The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (15 page)

never more be seen in this world!"

Among these unfinished tales is that of Mr. James Phillimore, who, stepping back into his

own house to get his umbrella, was never more seen in this world.

FROM "THOR BRIDGE"

5

The Adventure of the Black Baronet

"Yes, Holmes, the autumn is a melancholy time. But you are in need of this holiday. After

all, you should be interested in such a country type as that man we see from the window."

My friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, closing the book in his hands, glanced languidly out of

the window of our private sitting-room at the inn near East Grinstead.

"Pray be explicit, Watson," said he. "Do you refer to the cobbler or to the farmer?"

In the country road past the inn, I could see a man on the driver's seat of a market-cart,

clearly a farmer. But otherwise there was only an elderly workman in corduroy trousers,

plodding towards the cart with his head down.

"Surely a cobbler," observed Holmes, answering my thought rather than my words. "He is

left-handed, I perceive."

"Holmes, you would have been accused of wizardry in another age from ours! Why the

man should be a cobbler I cannot conceive, but a left-handed cobbler? You cannot have

deduced it."

"My dear fellow, observe the marks across the corduroy trousers where the cobbler rests his

lap stone. The left hand side, you will remark, is far more worn than the right. He used his

left hand for hammering the leather. Would that all our problems were so simple!"

That year of 1889 had brought some significant successes to Sherlock Holmes, which had

added further laurels to his already formidable reputation. But the strain of almost

unremitting work had left its mark upon him, and I was sincerely relieved when he had fallen

in with my proposal that we should exchange the October fogs of Baker Street for the rich

autumnal beauty of the Sussex country-side.

My friend possessed a marked resilience, and the few days of relaxation had already put

back the old nervous spring in his step and a touch of colour in his cheeks. Indeed, I

welcomed even his occasional outbursts of impatience as a sign that his vigorous nature had

shaken off the lassitude which had followed upon his last case.

Holmes had lit his pipe, and I had picked up my book when there came a knock on the door

and the landlord entered.

"There be a gentleman to see you, Mr. Holmes, sir," he said in his soft Sussex burr, "and so

hurried-like that up I must come without even taking off me apron. Ah! Here he is now."

A tall, fair-haired man, wearing a heavy ulster and a Scotch plaid swathed round his throat,

rushed into the room, threw his Gladstone bag into the nearest corner, and, curtly dismissing

the landlord, closed the door behind him. Then he nodded to us both.

"Ah, Gregson," said Holmes, "there must be something unusual in the wind to bring you so far

afield!"

"What a case!" cried Inspector Tobias Gregson, sinking into the chair which I had

pushed towards him. "Whew! What a case! As soon as we had the telegram at the Yard, I

thought it would do no harm to have a word with you in Baker Street—unofficial, of course,

Mr. Holmes. Then, when Mrs. Hudson gave me your address, I decided to come on down. It's

less than thirty miles from here to the place in Kent where the murder was committed." He

mopped at his forehead. "One of the oldest families in the county, they tell me. By heaven,

just wait till the papers get hold of it!"

"My dear Holmes," I interposed, "you are here on a rest."

"Yes, yes, Watson," said my friend hurriedly, "but it will do no harm to hear the details.

Well, Gregson?"

"I know no more than the bare facts given in this telegram from the county police.

Colonel Jocelyn Daley, who was a guest of Sir Reginald Lavington at Lavington Court, has

been stabbed to death in the banqueting-hall. The butler found him there at about ten-

thirty this morning. He'd just died; blood still flowing."

Holmes put down his book on the table. "Suicide? Murder? What?" he asked.

"It couldn't be suicide; no weapon was discovered. But I've had a second telegram,

and there's new evidence. It appears to implicate Sir Reginald Lavington himself.

Colonel Daley was well known in sporting circles, but with none too good a

reputation. This is crime in high life, Mr. Holmes, and there is no room for mistakes."

"Lavington—Lavington?". mused Holmes. "Surely, Watson, when we drove last week

to visit the Bodiam Ruins, did we not pass through a village of that name? I seem to

recall a house lying in a hollow."

I nodded. In my mind rose the memory of a moated manor-house, almost stifled

amid yew trees, from which a sense of oppressiveness had seemed to weigh upon me.

"That's right, Mr. Holmes," agreed Gregson. "A house in a hollow. My guide-book

says that at Lavington the past is more real than the present. Will you come with me?"

My friend leapt from his chair. "By all means," he cried. "No, Watson, not a word!"

The excellent establishment of Mr. John Hoath again supplied us with a carriage in

which for two hours we were driven through the narrow, deep-rutted Sussex lanes. By the

time that we had crossed the Kent border, the chill in the air made us glad of our rugs.

We had turned off the main road, and were descending a steep lane when the coachman

pointed with his whip at a moat-girdled house spread out below us in the grey dusk.

"Lavington Court," said he.

A few minutes later we had alighted from our carriage. As we crossed the causeway to

the front door, I had a sombre impression of dead leaves on dark, sullen water and a great

battlemented tower looming through the twilight. Holmes struck a match and stooped

over the gravelled surface of the causeway.

"H'm, ha! Four sets of footprints. Hullo, what's this? The hoof-marks of a horse, and

furiously ridden, to judge by their depth. Probably the first summons to the police. Well,

Gregson, there's not much to be gained here. Let us hope that the scene of the crime may yield

more interesting results."

As Holmes finished speaking, the door was opened. I must confess to reassurance at the

sight of the stolid, and red-faced butler who ushered us into a stone-flagged hall, mellow and

beautiful in the light of old-fashioned, many-branched candlesticks. At the far end a stairway

led up to an oaken gallery on the floor above.

A thin, ginger-haired man, who had been warming his coat-tails before the fire, hurried

towards us.

"Inspector Gregson?" he asked. "Thank the Lord you've come, sir!"

"I take it that you are Sergeant Bassett of the Kent County Constabulary?"

The ginger-haired man nodded. "That will do, Gillings. We'll ring when we need you. This is

a dreadful business, sir, dreadful!" he went on, as the butler departed. "And now it's worse than

ever. Here's a famous gambler stabbed when he was drinking a toast to his best racehorse, and

Sir Reginald
claims
to have been absent at the time, and yet the knife—" The local detective

broke off and looked at us. "Who are these gentlemen?"

"They are Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. You may speak freely."

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I've heard of your clever reputation," remarked Sergeant Bassett

doubtfully. "But there's not much mystery about this affair, and I hope the police will receive

the credit."

"Gregson can tell you that I play the game for the game's sake," my friend replied.

"Officially, I prefer not to appear in this case."

"Very fair, I'm sure, Mr. Holmes. Then, gentlemen, please to come this way."

He picked up a four-branched candlestick, and we were following him across the

hall when there came a most unexpected interruption.

I have had considerable experience of women in many parts of the world, but never have I

beheld a more queenly presence than the woman now descending the stairs. As she

paused with her hand on the banister, the candlelight falling warmly on her soft copper-

coloured hair and her heavy-lidded green eyes, I gained an impression of a beauty once

radiant but now pale under the stress of some dreadful event which she could not understand.

"I heard your name in the hall, Mr. Holmes," she cried. "I know very little, but of

one thing I am certain. My husband is innocent! I beg that you will think of that first."

For a moment Holmes looked at her intently, as though that melodious voice had

struck some chord in his memory.

"I will bear your suggestion in mind, Lady Lavington. But surely your marriage has

deprived the stage of—"

"Then you recognize Margaret Montpensier?" For the first time a touch of colour

came into her face. "Yes, that was when I first met Colonel Daley. But my husband had no

reason for jealousy—!" She paused in consternation.

"How's this, my lady?" exclaimed Gregson. "Jealousy?"

The two detectives exchanged glances.

"We hadn't got a motive before," muttered Bassett.

Lady Lavington, formerly that great actress Margaret Montpensier, had said what she had

never intended to say. Holmes bowed gravely, and we followed the sergeant towards an

arched door.

Though the room we entered was in complete darkness, I had a sense of height and size.

"There are no lights here except from this candlestick, gentlemen," came Bassett's voice.

"Stand in the door for a moment, please."

As he moved forward, the reflection of four candle-flames followed him along the

surface of a great refectory table, with its narrow side towards the door. At the far end the

light flashed back from a tall silver goblet with a human hand lying motionless on either

side. Bassett thrust forward the candelabrum.

"Look at this, Inspector Gregson!" he cried.

Seated at the head of the table, his cheek resting upon the surface, a man lay sprawled

forward with his arms outflung on either side of the cup. Against a welter of blood and wine

his fair hair shone under the candle-flames.

"His throat's been cut," snapped Bassett. "And here," he cried, darting to the wall,
"was
the

dagger that did it!"

We hastened forward to where he was holding up his light against the old wainscotting.

Amid a trophy of arms, two small metal hooks showed where some weapon had hung.

"How do you know that it was a dagger?" asked Gregson.

Bassett pointed to a slight scratch on the woodwork some six inches below. Holmes nodded

approvingly.

"Good, Sergeant!" said he. "But you have other proof besides the scratch on the panelling?"

"Yes! Ask that butler, Gillings! It's an old hunting-dagger: hung there for years. Now look

at the wound in Colonel Daley's throat."

Inured though I was to scenes of violence, I stepped back. Bassett, laying hold of that

yellow hair which was tinged with grey at the temples, raised the dead man's head. Even in

death it was an eagle face, with a great curving nose above a remorseless mouth.

"The dagger, yes," said Holmes. "But surely an odd direction for the blow? It appears to

strike upwards from beneath."

The local detective smiled grimly. "Not so odd, Mr. Holmes, if the murderer struck when his

victim raised that heavy cup to drink. Colonel Daley would have had to use both hands. We

know already that he and Sir Reginald were drinking in here to the success of the colonel's

horse at Leopardstown next week."

We all looked at the great wine-vessel, fully twelve inches high. It was of ancient silver,

richly embossed and chased, girded below the lip with a circlet of garnets.

As it stood there amid the crimson stains and the scratches of finger-nails on that dreadful

table-top, I noticed the twin silver figures carved like owls that decorated the tops of the handles

on either side.

"The Luck of Lavington," said Bassett with a short laugh. "You can see those owls in

the family arms. Well, it brought no luck to Colonel Daley. Somebody stabbed him when he

raised it to drink."

"Somebody?"
said a voice in the background.

Holmes had lifted the cup and, after examining it closely, was looking at the scratches

and wine-stains which had seeped beneath it, when the shock of this interruption made

us all turn towards the far end of the banqueting-hall.

A man was standing near the door. The light of a single taper which he had raised

above his head illumined a pair of dark, brooding eyes that glowered at us from a face as

black-browed and swarthy as that of some Andalusian gipsy. There was an impression of

formidable strength in the spread of his shoulders, and in his bull neck above an old-

fashioned black satin stock.

"How's this?" he challenged in a rumbling voice, advancing on us with silent steps. "Who

are ye? A pretty state of affairs, Bassett, when ye drag a set of strangers into the house of your

own landlord!"

"I would remind you, Sir Reginald, that a serious crime has been committed," replied

the local detective sternly. "This is Inspector Gregson from London; and these gentlemen are