The Adventures and Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes (15 page)

The Boscombe Pool, which is a reed-girt sheet of water some fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the Hatherley Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr Turner. Above the woods which lined it upon the farther side we could see the red jutting pinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner's dwelling. On the Hatherley side of the Pool, the woods grew very thick, and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between the edge of the trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us the exact spot at which the body had been found, and indeed, so moist was the ground, that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking up a scent, and then turned upon my companion.

‘What did you go into the Pool for?' he asked.

‘I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or other trace. But how on earth—?'

‘Oh, tut, tut! I have no time. That left foot of yours with its inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and here it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo, and wallowed all over it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and they have covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But here are
three separate tracks of the same feet.' He drew out a lens, and lay down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time rather to himself than to us. ‘These are young McCarthy's feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly so that the soles are deeply marked, and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are the father's feet as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening. And this? Ha, ha! What have we here? Tip-toes, tip-toes! Square, too, quite unusual boots! They come, they go, they come again – of course that was for the cloak. Now where did they come from?' He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track, until we were well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced his way to the farther side of this, and lay down once more upon his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained there, turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to me to be dust into an envelope, and examining with his lens not only the ground, but even the bark of the tree as far as he could reach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he carefully examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the wood until he came to the high-road, where all traces were lost.

‘It has been a case of considerable interest,' he remarked, returning to his natural manner. ‘I fancy that this grey house on the right must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having done that, we may drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the cab, and I shall be with you presently.'

It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab, and drove back into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he had picked up in the wood.

‘This may interest you, Lestrade,' he remarked, holding it out. ‘The murder was done with it.'

‘I see no marks.'

‘There are none.'

‘How do you know, then?'

‘The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few days. There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It corresponds with the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon.'

‘And the murderer?'

‘Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears thick-soled shooting-boots and a grey cloak, smokes Indian cigars, uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt penknife in his pocket. There are several other indications, but these may be enough to aid us in our search.'

Lestrade laughed. ‘I am afraid that I am still a sceptic,' he said. ‘Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a hard-headed British jury.'

‘
Nous verrons
,' answered Holmes calmly. ‘You work your own method, and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall probably return to London by the evening train.'

‘And leave your case unfinished?'

‘No, finished.'

‘But the mystery?'

‘It is solved.'

‘Who was the criminal, then?'

‘The gentleman I describe.'

‘But who is he?'

‘Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a populous neighbourhood.'

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. ‘I am a practical man,' he said, ‘and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a left-handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the laughingstock of Scotland Yard.'

‘All right,' said Holmes quietly. ‘I have given you the chance. Here are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before I leave.'

Having left Lestrade at his rooms we drove to our hotel, where we found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in thought, with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds himself in a perplexing position.

‘Look here, Watson,' he said, when the cloth was cleared; ‘just sit down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don't quite
know what to do, and I should value your advice. Light a cigar, and let me expound.'

‘Pray do so.'

‘Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about young McCarthy's narrative which struck us both instantly, although they impressed me in his favour and you against him. One was the fact that his father should, according to his account, cry “Cooee!” before seeing him. The other was his singular dying reference to a rat. He mumbled several words, you understand, but that was all that caught the son's ear. Now from this double point our research must commence, and we will begin it by presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true.'

‘What of this “Cooee!” then?'

‘Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that he was within earshot. The “Cooee!” was meant to attract the attention of whoever it was that he had the appointment with. But “Cooee” is a distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used between Australians. There is a strong presumption that the person whom McCarthy expected to meet at Boscombe Pool was someone who had been in Australia.'

‘What of the rat, then?'

Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it out on the table. ‘This is a map of the Colony of Victoria,' he said. ‘I wired to Bristol for it last night.' He put his hand over part of the map. ‘What do you read?' he asked.

‘
ARAT
,' I read.

‘And now?' he raised his hand.

‘
BALLARAT
.'
¹⁶

‘Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his son only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name of his murderer. So-and-so of Ballarat.'

‘It is wonderful!' I exclaimed.

‘It is obvious.
¹⁷
And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down considerably. The possession of a grey garment was a third point which, granting the son's statement to be correct, was a certainty. We
have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception of an Australian from Ballarat with a grey cloak.'

‘Certainly.'

‘And one who was at home in the district, for the Pool can only be approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could hardly wander.'

‘Quite so.'

‘Then comes our expedition of today. By an examination of the ground I gained the trifling details which I gave to that imbecile Lestrade, as to the personality of the criminal.'

‘But how did you gain them?'

‘You know my method. It is founded upon the observance of trifles.'

‘His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length of his stride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces.'

‘Yes, they were peculiar boots.'

‘But his lameness?'

‘The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than his left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped – he was lame.'

‘But his left-handedness?'

‘You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded by the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from immediately behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can that be unless it were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that tree during the interview between the father and son. He had even smoked there. I found the ash of a cigar, which my special knowledge of tobacco ashes enabled me to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as you know, devoted some attention to this, and written a little monograph on the ashes of 140 different varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having found the ash, I then looked round and discovered the stump among the moss where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar, of the variety which are rolled in Rotterdam.'

‘And the cigar-holder?'

‘I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore he used a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the cut was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt penknife.'

‘Holmes,' I said, ‘you have drawn a net round this man from which he cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as truly as if you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the direction in which all this points. The culprit is—'

‘Mr John Turner,' cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.

The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow, limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude, and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual strength of body and of character. His tangled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows combined to give an air of dignity and power to his appearance, but his face was of an ashen white, while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear to me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic disease.

‘Pray sit down on the sofa,' said Holmes gently. ‘You had my note?'

‘Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to see me here to avoid scandal.'

‘I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall.'

‘And why did you wish to see me?' He looked across at my companion with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question were already answered.

‘Yes,' said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. ‘It is so. I know all about McCarthy.'

The old man sank his face in his hands. ‘God help me!' he cried. ‘But I would not have let the young man come to harm. I give you my word that I would have spoken out if it went against him at the Assizes.
¹⁸

‘I am glad to hear you say so,' said Holmes gravely.

‘I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It would break her heart – it will break her heart when she hears that I am arrested.'

‘It may not come to that,' said Holmes.

‘What!'

‘I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter who
required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests. Young McCarthy must be got off, however.'

‘I am a dying man,' said old Turner. ‘I have had diabetes for years. My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a month. Yet I would rather die under my own roof than in a gaol.'

Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a bundle of paper before him. ‘Just tell us the truth,' he said. ‘I shall jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can witness it. Then I could produce your confession at the last extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use it unless it is absolutely needed.'

‘It's as well,' said the old man; ‘it's a question whether I shall live to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I should wish to spare Alice the shock. And now I will make the thing clear to you; it has been a long time in the acting, but will not take me long to tell.

‘You didn't know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil incarnate. I tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of such a man as he. His grip has been upon me these twenty years, and he has blasted my life. I'll tell you first how I came to be in his power.

‘It was in the early 'sixties at the diggings. I was a young chap then, hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand to anything; I got among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took to the bush, and, in a word became what you would call over here a highway robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life of it, sticking up a station from time to time, or stopping the wagons on the road to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under, and our party is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat Gang.

‘One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat
¹⁹
to Melbourne, and we lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers and six of us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of their saddles at the first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon-driver, who was this very man McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had shot him then, but I spared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as though to remember every feature. We got away with the
gold, became wealthy men, and made our way over to England without being suspected. There I parted from my old pals, and determined to settle down to a quiet and respectable life. I bought this estate, which chanced to be in the market, and I set myself to do a little good with my money, to make up for the way in which I had earned it. I married, too, and though my wife died young, she left me my dear little Alice. Even when she was just a baby her wee hand seemed to lead me down the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned over a new leaf, and did my best to make up for the past. All was going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon me.