Captain Basil.

      “Show them in one by one,” said Holmes.

      “The first who entered was a little Ribston pippin of a man, with
      ruddy cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers. Holmes had drawn a
      letter from his pocket.

      “What name?” he asked.

      “James Lancaster.”

      “I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full. Here is half a
      sovereign for your trouble. Just step into this room and wait
      there for a few minutes.”

      The second man was a long, dried-up creature, with lank hair and
      sallow cheeks. His name was Hugh Pattins. He also received his
      dismissal, his half-sovereign, and the order to wait.

      The third applicant was a man of remarkable appearance. A fierce
      bull-dog face was framed in a tangle of hair and beard, and two
      bold, dark eyes gleamed behind the cover of thick, tufted,
      overhung eyebrows. He saluted and stood sailor-fashion, turning
      his cap round in his hands.

      “Your name?” asked Holmes.

      “Patrick Cairns.”

      “Harpooner?”

      “Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages.”

      “Dundee, I suppose?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “And ready to start with an exploring ship?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “What wages?”

      “Eight pounds a month.”

      “Could you start at once?”

      “As soon as I get my kit.”

      “Have you your papers?”

      “Yes, sir.” He took a sheaf of worn and greasy forms from his
      pocket. Holmes glanced over them and returned them.

      “You are just the man I want,” said he. “Here’s the agreement on
      the side-table. If you sign it the whole matter will be settled.”

      The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.

      “Shall I sign here?” he asked, stooping over the table.

      Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over his
      neck.

      “This will do,” said he.

      I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull. The
      next instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground
      together. He was a man of such gigantic strength that, even with
      the handcuffs which Holmes had so deftly fastened upon his
      wrists, he would have very quickly overpowered my friend had
      Hopkins and I not rushed to his rescue. Only when I pressed the
      cold muzzle of the revolver to his temple did he at last
      understand that resistance was vain. We lashed his ankles with
      cord, and rose breathless from the struggle.

      “I must really apologize, Hopkins,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I fear
      that the scrambled eggs are cold. However, you will enjoy the
      rest of your breakfast all the better, will you not, for the
      thought that you have brought your case to a triumphant
      conclusion.”

      Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.

      “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Holmes,” he blurted out at last,
      with a very red face. “It seems to me that I have been making a
      fool of myself from the beginning. I understand now, what I
      should never have forgotten, that I am the pupil and you are the
      master. Even now I see what you have done, but I don’t know how
      you did it or what it signifies.”

      “Well, well,” said Holmes, good-humouredly. “We all learn by
      experience, and your lesson this time is that you should never
      lose sight of the alternative. You were so absorbed in young
      Neligan that you could not spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the
      true murderer of Peter Carey.”

      The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.

      “See here, mister,” said he, “I make no complaint of being
      man-handled in this fashion, but I would have you call things by
      their right names. You say I murdered Peter Carey, I say I
      _killed_ Peter Carey, and there’s all the difference. Maybe you
      don’t believe what I say. Maybe you think I am just slinging you
      a yarn.”

      “Not at all,” said Holmes. “Let us hear what you have to say.”

      “It’s soon told, and, by the Lord, every word of it is truth. I
      knew Black Peter, and when he pulled out his knife I whipped a
      harpoon through him sharp, for I knew that it was him or me.
      That’s how he died. You can call it murder. Anyhow, I’d as soon
      die with a rope round my neck as with Black Peter’s knife in my
      heart.”

      “How came you there?” asked Holmes.

      “I’ll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit me up a little, so
      as I can speak easy. It was in ’83 that it happened—August of
      that year. Peter Carey was master of the _Sea Unicorn_, and I was
      spare harpooner. We were coming out of the ice-pack on our way
      home, with head winds and a week’s southerly gale, when we picked
      up a little craft that had been blown north. There was one man on
      her—a landsman. The crew had thought she would founder and had
      made for the Norwegian coast in the dinghy. I guess they were all
      drowned. Well, we took him on board, this man, and he and the
      skipper had some long talks in the cabin. All the baggage we took
      off with him was one tin box. So far as I know, the man’s name
      was never mentioned, and on the second night he disappeared as if
      he had never been. It was given out that he had either thrown
      himself overboard or fallen overboard in the heavy weather that
      we were having. Only one man knew what had happened to him, and
      that was me, for, with my own eyes, I saw the skipper tip up his
      heels and put him over the rail in the middle watch of a dark
      night, two days before we sighted the Shetland Lights. Well, I
      kept my knowledge to myself, and waited to see what would come of
      it. When we got back to Scotland it was easily hushed up, and
      nobody asked any questions. A stranger died by accident and it
      was nobody’s business to inquire. Shortly after Peter Carey gave
      up the sea, and it was long years before I could find where he
      was. I guessed that he had done the deed for the sake of what was
      in that tin box, and that he could afford now to pay me well for
      keeping my mouth shut. I found out where he was through a sailor
      man that had met him in London, and down I went to squeeze him.
      The first night he was reasonable enough, and was ready to give
      me what would make me free of the sea for life. We were to fix it
      all two nights later. When I came, I found him three parts drunk
      and in a vile temper. We sat down and we drank and we yarned
      about old times, but the more he drank the less I liked the look
      on his face. I spotted that harpoon upon the wall, and I thought
      I might need it before I was through. Then at last he broke out
      at me, spitting and cursing, with murder in his eyes and a great
      clasp-knife in his hand. He had not time to get it from the
      sheath before I had the harpoon through him. Heavens! what a yell
      he gave! and his face gets between me and my sleep. I stood
      there, with his blood splashing round me, and I waited for a bit,
      but all was quiet, so I took heart once more. I looked round, and
      there was the tin box on the shelf. I had as much right to it as
      Peter Carey, anyhow, so I took it with me and left the hut. Like
      a fool I left my baccy-pouch upon the table.

      “Now I’ll tell you the queerest part of the whole story. I had
      hardly got outside the hut when I heard someone coming, and I hid
      among the bushes. A man came slinking along, went into the hut,
      gave a cry as if he had seen a ghost, and legged it as hard as he
      could run until he was out of sight. Who he was or what he wanted
      is more than I can tell. For my part I walked ten miles, got a
      train at Tunbridge Wells, and so reached London, and no one the
      wiser.

      “Well, when I came to examine the box I found there was no money
      in it, and nothing but papers that I would not dare to sell. I
      had lost my hold on Black Peter and was stranded in London
      without a shilling. There was only my trade left. I saw these
      advertisements about harpooners, and high wages, so I went to the
      shipping agents, and they sent me here. That’s all I know, and I
      say again that if I killed Black Peter, the law should give me
      thanks, for I saved them the price of a hempen rope.”

      “A very clear statement said Holmes,” rising and lighting his
      pipe. “I think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time in
      conveying your prisoner to a place of safety. This room is not
      well adapted for a cell, and Mr. Patrick Cairns occupies too
      large a proportion of our carpet.”

      “Mr. Holmes,” said Hopkins, “I do not know how to express my
      gratitude. Even now I do not understand how you attained this
      result.”

      “Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue from the
      beginning. It is very possible if I had known about this notebook
      it might have led away my thoughts, as it did yours. But all I
      heard pointed in the one direction. The amazing strength, the
      skill in the use of the harpoon, the rum and water, the sealskin
      tobacco-pouch with the coarse tobacco—all these pointed to a
      seaman, and one who had been a whaler. I was convinced that the
      initials ‘P.C.’ upon the pouch were a coincidence, and not those
      of Peter Carey, since he seldom smoked, and no pipe was found in
      his cabin. You remember that I asked whether whisky and brandy
      were in the cabin. You said they were. How many landsmen are
      there who would drink rum when they could get these other
      spirits? Yes, I was certain it was a seaman.”

      “And how did you find him?”

      “My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If it
      were a seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with him on
      the _Sea Unicorn_. So far as I could learn he had sailed in no
      other ship. I spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the
      end of that time I had ascertained the names of the crew of the
      _Sea Unicorn_ in 1883. When I found Patrick Cairns among the
      harpooners, my research was nearing its end. I argued that the
      man was probably in London, and that he would desire to leave the
      country for a time. I therefore spent some days in the East End,
      devised an Arctic expedition, put forth tempting terms for
      harpooners who would serve under Captain Basil—and behold the
      result!”

      “Wonderful!” cried Hopkins. “Wonderful!”

      “You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as
      possible,” said Holmes. “I confess that I think you owe him some
      apology. The tin box must be returned to him, but, of course, the
      securities which Peter Carey has sold are lost forever. There’s
      the cab, Hopkins, and you can remove your man. If you want me for
      the trial, my address and that of Watson will be somewhere in
      Norway—I’ll send particulars later.”





