


      In choosing a few typical cases which illustrate the remarkable
      mental qualities of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have
      endeavoured, as far as possible, to select those which presented
      the minimum of sensationalism, while offering a fair field for
      his talents. It is, however, unfortunately impossible entirely to
      separate the sensational from the criminal, and a chronicler is
      left in the dilemma that he must either sacrifice details which
      are essential to his statement and so give a false impression of
      the problem, or he must use matter which chance, and not choice,
      has provided him with. With this short preface I shall turn to my
      notes of what proved to be a strange, though a peculiarly
      terrible, chain of events.

      It was a blazing hot day in August. Baker Street was like an
      oven, and the glare of the sunlight upon the yellow brickwork of
      the house across the road was painful to the eye. It was hard to
      believe that these were the same walls which loomed so gloomily
      through the fogs of winter. Our blinds were half-drawn, and
      Holmes lay curled upon the sofa, reading and re-reading a letter
      which he had received by the morning post. For myself, my term of
      service in India had trained me to stand heat better than cold,
      and a thermometer at ninety was no hardship. But the morning
      paper was uninteresting. Parliament had risen. Everybody was out
      of town, and I yearned for the glades of the New Forest or the
      shingle of Southsea. A depleted bank account had caused me to
      postpone my holiday, and as to my companion, neither the country
      nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him. He loved
      to lie in the very centre of five millions of people, with his
      filaments stretching out and running through them, responsive to
      every little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation
      of nature found no place among his many gifts, and his only
      change was when he turned his mind from the evil-doer of the town
      to track down his brother of the country.

      Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation I had
      tossed aside the barren paper, and leaning back in my chair I
      fell into a brown study. Suddenly my companion’s voice broke in
      upon my thoughts:

      “You are right, Watson,” said he. “It does seem a most
      preposterous way of settling a dispute.”

      “Most preposterous!” I exclaimed, and then suddenly realizing how
      he had echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair
      and stared at him in blank amazement.

      “What is this, Holmes?” I cried. “This is beyond anything which I
      could have imagined.”

      He laughed heartily at my perplexity.

      “You remember,” he said, “that some little time ago when I read
      you the passage in one of Poe’s sketches in which a close
      reasoner follows the unspoken thoughts of his companion, you were
      inclined to treat the matter as a mere _tour-de-force_ of the
      author. On my remarking that I was constantly in the habit of
      doing the same thing you expressed incredulity.”

      “Oh, no!”

      “Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with
      your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter
      upon a train of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity
      of reading it off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof
      that I had been in rapport with you.”

      But I was still far from satisfied. “In the example which you
      read to me,” said I, “the reasoner drew his conclusions from the
      actions of the man whom he observed. If I remember right, he
      stumbled over a heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so
      on. But I have been seated quietly in my chair, and what clues
      can I have given you?”

      “You do yourself an injustice. The features are given to man as
      the means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are
      faithful servants.”

      “Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my
      features?”

      “Your features and especially your eyes. Perhaps you cannot
      yourself recall how your reverie commenced?”

      “No, I cannot.”

      “Then I will tell you. After throwing down your paper, which was
      the action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a
      minute with a vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves
      upon your newly framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by
      the alteration in your face that a train of thought had been
      started. But it did not lead very far. Your eyes flashed across
      to the unframed portrait of Henry Ward Beecher which stands upon
      the top of your books. Then you glanced up at the wall, and of
      course your meaning was obvious. You were thinking that if the
      portrait were framed it would just cover that bare space and
      correspond with Gordon’s picture over there.”

      “You have followed me wonderfully!” I exclaimed.

      “So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughts
      went back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were
      studying the character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to
      pucker, but you continued to look across, and your face was
      thoughtful. You were recalling the incidents of Beecher’s career.
      I was well aware that you could not do this without thinking of
      the mission which he undertook on behalf of the North at the time
      of the Civil War, for I remember your expressing your passionate
      indignation at the way in which he was received by the more
      turbulent of our people. You felt so strongly about it that I
      knew you could not think of Beecher without thinking of that
      also. When a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the
      picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned to the Civil
      War, and when I observed that your lips set, your eyes sparkled,
      and your hands clenched I was positive that you were indeed
      thinking of the gallantry which was shown by both sides in that
      desperate struggle. But then, again, your face grew sadder; you
      shook your head. You were dwelling upon the sadness and horror
      and useless waste of life. Your hand stole towards your own old
      wound and a smile quivered on your lips, which showed me that the
      ridiculous side of this method of settling international
      questions had forced itself upon your mind. At this point I
      agreed with you that it was preposterous and was glad to find
      that all my deductions had been correct.”

      “Absolutely!” said I. “And now that you have explained it, I
      confess that I am as amazed as before.”

      “It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should
      not have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some
      incredulity the other day. But I have in my hands here a little
      problem which may prove to be more difficult of solution than my
      small essay in thought reading. Have you observed in the paper a
      short paragraph referring to the remarkable contents of a packet
      sent through the post to Miss Cushing, of Cross Street, Croydon?”

      “No, I saw nothing.”

      “Ah! then you must have overlooked it. Just toss it over to me.
      Here it is, under the financial column. Perhaps you would be good
      enough to read it aloud.”

      I picked up the paper which he had thrown back to me and read the
      paragraph indicated. It was headed, “A Gruesome Packet.”

      “Miss Susan Cushing, living at Cross Street, Croydon, has been
      made the victim of what must be regarded as a peculiarly
      revolting practical joke unless some more sinister meaning should
      prove to be attached to the incident. At two o’clock yesterday
      afternoon a small packet, wrapped in brown paper, was handed in
      by the postman. A cardboard box was inside, which was filled with
      coarse salt. On emptying this, Miss Cushing was horrified to find
      two human ears, apparently quite freshly severed. The box had
      been sent by parcel post from Belfast upon the morning before.
      There is no indication as to the sender, and the matter is the
      more mysterious as Miss Cushing, who is a maiden lady of fifty,
      has led a most retired life, and has so few acquaintances or
      correspondents that it is a rare event for her to receive
      anything through the post. Some years ago, however, when she
      resided at Penge, she let apartments in her house to three young
      medical students, whom she was obliged to get rid of on account
      of their noisy and irregular habits. The police are of opinion
      that this outrage may have been perpetrated upon Miss Cushing by
      these youths, who owed her a grudge and who hoped to frighten her
      by sending her these relics of the dissecting-rooms. Some
      probability is lent to the theory by the fact that one of these
      students came from the north of Ireland, and, to the best of Miss
      Cushing’s belief, from Belfast. In the meantime, the matter is
      being actively investigated, Mr. Lestrade, one of the very
      smartest of our detective officers, being in charge of the case.”

      “So much for the _Daily Chronicle_,” said Holmes as I finished
      reading. “Now for our friend Lestrade. I had a note from him this
      morning, in which he says: ‘I think that this case is very much
      in your line. We have every hope of clearing the matter up, but
      we find a little difficulty in getting anything to work upon. We
      have, of course, wired to the Belfast post-office, but a large
      number of parcels were handed in upon that day, and they have no
      means of identifying this particular one, or of remembering the
      sender. The box is a half-pound box of honeydew tobacco and does
      not help us in any way. The medical student theory still appears
      to me to be the most feasible, but if you should have a few hours
      to spare I should be very happy to see you out here. I shall be
      either at the house or in the police-station all day.’ What say
      you, Watson? Can you rise superior to the heat and run down to
      Croydon with me on the off chance of a case for your annals?”

      “I was longing for something to do.”

      “You shall have it then. Ring for our boots and tell them to
      order a cab. I’ll be back in a moment when I have changed my
      dressing-gown and filled my cigar-case.”

      A shower of rain fell while we were in the train, and the heat
      was far less oppressive in Croydon than in town. Holmes had sent
      on a wire, so that Lestrade, as wiry, as dapper, and as
      ferret-like as ever, was waiting for us at the station. A walk of
      five minutes took us to Cross Street, where Miss Cushing resided.

      It was a very long street of two-story brick houses, neat and
      prim, with whitened stone steps and little groups of aproned
      women gossiping at the doors. Halfway down, Lestrade stopped and
      tapped at a door, which was opened by a small servant girl. Miss
      Cushing was sitting in the front room, into which we were
      ushered. She was a placid-faced woman, with large, gentle eyes,
      and grizzled hair curving down over her temples on each side. A
      worked antimacassar lay upon her lap and a basket of coloured
      silks stood upon a stool beside her.

      “They are in the outhouse, those dreadful things,” said she as
      Lestrade entered. “I wish that you would take them away
      altogether.”

      “So I shall, Miss Cushing. I only kept them here until my friend,
      Mr. Holmes, should have seen them in your presence.”

      “Why in my presence, sir?”

      “In case he wished to ask any questions.”

      “What is the use of asking me questions when I tell you I know
      nothing whatever about it?”

      “Quite so, madam,” said Holmes in his soothing way. “I have no
      doubt that you have been annoyed more than enough already over
      this business.”

      “Indeed, I have, sir. I am a quiet woman and live a retired life.
      It is something new for me to see my name in the papers and to
      find the police in my house. I won’t have those things in here,
      Mr. Lestrade. If you wish to see them you must go to the
      outhouse.”

      It was a small shed in the narrow garden which ran behind the
      house. Lestrade went in and brought out a yellow cardboard box,
      with a piece of brown paper and some string. There was a bench at
      the end of the path, and we all sat down while Holmes examined,
      one by one, the articles which Lestrade had handed to him.

      “The string is exceedingly interesting,” he remarked, holding it
      up to the light and sniffing at it. “What do you make of this
      string, Lestrade?”

      “It has been tarred.”

      “Precisely. It is a piece of tarred twine. You have also, no
      doubt, remarked that Miss Cushing has cut the cord with a
      scissors, as can be seen by the double fray on each side. This is
      of importance.”

      “I cannot see the importance,” said Lestrade.

      “The importance lies in the fact that the knot is left intact,
      and that this knot is of a peculiar character.”

      “It is very neatly tied. I had already made a note to that
      effect,” said Lestrade complacently.

      “So much for the string, then,” said Holmes, smiling, “now for
      the box wrapper. Brown paper, with a distinct smell of coffee.
      What, did you not observe it? I think there can be no doubt of
      it. Address printed in rather straggling characters: ‘Miss S.
      Cushing, Cross Street, Croydon.’ Done with a broad-pointed pen,
      probably a J, and with very inferior ink. The word ‘Croydon’ has
      been originally spelled with an ‘i,’ which has been changed to
      ‘y.’ The parcel was directed, then, by a man—the printing is
      distinctly masculine—of limited education and unacquainted with
      the town of Croydon. So far, so good! The box is a yellow
      half-pound honeydew box, with nothing distinctive save two thumb
      marks at the left bottom corner. It is filled with rough salt of
      the quality used for preserving hides and other of the coarser
      commercial purposes. And embedded in it are these very singular
      enclosures.”

      He took out the two ears as he spoke, and laying a board across
      his knee he examined them minutely, while Lestrade and I, bending
      forward on each side of him, glanced alternately at these
      dreadful relics and at the thoughtful, eager face of our
      companion. Finally he returned them to the box once more and sat
      for a while in deep meditation.

      “You have observed, of course,” said he at last, “that the ears
      are not a pair.”

      “Yes, I have noticed that. But if this were the practical joke of
      some students from the dissecting-rooms, it would be as easy for
      them to send two odd ears as a pair.”

      “Precisely. But this is not a practical joke.”

      “You are sure of it?”

      “The presumption is strongly against it. Bodies in the
      dissecting-rooms are injected with preservative fluid. These ears
      bear no signs of this. They are fresh, too. They have been cut
      off with a blunt instrument, which would hardly happen if a
      student had done it. Again, carbolic or rectified spirits would
      be the preservatives which would suggest themselves to the
      medical mind, certainly not rough salt. I repeat that there is no
      practical joke here, but that we are investigating a serious
      crime.”

      A vague thrill ran through me as I listened to my companion’s
      words and saw the stern gravity which had hardened his features.
      This brutal preliminary seemed to shadow forth some strange and
      inexplicable horror in the background. Lestrade, however, shook
      his head like a man who is only half convinced.

      “There are objections to the joke theory, no doubt,” said he,
      “but there are much stronger reasons against the other. We know
      that this woman has led a most quiet and respectable life at
      Penge and here for the last twenty years. She has hardly been
      away from her home for a day during that time. Why on earth,
      then, should any criminal send her the proofs of his guilt,
      especially as, unless she is a most consummate actress, she
      understands quite as little of the matter as we do?”

      “That is the problem which we have to solve,” Holmes answered,
      “and for my part I shall set about it by presuming that my
      reasoning is correct, and that a double murder has been
      committed. One of these ears is a woman’s, small, finely formed,
      and pierced for an earring. The other is a man’s, sun-burned,
      discoloured, and also pierced for an earring. These two people
      are presumably dead, or we should have heard their story before
      now. To-day is Friday. The packet was posted on Thursday morning.
      The tragedy, then, occurred on Wednesday or Tuesday or earlier.
      If the two people were murdered, who but their murderer would
      have sent this sign of his work to Miss Cushing? We may take it
      that the sender of the packet is the man whom we want. But he
      must have some strong reason for sending Miss Cushing this
      packet. What reason then? It must have been to tell her that the
      deed was done! or to pain her, perhaps. But in that case she
      knows who it is. Does she know? I doubt it. If she knew, why
      should she call the police in? She might have buried the ears,
      and no one would have been the wiser. That is what she would have
      done if she had wished to shield the criminal. But if she does
      not wish to shield him she would give his name. There is a tangle
      here which needs straightening out.” He had been talking in a
      high, quick voice, staring blankly up over the garden fence, but
      now he sprang briskly to his feet and walked towards the house.

      “I have a few questions to ask Miss Cushing,” said he.

      “In that case I may leave you here,” said Lestrade, “for I have
      another small business on hand. I think that I have nothing
      further to learn from Miss Cushing. You will find me at the
      police-station.”

      “We shall look in on our way to the train,” answered Holmes. A
      moment later he and I were back in the front room, where the
      impassive lady was still quietly working away at her
      antimacassar. She put it down on her lap as we entered and looked
      at us with her frank, searching blue eyes.

      “I am convinced, sir,” she said, “that this matter is a mistake,
      and that the parcel was never meant for me at all. I have said
      this several times to the gentleman from Scotland Yard, but he
      simply laughs at me. I have not an enemy in the world, as far as
      I know, so why should anyone play me such a trick?”

      “I am coming to be of the same opinion, Miss Cushing,” said
      Holmes, taking a seat beside her. “I think that it is more than
      probable——” he paused, and I was surprised, on glancing round to
      see that he was staring with singular intentness at the lady’s
      profile. Surprise and satisfaction were both for an instant to be
      read upon his eager face, though when she glanced round to find
      out the cause of his silence he had become as demure as ever. I
      stared hard myself at her flat, grizzled hair, her trim cap, her
      little gilt earrings, her placid features; but I could see
      nothing which could account for my companion’s evident
      excitement.

      “There were one or two questions——”

      “Oh, I am weary of questions!” cried Miss Cushing impatiently.

      “You have two sisters, I believe.”

      “How could you know that?”

      “I observed the very instant that I entered the room that you
      have a portrait group of three ladies upon the mantelpiece, one
      of whom is undoubtedly yourself, while the others are so
      exceedingly like you that there could be no doubt of the
      relationship.”

      “Yes, you are quite right. Those are my sisters, Sarah and Mary.”

      “And here at my elbow is another portrait, taken at Liverpool, of
      your younger sister, in the company of a man who appears to be a
      steward by his uniform. I observe that she was unmarried at the
      time.”

      “You are very quick at observing.”

      “That is my trade.”

      “Well, you are quite right. But she was married to Mr. Browner a
      few days afterwards. He was on the South American line when that
      was taken, but he was so fond of her that he couldn’t abide to
      leave her for so long, and he got into the Liverpool and London
      boats.”

      “Ah, the _Conqueror_, perhaps?”

      “No, the _May Day_, when last I heard. Jim came down here to see
      me once. That was before he broke the pledge; but afterwards he
      would always take drink when he was ashore, and a little drink
      would send him stark, staring mad. Ah! it was a bad day that ever
      he took a glass in his hand again. First he dropped me, then he
      quarrelled with Sarah, and now that Mary has stopped writing we
      don’t know how things are going with them.”

      It was evident that Miss Cushing had come upon a subject on which
      she felt very deeply. Like most people who lead a lonely life,
      she was shy at first, but ended by becoming extremely
      communicative. She told us many details about her brother-in-law
      the steward, and then wandering off on the subject of her former
      lodgers, the medical students, she gave us a long account of
      their delinquencies, with their names and those of their
      hospitals. Holmes listened attentively to everything, throwing in
      a question from time to time.

      “About your second sister, Sarah,” said he. “I wonder, since you
      are both maiden ladies, that you do not keep house together.”

      “Ah! you don’t know Sarah’s temper or you would wonder no more. I
      tried it when I came to Croydon, and we kept on until about two
      months ago, when we had to part. I don’t want to say a word
      against my own sister, but she was always meddlesome and hard to
      please, was Sarah.”

      “You say that she quarrelled with your Liverpool relations.”

      “Yes, and they were the best of friends at one time. Why, she
      went up there to live in order to be near them. And now she has
      no word hard enough for Jim Browner. The last six months that she
      was here she would speak of nothing but his drinking and his
      ways. He had caught her meddling, I suspect, and given her a bit
      of his mind, and that was the start of it.”

      “Thank you, Miss Cushing,” said Holmes, rising and bowing. “Your
      sister Sarah lives, I think you said, at New Street Wallington?
      Good-bye, and I am very sorry that you should have been troubled
      over a case with which, as you say, you have nothing whatever to
      do.”

      There was a cab passing as we came out, and Holmes hailed it.

      “How far to Wallington?” he asked.

      “Only about a mile, sir.”

      “Very good. Jump in, Watson. We must strike while the iron is
      hot. Simple as the case is, there have been one or two very
      instructive details in connection with it. Just pull up at a
      telegraph office as you pass, cabby.”

      Holmes sent off a short wire and for the rest of the drive lay
      back in the cab, with his hat tilted over his nose to keep the
      sun from his face. Our driver pulled up at a house which was not
      unlike the one which we had just quitted. My companion ordered
      him to wait, and had his hand upon the knocker, when the door
      opened and a grave young gentleman in black, with a very shiny
      hat, appeared on the step.

      “Is Miss Cushing at home?” asked Holmes.

      “Miss Sarah Cushing is extremely ill,” said he. “She has been
      suffering since yesterday from brain symptoms of great severity.
      As her medical adviser, I cannot possibly take the responsibility
      of allowing anyone to see her. I should recommend you to call
      again in ten days.” He drew on his gloves, closed the door, and
      marched off down the street.

      “Well, if we can’t we can’t,” said Holmes, cheerfully.

      “Perhaps she could not or would not have told you much.”

      “I did not wish her to tell me anything. I only wanted to look at
      her. However, I think that I have got all that I want. Drive us
      to some decent hotel, cabby, where we may have some lunch, and
      afterwards we shall drop down upon friend Lestrade at the
      police-station.”

      We had a pleasant little meal together, during which Holmes would
      talk about nothing but violins, narrating with great exultation
      how he had purchased his own Stradivarius, which was worth at
      least five hundred guineas, at a Jew broker’s in Tottenham Court
      Road for fifty-five shillings. This led him to Paganini, and we
      sat for an hour over a bottle of claret while he told me anecdote
      after anecdote of that extraordinary man. The afternoon was far
      advanced and the hot glare had softened into a mellow glow before
      we found ourselves at the police-station. Lestrade was waiting
      for us at the door.

      “A telegram for you, Mr. Holmes,” said he.

      “Ha! It is the answer!” He tore it open, glanced his eyes over
      it, and crumpled it into his pocket. “That’s all right,” said he.

      “Have you found out anything?”

      “I have found out everything!”

      “What!” Lestrade stared at him in amazement. “You are joking.”

      “I was never more serious in my life. A shocking crime has been
      committed, and I think I have now laid bare every detail of it.”

      “And the criminal?”

      Holmes scribbled a few words upon the back of one of his visiting
      cards and threw it over to Lestrade.

      “That is the name,” he said. “You cannot effect an arrest until
      to-morrow night at the earliest. I should prefer that you do not
      mention my name at all in connection with the case, as I choose
      to be only associated with those crimes which present some
      difficulty in their solution. Come on, Watson.” We strode off
      together to the station, leaving Lestrade still staring with a
      delighted face at the card which Holmes had thrown him.

      “The case,” said Sherlock Holmes as we chatted over our cigars
      that night in our rooms at Baker Street, “is one where, as in the
      investigations which you have chronicled under the names of ‘A
      Study in Scarlet’ and of ‘The Sign of Four,’ we have been
      compelled to reason backward from effects to causes. I have
      written to Lestrade asking him to supply us with the details
      which are now wanting, and which he will only get after he has
      secured his man. That he may be safely trusted to do, for
      although he is absolutely devoid of reason, he is as tenacious as
      a bulldog when he once understands what he has to do, and,
      indeed, it is just this tenacity which has brought him to the top
      at Scotland Yard.”

      “Your case is not complete, then?” I asked.

      “It is fairly complete in essentials. We know who the author of
      the revolting business is, although one of the victims still
      escapes us. Of course, you have formed your own conclusions.”

      “I presume that this Jim Browner, the steward of a Liverpool
      boat, is the man whom you suspect?”

      “Oh! it is more than a suspicion.”

      “And yet I cannot see anything save very vague indications.”

      “On the contrary, to my mind nothing could be more clear. Let me
      run over the principal steps. We approached the case, you
      remember, with an absolutely blank mind, which is always an
      advantage. We had formed no theories. We were simply there to
      observe and to draw inferences from our observations. What did we
      see first? A very placid and respectable lady, who seemed quite
      innocent of any secret, and a portrait which showed me that she
      had two younger sisters. It instantly flashed across my mind that
      the box might have been meant for one of these. I set the idea
      aside as one which could be disproved or confirmed at our
      leisure. Then we went to the garden, as you remember, and we saw
      the very singular contents of the little yellow box.

      “The string was of the quality which is used by sailmakers aboard
      ship, and at once a whiff of the sea was perceptible in our
      investigation. When I observed that the knot was one which is
      popular with sailors, that the parcel had been posted at a port,
      and that the male ear was pierced for an earring which is so much
      more common among sailors than landsmen, I was quite certain that
      all the actors in the tragedy were to be found among our
      seafaring classes.

      “When I came to examine the address of the packet I observed that
      it was to Miss S. Cushing. Now, the oldest sister would, of
      course, be Miss Cushing, and although her initial was ‘S’ it
      might belong to one of the others as well. In that case we should
      have to commence our investigation from a fresh basis altogether.
      I therefore went into the house with the intention of clearing up
      this point. I was about to assure Miss Cushing that I was
      convinced that a mistake had been made when you may remember that
      I came suddenly to a stop. The fact was that I had just seen
      something which filled me with surprise and at the same time
      narrowed the field of our inquiry immensely.

      “As a medical man, you are aware, Watson, that there is no part
      of the body which varies so much as the human ear. Each ear is as
      a rule quite distinctive and differs from all other ones. In last
      year’s _Anthropological Journal_ you will find two short
      monographs from my pen upon the subject. I had, therefore,
      examined the ears in the box with the eyes of an expert and had
      carefully noted their anatomical peculiarities. Imagine my
      surprise, then, when on looking at Miss Cushing I perceived that
      her ear corresponded exactly with the female ear which I had just
      inspected. The matter was entirely beyond coincidence. There was
      the same shortening of the pinna, the same broad curve of the
      upper lobe, the same convolution of the inner cartilage. In all
      essentials it was the same ear.

      “Of course I at once saw the enormous importance of the
      observation. It was evident that the victim was a blood relation
      and probably a very close one. I began to talk to her about her
      family, and you remember that she at once gave us some
      exceedingly valuable details.

      “In the first place, her sister’s name was Sarah, and her address
      had until recently been the same, so that it was quite obvious
      how the mistake had occurred and for whom the packet was meant.
      Then we heard of this steward, married to the third sister, and
      learned that he had at one time been so intimate with Miss Sarah
      that she had actually gone up to Liverpool to be near the
      Browners, but a quarrel had afterwards divided them. This quarrel
      had put a stop to all communications for some months, so that if
      Browner had occasion to address a packet to Miss Sarah, he would
      undoubtedly have done so to her old address.

      “And now the matter had begun to straighten itself out
      wonderfully. We had learned of the existence of this steward, an
      impulsive man, of strong passions—you remember that he threw up
      what must have been a very superior berth in order to be nearer
      to his wife—subject, too, to occasional fits of hard drinking. We
      had reason to believe that his wife had been murdered, and that a
      man—presumably a seafaring man—had been murdered at the same
      time. Jealousy, of course, at once suggests itself as the motive
      for the crime. And why should these proofs of the deed be sent to
      Miss Sarah Cushing? Probably because during her residence in
      Liverpool she had some hand in bringing about the events which
      led to the tragedy. You will observe that this line of boats
      calls at Belfast, Dublin, and Waterford; so that, presuming that
      Browner had committed the deed and had embarked at once upon his
      steamer, the _May Day_, Belfast would be the first place at which
      he could post his terrible packet.

      “A second solution was at this stage obviously possible, and
      although I thought it exceedingly unlikely, I was determined to
      elucidate it before going further. An unsuccessful lover might
      have killed Mr. and Mrs. Browner, and the male ear might have
      belonged to the husband. There were many grave objections to this
      theory, but it was conceivable. I therefore sent off a telegram
      to my friend Algar, of the Liverpool force, and asked him to find
      out if Mrs. Browner were at home, and if Browner had departed in
      the _May Day_. Then we went on to Wallington to visit Miss Sarah.

      “I was curious, in the first place, to see how far the family ear
      had been reproduced in her. Then, of course, she might give us
      very important information, but I was not sanguine that she
      would. She must have heard of the business the day before, since
      all Croydon was ringing with it, and she alone could have
      understood for whom the packet was meant. If she had been willing
      to help justice she would probably have communicated with the
      police already. However, it was clearly our duty to see her, so
      we went. We found that the news of the arrival of the packet—for
      her illness dated from that time—had such an effect upon her as
      to bring on brain fever. It was clearer than ever that she
      understood its full significance, but equally clear that we
      should have to wait some time for any assistance from her.

      “However, we were really independent of her help. Our answers
      were waiting for us at the police-station, where I had directed
      Algar to send them. Nothing could be more conclusive. Mrs.
      Browner’s house had been closed for more than three days, and the
      neighbours were of opinion that she had gone south to see her
      relatives. It had been ascertained at the shipping offices that
      Browner had left aboard of the _May Day_, and I calculate that
      she is due in the Thames to-morrow night. When he arrives he will
      be met by the obtuse but resolute Lestrade, and I have no doubt
      that we shall have all our details filled in.”

      Sherlock Holmes was not disappointed in his expectations. Two
      days later he received a bulky envelope, which contained a short
      note from the detective, and a typewritten document, which
      covered several pages of foolscap.

      “Lestrade has got him all right,” said Holmes, glancing up at me.
      “Perhaps it would interest you to hear what he says.

      “My dear Mr. Holmes,—In accordance with the scheme which we had
      formed in order to test our theories”—“the ‘we’ is rather fine,
      Watson, is it not?”—“I went down to the Albert Dock yesterday at
      6 P.M., and boarded the S.S. _May Day_, belonging to the
      Liverpool, Dublin, and London Steam Packet Company. On inquiry, I
      found that there was a steward on board of the name of James
      Browner and that he had acted during the voyage in such an
      extraordinary manner that the captain had been compelled to
      relieve him of his duties. On descending to his berth, I found
      him seated upon a chest with his head sunk upon his hands,
      rocking himself to and fro. He is a big, powerful chap,
      clean-shaven, and very swarthy— something like Aldridge, who
      helped us in the bogus laundry affair. He jumped up when he heard
      my business, and I had my whistle to my lips to call a couple of
      river police, who were round the corner, but he seemed to have no
      heart in him, and he held out his hands quietly enough for the
      darbies. We brought him along to the cells, and his box as well,
      for we thought there might be something incriminating; but, bar a
      big sharp knife such as most sailors have, we got nothing for our
      trouble. However, we find that we shall want no more evidence,
      for on being brought before the inspector at the station he asked
      leave to make a statement, which was, of course, taken down, just
      as he made it, by our shorthand man. We had three copies
      typewritten, one of which I enclose. The affair proves, as I
      always thought it would, to be an extremely simple one, but I am
      obliged to you for assisting me in my investigation. With kind
      regards, yours very truly,—G. Lestrade.”

      “Hum! The investigation really was a very simple one,” remarked
      Holmes, “but I don’t think it struck him in that light when he
      first called us in. However, let us see what Jim Browner has to
      say for himself. This is his statement as made before Inspector
      Montgomery at the Shadwell Police Station, and it has the
      advantage of being verbatim.”

      “Have I anything to say? Yes, I have a deal to say. I have to
      make a clean breast of it all. You can hang me, or you can leave
      me alone. I don’t care a plug which you do. I tell you I’ve not
      shut an eye in sleep since I did it, and I don’t believe I ever
      will again until I get past all waking. Sometimes it’s his face,
      but most generally it’s hers. I’m never without one or the other
      before me. He looks frowning and black-like, but she has a kind
      o’ surprise upon her face. Ay, the white lamb, she might well be
      surprised when she read death on a face that had seldom looked
      anything but love upon her before.

      “But it was Sarah’s fault, and may the curse of a broken man put
      a blight on her and set the blood rotting in her veins! It’s not
      that I want to clear myself. I know that I went back to drink,
      like the beast that I was. But she would have forgiven me; she
      would have stuck as close to me as a rope to a block if that
      woman had never darkened our door. For Sarah Cushing loved
      me—that’s the root of the business—she loved me until all her
      love turned to poisonous hate when she knew that I thought more
      of my wife’s footmark in the mud than I did of her whole body and
      soul.

      “There were three sisters altogether. The old one was just a good
      woman, the second was a devil, and the third was an angel. Sarah
      was thirty-three, and Mary was twenty-nine when I married. We
      were just as happy as the day was long when we set up house
      together, and in all Liverpool there was no better woman than my
      Mary. And then we asked Sarah up for a week, and the week grew
      into a month, and one thing led to another, until she was just
      one of ourselves.

      “I was blue ribbon at that time, and we were putting a little
      money by, and all was as bright as a new dollar. My God, whoever
      would have thought that it could have come to this? Whoever would
      have dreamed it?

      “I used to be home for the week-ends very often, and sometimes if
      the ship were held back for cargo I would have a whole week at a
      time, and in this way I saw a deal of my sister-in-law, Sarah.
      She was a fine tall woman, black and quick and fierce, with a
      proud way of carrying her head, and a glint from her eye like a
      spark from a flint. But when little Mary was there I had never a
      thought of her, and that I swear as I hope for God’s mercy.

      “It had seemed to me sometimes that she liked to be alone with
      me, or to coax me out for a walk with her, but I had never
      thought anything of that. But one evening my eyes were opened. I
      had come up from the ship and found my wife out, but Sarah at
      home. ‘Where’s Mary?’ I asked. ‘Oh, she has gone to pay some
      accounts.’ I was impatient and paced up and down the room. ‘Can’t
      you be happy for five minutes without Mary, Jim?’ says she. ‘It’s
      a bad compliment to me that you can’t be contented with my
      society for so short a time.’ ‘That’s all right, my lass,’ said
      I, putting out my hand towards her in a kindly way, but she had
      it in both hers in an instant, and they burned as if they were in
      a fever. I looked into her eyes and I read it all there. There
      was no need for her to speak, nor for me either. I frowned and
      drew my hand away. Then she stood by my side in silence for a
      bit, and then put up her hand and patted me on the shoulder.
      ‘Steady old Jim!’ said she, and with a kind o’ mocking laugh, she
      ran out of the room.

      “Well, from that time Sarah hated me with her whole heart and
      soul, and she is a woman who can hate, too. I was a fool to let
      her go on biding with us—a besotted fool—but I never said a word
      to Mary, for I knew it would grieve her. Things went on much as
      before, but after a time I began to find that there was a bit of
      a change in Mary herself. She had always been so trusting and so
      innocent, but now she became queer and suspicious, wanting to
      know where I had been and what I had been doing, and whom my
      letters were from, and what I had in my pockets, and a thousand
      such follies. Day by day she grew queerer and more irritable, and
      we had ceaseless rows about nothing. I was fairly puzzled by it
      all. Sarah avoided me now, but she and Mary were just
      inseparable. I can see now how she was plotting and scheming and
      poisoning my wife’s mind against me, but I was such a blind
      beetle that I could not understand it at the time. Then I broke
      my blue ribbon and began to drink again, but I think I should not
      have done it if Mary had been the same as ever. She had some
      reason to be disgusted with me now, and the gap between us began
      to be wider and wider. And then this Alec Fairbairn chipped in,
      and things became a thousand times blacker.

      “It was to see Sarah that he came to my house first, but soon it
      was to see us, for he was a man with winning ways, and he made
      friends wherever he went. He was a dashing, swaggering chap,
      smart and curled, who had seen half the world and could talk of
      what he had seen. He was good company, I won’t deny it, and he
      had wonderful polite ways with him for a sailor man, so that I
      think there must have been a time when he knew more of the poop
      than the forecastle. For a month he was in and out of my house,
      and never once did it cross my mind that harm might come of his
      soft, tricky ways. And then at last something made me suspect,
      and from that day my peace was gone forever.

      “It was only a little thing, too. I had come into the parlour
      unexpected, and as I walked in at the door I saw a light of
      welcome on my wife’s face. But as she saw who it was it faded
      again, and she turned away with a look of disappointment. That
      was enough for me. There was no one but Alec Fairbairn whose step
      she could have mistaken for mine. If I could have seen him then I
      should have killed him, for I have always been like a madman when
      my temper gets loose. Mary saw the devil’s light in my eyes, and
      she ran forward with her hands on my sleeve. ‘Don’t, Jim, don’t!’
      says she. ‘Where’s Sarah?’ I asked. ‘In the kitchen,’ says she.
      ‘Sarah,’ says I as I went in, ‘this man Fairbairn is never to
      darken my door again.’ ‘Why not?’ says she. ‘Because I order it.’
      ‘Oh!’ says she, ‘if my friends are not good enough for this
      house, then I am not good enough for it either.’ ‘You can do what
      you like,’ says I, ‘but if Fairbairn shows his face here again
      I’ll send you one of his ears for a keepsake.’ She was frightened
      by my face, I think, for she never answered a word, and the same
      evening she left my house.

      “Well, I don’t know now whether it was pure devilry on the part
      of this woman, or whether she thought that she could turn me
      against my wife by encouraging her to misbehave. Anyway, she took
      a house just two streets off and let lodgings to sailors.
      Fairbairn used to stay there, and Mary would go round to have tea
      with her sister and him. How often she went I don’t know, but I
      followed her one day, and as I broke in at the door Fairbairn got
      away over the back garden wall, like the cowardly skunk that he
      was. I swore to my wife that I would kill her if I found her in
      his company again, and I led her back with me, sobbing and
      trembling, and as white as a piece of paper. There was no trace
      of love between us any longer. I could see that she hated me and
      feared me, and when the thought of it drove me to drink, then she
      despised me as well.

      “Well, Sarah found that she could not make a living in Liverpool,
      so she went back, as I understand, to live with her sister in
      Croydon, and things jogged on much the same as ever at home. And
      then came this last week and all the misery and ruin.

      “It was in this way. We had gone on the _May Day_ for a round
      voyage of seven days, but a hogshead got loose and started one of
      our plates, so that we had to put back into port for twelve
      hours. I left the ship and came home, thinking what a surprise it
      would be for my wife, and hoping that maybe she would be glad to
      see me so soon. The thought was in my head as I turned into my
      own street, and at that moment a cab passed me, and there she
      was, sitting by the side of Fairbairn, the two chatting and
      laughing, with never a thought for me as I stood watching them
      from the footpath.

      “I tell you, and I give you my word for it, that from that moment
      I was not my own master, and it is all like a dim dream when I
      look back on it. I had been drinking hard of late, and the two
      things together fairly turned my brain. There’s something
      throbbing in my head now, like a docker’s hammer, but that
      morning I seemed to have all Niagara whizzing and buzzing in my
      ears.

      “Well, I took to my heels, and I ran after the cab. I had a heavy
      oak stick in my hand, and I tell you I saw red from the first;
      but as I ran I got cunning, too, and hung back a little to see
      them without being seen. They pulled up soon at the railway
      station. There was a good crowd round the booking-office, so I
      got quite close to them without being seen. They took tickets for
      New Brighton. So did I, but I got in three carriages behind them.
      When we reached it they walked along the Parade, and I was never
      more than a hundred yards from them. At last I saw them hire a
      boat and start for a row, for it was a very hot day, and they
      thought, no doubt, that it would be cooler on the water.

      “It was just as if they had been given into my hands. There was a
      bit of a haze, and you could not see more than a few hundred
      yards. I hired a boat for myself, and I pulled after them. I
      could see the blur of their craft, but they were going nearly as
      fast as I, and they must have been a long mile from the shore
      before I caught them up. The haze was like a curtain all round
      us, and there were we three in the middle of it. My God, shall I
      ever forget their faces when they saw who was in the boat that
      was closing in upon them? She screamed out. He swore like a
      madman and jabbed at me with an oar, for he must have seen death
      in my eyes. I got past it and got one in with my stick that
      crushed his head like an egg. I would have spared her, perhaps,
      for all my madness, but she threw her arms round him, crying out
      to him, and calling him ‘Alec.’ I struck again, and she lay
      stretched beside him. I was like a wild beast then that had
      tasted blood. If Sarah had been there, by the Lord, she should
      have joined them. I pulled out my knife, and—well, there! I’ve
      said enough. It gave me a kind of savage joy when I thought how
      Sarah would feel when she had such signs as these of what her
      meddling had brought about. Then I tied the bodies into the boat,
      stove a plank, and stood by until they had sunk. I knew very well
      that the owner would think that they had lost their bearings in
      the haze, and had drifted off out to sea. I cleaned myself up,
      got back to land, and joined my ship without a soul having a
      suspicion of what had passed. That night I made up the packet for
      Sarah Cushing, and next day I sent it from Belfast.

      “There you have the whole truth of it. You can hang me, or do
      what you like with me, but you cannot punish me as I have been
      punished already. I cannot shut my eyes but I see those two faces
      staring at me—staring at me as they stared when my boat broke
      through the haze. I killed them quick, but they are killing me
      slow; and if I have another night of it I shall be either mad or
      dead before morning. You won’t put me alone into a cell, sir? For
      pity’s sake don’t, and may you be treated in your day of agony as
      you treat me now.’

      “What is the meaning of it, Watson?” said Holmes solemnly as he
      laid down the paper. “What object is served by this circle of
      misery and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else
      our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what
      end? There is the great standing perennial problem to which human
      reason is as far from an answer as ever.”




III. 
