


On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have
during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend Sherlock
Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely strange,
but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the love of his
art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to associate himself
with any investigation which did not tend towards the unusual, and even
the fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any
which presented more singular features than that which was associated
with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The
events in question occurred in the early days of my association with
Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in Baker Street. It is
possible that I might have placed them upon record before, but a
promise of secrecy was made at the time, from which I have only been
freed during the last month by the untimely death of the lady to whom
the pledge was given. It is perhaps as well that the facts should now
come to light, for I have reasons to know that there are widespread
rumours as to the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the
matter even more terrible than the truth.

It was early in April in the year ’83 that I woke one morning to find
Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was
a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece showed me
that it was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him in some
surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was myself
regular in my habits.

“Very sorry to knock you up, Watson,” said he, “but it’s the common lot
this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon me,
and I on you.”

“What is it, then—a fire?”

“No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a considerable
state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in
the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about the metropolis at
this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up out of their beds,
I presume that it is something very pressing which they have to
communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am
sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I
should call you and give you the chance.”

“My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything.”

I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional
investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as
intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis with which he
unravelled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw on
my clothes and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend down
to the sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who
had been sitting in the window, rose as we entered.

“Good-morning, madam,” said Holmes cheerily. “My name is Sherlock
Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before
whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see
that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw up
to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe that
you are shivering.”

“It is not cold which makes me shiver,” said the woman in a low voice,
changing her seat as requested.

“What, then?”

“It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror.” She raised her veil as she
spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of
agitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless frightened eyes,
like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were those of
a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature grey, and her
expression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one
of his quick, all-comprehensive glances.

“You must not fear,” said he soothingly, bending forward and patting
her forearm. “We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You
have come in by train this morning, I see.”

“You know me, then?”

“No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of
your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good
drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the
station.”

The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my
companion.

“There is no mystery, my dear madam,” said he, smiling. “The left arm
of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The
marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which
throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand
side of the driver.”

“Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,” said she. “I
started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and
came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this strain no
longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to—none,
save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little
aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs.
Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from
her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could
help me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense
darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward
you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be married,
with the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not find
me ungrateful.”

Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small
case-book, which he consulted.

“Farintosh,” said he. “Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with
an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can only say,
madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as I
did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own
reward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put
to, at the time which suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay
before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the
matter.”

“Alas!” replied our visitor, “the very horror of my situation lies in
the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so
entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that
even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and
advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a
nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his soothing
answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can
see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may
advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me.”

“I am all attention, madam.”

“My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is
the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the
Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey.”

Holmes nodded his head. “The name is familiar to me,” said he.

“The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the
estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and
Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive
heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family ruin
was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the Regency.
Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the
two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy
mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the
horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my
stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions,
obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a
medical degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional
skill and his force of character, he established a large practice. In a
fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been
perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death and
narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term
of imprisonment and afterwards returned to England a morose and
disappointed man.

“When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the
young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister
Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the time of
my mother’s re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of money—not less
than £ 1000 a year—and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely
while we resided with him, with a provision that a certain annual sum
should be allowed to each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly
after our return to England my mother died—she was killed eight years
ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his
attempts to establish himself in practice in London and took us to live
with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money which my
mother had left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed to be no
obstacle to our happiness.

“But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time.
Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours,
who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back in
the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom came
out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might cross his
path. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been hereditary in
the men of the family, and in my stepfather’s case it had, I believe,
been intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of
disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police-court,
until at last he became the terror of the village, and the folks would
fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense strength, and
absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.

“Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a stream,
and it was only by paying over all the money which I could gather
together that I was able to avert another public exposure. He had no
friends at all save the wandering gipsies, and he would give these
vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered land
which represent the family estate, and would accept in return the
hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes for
weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent
over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah and
a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds and are feared by the
villagers almost as much as their master.

“You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had no
great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and for a
long time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty at the
time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to whiten, even
as mine has.”

“Your sister is dead, then?”

“She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to
speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I have
described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and
position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother’s maiden sister, Miss
Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally
allowed to pay short visits at this lady’s house. Julia went there at
Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines, to
whom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement when
my sister returned and offered no objection to the marriage; but within
a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the
terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only companion.”

Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed
and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids now and
glanced across at his visitor.

“Pray be precise as to details,” said he.

“It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is
seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said, very
old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are
on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central block of
the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott’s, the second
my sister’s, and the third my own. There is no communication between
them, but they all open out into the same corridor. Do I make myself
plain?”

“Perfectly so.”

“The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal
night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he
had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of the
strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left her
room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time,
chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o’clock she rose to
leave me, but she paused at the door and looked back.

“‘Tell me, Helen,’ said she, ‘have you ever heard anyone whistle in the
dead of the night?’

“‘Never,’ said I.

“‘I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in your
sleep?’

“‘Certainly not. But why?’

“‘Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in the
morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it has
awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from—perhaps from the next
room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you
whether you had heard it.’

“‘No, I have not. It must be those wretched gipsies in the plantation.’

“‘Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did
not hear it also.’

“‘Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.’

“‘Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.’ She smiled back at
me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn in the
lock.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Was it your custom always to lock yourselves in
at night?”

“Always.”

“And why?”

“I think that I mentioned to you that the Doctor kept a cheetah and a
baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were locked.”

“Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement.”

“I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending misfortune
impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were twins, and you
know how subtle are the links which bind two souls which are so closely
allied. It was a wild night. The wind was howling outside, and the rain
was beating and splashing against the windows. Suddenly, amid all the
hubbub of the gale, there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified
woman. I knew that it was my sister’s voice. I sprang from my bed,
wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor. As I opened my
door I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my sister described, and a
few moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen.
As I ran down the passage, my sister’s door was unlocked, and revolved
slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing
what was about to issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I
saw my sister appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her
hands groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that
of a drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that
moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground. She
writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully
convulsed. At first I thought that she had not recognised me, but as I
bent over her she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I shall never
forget, ‘Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled band!’ There
was something else which she would fain have said, and she stabbed with
her finger into the air in the direction of the Doctor’s room, but a
fresh convulsion seized her and choked her words. I rushed out, calling
loudly for my stepfather, and I met him hastening from his room in his
dressing-gown. When he reached my sister’s side she was unconscious,
and though he poured brandy down her throat and sent for medical aid
from the village, all efforts were in vain, for she slowly sank and
died without having recovered her consciousness. Such was the dreadful
end of my beloved sister.”

“One moment,” said Holmes, “are you sure about this whistle and
metallic sound? Could you swear to it?”

“That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my
strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the gale
and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have been deceived.”

“Was your sister dressed?”

“No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the
charred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box.”

“Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the
alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the
coroner come to?”

“He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott’s conduct
had long been notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any
satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had been
fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by
old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were secured every
night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite
solid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with
the same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large
staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone when
she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence upon
her.”

“How about poison?”

“The doctors examined her for it, but without success.”

“What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?”

“It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though
what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine.”

“Were there gipsies in the plantation at the time?”

“Yes, there are nearly always some there.”

“Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band—a speckled
band?”

“Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of delirium,
sometimes that it may have referred to some band of people, perhaps to
these very gipsies in the plantation. I do not know whether the spotted
handkerchiefs which so many of them wear over their heads might have
suggested the strange adjective which she used.”

Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied.

“These are very deep waters,” said he; “pray go on with your
narrative.”

“Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately
lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have
known for many years, has done me the honour to ask my hand in
marriage. His name is Armitage—Percy Armitage—the second son of Mr.
Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My stepfather has offered no
opposition to the match, and we are to be married in the course of the
spring. Two days ago some repairs were started in the west wing of the
building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have had to
move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in the very
bed in which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror when last
night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I suddenly
heard in the silence of the night the low whistle which had been the
herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was
to be seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed again, however,
so I dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I slipped down, got a
dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead,
from whence I have come on this morning with the one object of seeing
you and asking your advice.”

“You have done wisely,” said my friend. “But have you told me all?”

“Yes, all.”

“Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed the
hand that lay upon our visitor’s knee. Five little livid spots, the
marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the white wrist.

“You have been cruelly used,” said Holmes.

The lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured wrist. “He is a
hard man,” she said, “and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength.”

There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon his
hands and stared into the crackling fire.

“This is a very deep business,” he said at last. “There are a thousand
details which I should desire to know before I decide upon our course
of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to come to
Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to see over these rooms
without the knowledge of your stepfather?”

“As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some most
important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and
that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a housekeeper now,
but she is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out of the way.”

“Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?”

“By no means.”

“Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?”

“I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in
town. But I shall return by the twelve o’clock train, so as to be there
in time for your coming.”

“And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some small
business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and breakfast?”

“No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided my
trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this
afternoon.” She dropped her thick black veil over her face and glided
from the room.

“And what do you think of it all, Watson?” asked Sherlock Holmes,
leaning back in his chair.

“It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business.”

“Dark enough and sinister enough.”

“Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are
sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then her
sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her mysterious
end.”

“What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the very
peculiar words of the dying woman?”

“I cannot think.”

“When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a
band of gipsies who are on intimate terms with this old doctor, the
fact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has an
interest in preventing his stepdaughter’s marriage, the dying allusion
to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner heard a
metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those metal bars
that secured the shutters falling back into its place, I think that
there is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along
those lines.”

“But what, then, did the gipsies do?”

“I cannot imagine.”

“I see many objections to any such theory.”

“And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to
Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal,
or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of the devil!”

The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our
door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed
himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the
professional and of the agricultural, having a black top-hat, a long
frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging in
his hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross bar of
the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from side to
side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with
the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to the
other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high, thin,
fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old bird
of prey.

“Which of you is Holmes?” asked this apparition.

“My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me,” said my companion
quietly.

“I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran.”

“Indeed, Doctor,” said Holmes blandly. “Pray take a seat.”

“I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have
traced her. What has she been saying to you?”

“It is a little cold for the time of the year,” said Holmes.

“What has she been saying to you?” screamed the old man furiously.

“But I have heard that the crocuses promise well,” continued my
companion imperturbably.

“Ha! You put me off, do you?” said our new visitor, taking a step
forward and shaking his hunting-crop. “I know you, you scoundrel! I
have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler.”

My friend smiled.

“Holmes, the busybody!”

His smile broadened.

“Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!”

Holmes chuckled heartily. “Your conversation is most entertaining,”
said he. “When you go out close the door, for there is a decided
draught.”

“I will go when I have had my say. Don’t you dare to meddle with my
affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her! I am a
dangerous man to fall foul of! See here.” He stepped swiftly forward,
seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands.

“See that you keep yourself out of my grip,” he snarled, and hurling
the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the room.

“He seems a very amiable person,” said Holmes, laughing. “I am not
quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my
grip was not much more feeble than his own.” As he spoke he picked up
the steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again.

“Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official
detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation,
however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from
her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson, we
shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to Doctors’
Commons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in this
matter.”

It was nearly one o’clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his
excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over
with notes and figures.

“I have seen the will of the deceased wife,” said he. “To determine its
exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the present prices of the
investments with which it is concerned. The total income, which at the
time of the wife’s death was little short of £ 1,100, is now, through
the fall in agricultural prices, not more than £ 750. Each daughter can
claim an income of £ 250, in case of marriage. It is evident,
therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would have had a
mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to a very
serious extent. My morning’s work has not been wasted, since it has
proved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in the way
of anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious for
dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are interesting
ourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, we shall call a cab and
drive to Waterloo. I should be very much obliged if you would slip your
revolver into your pocket. An Eley’s No. 2 is an excellent argument
with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a
tooth-brush are, I think, all that we need.”

At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead,
where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove for four or five
miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a
bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and
wayside hedges were just throwing out their first green shoots, and the
air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me at least
there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the spring
and this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My companion sat in
the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over his
eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the deepest thought.
Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed
over the meadows.

“Look there!” said he.

A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening into
a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches there jutted out
the grey gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion.

“Stoke Moran?” said he.

“Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott,” remarked the
driver.

“There is some building going on there,” said Holmes; “that is where we
are going.”

“There’s the village,” said the driver, pointing to a cluster of roofs
some distance to the left; “but if you want to get to the house, you’ll
find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the footpath over the
fields. There it is, where the lady is walking.”

“And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner,” observed Holmes, shading his
eyes. “Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest.”

We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to
Leatherhead.

“I thought it as well,” said Holmes as we climbed the stile, “that this
fellow should think we had come here as architects, or on some definite
business. It may stop his gossip. Good-afternoon, Miss Stoner. You see
that we have been as good as our word.”

Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a face
which spoke her joy. “I have been waiting so eagerly for you,” she
cried, shaking hands with us warmly. “All has turned out splendidly.
Dr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he will be back
before evening.”

“We have had the pleasure of making the Doctor’s acquaintance,” said
Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had occurred. Miss
Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened.

“Good heavens!” she cried, “he has followed me, then.”

“So it appears.”

“He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What will
he say when he returns?”

“He must guard himself, for he may find that there is someone more
cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from him
to-night. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt’s at
Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our time, so kindly take us
at once to the rooms which we are to examine.”

The building was of grey, lichen-blotched stone, with a high central
portion and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab, thrown out on
each side. In one of these wings the windows were broken and blocked
with wooden boards, while the roof was partly caved in, a picture of
ruin. The central portion was in little better repair, but the
right-hand block was comparatively modern, and the blinds in the
windows, with the blue smoke curling up from the chimneys, showed that
this was where the family resided. Some scaffolding had been erected
against the end wall, and the stone-work had been broken into, but
there were no signs of any workmen at the moment of our visit. Holmes
walked slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn and examined with deep
attention the outsides of the windows.

“This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep, the
centre one to your sister’s, and the one next to the main building to
Dr. Roylott’s chamber?”

“Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one.”

“Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there does not
seem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that end wall.”

“There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me from my
room.”

“Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing
runs the corridor from which these three rooms open. There are windows
in it, of course?”

“Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone to pass through.”

“As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were unapproachable
from that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go into your room
and bar your shutters?”

Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination through the
open window, endeavoured in every way to force the shutter open, but
without success. There was no slit through which a knife could be
passed to raise the bar. Then with his lens he tested the hinges, but
they were of solid iron, built firmly into the massive masonry. “Hum!”
said he, scratching his chin in some perplexity, “my theory certainly
presents some difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if they
were bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws any light upon the
matter.”

A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor from which the
three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third chamber, so
we passed at once to the second, that in which Miss Stoner was now
sleeping, and in which her sister had met with her fate. It was a
homely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after
the fashion of old country-houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in
one corner, a narrow white-counterpaned bed in another, and a
dressing-table on the left-hand side of the window. These articles,
with two small wicker-work chairs, made up all the furniture in the
room save for a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards round
and the panelling of the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak, so old
and discoloured that it may have dated from the original building of
the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner and sat silent,
while his eyes travelled round and round and up and down, taking in
every detail of the apartment.

“Where does that bell communicate with?” he asked at last pointing to a
thick bell-rope which hung down beside the bed, the tassel actually
lying upon the pillow.

“It goes to the housekeeper’s room.”

“It looks newer than the other things?”

“Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago.”

“Your sister asked for it, I suppose?”

“No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get what we
wanted for ourselves.”

“Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull there. You
will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this
floor.” He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in his hand
and crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining minutely the cracks
between the boards. Then he did the same with the wood-work with which
the chamber was panelled. Finally he walked over to the bed and spent
some time in staring at it and in running his eye up and down the wall.
Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave it a brisk tug.

“Why, it’s a dummy,” said he.

“Won’t it ring?”

“No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting. You
can see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where the little
opening for the ventilator is.”

“How very absurd! I never noticed that before.”

“Very strange!” muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. “There are one or
two very singular points about this room. For example, what a fool a
builder must be to open a ventilator into another room, when, with the
same trouble, he might have communicated with the outside air!”

“That is also quite modern,” said the lady.

“Done about the same time as the bell-rope?” remarked Holmes.

“Yes, there were several little changes carried out about that time.”

“They seem to have been of a most interesting character—dummy
bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your
permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into the
inner apartment.”

Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s chamber was larger than that of his
step-daughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small wooden
shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character, an armchair
beside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall, a round table,
and a large iron safe were the principal things which met the eye.
Holmes walked slowly round and examined each and all of them with the
keenest interest.

“What’s in here?” he asked, tapping the safe.

“My stepfather’s business papers.”

“Oh! you have seen inside, then?”

“Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers.”

“There isn’t a cat in it, for example?”

“No. What a strange idea!”

“Well, look at this!” He took up a small saucer of milk which stood on
the top of it.

“No; we don’t keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a baboon.”

“Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet a
saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I daresay.
There is one point which I should wish to determine.” He squatted down
in front of the wooden chair and examined the seat of it with the
greatest attention.

“Thank you. That is quite settled,” said he, rising and putting his
lens in his pocket. “Hullo! Here is something interesting!”

The object which had caught his eye was a small dog lash hung on one
corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself and tied
so as to make a loop of whipcord.

“What do you make of that, Watson?”

“It’s a common enough lash. But I don’t know why it should be tied.”

“That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it’s a wicked world, and
when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst of all. I
think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your
permission we shall walk out upon the lawn.”

I had never seen my friend’s face so grim or his brow so dark as it was
when we turned from the scene of this investigation. We had walked
several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor myself
liking to break in upon his thoughts before he roused himself from his
reverie.

“It is very essential, Miss Stoner,” said he, “that you should
absolutely follow my advice in every respect.”

“I shall most certainly do so.”

“The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend
upon your compliance.”

“I assure you that I am in your hands.”

“In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in your
room.”

Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.

“Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the village
inn over there?”

“Yes, that is the Crown.”

“Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?”

“Certainly.”

“You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a headache,
when your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him retire for the
night, you must open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp, put
your lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw quietly with
everything which you are likely to want into the room which you used to
occupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could manage
there for one night.”

“Oh, yes, easily.”

“The rest you will leave in our hands.”

“But what will you do?”

“We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate the
cause of this noise which has disturbed you.”

“I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind,” said
Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion’s sleeve.

“Perhaps I have.”

“Then, for pity’s sake, tell me what was the cause of my sister’s
death.”

“I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak.”

“You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and if she
died from some sudden fright.”

“No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more
tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you for if Dr.
Roylott returned and saw us our journey would be in vain. Good-bye, and
be brave, for if you will do what I have told you, you may rest assured
that we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you.”

Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and
sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and from
our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and of the
inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw Dr. Grimesby
Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside the little figure
of the lad who drove him. The boy had some slight difficulty in undoing
the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse roar of the Doctor’s
voice and saw the fury with which he shook his clinched fists at him.
The trap drove on, and a few minutes later we saw a sudden light spring
up among the trees as the lamp was lit in one of the sitting-rooms.

“Do you know, Watson,” said Holmes as we sat together in the gathering
darkness, “I have really some scruples as to taking you to-night. There
is a distinct element of danger.”

“Can I be of assistance?”

“Your presence might be invaluable.”

“Then I shall certainly come.”

“It is very kind of you.”

“You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these rooms than
was visible to me.”

“No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine that
you saw all that I did.”

“I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose that
could answer I confess is more than I can imagine.”

“You saw the ventilator, too?”

“Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have a
small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a rat could
hardly pass through.”

“I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came to Stoke
Moran.”

“My dear Holmes!”

“Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that her sister
could smell Dr. Roylott’s cigar. Now, of course that suggested at once
that there must be a communication between the two rooms. It could only
be a small one, or it would have been remarked upon at the coroner’s
inquiry. I deduced a ventilator.”

“But what harm can there be in that?”

“Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator
is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does
not that strike you?”

“I cannot as yet see any connection.”

“Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?”

“No.”

“It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like that
before?”

“I cannot say that I have.”

“The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same
relative position to the ventilator and to the rope—or so we may call
it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull.”

“Holmes,” I cried, “I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We are
only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime.”

“Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong he is
the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and
Pritchard were among the heads of their profession. This man strikes
even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike
deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough before the night is
over; for goodness’ sake let us have a quiet pipe and turn our minds
for a few hours to something more cheerful.”

About nine o’clock the light among the trees was extinguished, and all
was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours passed slowly
away, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a single bright
light shone out right in front of us.

“That is our signal,” said Holmes, springing to his feet; “it comes
from the middle window.”

As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the landlord, explaining
that we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance, and that it was
possible that we might spend the night there. A moment later we were
out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our faces, and one yellow
light twinkling in front of us through the gloom to guide us on our
sombre errand.

There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for unrepaired
breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way among the trees, we
reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the
window when out from a clump of laurel bushes there darted what seemed
to be a hideous and distorted child, who threw itself upon the grass
with writhing limbs and then ran swiftly across the lawn into the
darkness.

“My God!” I whispered; “did you see it?”

Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed like a vice
upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low laugh and put
his lips to my ear.

“It is a nice household,” he murmured. “That is the baboon.”

I had forgotten the strange pets which the Doctor affected. There was a
cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders at any
moment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after following
Holmes’ example and slipping off my shoes, I found myself inside the
bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp
onto the table, and cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had
seen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet of
his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all that
I could do to distinguish the words:

“The least sound would be fatal to our plans.”

I nodded to show that I had heard.

“We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator.”

I nodded again.

“Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your pistol
ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the bed, and
you in that chair.”

I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table.

Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon the bed
beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and the stump of a candle.
Then he turned down the lamp, and we were left in darkness.

How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a sound,
not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my companion sat
open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same state of nervous
tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut off the least ray of
light, and we waited in absolute darkness.

From outside came the occasional cry of a night-bird, and once at our
very window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us that the cheetah
was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the deep tones of the
parish clock, which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How long they
seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and one and two and three, and
still we sat waiting silently for whatever might befall.

Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the direction
of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a
strong smell of burning oil and heated metal. Someone in the next room
had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement, and then
all was silent once more, though the smell grew stronger. For half an
hour I sat with straining ears. Then suddenly another sound became
audible—a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small jet of
steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that we heard it,
Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed furiously with
his cane at the bell-pull.

“You see it, Watson?” he yelled. “You see it?”

But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I heard a
low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary eyes
made it impossible for me to tell what it was at which my friend lashed
so savagely. I could, however, see that his face was deadly pale and
filled with horror and loathing. He had ceased to strike and was gazing
up at the ventilator when suddenly there broke from the silence of the
night the most horrible cry to which I have ever listened. It swelled
up louder and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and fear and anger all
mingled in the one dreadful shriek. They say that away down in the
village, and even in the distant parsonage, that cry raised the
sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts, and I stood
gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of it had died
away into the silence from which it rose.

“What can it mean?” I gasped.

“It means that it is all over,” Holmes answered. “And perhaps, after
all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr.
Roylott’s room.”

With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor.
Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply from within. Then
he turned the handle and entered, I at his heels, with the cocked
pistol in my hand.

It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a
dark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant beam of
light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside this
table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott clad in a long
grey dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and his feet
thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the short
stock with the long lash which we had noticed during the day. His chin
was cocked upward and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid stare at
the corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a peculiar yellow
band, with brownish speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly round
his head. As we entered he made neither sound nor motion.

“The band! the speckled band!” whispered Holmes.

I took a step forward. In an instant his strange headgear began to
move, and there reared itself from among his hair the squat
diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent.

“It is a swamp adder!” cried Holmes; “the deadliest snake in India. He
has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in truth,
recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he
digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its den, and we
can then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and let the county
police know what has happened.”

As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man’s lap, and
throwing the noose round the reptile’s neck he drew it from its horrid
perch and, carrying it at arm’s length, threw it into the iron safe,
which he closed upon it.

Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke
Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative which has
already run to too great a length by telling how we broke the sad news
to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the morning train to the
care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow process of official
inquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor met his fate while
indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet
to learn of the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled
back next day.

“I had,” said he, “come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which
shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from
insufficient data. The presence of the gipsies, and the use of the word
‘band,’ which was used by the poor girl, no doubt, to explain the
appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of by the light of
her match, were sufficient to put me upon an entirely wrong scent. I
can only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my position
when, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened an
occupant of the room could not come either from the window or the door.
My attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to you, to
this ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the bed. The
discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped to the
floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the rope was there as
a bridge for something passing through the hole and coming to the bed.
The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and when I coupled it
with my knowledge that the doctor was furnished with a supply of
creatures from India, I felt that I was probably on the right track.
The idea of using a form of poison which could not possibly be
discovered by any chemical test was just such a one as would occur to a
clever and ruthless man who had had an Eastern training. The rapidity
with which such a poison would take effect would also, from his point
of view, be an advantage. It would be a sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who
could distinguish the two little dark punctures which would show where
the poison fangs had done their work. Then I thought of the whistle. Of
course he must recall the snake before the morning light revealed it to
the victim. He had trained it, probably by the use of the milk which we
saw, to return to him when summoned. He would put it through this
ventilator at the hour that he thought best, with the certainty that it
would crawl down the rope and land on the bed. It might or might not
bite the occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but
sooner or later she must fall a victim.

“I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his room. An
inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in the habit of
standing on it, which of course would be necessary in order that he
should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the saucer of milk,
and the loop of whipcord were enough to finally dispel any doubts which
may have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss Stoner was
obviously caused by her stepfather hastily closing the door of his safe
upon its terrible occupant. Having once made up my mind, you know the
steps which I took in order to put the matter to the proof. I heard the
creature hiss as I have no doubt that you did also, and I instantly lit
the light and attacked it.”

“With the result of driving it through the ventilator.”

“And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master at the
other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and roused its
snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this
way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s
death, and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon my
conscience.”




IX. 
