


We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the maid
brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran in this way:

“Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from the
west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall be
glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave
Paddington by the 11:15.”

“What do you say, dear?” said my wife, looking across at me. “Will you
go?”

“I really don’t know what to say. I have a fairly long list at
present.”

“Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking a
little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good, and you
are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes’ cases.”

“I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained through one
of them,” I answered. “But if I am to go, I must pack at once, for I
have only half an hour.”

My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the effect
of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were few and
simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a cab with my
valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock Holmes was pacing
up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt figure made even gaunter and
taller by his long grey travelling-cloak and close-fitting cloth cap.

“It is really very good of you to come, Watson,” said he. “It makes a
considerable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can
thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or else biassed.
If you will keep the two corner seats I shall get the tickets.”

We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of papers
which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged and read,
with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until we were past
Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a gigantic ball and
tossed them up onto the rack.

“Have you heard anything of the case?” he asked.

“Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days.”

“The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been
looking through all the recent papers in order to master the
particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple
cases which are so extremely difficult.”

“That sounds a little paradoxical.”

“But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clue.
The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it
is to bring it home. In this case, however, they have established a
very serious case against the son of the murdered man.”

“It is a murder, then?”

“Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for granted
until I have the opportunity of looking personally into it. I will
explain the state of things to you, as far as I have been able to
understand it, in a very few words.

“Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in
Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr. John
Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned some years ago to
the old country. One of the farms which he held, that of Hatherley, was
let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an ex-Australian. The men had
known each other in the colonies, so that it was not unnatural that
when they came to settle down they should do so as near each other as
possible. Turner was apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his
tenant but still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect equality, as
they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen,
and Turner had an only daughter of the same age, but neither of them
had wives living. They appear to have avoided the society of the
neighbouring English families and to have led retired lives, though
both the McCarthys were fond of sport and were frequently seen at the
race-meetings of the neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants—a man
and a girl. Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen at the
least. That is as much as I have been able to gather about the
families. Now for the facts.

“On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at
Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the Boscombe
Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out of the stream
which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out with his
serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the man that he
must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to keep at three.
From that appointment he never came back alive.

“From Hatherley Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a mile,
and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an old
woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William Crowder,
a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both these witnesses depose
that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The game-keeper adds that within a
few minutes of his seeing Mr. McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr.
James McCarthy, going the same way with a gun under his arm. To the
best of his belief, the father was actually in sight at the time, and
the son was following him. He thought no more of the matter until he
heard in the evening of the tragedy that had occurred.

“The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder, the
game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly wooded
round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the edge. A girl
of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the lodge-keeper of
the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the woods picking flowers.
She states that while she was there she saw, at the border of the wood
and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared
to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using
very strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his
hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by their
violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached home
that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling near Boscombe Pool, and
that she was afraid that they were going to fight. She had hardly said
the words when young Mr. McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say
that he had found his father dead in the wood, and to ask for the help
of the lodge-keeper. He was much excited, without either his gun or his
hat, and his right hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with
fresh blood. On following him they found the dead body stretched out
upon the grass beside the pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated
blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as might
very well have been inflicted by the butt-end of his son’s gun, which
was found lying on the grass within a few paces of the body. Under
these circumstances the young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict
of ‘wilful murder’ having been returned at the inquest on Tuesday, he
was on Wednesday brought before the magistrates at Ross, who have
referred the case to the next Assizes. Those are the main facts of the
case as they came out before the coroner and the police-court.”

“I could hardly imagine a more damning case,” I remarked. “If ever
circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so here.”

“Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing,” answered Holmes
thoughtfully. “It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if
you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in
an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different. It
must be confessed, however, that the case looks exceedingly grave
against the young man, and it is very possible that he is indeed the
culprit. There are several people in the neighbourhood, however, and
among them Miss Turner, the daughter of the neighbouring landowner, who
believe in his innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you may
recollect in connection with the Study in Scarlet, to work out the case
in his interest. Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the case
to me, and hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are flying
westward at fifty miles an hour instead of quietly digesting their
breakfasts at home.”

“I am afraid,” said I, “that the facts are so obvious that you will
find little credit to be gained out of this case.”

“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,” he answered,
laughing. “Besides, we may chance to hit upon some other obvious facts
which may have been by no means obvious to Mr. Lestrade. You know me
too well to think that I am boasting when I say that I shall either
confirm or destroy his theory by means which he is quite incapable of
employing, or even of understanding. To take the first example to hand,
I very clearly perceive that in your bedroom the window is upon the
right-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade would have
noted even so self-evident a thing as that.”

“How on earth—”

“My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness which
characterises you. You shave every morning, and in this season you
shave by the sunlight; but since your shaving is less and less complete
as we get farther back on the left side, until it becomes positively
slovenly as we get round the angle of the jaw, it is surely very clear
that that side is less illuminated than the other. I could not imagine
a man of your habits looking at himself in an equal light and being
satisfied with such a result. I only quote this as a trivial example of
observation and inference. Therein lies my _métier_, and it is just
possible that it may be of some service in the investigation which lies
before us. There are one or two minor points which were brought out in
the inquest, and which are worth considering.”

“What are they?”

“It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after the
return to Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of constabulary informing
him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised to
hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts. This observation of
his had the natural effect of removing any traces of doubt which might
have remained in the minds of the coroner’s jury.”

“It was a confession,” I ejaculated.

“No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence.”

“Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at least
a most suspicious remark.”

“On the contrary,” said Holmes, “it is the brightest rift which I can
at present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be, he could
not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the circumstances
were very black against him. Had he appeared surprised at his own
arrest, or feigned indignation at it, I should have looked upon it as
highly suspicious, because such surprise or anger would not be natural
under the circumstances, and yet might appear to be the best policy to
a scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation marks him as
either an innocent man, or else as a man of considerable self-restraint
and firmness. As to his remark about his deserts, it was also not
unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the dead body of his
father, and that there is no doubt that he had that very day so far
forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words with him, and even,
according to the little girl whose evidence is so important, to raise
his hand as if to strike him. The self-reproach and contrition which
are displayed in his remark appear to me to be the signs of a healthy
mind rather than of a guilty one.”

I shook my head. “Many men have been hanged on far slighter evidence,”
I remarked.

“So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged.”

“What is the young man’s own account of the matter?”

“It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters, though
there are one or two points in it which are suggestive. You will find
it here, and may read it for yourself.”

He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire paper,
and having turned down the sheet he pointed out the paragraph in which
the unfortunate young man had given his own statement of what had
occurred. I settled myself down in the corner of the carriage and read
it very carefully. It ran in this way:

“Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called and
gave evidence as follows: ‘I had been away from home for three days at
Bristol, and had only just returned upon the morning of last Monday,
the 3rd. My father was absent from home at the time of my arrival, and
I was informed by the maid that he had driven over to Ross with John
Cobb, the groom. Shortly after my return I heard the wheels of his trap
in the yard, and, looking out of my window, I saw him get out and walk
rapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware in which direction he
was going. I then took my gun and strolled out in the direction of the
Boscombe Pool, with the intention of visiting the rabbit warren which
is upon the other side. On my way I saw William Crowder, the
game-keeper, as he had stated in his evidence; but he is mistaken in
thinking that I was following my father. I had no idea that he was in
front of me. When about a hundred yards from the pool I heard a cry of
“Cooee!” which was a usual signal between my father and myself. I then
hurried forward, and found him standing by the pool. He appeared to be
much surprised at seeing me and asked me rather roughly what I was
doing there. A conversation ensued which led to high words and almost
to blows, for my father was a man of a very violent temper. Seeing that
his passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him and returned towards
Hatherley Farm. I had not gone more than 150 yards, however, when I
heard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused me to run back again. I
found my father expiring upon the ground, with his head terribly
injured. I dropped my gun and held him in my arms, but he almost
instantly expired. I knelt beside him for some minutes, and then made
my way to Mr. Turner’s lodge-keeper, his house being the nearest, to
ask for assistance. I saw no one near my father when I returned, and I
have no idea how he came by his injuries. He was not a popular man,
being somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners, but he had, as far
as I know, no active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter.’

“The Coroner: Did your father make any statement to you before he died?

“Witness: He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some allusion
to a rat.

“The Coroner: What did you understand by that?

“Witness: It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was
delirious.

“The Coroner: What was the point upon which you and your father had
this final quarrel?

“Witness: I should prefer not to answer.

“The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press it.

“Witness: It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can assure you
that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which followed.

“The Coroner: That is for the court to decide. I need not point out to
you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case considerably
in any future proceedings which may arise.

“Witness: I must still refuse.

“The Coroner: I understand that the cry of ‘Cooee’ was a common signal
between you and your father?

“Witness: It was.

“The Coroner: How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw you,
and before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol?

“Witness (with considerable confusion): I do not know.

“A Juryman: Did you see nothing which aroused your suspicions when you
returned on hearing the cry and found your father fatally injured?

“Witness: Nothing definite.

“The Coroner: What do you mean?

“Witness: I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into the open,
that I could think of nothing except of my father. Yet I have a vague
impression that as I ran forward something lay upon the ground to the
left of me. It seemed to me to be something grey in colour, a coat of
some sort, or a plaid perhaps. When I rose from my father I looked
round for it, but it was gone.

“‘Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help?’

“‘Yes, it was gone.’

“‘You cannot say what it was?’

“‘No, I had a feeling something was there.’

“‘How far from the body?’

“‘A dozen yards or so.’

“‘And how far from the edge of the wood?’

“‘About the same.’

“‘Then if it was removed it was while you were within a dozen yards of
it?’

“‘Yes, but with my back towards it.’

“This concluded the examination of the witness.”

“I see,” said I as I glanced down the column, “that the coroner in his
concluding remarks was rather severe upon young McCarthy. He calls
attention, and with reason, to the discrepancy about his father having
signalled to him before seeing him, also to his refusal to give details
of his conversation with his father, and his singular account of his
father’s dying words. They are all, as he remarks, very much against
the son.”

Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon the
cushioned seat. “Both you and the coroner have been at some pains,”
said he, “to single out the very strongest points in the young man’s
favour. Don’t you see that you alternately give him credit for having
too much imagination and too little? Too little, if he could not invent
a cause of quarrel which would give him the sympathy of the jury; too
much, if he evolved from his own inner consciousness anything so
_outré_ as a dying reference to a rat, and the incident of the
vanishing cloth. No, sir, I shall approach this case from the point of
view that what this young man says is true, and we shall see whither
that hypothesis will lead us. And now here is my pocket Petrarch, and
not another word shall I say of this case until we are on the scene of
action. We lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall be there in twenty
minutes.”

It was nearly four o’clock when we at last, after passing through the
beautiful Stroud Valley, and over the broad gleaming Severn, found
ourselves at the pretty little country-town of Ross. A lean,
ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for us upon the
platform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and leather-leggings
which he wore in deference to his rustic surroundings, I had no
difficulty in recognising Lestrade, of Scotland Yard. With him we drove
to the Hereford Arms where a room had already been engaged for us.

“I have ordered a carriage,” said Lestrade as we sat over a cup of tea.
“I knew your energetic nature, and that you would not be happy until
you had been on the scene of the crime.”

“It was very nice and complimentary of you,” Holmes answered. “It is
entirely a question of barometric pressure.”

Lestrade looked startled. “I do not quite follow,” he said.

“How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud in the
sky. I have a caseful of cigarettes here which need smoking, and the
sofa is very much superior to the usual country hotel abomination. I do
not think that it is probable that I shall use the carriage to-night.”

Lestrade laughed indulgently. “You have, no doubt, already formed your
conclusions from the newspapers,” he said. “The case is as plain as a
pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer it becomes. Still,
of course, one can’t refuse a lady, and such a very positive one, too.
She has heard of you, and would have your opinion, though I repeatedly
told her that there was nothing which you could do which I had not
already done. Why, bless my soul! here is her carriage at the door.”

He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the most
lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet eyes
shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all thought of
her natural reserve lost in her overpowering excitement and concern.

“Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” she cried, glancing from one to the other of
us, and finally, with a woman’s quick intuition, fastening upon my
companion, “I am so glad that you have come. I have driven down to tell
you so. I know that James didn’t do it. I know it, and I want you to
start upon your work knowing it, too. Never let yourself doubt upon
that point. We have known each other since we were little children, and
I know his faults as no one else does; but he is too tender-hearted to
hurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him.”

“I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner,” said Sherlock Holmes. “You may
rely upon my doing all that I can.”

“But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion? Do
you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that he
is innocent?”

“I think that it is very probable.”

“There, now!” she cried, throwing back her head and looking defiantly
at Lestrade. “You hear! He gives me hopes.”

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am afraid that my colleague has
been a little quick in forming his conclusions,” he said.

“But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never did it. And
about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the reason why he
would not speak about it to the coroner was because I was concerned in
it.”

“In what way?” asked Holmes.

“It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had many
disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there should
be a marriage between us. James and I have always loved each other as
brother and sister; but of course he is young and has seen very little
of life yet, and—and—well, he naturally did not wish to do anything
like that yet. So there were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one of
them.”

“And your father?” asked Holmes. “Was he in favour of such a union?”

“No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in favour of
it.” A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as Holmes shot one
of his keen, questioning glances at her.

“Thank you for this information,” said he. “May I see your father if I
call to-morrow?”

“I am afraid the doctor won’t allow it.”

“The doctor?”

“Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for years
back, but this has broken him down completely. He has taken to his bed,
and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and that his nervous system is
shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive who had known dad in the
old days in Victoria.”

“Ha! In Victoria! That is important.”

“Yes, at the mines.”

“Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner made
his money.”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to me.”

“You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow. No doubt you will go
to the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell him that
I know him to be innocent.”

“I will, Miss Turner.”

“I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so if I
leave him. Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking.” She hurried
from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and we heard the
wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street.

“I am ashamed of you, Holmes,” said Lestrade with dignity after a few
minutes’ silence. “Why should you raise up hopes which you are bound to
disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I call it cruel.”

“I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy,” said Holmes.
“Have you an order to see him in prison?”

“Yes, but only for you and me.”

“Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have still
time to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?”

“Ample.”

“Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very slow, but
I shall only be away a couple of hours.”

I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through the
streets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel, where I lay
upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a yellow-backed novel.
The puny plot of the story was so thin, however, when compared to the
deep mystery through which we were groping, and I found my attention
wander so continually from the action to the fact, that I at last flung
it across the room and gave myself up entirely to a consideration of
the events of the day. Supposing that this unhappy young man’s story
were absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely
unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between the
time when he parted from his father, and the moment when, drawn back by
his screams, he rushed into the glade? It was something terrible and
deadly. What could it be? Might not the nature of the injuries reveal
something to my medical instincts? I rang the bell and called for the
weekly county paper, which contained a verbatim account of the inquest.
In the surgeon’s deposition it was stated that the posterior third of
the left parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone had been
shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. I marked the spot upon
my own head. Clearly such a blow must have been struck from behind.
That was to some extent in favour of the accused, as when seen
quarrelling he was face to face with his father. Still, it did not go
for very much, for the older man might have turned his back before the
blow fell. Still, it might be worth while to call Holmes’ attention to
it. Then there was the peculiar dying reference to a rat. What could
that mean? It could not be delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow
does not commonly become delirious. No, it was more likely to be an
attempt to explain how he met his fate. But what could it indicate? I
cudgelled my brains to find some possible explanation. And then the
incident of the grey cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were true
the murderer must have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his
overcoat, in his flight, and must have had the hardihood to return and
to carry it away at the instant when the son was kneeling with his back
turned not a dozen paces off. What a tissue of mysteries and
improbabilities the whole thing was! I did not wonder at Lestrade’s
opinion, and yet I had so much faith in Sherlock Holmes’ insight that I
could not lose hope as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen
his conviction of young McCarthy’s innocence.

It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, for
Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.

“The glass still keeps very high,” he remarked as he sat down. “It is
of importance that it should not rain before we are able to go over the
ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his very best and keenest
for such nice work as that, and I did not wish to do it when fagged by
a long journey. I have seen young McCarthy.”

“And what did you learn from him?”

“Nothing.”

“Could he throw no light?”

“None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who had
done it and was screening him or her, but I am convinced now that he is
as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very quick-witted youth,
though comely to look at and, I should think, sound at heart.”

“I cannot admire his taste,” I remarked, “if it is indeed a fact that
he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as this Miss
Turner.”

“Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly,
insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was only a
lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away five years at
a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get into the clutches of
a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a registry office? No one knows a
word of the matter, but you can imagine how maddening it must be to him
to be upbraided for not doing what he would give his very eyes to do,
but what he knows to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer frenzy of
this sort which made him throw his hands up into the air when his
father, at their last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss
Turner. On the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself, and
his father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would have thrown
him over utterly had he known the truth. It was with his barmaid wife
that he had spent the last three days in Bristol, and his father did
not know where he was. Mark that point. It is of importance. Good has
come out of evil, however, for the barmaid, finding from the papers
that he is in serious trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him
over utterly and has written to him to say that she has a husband
already in the Bermuda Dockyard, so that there is really no tie between
them. I think that that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all
that he has suffered.”

“But if he is innocent, who has done it?”

“Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two points.
One is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone at the
pool, and that the someone could not have been his son, for his son was
away, and he did not know when he would return. The second is that the
murdered man was heard to cry ‘Cooee!’ before he knew that his son had
returned. Those are the crucial points upon which the case depends. And
now let us talk about George Meredith, if you please, and we shall
leave all minor matters until to-morrow.”

There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke bright
and cloudless. At nine o’clock Lestrade called for us with the
carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe Pool.

“There is serious news this morning,” Lestrade observed. “It is said
that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is despaired of.”

“An elderly man, I presume?” said Holmes.

“About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life
abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This business
has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of McCarthy’s,
and, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I have learned that he
gave him Hatherley Farm rent free.”

“Indeed! That is interesting,” said Holmes.

“Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody about
here speaks of his kindness to him.”

“Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this
McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have been
under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying his son
to Turner’s daughter, who is, presumably, heiress to the estate, and
that in such a very cocksure manner, as if it were merely a case of a
proposal and all else would follow? It is the more strange, since we
know that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The daughter told us
as much. Do you not deduce something from that?”

“We have got to the deductions and the inferences,” said Lestrade,
winking at me. “I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without
flying away after theories and fancies.”

“You are right,” said Holmes demurely; “you do find it very hard to
tackle the facts.”

“Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult to
get hold of,” replied Lestrade with some warmth.

“And that is—”

“That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that all
theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine.”

“Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog,” said Holmes, laughing.
“But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm upon the
left.”

“Yes, that is it.” It was a widespread, comfortable-looking building,
two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon
the grey walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys, however,
gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of this horror still lay
heavy upon it. We called at the door, when the maid, at Holmes’
request, showed us the boots which her master wore at the time of his
death, and also a pair of the son’s, though not the pair which he had
then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight
different points, Holmes desired to be led to the court-yard, from
which we all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.

Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as
this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker
Street would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed and
darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his
eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was
bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins
stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed
to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind was so
absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or
remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a
quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way
along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by way of the
woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as is all that
district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon the path and
amid the short grass which bounded it on either side. Sometimes Holmes
would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he made quite a little
detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked behind him, the detective
indifferent and contemptuous, while I watched my friend with the
interest which sprang from the conviction that every one of his actions
was directed towards a definite end.

The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some
fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the Hatherley
Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods
which lined it upon the farther side we could see the red, jutting
pinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner’s dwelling. On
the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew very thick, and there was
a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between the edge of
the trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us the
exact spot at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was
the ground, that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by
the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager
face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read upon the
trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking up a scent, and
then turned upon my companion.

“What did you go into the pool for?” he asked.

“I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or
other trace. But how on earth—”

“Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its inward
twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there it
vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been had I
been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all over
it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and they have
covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But here are
three separate tracks of the same feet.” He drew out a lens and lay
down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time
rather to himself than to us. “These are young McCarthy’s feet. Twice
he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are deeply
marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his story. He ran
when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are the father’s feet
as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It is the butt-end of the
gun as the son stood listening. And this? Ha, ha! What have we here?
Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too, quite unusual boots! They come, they go,
they come again—of course that was for the cloak. Now where did they
come from?” He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the
track until we were well within the edge of the wood and under the
shadow of a great beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes
traced his way to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon
his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained
there, turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what
seemed to me to be dust into an envelope and examining with his lens
not only the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could
reach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he
carefully examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the
wood until he came to the high road, where all traces were lost.

“It has been a case of considerable interest,” he remarked, returning
to his natural manner. “I fancy that this grey house on the right must
be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with Moran, and
perhaps write a little note. Having done that, we may drive back to our
luncheon. You may walk to the cab, and I shall be with you presently.”

It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back into
Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he had picked up
in the wood.

“This may interest you, Lestrade,” he remarked, holding it out. “The
murder was done with it.”

“I see no marks.”

“There are none.”

“How do you know, then?”

“The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few days.
There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It corresponds
with the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon.”

“And the murderer?”

“Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears
thick-soled shooting-boots and a grey cloak, smokes Indian cigars, uses
a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket. There are
several other indications, but these may be enough to aid us in our
search.”

Lestrade laughed. “I am afraid that I am still a sceptic,” he said.
“Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a hard-headed
British jury.”

“_Nous verrons_,” answered Holmes calmly. “You work your own method,
and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall
probably return to London by the evening train.”

“And leave your case unfinished?”

“No, finished.”

“But the mystery?”

“It is solved.”

“Who was the criminal, then?”

“The gentleman I describe.”

“But who is he?”

“Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a
populous neighbourhood.”

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am a practical man,” he said, “and
I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a
left-handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the
laughing-stock of Scotland Yard.”

“All right,” said Holmes quietly. “I have given you the chance. Here
are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before I leave.”

Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where we
found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in thought
with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds himself in a
perplexing position.

“Look here, Watson,” he said when the cloth was cleared “just sit down
in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don’t know quite
what to do, and I should value your advice. Light a cigar and let me
expound.”

 “Pray do so.”

“Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about young
McCarthy’s narrative which struck us both instantly, although they
impressed me in his favour and you against him. One was the fact that
his father should, according to his account, cry ‘Cooee!’ before seeing
him. The other was his singular dying reference to a rat. He mumbled
several words, you understand, but that was all that caught the son’s
ear. Now from this double point our research must commence, and we will
begin it by presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true.”

“What of this ‘Cooee!’ then?”

“Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The son, as
far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that he was within
earshot. The ‘Cooee!’ was meant to attract the attention of whoever it
was that he had the appointment with. But ‘Cooee’ is a distinctly
Australian cry, and one which is used between Australians. There is a
strong presumption that the person whom McCarthy expected to meet him
at Boscombe Pool was someone who had been in Australia.”

“What of the rat, then?”

Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it
out on the table. “This is a map of the Colony of Victoria,” he said.
“I wired to Bristol for it last night.” He put his hand over part of
the map. “What do you read?”

“ARAT,” I read.

“And now?” He raised his hand.

“BALLARAT.”

“Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his son only
caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name of his
murderer. So and so, of Ballarat.”

“It is wonderful!” I exclaimed.

“It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down
considerably. The possession of a grey garment was a third point which,
granting the son’s statement to be correct, was a certainty. We have
come now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception of an
Australian from Ballarat with a grey cloak.”

“Certainly.”

“And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only be
approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could hardly
wander.”

“Quite so.”

“Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the ground I
gained the trifling details which I gave to that imbecile Lestrade, as
to the personality of the criminal.”

“But how did you gain them?”

“You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles.”

“His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length of his
stride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces.”

“Yes, they were peculiar boots.”

“But his lameness?”

“The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than his
left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped—he was lame.”

“But his left-handedness.”

“You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded by
the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from immediately
behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can that be unless it
were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that tree during the
interview between the father and son. He had even smoked there. I found
the ash of a cigar, which my special knowledge of tobacco ashes enables
me to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as you know, devoted some
attention to this, and written a little monograph on the ashes of 140
different varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having found
the ash, I then looked round and discovered the stump among the moss
where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar, of the variety which
are rolled in Rotterdam.”

“And the cigar-holder?”

“I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore he used
a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the cut was not
a clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife.”

“Holmes,” I said, “you have drawn a net round this man from which he
cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as truly as if
you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the direction in
which all this points. The culprit is—”

“Mr. John Turner,” cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our
sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.

The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow,
limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude,
and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous limbs
showed that he was possessed of unusual strength of body and of
character. His tangled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding, drooping
eyebrows combined to give an air of dignity and power to his
appearance, but his face was of an ashen white, while his lips and the
corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear
to me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic
disease.

“Pray sit down on the sofa,” said Holmes gently. “You had my note?”

“Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to see
me here to avoid scandal.”

“I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall.”

“And why did you wish to see me?” He looked across at my companion with
despair in his weary eyes, as though his question was already answered.

“Yes,” said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. “It is
so. I know all about McCarthy.”

The old man sank his face in his hands. “God help me!” he cried. “But I
would not have let the young man come to harm. I give you my word that
I would have spoken out if it went against him at the Assizes.”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” said Holmes gravely.

“I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It would
break her heart—it will break her heart when she hears that I am
arrested.”

“It may not come to that,” said Holmes.

“What?”

“I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter who
required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests. Young
McCarthy must be got off, however.”

“I am a dying man,” said old Turner. “I have had diabetes for years. My
doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a month. Yet I would
rather die under my own roof than in a gaol.”

Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a
bundle of paper before him. “Just tell us the truth,” he said. “I shall
jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can witness it.
Then I could produce your confession at the last extremity to save
young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use it unless it is
absolutely needed.”

“It’s as well,” said the old man; “it’s a question whether I shall live
to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I should wish to spare
Alice the shock. And now I will make the thing clear to you; it has
been a long time in the acting, but will not take me long to tell.

“You didn’t know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil incarnate. I
tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of such a man as he.
His grip has been upon me these twenty years, and he has blasted my
life. I’ll tell you first how I came to be in his power.

“It was in the early ’60’s at the diggings. I was a young chap then,
hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything; I got
among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took to
the bush, and in a word became what you would call over here a highway
robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life of it,
sticking up a station from time to time, or stopping the wagons on the
road to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under,
and our party is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat Gang.

“One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and we lay
in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers and six of us,
so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of their saddles at the
first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before we got the
swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon-driver, who was this
very man McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had shot him then, but I
spared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as
though to remember every feature. We got away with the gold, became
wealthy men, and made our way over to England without being suspected.
There I parted from my old pals and determined to settle down to a
quiet and respectable life. I bought this estate, which chanced to be
in the market, and I set myself to do a little good with my money, to
make up for the way in which I had earned it. I married, too, and
though my wife died young she left me my dear little Alice. Even when
she was just a baby her wee hand seemed to lead me down the right path
as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned over a new leaf and
did my best to make up for the past. All was going well when McCarthy
laid his grip upon me.

“I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in Regent
Street with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his foot.

“‘Here we are, Jack,’ says he, touching me on the arm; ‘we’ll be as
good as a family to you. There’s two of us, me and my son, and you can
have the keeping of us. If you don’t—it’s a fine, law-abiding country
is England, and there’s always a policeman within hail.’

“Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking them
off, and there they have lived rent free on my best land ever since.
There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness; turn where I
would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It grew worse
as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her knowing my
past than of the police. Whatever he wanted he must have, and whatever
it was I gave him without question, land, money, houses, until at last
he asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for Alice.

“His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was known
to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that his lad
should step into the whole property. But there I was firm. I would not
have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that I had any dislike to
the lad, but his blood was in him, and that was enough. I stood firm.
McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do his worst. We were to meet at
the pool midway between our houses to talk it over.

“When I went down there I found him talking with his son, so I smoked a
cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone. But as I
listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in me seemed to come
uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my daughter with as little
regard for what she might think as if she were a slut from off the
streets. It drove me mad to think that I and all that I held most dear
should be in the power of such a man as this. Could I not snap the
bond? I was already a dying and a desperate man. Though clear of mind
and fairly strong of limb, I knew that my own fate was sealed. But my
memory and my girl! Both could be saved if I could but silence that
foul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I
have sinned, I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that
my girl should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was more
than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction than if
he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought back his son;
but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I was forced to go back
to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in my flight. That is the true
story, gentlemen, of all that occurred.”

“Well, it is not for me to judge you,” said Holmes as the old man
signed the statement which had been drawn out. “I pray that we may
never be exposed to such a temptation.”

“I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?”

“In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you will
soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the Assizes. I
will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is condemned I shall be
forced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by mortal eye; and
your secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe with us.”

“Farewell, then,” said the old man solemnly. “Your own deathbeds, when
they come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace which you
have given to mine.” Tottering and shaking in all his giant frame, he
stumbled slowly from the room.

“God help us!” said Holmes after a long silence. “Why does fate play
such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as
this that I do not think of Baxter’s words, and say, ‘There, but for
the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.’”

James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of a number
of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and submitted to the
defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven months after our
interview, but he is now dead; and there is every prospect that the son
and daughter may come to live happily together in ignorance of the
black cloud which rests upon their past.




V. 
