The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (3 page)

told me that his master had buried or concealed five other clocks. Though he refused to say so,

I could tell he shared my fears. Yet Charles is not mad! He is not! You yourself must admit

that, because of the final incident."

"Yes?"

"It took place only four days ago. You must know that Lady Mayo's suite included a

small drawing-room containing a piano. I am passionately devoted to music, and it was my

habit to play to Lady Mayo and Charles after tea. On this occasion I had scarcely begun to

play when a hotel servant entered with a letter for Charles."

"One moment. Did you observe the postmark?"

"Yes; it was foreign." Miss Forsythe spoke in some surprise. "But surely it was of no

importance, since you—"

"Since I—what?"

A sudden touch of bewilderment was manifest in our client's expression, and then, as

though
,
to drive away some perplexity, she hurried on with her narrative.

"Charles tore open the letter, read it, and turned deathly pale. With an incoherent

exclamation he rushed from the room. When we descended half an hour later, it was only to

discover that he and Trepley had departed with all his luggage. He left no message. He sent no

word. I have not seen him since."

Celia Forsythe lowered her head, and tears glimmered in her eyes.

"Now, Mr. Holmes, I have been frank with you. I beg that you will be equally frank

with me. What did you write in that letter?"

The question was so startling that I, for one, leaned back in my chair. Sherlock Holmes's

face was without expression. His long, nervous fingers reached out for the tobacco in the

Persian slipper, and began to fill a clay pipe.

"In the letter, you say," he stated rather than asked.

"Yes! You wrote that letter. I saw your signature. That is why I am here!"

"Dear me!" remarked Holmes. He was silent for several minutes, the blue smoke curling about

him, and his eyes fixed vacantly upon the clock on the mantelshelf.

"There are times, Miss Forsythe," he said at last, "when one must be guarded in one's

replies. I have only one more question to ask you."

"Well, Mr. Holmes?"

"Did Lady Mayo still preserve her friendliness for Mr. Charles Hendon?"

"Oh, yes! She became quite attached to him. More than once I heard her address him as

Alec, apparently her nickname for him." Miss Forsythe paused, with an air of doubt, and even

suspicion. "But what can you mean by such a question?"

Holmes rose to his feet.

"Only, madam, that I shall be happy to look into this matter for you. You return to Groxton

Low Hall this evening?"

"Yes. But surely you have more to say to me than this? You have answered not one of my

questions!"

"Well, well! I have my methods, as Watson here can tell you. But if you could find it

convenient to come here, say a week from this day, at nine o'clock in the evening? Thank you.

Then I shall hope to have some news for you."

Palpably it was a dismissal. Miss Forsythe rose to her feet, and looked at him so forlornly

that I felt the need to interpose some word of comfort.

"Be of good cheer, madam!" I cried, gently taking her hand. "You may have every

confidence in my friend Mr. Holmes; and, if I may say so, in myself as well."

I was rewarded by a gracious and grateful smile. When the door had closed behind

our fair visitor, I turned to my companion with some asperity.

"I do feel, Holmes, that you might have treated the young lady with more sympathy."

"Oh? Sets the wind in that quarter?"

"Holmes, for shame!" said I, flinging myself into my chair. "The affair is trivial, no doubt.

But why you should have written a letter to this clock-breaking madman I cannot conjecture."

Holmes leaned across and laid his long, thin forefinger upon my knee.

"Watson, I wrote no such letter."

"What?" I exclaimed.

"Tut, it is not the first time my name has been borrowed by others! There is devilry here,

Watson, else I am much mistaken."

"You take it seriously, then?"

"So seriously that I leave for the Continent tonight."

"For the Continent? For Switzerland?"

"No, no; what have we to do with Switzerland? Our trail lies further afield."

"Then where do you go?"

"Surely that is obvious?"

"My dear Holmes!"

"Yet nearly all the data are before you, and, as I informed Miss Forsythe, you know my

methods. Use them, Watson! Use them!"

Already the first lamps were glimmering through the fog in Baker Street, when my friend's

simple preparations were completed. He stood at the doorway of our sitting-room, tall and gaunt

in his ear-flapped travelling-cap and long Inverness cape, his Gladstone bag at his feet, and

regarded me with singular fixity.

"One last word, Watson, since you still appear to see no light. I would remind you that

Mr. Charles Hendon cannot endure the s—"

"But that is clear enough! He cannot bear the sight of a clock."

Holmes shook his head.

"Not necessarily," said he. "I would further draw your attention to the other five clocks, as

described by the servant."

"Mr. Charles Hendon did not smash those clocks!"

"That is why I draw your attention to them. Until nine o'clock this day week, Watson!"

A moment more, and I was alone.

During the dreary week which followed, I occupied myself as best I might. I played

billiards with Thurston. I smoked many pipes of Ship's, and I pondered over the notes in the

case of Mr. Charles Hendon. One does not associate for some years with Sherlock Holmes

without becoming more observant than most. It seemed to me that some dark and sinister

peril hung over that poor young lady, Miss Forsythe, nor did I trust either the too-handsome

Charles Hendon or the enigmatic Lady Mayo.

On Wednesday, November 23rd, my wife returned with the welcome news that our

fortunes were in better order and that I should soon be able to buy a small practice. Her

home-coming was a joyous one. That night, as we sat hand in hand before the fire in our

lodgings, I told her something of the strange problem before me. I spoke of Miss Forsythe,

touching on her parlous plight, and on her youth and beauty and refinement. My wife did not

reply, but sat looking thoughtfully at the fire.

It was the distant chime of Big Ben striking the half hour after eight, which roused me.

"By Jove, Mary!" cried I. "I had all but forgotten!"

"Forgotten?" repeated my wife, with a slight start.

"I have promised to be in Baker Street at nine o'clock tonight. Miss Forsythe is to be there."

My wife drew back her hand.

"Then you had best be off at once," said she, with a coldness which astonished me.

"You are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes's cases."

Puzzled and somewhat hurt, I took my hat and my departure. It was a bitter-cold night,

with no breath of fog, but with the roads ice-blocked in mud. Within the half hour a

hansom set me down in Baker Street. With a thrill of excitement I observed that Sherlock

Holmes had returned from his mission. The upper windows were lighted, and several times I

saw his gaunt shadow pass and repass on the blinds.

Letting myself in with a latch-key, I went softly up the stairs and opened the door of the

sitting-room. Clearly Holmes had only just returned, for his cape, his cloth cap, and his old

Gladstone bag were scattered about the room in his customary untidy fashion.

He stood at his desk, his back towards me, and the light of the green-shaded desk-lamp

falling over him as he ripped open envelopes in a small pile of correspondence. At the

opening of the door he turned round, but his face fell.

"Ah, Watson, it is you. I had hoped to see Miss Forsythe. She is late."

"By heaven, Holmes! If those scoundrels have harmed the young lady, I swear they shall

answer to me!'

"Scoundrels?"

"I refer to Mr. Charles Hendon, and, though it grieves me to say as much about a

woman, to Lady Mayo as well."

The harsh, eager lines of his face softened. "Good old Watson!" said he. "Always hurrying

to the rescue of beauty in distress. And a pretty hash you have made of it, upon occasion."

"Then I trust," I replied with dignity, "that your own mission on the Continent was a

success?"

"A touch, Watson! Pray forgive my outburst of nerves. No, my mission was not a success.

It seemed to me that I had a direct summons to a certain European city whose name you will

readily infer. I went there, and returned in what I fancy is record time."

"Well?"

"The—Mr. Hendon, Watson, is a badly frightened man. Yet he is not without wit. No

sooner had he left Switzerland, than he must have divined that the false letter was a decoy to trap

him. But I lost him. Where is he now? And be good enough to explain why you should call

him a scoundrel."

"I spoke, perhaps, in the heat of the moment. Yet I cannot help disliking the fellow."

"Why?"

"In one of doubtless exalted position, a certain elaborateness of manner is permissible. But

he bows too much! He makes scenes in public. He affects the Continental habit of addressing

an English lady as 'madame,' instead of an honest 'madam.' Holmes, it is all

confoundedly un-English!"

My friend regarded me strangely, as though taken aback, and was about to reply when

we heard the clatter of a four-wheeler drawing up outside our street-door. Less than a minute

later Celia Forsythe was in the room, followed by a small, hard-looking, dogged man in a

bowler hat with a curly brim. From his mutton-chop whiskers I deduced him to be Trepley, the

man-servant.

Miss Forsythe's face was aglow with the cold. She wore a short fur jacket, and carried a

dainty muff.

"Mr. Holmes," she burst out without preamble, "Charles is in England!"

"So I had already supposed. And where is he?"

"At Groxton Low Hall. I should have sent a telegram yesterday, save that Lady Mayo

forbade me to do so."

"Fool that I am!" said Holmes, striking his fist upon the desk. "You spoke of its isolation,

I think. Watson! Will you oblige me with the large-scale map of Surrey? Thank you." His

voice grew more harsh. "What's this, what's this?"

"My dear fellow," I expostulated, "can you read villainy in a map?"

"Open country, Watson! Fields. Woods. The nearest railway station fully three miles from

Groxton Low Hall!" Holmes groaned. "Miss Forsythe, Miss Forsythe, you have much to

answer for!"

The young lady fell back a step in amazement.

"I
have much to answer for?" she cried. "Can you credit me, sir, when I tell you that so much

continued mystery has all but driven the wits from my head? Neither Charles nor Lady Mayo

will speak a word."

"Of explanation?"

"Precisely!" She nodded her head towards the servant. "Charles has sent Trepley to London

with a letter, to be delivered by hand, and I am not even suffered to know its contents."

"Sorry, miss," observed the little man, gruffly but deferentially. "That's orders."

For the first time I noted that Trepley, who was dressed more like a groom than a

manservant, jealously pressed an envelope flat between his hands as though he feared

someone might snatch it away. His pale eyes, framed in the mutton-chop whiskers, moved

slowly round the room. Sherlock Holmes advanced towards him.

"You will be good enough to show me that envelope, my man," he said.

I have often remarked that a stupid person is the most doggedly loyal. Trepley's eyes

were almost those of a fanatic.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I will not. I will do as I have been ordered, come what

may!"

"I tell you, man, this is no time to hesitate. I don't wish to read the letter. I wish

merely to see the address on the front and the seal on the back. Quickly, now! It may

mean your master's life!"

Trepley hesitated and moistened his lips. Gingerly, still gripping one corner of the

envelope, he held it out without releasing it. Holmes whistled.

"Come!" said he. "It is addressed to no less a personage than Sir Charles Warren, the

Commissioner of Metropolitan Police. And the seal? Ah! Just as I thought. You are

engaged to deliver this letter at once?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes."

"Then off with you! But detain the four-wheeler, for the rest of us will want it

presently."

He did not speak until Trepley had clattered down the stairs. But the old feverishness

was again upon him.

"And now, Watson, you might just look up the trams in Bradshaw. Are you armed?"

"My stick."

"For once, I fear, it may prove inadequate." And he opened the left-hand drawer of the

desk-table. "Oblige me by slipping this into your greatcoat pocket. A .320 Webley, with

Eley's No. 2 cartridges—"

As the light gleamed on the barrel of the revolver, Celia Forsythe uttered a cry and

put one hand on the mantelpiece to steady herself.

"Mr. Holmes!" she began, and then seemed to change her mind. "There are frequent

trains to Groxton station, which, as you say, is three miles from the Hall. Indeed, there is

one in twenty minutes."