Sherlock Holmes In Montague Street Volume 2 (8 page)

“The motive,” said Holmes, “is, I fancy, a most extraordinary - indeed, a weird one. A thing as of centuries ago. Ask me no questions - I think you will be a little surprised before very long. But come, we must move.” And we mended our pace along the lane.

The lane, by the bye, was hard and firm, with scarcely a spot where a track might be left, except in places at the sides; and at these places Holmes never gave a glance. At the end the lane turned into a by-road, and at the turning Holmes stopped and scrutinized the ground closely. There was nothing like a recognizable footmark to be seen; but almost immediately Holmes turned off to the right, and we continued our brisk march without a glance at the road.

“How did you judge which way to turn then?” I asked.

“Didn't you see?” replied Holmes; “I'll show you at the next turning.”

Half a mile farther on the road forked, and here Holmes stooped and pointed silently to a couple of small twigs, placed crosswise, with the longer twig of the two pointing down the branch of the road to the left. We took the branch to the left, and went on.

“Our man's making a mistake,” Holmes observed. “He leaves his friends' messages lying about for his enemies to read.”

We hurried forward with scarcely a word. I was almost too bewildered by what Holmes had said and done to formulate anything like a reasonable guess as to what our expedition tended, or even to make an effective inquiry - though, after what Holmes had said, I knew that would be useless. Who was this mysterious man with the broken shoe? What had he to do with the murder of Sneathy? What did the mutilation mean? And who were his friends who left him signs and messages by means of crossed twigs?

We met a man, by whom I sent a short note to my uncle, and soon after we turned into a main road. Here again, at the corner, was the curious message of twigs. A cart-wheel had passed over and crushed them, but it had not so far displaced them as to cause any doubt that the direction to take was to the right. At an inn a little farther along we entered, and Holmes bought a pint of Irish whisky and a flat bottle to hold it in, as well as a loaf of bread and some cheese, which we carried away wrapped in paper.

“This will have to do for our dinner,” Holmes said as we emerged.

“But we're not going to drink a pint of common whisky between us?” I asked in some astonishment.

“Never mind,” Holmes answered with a smile. “Perhaps we'll find somebody to help us - somebody not so fastidious as yourself as to quality.”

Now we hurried - hurried more than ever, for it was beginning to get dusk, and Holmes feared a difficulty in finding and reading the twig signs in the dark. Two more turnings we made, each with its silent direction - the crossed twigs. To me there was something almost weird and creepy in this curious hunt for the invisible and incomprehensible, guided faithfully and persistently at every turn by this now unmistakable signal. After the second turning we broke into a trot along a long, winding lane, but presently Holmes's hand fell on my shoulder, and we stopped. He pointed ahead, where some large object, round a bend of the hedge was illuminated as though by a light from below.

“We will walk now,” Holmes said. “Remember that we are on a walking tour, and have come along here entirely by accident.”

We proceeded at a swinging walk, Holmes whistling gaily. Soon we turned the bend, and saw that the large object was a traveling van drawn up with two others on a space of grass by the side of the lane. It was a gipsy encampment, the caravan having apparently only lately stopped, for a man was still engaged in tugging at the rope of a tent that stood near the vans. Two or three sullen-looking ruffians lay about a fire which burned in the space left in the middle of the encampment. A woman stood at the door of one van with a large kettle in her hand, and at the foot of the steps below her a more pleasant-looking old man sat on an inverted pail. Holmes swung towards the fire from the road, and with an indescribable mixture of slouch, bow, and smile addressed the company generally with “
Kooshto bock, pals!
”
[1]

The men on the ground took no notice, but continued to stare doggedly before them. The man working at the tent looked round quickly for a moment, and the old man on the bucket looked up and nodded.

Quick to see the most likely friend, Holmes at once went up to the old man, extending his hand, “
Sarshin, daddo?
” he said; “
Dell mandy tooty's varst.
”
[2]

The old man smiled and shook hands, though without speaking. Then Holmes proceeded, producing the flat bottle of whisky, “
Tatty for pawny, chals. Dell mandy the pawny, and lell posh the tatty.
”
[3]

The whisky did it. We were Romany ryes in twenty minutes or less, and had already been taking tea with the gypsies for half the time. The two or three we had found about the fire were still reserved, but these, I found, were only half-gypsies, and understood very little Romany. One or two others, however, including the old man, were of purer breed, and talked freely, as did one of the women. They were Lees, they said, and expected to be on Wirksby racecourse in three days' time. We, too, were
pirimengroes
, or travelers, Holmes explained, and might look to see them on the course.

Then he fell to telling gipsy stories, and they to telling others back, to my intense mystification. Holmes explained afterwards that they were mostly stories of poaching, with now and again a horse-coping anecdote thrown in. Since then I have learned enough of Romany to take my part in such a conversation, but at the time a word or two here and there was all I could understand. In all this talk the man we had first noticed stretching the tent-rope took very little interest, but lay, with his head away from the fire, smoking his pipe. He was a much darker man than any other present - had, in fact, the appearance of a man of even a swarthier face than that of the others about us.

Presently, in the middle of a long and, of course, to me unintelligible story by the old man, I caught Holmes's eye. He lifted one eyebrow almost imperceptibly, and glanced for a single moment at his walking-stick. Then I saw that it was pointed toward the feet of the very dark man, who had not yet spoken. One leg was thrown over the others as he lay, with the soles of his shoes presented toward the fire, and in its glare I saw - that the right sole was worn and broken, and that a small triangular tag of leather was doubled over beneath in just the place we knew of from the prints in Ratherby Wood.

I could not take my eyes off that man with his broken shoe. There lay the secret, the whole mystery of the fantastic crime in Ratherby Wood centered in that shabby ruffian. What was it?

But Holmes went on, talking and joking furiously. The men who were not speaking mostly smoked gloomily, but whenever one spoke, he became animated and lively. I had attempted once or twice to join in, though my efforts were not particularly successful, except in inducing one man to offer me tobacco from his box - tobacco that almost made me giddy in the smell. He tried some of mine in exchange, and though he praised it with native politeness, and smoked the pipe through, I could see that my Hignett mixture was poor stuff in his estimation, compared with the awful tobacco in his own box.

Presently the man with the broken shoe got up, slouched over to his tent, and disappeared. Then said Holmes (I translate):

“You're not all Lees here, I see?”

“Yes,
pal
, all Lees.”

“But
he's
not a Lee?” and Holmes jerked his head towards the tent.

“Why not a Lee,
pal
? We be Lees, and he is with us. Thus he is a Lee.”

“Oh yes, of course. But I know he is from over the
pawny
. Come, I'll guess the
tem
[4]
he comes from - it's from Roumania, eh? Perhaps the Wallachian part?”

The men looked at one another, and then the old Lee said:

“You're right, pal. You're cleverer than we took you for. That is what they calls his
tem
. He is a petulengro,
[5]
and he comes with us to shoe the
gries
[6]
and mend the
vardoes
.
[7]
But he is with us, and so he is a Lee.”

The talk and the smoke went on, and presently the man with the broken shoe returned, and lay down again. Then, when the whisky had all gone, and Holmes, with some excuse that I did not understand, had begged a piece of cord from one of the men, we left in a chorus of
kooshto rardies
.
[8]

By this time it was nearly ten o'clock. We walked briskly till we came back again to the inn where we had bought the whisky. Here Holmes, after some little trouble, succeeded in hiring a village cart, and while the driver was harnessing the horse, cut a couple of short sticks from the hedge. These, being each divided into two, made four short, stout pieces of something less than six inches long apiece. Then Holmes joined them together in pairs, each pair being connected from centre to centre by about nine or ten inches of the cord he had brought from the gypsies' camp. These done, he handed one pair to me. “Handcuffs,” he explained, “and no bad ones either. See - you use them so.” And he passed the cord round my wrist, gripping the two handles, and giving them a slight twist that sufficiently convinced me of the excruciating pain that might be inflicted by a vigorous turn, and the utter helplessness of a prisoner thus secured in the hands of captors prepared to use their instruments.

“Whom are these for?” I asked. “The man with the broken shoe?”

Holmes nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “I expect we shall find him out alone about midnight. You know how to use these now.”

It was fully eleven before the cart was ready and we started. A quarter of a mile or so from the gipsy encampment Holmes stopped the cart and gave the driver instructions to wait. We got through the hedge, and made our way on the soft ground behind it in the direction of the vans and the tent.

“Roll up your handkerchief,” Holmes whispered, “into a tight pad. The moment I grab him, ram it into his mouth -
well
in, mind, so that it doesn't easily fall out. Probably he will be stooping - that will make it easier; we can pull him suddenly backward. Now be quiet.”

We kept on till nothing but the hedge divided us from the space whereon stood the encampment. It was now nearer twelve o'clock than eleven, but the time we waited seemed endless. But time is not eternity after all, and at last we heard a move in the tent. A minute after, the man we sought was standing before us. He made straight for a gap in the hedge which we had passed on our way, and we crouched low and waited. He emerged on our side of the hedge with his back towards us, and began walking, as we had walked, behind the hedge, but in the opposite direction. We followed.

He carried something in his hand that looked like a large bundle of sticks and twigs, and he appeared to be as anxious to be secret as we ourselves. From time to time he stopped and listened; fortunately there was no moon, or in turning about, as he did once or twice, he would probably have observed us. The field sloped downward just before us, and there was another hedge at right angles, leading down to a slight hollow. To this hollow the man made his way, and in the shade of the new hedge we followed. Presently he stopped suddenly, stooped, and deposited his bundle on the ground before him. Crouching before it, he produced matches from his pocket, struck one, and in a moment had a fire of twigs and small branches, that sent up a heavy white smoke. What all this portended I could not imagine, but a sense of the weirdness of the whole adventure came upon me unchecked. The horrible corpse in the wood, with its severed wrist, Holmes's enigmatical forebodings, the mysterious tracking of the man with the broken shoe, the scene round the gypsies' fire, and now the strange behavior of this man, whose connection with the tragedy was so intimate and yet so inexplicable - all these things contributed to make up a tale of but a few hours' duration, but of an inscrutable impressiveness that I began to feel in my nerves.

The man bent a thin stick double, and using it as a pair of tongs, held some indistinguishable object over the flames before him. Excited as I was, I could not help noticing that he bent and held the stick with his left hand. We crept stealthily nearer, and as I stood scarcely three yards behind him and looked over his shoulder, the form of the object stood out clear and black against the dull red of the flame. It was a
human hand
.

I suppose I may have somehow betrayed my amazement and horror to my companion's sharp eyes, for suddenly I felt his hand tightly grip my arm just above the elbow. I turned, and found his face close by mine and his finger raised warningly. Then I saw him produce his wrist-grip and make a motion with his palm toward his mouth, which I understood to be intended to remind me of the gag. We stepped forward.

The man turned his horrible cookery over and over above the crackling sticks, as though to smoke and dry it in every part. I saw Holmes's hand reach out toward him, and in a flash we had pulled him back over his heels and I had driven the gag between his teeth as he opened his mouth. We seized his wrists in the cords at once, and I shall never forget the man's look of ghastly, frantic terror as he lay on the ground. When I knew more I understood the reason of this.

Holmes took both wrist-holds in one hand and drove the gag entirely into the man's mouth, so that he almost choked. A piece of sacking lay near the fire, and by Holmes's request I dropped that awful hand from the wooden twigs upon it and rolled it up in a parcel - it was, no doubt, what the sacking had been brought for. Then we lifted the man to his feet and hurried him in the direction of the cart. The whole capture could not have occupied thirty seconds, and as I stumbled over the rough field at the man's left elbow I could only think of the thing as one thinks of a dream that one knows all the time
is
a dream.