The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (36 page)

break the spine of smaller creatures with a single blow of its mandibles. You will recall that

Miss Janet mentioned that the rats had vanished since her uncle's return. Doubtless Wilson

brought the brutes back with him," he went on, "and then conceived the idea of training certain

of his canaries to imitate the song of some Cuban night-bird upon which the
Galeodes
were

accustomed to feed. The marks on the ceiling were caused, of course, by the soot adhering to

the spiders' legs after they had scrambled up the flues. It is fortunate, perhaps, for the consulting

detective that the duster of the average housemaid seldom strays beyond the height of a

mantelpiece.

"Indeed, I can discover no excuse for my lamentable slowness in solving this case, for the

facts were before me from the first, and the whole affair was elementary in its construction.

"And yet to give Theobold Wilson his dues, one must recognize his almost diabolical

cleverness. Once these horrors were installed in the stove in the cellar, what more simple than

to arrange two ordinary flues communicating with the bedrooms above? By hanging the cages

over the stoves, the flues would themselves act as a magnifier to the birds' song and, guided

by their predatory instinct, the creatures would invariably ascend whichever pipe led to it.

Once Wilson had devised some means of luring them back again to their nest, they

represented a comparatively safe way of getting rid of those who stood between himself and

the property."

"Then its bite is deadly?" I interposed.

"To a person in weak health, probably so. But there lies the devilish cunning of the

scheme, Watson. It was the sight of the thing rather than its bite, poisonous though it may be, on

which he relied to kill his victim. Can you imagine the effect upon an elderly woman, and later

upon her son, both suffering from insomnia and heart disease, when in the midst of a bird's

seemingly innocent song this appalling spectacle arose from the top of the stove? We have

sampled it ourselves, though we are healthy men. It killed them as surely as a bullet through

their hearts."

"There is one thing I cannot understand, Holmes. Why did he appeal to Scotland Yard?"

"Because he is a man of iron nerve. His niece was instinctively frightened and, finding that

she was adamant in her intention of leaving, he planned to kill her at once and by the same

method.

"Once done, who should dare to point the finger of suspicion at Master Theobold? Had he

not appealed to Scotland Yard and even invoked the aid of Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself to

satisfy one and all? The girl had died of a heart attack like the others and her uncle would

have been the recipient of general condolences.

"Remember the padlocked cover of the stove in the cellar and admire the cold nerve that

offered to fetch the key. It was bluff, of course, for he would have discovered that he had 'lost'

it. Had we persisted and forced that lock, I prefer not to think of what we would have found

clinging round our collars."

Theobold Wilson was never heard of again. But it is perhaps suggestive that, some two

days later, a man's body was fished out of the Thames. The corpse was mutilated beyond

recognition, probably by a ship's propeller, and the police searched his pockets in vain for

means of identification. They contained nothing, however, save for a small note-book filled

with jottings on the brooding period of the
Fringilla Canaria.

"It is the wise man who keeps bees," remarked Sherlock Holmes when he read the report.

"You know where you are with them and at least they do not attempt to represent themselves as

something that they are not."

In this memorable year '93, a curious and incongruous succession of cases had engaged

his attention ranging from .
. .
the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca down to the arrest of

Wilson the notorious canary-trainer* which removed a plague-spot from the East End of

London.

FROM "BLACK PETER."

* In the Wilson case, Holmes did not actually arrest Wilson as Wilson was drowned.

This was a typical Watson error in his hurried reference to the case in "Black Peter."

12

The Adventure of the Red Widow

"Your conclusions are perfectly correct, my dear Watson," remarked my friend Sherlock

Holmes. "Squalor and poverty are the natural matrix to crimes of violence."

"Precisely so," I agreed. "Indeed, I was just thinking—" I broke off to stare at him in

amazement. "Good heavens, Holmes," I cried, "this is too much. How could you possibly know

my innermost thoughts!"

My friend leaned back in his chair and, placing his finger-tips together, surveyed me from

under his heavy, drooping eyelids.

"I would do better justice, perhaps, to my limited powers by refusing to answer your

question," he said, with a dry chuckle. "You have a certain flair, Watson, for concealing your

failure to perceive the obvious by the cavalier manner in which you invariably accept the

explanation of a sequence of simple but logical reasoning."

"I do not see how logical reasoning can enable you to follow the course of my mental

processes," I retorted, a trifle nettled by his superior manner.

"There was no great difficulty. I have been watching you for the last few minutes. The

expression on your face was quite vacant until, as your eyes roved about the room, they fell

on the bookcase and came to rest on Hugo's
Les Miserables
which made so deep an

impression upon you when you read it last year. You became thoughtful, your eyes narrowed, it

was obvious that your mind was drifting again into that tremendous dreadful saga of human

suffering; at length your gaze lifted to the window with its aspect of snow-flakes and grey sky

and bleak, frozen roofs, and then, moving slowly on to the mantelpiece, settled on the jack-knife

With which I skewer my unanswered correspondence. The frown darkened on your face and

unconsciously you shook your head despondently. It was an association of ideas. Hugo's terrible

sub-third stage, the winter cold of poverty in the slums and, above the warm glow of our own

modest fire, the bare knife-blade. Your expression deepened into one of sadness, the melancholy

that comes with an understanding of cause and effect in the unchanging human tragedy. It was

then that I ventured to agree with you."

"Well, I must confess that you followed my thoughts with extraordinary accuracy," I

admitted. "A remarkable piece of reasoning, Holmes."

"Elementary, my dear Watson."

The year of 1887 was moving to its end. The iron grip of the great blizzards that

commenced in the last week of December had closed on the land and beyond the windows

of Holmes's lodgings in Baker Street lay a gloomy vista of grey, lowering sky and white-

capped tiles dimly discernible through a curtain of snow-flakes.

Though it had been a memorable year for my friend, it had been of yet greater

importance to me, for it was but two months since that Miss Mary Morston had paid me the

signal honour of joining her destiny to mine. The change from my bachelor existence as a half-

pay, ex-Army surgeon into the state of wedded bliss had not been accomplished without some

uncalled-for and ironic comments from Sherlock Holmes but, as my wife and I could thank him

for the fact that we had found each other, we could afford to accept his cynical attitude with

tolerance and even understanding.

I had dropped in to our old lodgings on this afternoon, to be precise December 30th, to

pass a few hours with my friend and enquire whether any new case of interest had come his

way since my previous visit. I had found him pale and listless, his dressing-gown drawn round

his shoulders and the room reeking with the smoke of his favorite black shag, through

which the fire in the grate gleamed like a brazier in a fog.

"Nothing, save a few routine enquiries, Watson," he had replied in a voice shrill with

complaint. "Creative art in crime seems to have become atrophied since I disposed of the late-

lamented Bert Stevens." Then lapsing into silence, he curled himself up morosely in his arm-

chair, and not another word passed between us until my thoughts were suddenly interrupted by

the observation that commenced this narrative.

As I rose to go, he looked at me critically.

"I perceive, Watson," said he, "that you are already paying the price. The slovenly state of

your left jawbone bears regrettable testimony that somebody has changed the position of your

shaving-mirror. Furthermore, you are indulging in extravagances."

"You do me a gross injustice."

"What, at the winter price of fivepence a blossom! Your buttonhole tells me that you were

sporting a flower not later than yesterday."

"This is the first time I have known you penurious, Holmes," I retorted with some bitterness.

He broke into a hearty laugh. "My dear fellow, you must forgive me!" he cried. "It is most

unfair that I should penalize you because a surfeit of unexpended mental energy tends to play

upon my nerves. But hullo, what's this!"

A heavy step was mounting the stairs. My friend waved me back into my chair.

"Stay a moment, Watson," said he. "It is Gregson, and the old game may be afoot once

more."

"Gregson?"

"There is no mistaking that regulation tread. Too heavy for Lestrade's and yet known to

Mrs. Hudson or she would accompany him. It is Gregson."

As he finished speaking, there came a knock on the door and a figure muffled to the

ears in a heavy cape entered the room. Our visitor tossed his bowler on the nearest chair

and unwinding the scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, disclosed the flaxen

hair and long, pale features of the Scotland Yard detective.

"Ah, Gregson," greeted Holmes, with a sly glance in my direction. "It must be urgent

business that brings you out in this inclement weather. But throw off your cape, man, and

come over to the fire."

The police-agent shook his head. "There is not a moment to lose," he replied, consulting

a large silver turnip watch. "The train to Derbyshire leaves in half an hour and I have a

hansom waiting below. Though the case should present no difficulties for an officer of my

experience, nevertheless I shall be glad of your company."

"Something of interest?"

"Murder, Mr. Holmes," snapped Gregson curtly, "and a singular one at that, to judge from

the telegram from the local police. It appears that Lord Jocelyn Cope, the Deputy-Lieutenant

of the County, has been found butchered at Arnsworth Castle. The Yard is quite capable of

solving crimes of this nature, but in view of the curious terms contained in the police telegram,

it occurred to me that you might wish to accompany me. Will you come?"

Holmes leaned forward, emptied the Persian slipper into his tobacco pouch and sprang to

his feet.

"Give me a moment to pack a clean collar and toothbrush," he cried. "I have a spare one

for you, Watson. No, my dear fellow, not a word. Where would I be without your assistance?

Scribble a note to your wife, and Mrs. Hudson will have it delivered. We should be back

tomorrow. Now, Gregson, I'm your man and you can fill in the details during our journey."

The guard's flag was already waving as we rushed up the platform at St. Pancras and tore

open the door of the first empty smoker. Holmes had brought three travelling-rugs with him and

as the train roared its way through the fading winter daylight we made ourselves comfortable

enough in our respective corners.

"Well, Gregson, I shall be interested to hear the details," remarked Holmes, his thin,

eager face framed in the ear-flaps of his deer-stalker and a spiral of blue smoke rising from his

pipe.

"I know nothing beyond what I have already told you."

"And yet you used the word 'singular' and referred to the telegram from the county police

as 'curious.' Kindly explain."

"I used both terms for the same reason. The wire from the local inspector advised that

the officer from Scotland Yard should read the
Derbyshire County Guide
and the
Gazeteer.
A

most extraordinary suggestion!"

"I should say a wise one. What have you done about it?"

"The
Gazeteer
states merely that Lord Jocelyn Cope is a Deputy-Lieutenant and county

magnate, married, childless and noted for his bequests to local archeological societies. As for

the
Guide,
I have it here." He drew a pamphlet from his pocket and thumbed over the pages.

"Here we are," he continued. "Arnsworth Castle. Built reign of Edward III. Fifteenth-century

stained-glass window to celebrate Battle of Agincourt. Cope family penalized for suspected

Catholic leaning by Royal Visitation, 1574. Museum open to public once a year. Contains large

collection of martial and other relics including small guillotine built originally in Nimes during

French Revolution for execution of a maternal ancestor of the present owner. Never used

owing to escape of intended victim and later purchased as relic by family after Napoleonic

Wars and brought to Arnsworth. Pshaw! That local inspector must be out of his senses, Mr.