The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (34 page)

a task worthy of a man's lifetime. You would not credit the ignorance, Dr. Watson, that prevails

on this subject even in the most enlightened circles. When I read my paper on the 'Crossing

of the Madeira and Canary Island Strains' to the British Ornithological Society I was appalled at

the puerility of the ensuing questions."

"Inspector Lestrade hinted at some special characteristic in your training of these little

songsters."

"Songsters, sir! A thrush is a songster. The
Fringilla
is the supreme ear of Nature,

possessing an unique power of imitation which can be trained for the benefit and edification of

the human race. But the inspector was correct," he went on more calmly, "in that I have put my

birds to a special effect. They are trained to sing by night in artificial light."

"Surely a somewhat singular pursuit."

"I like to think that it is a kindly one. My birds are trained for the benefit of those who

suffer from insomnia and I have clients in all parts of the country. Their tuneful song helps to

while away the long night hours and the dousing of the lamplight terminates the concert."

"It seems to me that Lestrade was right," I observed. "Yours is indeed an unique

profession."

During our conversation, Holmes, who had idly picked up our companion's heavy stick, had

been examining it with some attention.

"I understand that you returned to England some three years ago," he observed.

"I did."

"From Cuba, I perceive."

Theobold Wilson started and for an instant I seemed to catch a gleam of something like

wariness in the swift glance that he shot at Holmes.

"That is so," he said. "But how did you know?"

"Your stick is cut from Cuban ebony. There is no mistaking that greenish tint and the

exceptionally high polish."

"It might have been bought in London since my return from, say, Africa."

"No, it has been yours for some years." Holmes lifted the stick to the carriage-window and

tilted it so that the daylight shone upon the handle. "You will perceive," he went on, "that

there is a slight but regular scraping that has worn through the polish along the left side of

the handle just where the ring finger of a left-handed man would close upon the grip. Ebony is

among the toughest of woods and it would require considerable time to cause such wear and a

ring of some harder metal than gold. You are left-handed, Mr. Wilson, and wear a silver ring

on your middle finger."

"Dear me, how simple. I thought for the moment that you had done something clever. As it

happens, I was in the sugar trade in Cuba and brought my old stick back with me. But here

we are at the house and, if you can put my silly niece's fears at rest as quickly as you can

deduce my past, I shall be your debtor, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

On descending from our four-wheeler, we found ourselves in a lane of mean, slatternly

houses sloping, so far as I could judge from the yellow mist that was already creeping up the

lower end, to the river's edge. At one side was a high wall of crumbling brickwork pierced

by an iron gate through which we caught a glimpse of a substantial mansion lying in its own

garden.

"The old house has known better days," said our companion, as we followed him through

the gate and up the path. "It was built in the year that Peter the Great came to live in Scales

Court whose ruined park can be seen from the upper windows."

Usually I am not unduly affected by my surroundings, but I must confess that I was

aware of a feeling of depression at the melancholy spectacle that lay before us. The house,

though of dignified and even imposing proportions, was faced with blotched, weather-stained

plaster which had fallen away in places to disclose the ancient brickwork that lay beneath,

while a tangled mass of ivy covering one wall had sent its long tendrils across the high-

peaked roof to wreathe itself around the chimney-stacks.

The garden was an overgrown wilderness, and the air of the whole place reeked with

the damp musty smell of the river.

Theobold Wilson led us through a small hall into a comfortably furnished drawing-room. A

young woman with auburn hair and a freckled face, who was sorting through some papers at a

writing-desk, sprang to her feet at our entrance.

"Here are Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson," announced our companion. "This is

my niece Janet, whose interests you are here to protect against her own unreasonable

conduct."

The young lady faced us bravely enough, though I noted a twitch and tremor of the lips

that spoke of a high nervous tension. "I am leaving tomorrow, Uncle," she cried, "and

nothing that these gentlemen can say will alter my decision. Here, there is only sorrow and

fear— above all, fear!"

"Fear of what?"

The girl passed her hand over her eyes. "I—I cannot explain. I hate the shadows and the

funny little noises."

"You have inherited both money and property, Janet," said Mr. Wilson earnestly. "Will you,

because of shadows, desert the roof of your fathers? Be reasonable."

"We are here only to serve you, young lady," said Holmes with some gentleness, "and to

try to put your fears at rest. It is often so in life that we injure our own best interests by

precipitate action."

"You will laugh at a woman's intuitions, sir."

"By no means. They are often the signposts of Providence. Understand clearly that you

will go or stay as you see fit. But perhaps, as I am here, it might relieve your mind to show

me over the house."

"An admirable suggestion!" cried Theobold Wilson cheerily. "Come, Janet, we will soon

dispose of your shadows and noises."

In a little procession, we trooped from one over-furnished room to another on the ground

floor.

"I will take you to the bedrooms," said Miss Wilson, as we paused at last before the

staircase.

"Are there no cellars in a house of this antiquity?"

"There is one cellar, Mr. Holmes, but it is little used save for the storage of wood and some

of Uncle's old nest-boxes. This way, please."

It was a gloomy, stone-built chamber in which we found ourselves. A stack of wood was

piled against one wall and a pot-bellied Dutch stove, its iron pipe running through the ceiling,

filled the far corner. Through a glazed door reached by a line of steps and opening into the

garden, a dun light filtered down upon the flagstones. Holmes sniffed the air keenly, and I was

myself aware of an increased mustiness from the near-by river.

"Like most Thames-side houses, you must be plagued by rats," he remarked.

"We used to be. But, since Uncle came here, he has got rid of them."

"Quite so. Dear me," he continued, peering down at the floor, "what busy little fellows!"

Following his gaze, I saw that his attention had been drawn by a few garden ants scurrying

across the floor from beneath the edge of the stove and up the steps leading to the garden door.

"It is as well for us, Watson," he chuckled, pointing with his stick at the tiny particles with which

they were encumbered, "that we are not under the necessity of lugging along our dinners thrice

our own size. It is a lesson in patience." He lapsed into silence, staring thoughtfully at the floor.

"A lesson," he repeated slowly.

Mr. Wilson's thin lips tightened. "What foolery is this," he exclaimed. "The ants are there

because the servants would throw garbage in the stove to save themselves the trouble of going

to the dustbin."

"And so you put a lock on the lid."

"We did. If you wish, I can fetch the key. No? Then, if you are finished, let me take you to

the bedrooms."

"Perhaps I may see the room where your brother died," requested Holmes, as we reached the

top floor.

"It is here," replied Miss Wilson, throwing open the door.

It was a large chamber furnished with some taste and even luxury and lit by two deeply

recessed windows flanking another pot-bellied stove decorated with yellow tiles to harmonize

with the tone of the room. A pair of birdcages hung from the stove-pipe.

"Where does that side door lead?" asked my friend.

"It communicates with my room, which was formerly used by my mother," she answered.

For a few minutes, Holmes prowled around listlessly.

"I perceive that your brother was addicted to night reading," he remarked.

"Yes. He suffered from sleeplessness. But how—"

"Tut, the pile of the carpet on the right of the arm-chair is thick with traces of candle-wax.

But hullo! What have we here?"

Holmes had halted near the window and was staring intently at the upper wall. Then,

mounting the sill, he stretched out an arm and, touching the plaster lightly here arid there,

sniffed at his finger-tips. There was a puzzled frown on his face as he clambered down and

commenced to circle slowly around the room, his eyes fixed upon the ceiling.

"Most singular," he muttered.

"Is anything wrong, Mr. Holmes?" faltered Miss Wilson.

"I am merely interested to account for these odd whorls and lines across the upper wall

and plaster."

"It must be those dratted cockroaches dragging the dust all over the place," exclaimed

Wilson apologetically. "I've told you before, Janet, that you would be better employed in

supervising the servants' work. But what now, Mr. Holmes?"

My friend, who had crossed to the side door and glanced within, now closed it again

and strolled across to the window.

"My visit has been a useless one," said he, "and, as I see that the fog is rising, I fear that

we must take our leave. These are, I suppose, your famous canaries?" he added, pointing to

the cages above the stove.

"A mere sample. But come this way."

Wilson led us along the passage and threw open a door.

"There!" said he.

Obviously it was his own bedroom and yet unlike any bedroom that I had entered in all my

professional career. From floor to ceiling it was festooned with scores of cages and the little

golden-coated singers within filled the air with their sweet warbling and trilling.

"Daylight or lamplight, it's all the same to them. Here, Carrie, Carrie!" he whistled a few

liquid notes which I seemed to recognize. The bird took them up into a lovely cadence of song.

"A sky-lark!" I cried.

"Precisely. As I said before, the
Fringilla
if properly trained are the supreme imitators."

"I confess that I do not recognize that song," I remarked, as one of the birds broke into a

low rising, whistle ending in a curious
tremolo.

Mr. Wilson threw a towel over the cage. "It is the song of the tropic night-bird," he said

shortly, "and, as I have the foolish pride to prefer my birds to sing the songs of the day

while it is day, we will punish Peperino by putting him in darkness."

"I am surprised that you prefer an open fireplace here to a stove," observed Holmes.

"There must be a considerable draught."

"I have not noticed one. Dear me, the fog is indeed increasing. I am afraid, Mr. Holmes, that

you have a bad journey before you."

"Then we must be on our way."

As we descended the stairs and paused in the hall while Theobold Wilson fetched our hats,

Sherlock Holmes leaned over towards our young companion.

"I would remind you, Miss Wilson, of what I said earlier about a woman's intuition," he

said quietly. "There are occasions when the truth can be sensed more easily than it can be seen.

Good-night."

A moment later, we were feeling our way down the garden path to where the lights of our

waiting four-wheeler shone dimly through the rising fog.

My companion was sunk in thought as we rumbled westward through the mean streets

whose squalor was the more aggressive under the garish light of the gas-lamps that flared and

whistled outside the numerous public houses. The night promised to be a bad one and already,

through the yellow vapour thickening and writhing above the pavements, the occasional

wayfarer was nothing more than a vague hurrying shadow.

"I could have wished, my dear fellow," I remarked, "that you had been spared the need

uselessly to waste your energies which are already sufficiently depleted."

"Well, well, Watson. I fancied that the affairs of the Wilson family would prove no

concern of ours. And yet—" he sank back, absorbed for a moment in his own thoughts,

"—and yet, it is wrong, wrong, all wrong!" I heard him mutter under his breath.

"I observed nothing of a sinister nature."

"Nor I. But every danger bell in my head is jangling its warning. Why a fireplace, Watson,

why a fireplace? I take it that you noticed that the pipe from the cellar connected with the stoves

in the other bedrooms?"

"In one bedroom."

"No. There was the same arrangement in the adjoining room where the mother died."

"I see nothing in this save an old-fashioned system of heating flues."

"And what of the marks on the ceiling?"

"You mean the whorls of dust."

"I mean the whorls of soot."

"Soot! Surely you are mistaken, Holmes."

"I touched them, smelt them, examined them. They were speckles and lines of wood-soot."

"Well, there is probably some perfectly natural explanation."

For a time, we sat in silence. Our cab had reached the beginnings of the City and I was