The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (6 page)

wind up his watch, which had almost run down at that hour. Then he would retire to bed at ten

o'clock precisely, and rise at five each morning."

"One moment!" interposed Holmes. "Did these habits of his ever vary?"

"Well, should he become absorbed in the Bible, he might read until very late. But this

happened so seldom, Mr. Holmes, that I think you may disregard it."

"Thank you; that is quite clear."

"In the second place, I am sorry to say that he was never on the best of terms with his

niece. He was stern to a point of brutality. On one occasion, two years ago, he thrashed poor

Dolores with a razor-strop, and confined her to her room on bread and water, because she had

gone to Bristol to witness a performance of Gilbert and Sullivan's comic opera,
Patience.
I can

still see her, with the tears running down her warm-blooded cheeks. You must forgive the

intemperance of her language. 'Old devil,' she sobbed.'Old devil!' "

"Am I to understand," interposed Holmes, "that the young lady's future welfare depends

on the inheritance of this money?"

"Far from it. Her fiance, Mr. Ainsworth, is a rising young solicitor who is already making

his way in the world. Trelawney himself was among his clients."

"I seemed to detect a certain apprehension when you mentioned your nephew," said Holmes.

"Since Dr. Griffin inherits this fortune, he was presumably on friendly terms with Trelawney?"

The vicar shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "On the friendliest possible terms," he replied

with some haste. "Indeed, on one occasion he saved the squire's life. At the same time, I

must confess that he has always been a wild, hot-headed man. His intemperate behaviour

has gone a long way towards creating the strong local prejudice which has now risen against

him. If the police could show how Trelawney died, my nephew might be under arrest at this

moment."

The vicar paused and looked round. There had come an authoritative rap at the door. An

instant later, as it was flung open, we had a glimpse of Mrs. Hudson over the shoulder of a

short, thin, rat-faced man, clad in a check suit and bowler hat. As his hard blue eyes fell on

Mr. Appley, he paused on the threshold with a growl of surprise.

"You have a certain gift, Lestrade, for timing your appearances with a pleasant touch

of the dramatic," observed Holmes languidly.

"And very awkward for some folk," remarked the detective, depositing his hat beside the

gasogene. "Well, from the presence of this reverend gentleman I take it that you are up to date

with this cosy little murder in Somerset. The facts are pretty obvious and all point one way as

clear as signposts, eh, Mr. Holmes!"

"Unfortunately, signposts are so easily turned in the opposite direction," said Holmes; "a

truism of which I have given you one or two small demonstrations in the past, Lestrade."

The Scotland Yard man flushed angrily. "Well, well, Mr. Holmes, that's as may be. But

there is no doubt this time. There are both the motive and the opportunity. We know the

man and it only remains to find the means."

"I tell you that my unfortunate nephew—!" broke in the clergyman distractedly.

"I have named no names."

"But you have made it obvious from the moment you heard he was Trelawney's

doctor! Admittedly he stands to benefit under that deplorable will."

"You have forgotten to mention his personal reputation, Mr. Appley," said Lestrade grimly.

"Wild, yes; romantic, hot-headed if you like! But a cold-blooded murderer—never! I have

known him from his cradle."

"Well, we shall see. Mr. Holmes, I would value a word with you."

During this interchange between our unhappy client and Lestrade, Holmes had been

staring at the ceiling with that far-away, dreamy look upon his face which I had noted only

on those occasions when his mind whispered that some subtle thread of evidence was already

there to hand, but buried as yet in the maze of obvious facts and no less obvious suspicions.

He rose abruptly and turned to the vicar.

"I take it that you return to Somerset this afternoon?"

"By the 2:30 from Paddington." There was a tinge of colour in his face as he leapt to

his feet. "Am I then to understand, my dear Mr. Holmes—?"

"Dr. Watson and I will accompany you. If you will have the kindness to ask Mrs. Hudson

to whistle a cab, Mr. Appley?"

Our client clattered down the stairs.

"This is a somewhat curious affair," said Holmes, filling his travelling-pouch with shag from

the Persian slipper.

"I am glad that at last you see it in that light, my dear fellow," I remarked, "for it did seem to

me that you were a little impatient from the first with the worthy vicar, especially when he

strayed into his early medical ambitions and the probability that he would absent-mindedly

have removed a patient's gall-stones."

The effect of this casual remark was extraordinary. After looking fixedly into space,

Holmes sprang to his feet.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "By Jove!"

There was a touch of colour in his high cheekbones and that sudden gleam in his eyes

that I knew of old.

"As usual, Watson, your help has been invaluable," he went on warmly. "Though not

yourself luminous, you are a conductor of light."

"I have helped you? By mentioning the vicar's gallstones?"

"Precisely."

"Really, Holmes!"

"At the moment, I must find a certain surname. Yes, unquestionably I must find a certain

surname. Will you hand me the commonplace book under the letter 'B'?".

I had given him the bulky volume, one of many in which he pasted press-cuttings of any

incidents arresting his attention, before I had time to reflect.

"But, Holmes, there is no one in this affair whose surname begins with a 'B'!"

"Quite so. I was aware of it. B-a, Ba-r, Bartlett! H'm! Ha! Good old index."

After a short perusal, turning over the pages eagerly, Holmes closed the book with a bang

and sat tapping its cover with his long, nervous fingers. Behind him, the tubes and beakers

and retorts of the chemical table glittered in the sunlight.

"I had not all the data, of course," he added musingly. "Even now they are not complete."

Lestrade caught my eye and winked.

"They are complete enough for me!" he said with a grin. "They can't deceive me. That

red-bearded doctor is a murdering devil. We know the man, and we know the motive."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because there is one thing lacking. We know he did it, right enough! But
how
did he do it?"

No less than a dozen times did Lestrade ask the same question during the course of our

journey, until it seemed to throb and echo in my head with the very click of the train wheels.

It was a long, hot day and the afterglow of sunset lay on the crests of the softly rounded

Somersetshire hills when we alighted at last at the little wayside station. On the hillside

beyond the half-timbered gables of the village and set amid noble elm trees from whence, even

at that distance, the clear evening air carried the cawing of the homing rooks, there shone a great

white house.

"We have a mile before us," said Lestrade sourly.

"I should prefer not to go to the house at first," said Holmes. "Does this village run to an

inn?"

"There is the Camberwell Arms."

"Then let us go there. I prefer to commence on neutral ground."

"Really, Holmes!" cried Lestrade. "I cannot imagine—"

"Precisely," remarked Holmes, and not another word would he utter until we were all

ensconced in the private parlour of the ancient hostelry. Holmes scribbled a few lines in his

note-book and tore out two leaves.

"Now, Mr. Appley, if I might take the liberty of sending your groom with this note to

Goodman's Rest and the other to Mr. Ainsworth?"

"By all means."

"Excellent. Then we have time for a pipe before Miss Dolores and her fiance join us."

For some time we sat in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. As for myself, I had

too much confidence in my friend to accept the obvious at its face value so long as he

appeared to be perplexed in his own mind.

"Well, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade sternly, at last. "You have been sufficiently

mysterious to satisfy even Dr. Watson here. Let us have your theory."

"I have no theory. I am merely sounding my facts."

"Your facts have overlooked the criminal."

"That remains to be seen. By the way, Vicar, what are the relations between Miss Dolores

and your nephew?"

"It is strange that you should mention this," replied Mr. Appley. "Their relationship has

been a source of pain to me for some time past. But in justice I must add that the fault lies

with the young lady. For no reason, she is gratuitously offensive to him. Worst of all, she shows

her dislike in public."

"Ah! And Mr. Ainsworth?"

"Ainsworth is too good a fellow not to deplore his fiancée's behaviour to my nephew. He

takes it almost as a personal affront."

"Indeed. Most praiseworthy. But here, unless I am much mistaken, are our visitors."

The old door creaked open and a tall, graceful girl swept into the room. Her dark eyes,

glowing with an unnatural brilliance, turned from one to the other of us with a long,

searching glance that had in it a glint of animosity and something more of despair. A slim,

fair-haired young man with a fresh complexion and a pair of singularly clear, shrewd blue

eyes followed behind her and greeted Appley with a friendly word.

"Which of you is Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" cried the young lady. "Ah, yes. You have

uncovered fresh evidence, I imagine?"

"I have come to hear it, Miss Dale. Indeed, I have heard everything except what actually

happened on the night your uncle—died."

"You stress the word 'died,' Mr. Holmes."

"But hang it all, my dear, what else could he say?" asked young Ainsworth, with an

attempt at a laugh. "You have probably got a lot of superstitious nonsense in your head because

the thunder-storm on Tuesday night upset your uncle. But it was over before he was dead."

"How do you know that?"

"Dr. Griffin said that he didn't die until about three o'clock in the morning. Anyway, he

was all right in the early hours!"

"You seem very sure."

The young man looked at Holmes in obvious perplexity. "Of course I am. As Mr.

Lestrade can tell you, I was in that room three times during the night. The squire asked me to

go there."

"Then be good enough to let me have the facts from the beginning. Perhaps, Miss Dale—?"

"Very well, Mr. Holmes. On Tuesday night, my uncle asked my fiancé and Dr. Griffin to dine

with us at Goodman's Rest. From the first, he was uneasy. I put it down to the far-off

muttering of thunder; he loathed and feared storms. But now I am wondering whether his

uneasiness lay in his mind or his conscience. Be that as it may, our nerves grew more and

more tense as the evening went on, nor did Dr. Griffin's sense of humor improve matters when

lightning struck a tree in the copse. 'I've got to drive home tonight,' he said, 'and I hope

nothing happens to me in this storm.' Dr. Griffin is positively insufferable!

" 'Well, I'm glad that I'm staying,' laughed Jeffrey; 'we are snug enough with the good old

lightning-conductors.'

"My uncle leaped from his chair.

" 'You young fool!' he cried. 'Don't you know that there are none on this house?' And my

uncle stood there shivering like a man out of his wits."

"I couldn't imagine what I'd said," interrupted Ainsworth naively. "Then, when he flew off

about his nightmares—"

"Nightmares?" said Holmes.

"Yes. He screeched out that he suffered from nightmares, and that this was no night for

the human soul to be alone."

"He grew calmer," continued Miss Dale, "when Jeffrey offered to look in once or twice

during the night. It was really rather pitiful. My fiance went in—when was it, Jeffrey?"

"Once at ten-thirty; once at midnight and finally at one in the morning."

"Did you speak with him?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

"No, he was asleep."

"Then, how do you know that he was alive?"

"Well, like many elderly people, the squire kept a night-light. It was a kind of rushlight

burning blue in a bowl on the hearth. I couldn't see much, but I could hear his heavy

breathing under the howl of the storm."

"It was just after five on the following morning—" said Miss Dale, "when—I can't go on!"

she burst out. "I can't!"

"Gently, my dear," said Ainsworth, who was looking at her steadily. "Mr. Holmes, this has

been a great strain on my fiancée."

"Perhaps I may be permitted to continue," suggested the vicar. "Dawn was just breaking

when I was roused by a heavy pounding on the vicarage door. A stableboy had been

dispatched post-haste from Goodman's Rest with horrible news. It appears that the housemaid

carried up the squire's morning tea as usual. On drawing the curtains, she screamed out in

horror at beholding her master dead in the bed. Huddling in my clothes, I rushed to

Goodman's Rest. When I entered the bedroom, followed by Dolores and Jeffrey, Dr.