I find it recorded in my notebook that it was a bleak1 and windy day towards the end of March in the year 1892. Holmes had received a telegram while we sat at our lunch, and he had scribbled2 a reply. He made no remark, but the matter remained in his thoughts, for he stood in front of the fire afterwards with a thoughtful face, smoking his pipe, and casting an occasional glance at the message. Suddenly he turned upon me with a mischievous3 twinkle in his eyes.
“I suppose, Watson, we must look upon you as a man of letters,” said he. “How do you define the word ‘grotesque5’?”
“Strange — remarkable6,” I suggested.
He shook his head at my definition.
“There is surely something more than that,” said he; “some underlying7 suggestion of the tragic8 and the terrible. If you cast your mind back to some of those narratives9 with which you have afflicted11 a long-suffering public, you will recognize how often the grotesque has deepened into the criminal. Think of that little affair of the red-headed men. That was grotesque enough in the outset, and yet it ended in a desperate attempt at robbery. Or, again, there was that most grotesque affair of the five orange pips, which led straight to a murderous conspiracy12. The word puts me on the alert.”
“Have you it there?” I asked.
He read the telegram aloud.
“Have just had most incredible and grotesque experience. May I consult you?
“Scott Eccles,
“Post-Office, Charing13 Cross.”
“Man or woman?” I asked.
“Oh, man, of course. No woman would ever send a reply-paid telegram. She would have come.”
“Will you see him?”
“My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been since we locked up Colonel Carruthers. My mind is like a racing14 engine, tearing itself to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it was built. Life is commonplace; the papers are sterile15; audacity16 and romance seem to have passed forever from the criminal world. Can you ask me, then, whether I am ready to look into any new problem, however trivial it may prove? But here, unless I am mistaken, is our client.”
A measured step was heard upon the stairs, and a moment later a stout18, tall, gray-whiskered and solemnly respectable person was ushered20 into the room. His life history was written in his heavy features and pompous21 manner. From his spats22 to his gold-rimmed spectacles he was a Conservative, a churchman, a good citizen, orthodox and conventional to the last degree. But same amazing experience had disturbed his native composure and left its traces in his bristling23 hair, his flushed, angry cheeks and his flurried, excited manner. He plunged24 instantly into his business.
“I have had a most singular and unpleasant experience, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “Never in my life have I been placed in such a situation. It is most improper25 — most outrageous26. I must insist upon some explanation.” He swelled27 and puffed28 in his anger.
“Pray sit down, Mr. Scott Eccles,” said Holmes in a soothing29 voice. “May I ask, in the first place, why you came to me at all?”
“Well, sir, it did not appear to be a matter which concerned the police, and yet, when you have heard the facts, you must admit that I could not leave it where it was. Private detectives are a class with whom I have absolutely no sympathy, but none the less, having heard your name —”
“Quite so. But, in the second place, why did you not come at once?”
“What do you mean?”
Holmes glanced at his watch.
“It is a quarter-past two,” he said. “Your telegram was dispatched about one. But no one can glance at your toilet and attire30 without seeing that your disturbance31 dates from the moment of your waking.”
Our client smoothed down his unbrushed hair and felt his unshaven chin.
“You are right, Mr. Holmes. I never gave a thought to my toilet. I was only too glad to get out of such a house. But I have been running round making inquiries32 before I came to you. I went to the house agents, you know, and they said that Mr. Garcia’s rent was paid up all right and that everything was in order at Wisteria Lodge33.”
“Come, come, sir,” said Holmes, laughing. “You are like my friend, Dr. Watson, who has a bad habit of telling his stories wrong end foremost. Please arrange your thoughts and let me know, in their due sequence, exactly what those events are which have sent you out unbrushed and unkempt, with dress boots and waistcoat buttoned awry34, in search of advice and assistance.”
Our client looked down with a rueful face at his own unconventional appearance.
“I’m sure it must look very bad, Mr. Holmes, and I am not aware that in my whole life such a thing has ever happened before. But I will tell you the whole queer business, and when I have done so you will admit, I am sure, that there has been enough to excuse me.”
But his narrative10 was nipped in the bud. There was a bustle35 outside, and Mrs. Hudson opened the door to usher19 in two robust36 and official-looking individuals, one of whom was well known to us as Inspector37 Gregson of Scotland Yard, an energetic, gallant38, and, within his limitations, a capable officer. He shook hands with Holmes and introduced his comrade as Inspector Baynes, of the Surrey Constabulary.
“We are hunting together, Mr. Holmes and our trail lay in this direction.” He turned his bulldog eyes upon our visitor. “Are you Mr. John Scott Eccles, of Popham House, Lee?”
“I am.”
“We have been following you about all the morning.”
“You traced him through the telegram, no doubt,” said Holmes.
“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. We picked up the scent39 at Charing Cross Post-Office and came on here.”
“But why do you follow me? What do you want?”
“We wish a statement, Mr. Scott Eccles, as to the events which led up to the death last night of Mr. Aloysius Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, near Esher.”
Our client had sat up with staring eyes and every tinge40 of colour struck from his astonished face.
“Dead? Did you say he was dead?”
“Yes, sir, he is dead.”
“But how? An accident?”
“Murder, if ever there was one upon earth.”
“Good God! This is awful! You don’t mean — you don’t mean that I am suspected?”
“A letter of yours was found in the dead man’s pocket, and we know by it that you had planned to pass last night at his house.”
“So I did.”
“Oh, you did, did you?”
Out came the official notebook.
“Wait a bit, Gregson,” said Sherlock Holmes. “All you desire is a plain statement, is it not?”
“And it is my duty to warn Mr. Scott Eccles that it may be used against him.”
“Mr. Eccles was going to tell us about it when you entered the room. I think, Watson, a brandy and soda41 would do him no harm. Now, sir, I suggest that you take no notice of this addition to your audience, and that you proceed with your narrative exactly as you would have done had you never been interrupted. ”
Our visitor had gulped42 off the brandy and the colour had returned to his face. With a dubious43 glance at the inspector’s notebook, he plunged at once into his extraordinary statement.
“I am a bachelor,” said he, “and being of a sociable44 turn I cultivate a large number of friends. Among these are the family of a retired45 brewer46 called Melville, living at Albemarle Mansion47, Kensington. It was at his table that I met some weeks ago a young fellow named Garcia. He was, I understood, of Spanish descent and connected in some way with the embassy. He spoke48 perfect English, was pleasing in his manners, and as good-looking a man as ever I saw in my life.
“In some way we struck up quite a friendship, this young fellow and I. He seemed to take a fancy to me from the first, and within two days of our meeting he came to see me at Lee. One thing led to another, and it ended in his inviting49 me out to spend a few days at his house, Wisteria Lodge, between Esher and Oxshott. Yesterday evening I went to Esher to fulfil this engagement.
“He had described his household to me before I went there. He lived with a faithful servant, a countryman of his own, who looked after all his needs. This fellow could speak English and did his housekeeping for him. Then there was a wonderful cook he said, a half-breed whom he had picked up in his travels, who could serve an excellent dinner. I remember that he remarked what a queer household it was to find in the heart of Surrey, and that I agreed with him, though it has proved a good deal queerer than I thought.
“I drove to the place — about two miles on the south side of Esher. The house was a fair-sized one, standing50 back from the road, with a curving drive which was banked with high evergreen51 shrubs52. It was an old, tumble-down building in a crazy state of disrepair. When the trap pulled up on the grass-grown drive in front of the blotched and weather-stained door, I had doubts as to my wisdom in visiting a man whom I knew so slightly. He opened the door himself, however, and greeted me with a great show of cordiality. I was handed over to the manservant, a melancholy53, swarthy individual, who led the way, my bag in his hand, to my bedroom. The whole place was depressing. Our dinner was tete-a-tete, and though my host did his best to be entertaining, his thoughts seemed to continually wander, and he talked so vaguely54 and wildly that I could hardly understand him. He continually drummed his fingers on the table, gnawed55 his nails, and gave other signs of nervous impatience56. The dinner itself was neither well served nor well cooked, and the gloomy presence of the taciturn servant did not help to enliven us. I can assure you that many times in the course of the evening I wished that I could invent some excuse which would take me back to Lee.
“One thing comes back to my memory which may have a bearing upon the business that you two gentlemen are investigating. I thought nothing of it at the time. Near the end of dinner a note was handed in by the servant. I noticed that after my host had read it he seemed even more distrait57 and strange than before. He gave up all pretence58 at conversation and sat, smoking endless cigarettes, lost in his own thoughts, but he made no remark as to the contents. About eleven I was glad to go to bed. Some time later Garcia looked in at my door — the room was dark at the time — and asked me if I had rung. I said that I had not. He apologized for having disturbed me so late, saying that it was nearly one o’clock. I dropped off after this and slept soundly all night.
“And now I come to the amazing part of my tale. When I woke it was broad daylight. I glanced at my watch, and the time was nearly nine. I had particularly asked to be called at eight, so I was very much astonished at this forgetfulness. I sprang up and rang for the servant. There was no response. I rang again and again, with the same result. Then I came to the conclusion that the bell was out of order. I huddled59 on my clothes and hurried downstairs in an exceedingly bad temper to order some hot water. You can imagine my surprise when I found that there was no one there. I shouted in the hall. There was no answer. Then I ran from room to room. All were deserted60. My host had shown me which was his bedroom the night before, so I knocked at the door. No reply. I turned the handle and walked in. The room was empty, and the bed had never been slept in. He had gone with the rest. The foreign host, the foreign footman, the foreign cook, all had vanished in the night! That was the end of my visit to Wisteria Lodge.”
Sherlock Holmes was rubbing his hands and chuckling61 as he added this bizarre incident to his collection of strange episodes.
“Your experience is, so far as I know, perfectly62 unique,” said he. “May I ask, sir, what you did then?”
“I was furious. My first idea was that I had been the victim of some absurd practical joke. I packed my things, banged the hall door behind me, and set off for Esher, with my bag in my hand. I called at Allan Brothers, the chief land agents in the village, and found that it was from this firm that the villa63 had been rented. It struck me that the whole proceeding64 could hardly be for the purpose of making a fool of me, and that the main object must be to get out of the rent. It is late in March, so quarter-day is at hand. But this theory would not work. The agent was obliged to me for my warning, but told me that the rent had been paid in advance. Then I made my way to town and called at the Spanish embassy. The man was unknown there. After this I went to see Melville, at whose house I had first met Garcia, but I found that he really knew rather less about him than I did. Finally when I got your reply to my wire I came out to you, since I gather that you are a person who gives advice in difficult cases. But now, Mr. Inspector, I understand, from what you said when you entered the room, that you can carry the story on, and that some tragedy has occurred. I can assure you that every word I have said is the truth, and that, outside of what I have told you, I know absolutely nothing about the fate of this man. My only desire is to help the law in every possible way.”
“I am sure of it, Mr. Scott Eccles — I am sure of it,” said Inspector Gregson in a very amiable65 tone. “I am bound to say that everything which you have said agrees very closely with the facts as they have come to our notice. For example, there was that note which arrived during dinner. Did you chance to observe what became of it?”
“Yes, I did. Garcia rolled it up and threw it into the fire.”
“What do you say to that, Mr. Baynes?”
The country detective was a stout, puffy, red man, whose face was only redeemed66 from grossness by two extraordinarily67 bright eyes, almost hidden behind the heavy creases68 of cheek and brow. With a slow smile he drew a folded and discoloured scrap69 of paper from his pocket.
“It was a dog-grate, Mr. Holmes, and he overpitched it. I picked this out unburned from the back of it.”
Holmes smiled his appreciation70.
“You must have examined the house very carefully to find a single pellet of paper.”
“I did, Mr. Holmes. It’s my way. Shall I read it, Mr. Gregson?”
The Londoner nodded.
“The note is written upon ordinary cream-laid paper without watermark. It is a quarter-sheet. The paper is cut off in two snips72 with a short-bladed scissors. It has been folded over three times and sealed with purple wax, put on hurriedly and pressed down with some flat oval object. It is addressed to Mr. Garcia, Wisteria Lodge. It says:
“Our own colours, green and white. Green open, white shut. Main stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize.
Godspeed. D.
It is a woman’s writing, done with a sharp-pointed73 pen, but the address is either done with another pen or by someone else. It is thicker and bolder, as you see.”
“A very remarkable note,” said Holmes, glancing it over. “I must compliment you, Mr. Baynes, upon your attention to detail in your examination of it. A few trifling74 points might perhaps be added. The oval seal is undoubtedly75 a plain sleeve-link — what else is of such a shape? The scissors were bent76 nail scissors. Short as the two snips are, you can distinctly see the same slight curve in each.”
The country detective chuckled77.
“I thought I had squeezed all the juice out of it, but I see there was a little over,” he said. “I’m bound to say that I make nothing of the note except that there was something on hand, and that a woman, as usual, was at the bottom of it.”
Mr. Scott Eccles had fidgeted in his seat during this conversation.
“I am glad you found the note, since it corroborates78 my story,” said he. “But I beg to point out that I have not yet heard what has happened to Mr. Garcia, nor what has become of his household.”
“As to Garcia,” said Gregson, “that is easily answered. He was found dead this morning upon Oxshott Common, nearly a mile from his home. His head had been smashed to pulp79 by heavy blows of a sandbag or some such instrument, which had crushed rather than wounded. It is a lonely corner, and there is no house within a quarter of a mile of the spot. He had apparently80 been struck down first from behind, but his assailant had gone on beating him long after he was dead. It was a most furious assault. There are no footsteps nor any clue to the criminals.”
“Robbed?”
“No, there was no attempt at robbery.”
“This is very painful — very painful and terrible,” said Mr. Scott Eccles in a querulous voice, “but it is really uncommonly81 hard upon me. I had nothing to do with my host going off upon a nocturnal excursion and meeting so sad an end. How do I come to be mixed up with the case?”
“Very simply, sir,” Inspector Baynes answered. “The only document found in the pocket of the deceased was a letter from you saying that you would be with him on the night of his death. It was the envelope of this letter which gave us the dead man’s name and address. It was after nine this morning when we reached his house and found neither you nor anyone else inside it. I wired to Mr. Gregson to run you down in London while I examined Wisteria Lodge. Then I came into town, joined Mr. Gregson, and here we are.”
“I think now,” said Gregson, rising, “we had best put this matter into an official shape. You will come round with us to the station, Mr. Scott Eccles, and let us have your statement in writing.”
“Certainly, I will come at once. But I retain your services, Mr. Holmes. I desire you to spare no expense and no pains to get at the truth.”
My friend turned to the country inspector.
“I suppose that you have no objection to my collaborating83 with you, Mr. Baynes?”
“Highly honoured, sir, I am sure.”
“You appear to have been very prompt and business-like in all that you have done. Was there any clue, may I ask, as to the exact hour that the man met his death?”
“He had been there since one o’clock. There was rain about that time, and his death had certainly been before the rain.”
“But that is perfectly impossible, Mr. Baynes,” cried our client. “His voice is unmistakable. I could swear to it that it was he who addressed me in my bedroom at that very hour.”
“Remarkable, but by no means impossible,” said Holmes, smiling.
“You have a clue?” asked Gregson.
“On the face of it the case is not a very complex one, though it certainly presents some novel and interesting features. A further knowledge of facts is necessary before I would venture to give a final and definite opinion. By the way, Mr. Baynes, did you find anything remarkable besides this note in your examination of the house?”
The detective looked at my friend in a singular way.
“There were,” said he, “one or two very remarkable things. Perhaps when I have finished at the police-station you would care to come out and give me your opinion of them.”
“I am entirely84 at your service,” said Sherlock Holmes, ringing the bell. “You will show these gentlemen out, Mrs. Hudson, and kindly85 send the boy with this telegram. He is to pay a five-shilling reply.”
We sat for some time in silence after our visitors had left. Holmes smoked hard, with his brows drawn86 down over his keen eyes, and his head thrust forward in the eager way characteristic of the man.
“Well, Watson,” he asked, turning suddenly upon me, “what do you make of it?”
“I can make nothing of this mystification of Scott Eccles.”
“But the crime?”
“Well, taken with the disappearance87 of the man’s companions, I should say that they were in some way concerned in the murder and had fled from justice.”
“That is certainly a possible point of view. On the face of it you must admit, however, that it is very strange that his two servants should have been in a conspiracy against him and should have attacked him on the one night when he had a guest. They had him alone at their mercy every other night in the week.”
“Then why did they fly?”
“Quite so. Why did they fly? There is a big fact. Another big fact is the remarkable experience of our client, Scott Eccles. Now, my dear Watson, is it beyond the limits of human ingenuity88 to furnish an explanation which would cover both these big facts? If it were one which would also admit of the mysterious note with its very curious phraseology, why, then it would be worth accepting as a temporary hypothesis. If the fresh facts which come to our knowledge all fit themselves into the scheme, then our hypothesis may gradually become a solution.”
“But what is our hypothesis?”
Holmes leaned back in his chair with half-closed eyes.
“You must admit, my dear Watson, that the idea of a joke is impossible. There were grave events afoot, as the sequel showed, and the coaxing89 of Scott Eccles to Wisteria Lodge had some connection with them.”
“But what possible connection?”
“Let us take it link by link. There is, on the face of it something unnatural90 about this strange and sudden friendship between the young Spaniard and Scott Eccles. It was the former who forced the pace. He called upon Eccles at the other end of London on the very day after he first met him, and he kept in close touch with him until he got him down to Esher. Now, what did he want with Eccles? What could Eccles supply? I see no charm in the man. He is not particularly intelligent — not a man likely to be congenial to a quick-witted Latin. Why, then, was he picked out from all the other people whom Garcia met as particularly suited to his purpose? Has he any one outstanding quality? I say that he has. He is the very type of conventional British respectability, and the very man as a witness to impress another Briton. You saw yourself how neither of the inspectors91 dreamed of questioning his statement, extraordinary as it was.”
“But what was he to witness?”
“Nothing, as things turned out, but everything had they gone another way. That is how I read the matter.”
“I see, he might have proved an alibi92.”
“Exactly, my dear Watson; he might have proved an alibi. We will suppose, for argument’s sake, that the household of Wisteria Lodge are confederates in some design. The attempt, whatever it may be, is to come off, we will say, before one o’clock. By some juggling93 of the clocks it is quite possible that they may have got Scott Eccles to bed earlier than he thought but in any case it is likely that when Garcia went out of his way to tell him that it was one it was really not more than twelve. If Garcia could do whatever he had to do and be back by the hour mentioned he had evidently a powerful reply to any accusation94. Here was this irreproachable95 Englishman ready to swear in any court of law that the accused was in his house all the time. It was an insurance against the worst.”
“Yes, yes, I see that. But how about the disappearance of the others?”
“I have not all my facts yet, but I do not think there are any insuperable difficulties. Still, it is an error to argue in front of your data. You find yourself insensibly twisting them round to fit your theories.”
“And the message?”
“How did it run? ‘Our own colours, green and white.’ Sounds like racing. ‘Green open, white shut.~ That is clearly a signal. ‘Main stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize.’ This is an assignation. We may find a jealous husband at the bottom of it all. It was clearly a dangerous quest. She would not have said ‘Godspeed’ had it not been so. ‘D’ — that should be a guide.”
“The man was a Spaniard. I suggest that ‘D’ stands for Dolores, a common female name in Spain.”
“Good, Watson, very good — but quite inadmissible. A Spaniard would write to a Spaniard in Spanish. The writer of this note is certainly English. Well, we can only possess our souls in patience until this excellent inspector comes back for us. Meanwhile we can thank our lucky fate which has rescued us for a few short hours from the insufferable fatigues96 of idleness.”
An answer had arrived to Holmes’s telegram before our Surrey officer had returned. Holmes read it and was about to place it in his notebook when he caught a glimpse of my expectant face. He tossed it across with a laugh.
“We are moving in exalted97 circles,” said he.
The telegram was a list of names and addresses:
Lord Harringby, The Dingle; Sir George Ffolliott, Oxshott Towers; Mr. Hynes Hynes, J.P., Purdey Place; Mr. James Baker98 Williams, Forton Old Hall; Mr. Henderson, High Gable; Rev17. Joshua Stone, Nether99 Walsling.
“This is a very obvious way of limiting our field of operations,” said Holmes. “No doubt Baynes, with his methodical mind, has already adopted some similar plan.”
“I don’t quite understand.”
“Well, my dear fellow, we have already arrived at the conclusion that the message received by Garcia at dinner was an appointment or an assignation. Now, if the obvious reading of it is correct, and in order to keep this tryst100 one has to ascend101 a main stair and seek the seventh door in a corridor, it is perfectly clear that the house is a very large one. It is equally certain that this house cannot be more than a mile or two from Oxshott since Garcia was walking in that direction and hoped, according to my reading of the facts, to be back in Wisteria Lodge in time to avail himself of an alibi, which would only be valid102 up to one o’clock. As the number of large houses close to Oxshott must be limited, I adopted the obvious method of sending to the agents mentioned by Scott Eccles and obtaining a list of them. Here they are in this telegram, and the other end of our tangled104 skein must lie among them.”
It was nearly six o’clock before we found ourselves in the pretty Surrey village of Esher, with Inspector Baynes as our companion.
Holmes and I had taken things for the night, and found comfortable quarters at the Bull. Finally we set out in the company of the detective on our visit to Wisteria Lodge. It was a cold, dark March evening, with a sharp wind and a fine rain beating upon our faces, a fit setting for the wild common over which our road passed and the tragic goal to which it led us.
2. The Tiger of San Pedro
A cold and melancholy walk of a couple of miles brought us to a high wooden gate, which opened into a gloomy avenue of chestnuts105. The curved and shadowed drive led us to a low, dark house, pitch-black against a slate-coloured sky. From the front window upon the left of the door there peeped a glimmer106 of a feeble light.
“There’s a constable107 in possession,” said Baynes. “I’ll knock at the window.” He stepped across the grass plot and tapped with his hand on the pane108. Through the fogged glass I dimly saw a man spring up from a chair beside the fire, and heard a sharp cry from within the room. An instant later a white-faced, hard-breathing policeman had opened the door, the candle wavering in his trembling hand.
“What’s the matter, Walters?” asked Baynes sharply.
The man mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and gave a long sigh of relief.
“I am glad you have come, sir. It has been a long evening, and I don’t think my nerve is as good as it was.”
“Your nerve, Walters? I should not have thought you had a nerve in your body.”
“Well, sir, it’s this lonely, silent house and the queer thing in the kitchen. Then when you tapped at the window I thought it had come again.”
“That what had come again?”
“The devil, sir, for all I know. It was at the window.”
“What was at the window, and when?”
“It was just about two hours ago. The light was just fading. I was sitting reading in the chair. I don’t know what made me look up, but there was a face looking in at me through the lower pane. Lord, sir, what a face it was! I’ll see it in my dreams.”
“Tut, tut, Walters. This is not talk for a police-constable.”
“I know sir, I know; but it shook me sir, and there’s no use to deny it. it wasn’t black, sir, nor was it white, nor any colour that I know, but a kind of queer shade like clay with a splash of milk in it. Then there was the size of it — it was twice yours, sir. And the look of it — the great staring goggle109 eyes, and the line of white teeth like a hungry beast. I tell you, sir, I couldn’t move a finger, nor get my breath, till it whisked away and was gone. Out I ran and through the shrubbery, but thank God there was no one there.”
“If I didn’t know you were a good man, Walters, I should put a black mark against you for this. If it were the devil himself a constable on duty should never thank God that he could not lay his hands upon him. I suppose the whole thing is not a vision and a touch of nerves?”
“That, at least, is very easily settled,” said Holmes, lighting110 his little pocket lantern. “Yes,” he reported, after a short examination of the grass bed, “a number twelve shoe, I should say. If he was all on the same scale as his foot he must certainly have been a giant.”
“What became of him?”
“He seems to have broken through the shrubbery and made for the road.”
“Well,” said the inspector with a grave and thoughtful face, “whoever he may have been, and whatever he may have wanted, he’s gone for the present, and we have more immediate111 things to attend to. Now, Mr. Holmes, with your permission, I will show you round the house.”
The various bedrooms and sitting-rooms had yielded nothing to a careful search. Apparently the tenants112 had brought little or nothing with them, and all the furniture down to the smallest details had been taken over with the house. A good deal of clothing with the stamp of Marx and Co., High Holborn, had been left behind. Telegraphic inquiries had been already made which showed that Marx knew nothing of his customer save that he was a good payer. Odds113 and ends, some pipes, a few novels, two of them in Spanish, an old-fashioned pinfire revolver, and a guitar were among the personal property.
“Nothing in all this,” said Baynes, stalking, candle in hand, from room to room. “But now, Mr. Holmes, I invite your attention to the kitchen.”
It was a gloomy, high-ceilinged room at the back of the house, with a straw litter in one corner, which served apparently as a bed for the cook. The table was piled with half-eaten dishes and dirty plates, the debris114 of last night’s dinner.
“Look at this,” said Baynes. “What do you make of it?”
He held up his candle before an extraordinary object which stood at the back of the dresser. It was so wrinkled and shrunken and withered115 that it was difficult to say what it might have been. One could but say that it was black and leathery and that it bore some resemblance to a dwarfish116, human figure. At first, as I examined it, I thought that it was a mummified negro baby, and then it seemed a very twisted and ancient monkey. Finally I was left in doubt as to whether it was animal or human. A double band of white shells was strung round the centre of it.
“Very interesting — very interesting, indeed!” said Holmes, peering at this sinister117 relic118. “Anything more?”
In silence Baynes led the way to the sink and held forward his candle. The limbs and body of some large, white bird, torn savagely119 to pieces with the feathers still on, were littered all over it. Holmes pointed to the wattles on the severed121 head.
“A white cock,” said he. “Most interesting! It is really a very curious case.”
But Mr. Baynes had kept his most sinister exhibit to the last. From under the sink he drew a zinc122 pail which contained a quantity of blood. Then from the table he took a platter heaped with small pieces of charred123 bone.
“Something has been killed and something has been burned. We raked all these out of the fire. We had a doctor in this morning. He says that they are not human.”
Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands.
“I must congratulate you, Inspector, on handling so distinctive124 and instructive a case. Your powers, if I may say so without offence, seem superior to your opportunities.”
Inspector Baynes’s small eyes twinkled with pleasure.
“You’re right, Mr. Holmes. We stagnate125 in the provinces. A case of this sort gives a man a chance, and I hope that I shall take it. What do you make of these bones?”
“A lamb, I should say, or a kid.”
“And the white cock?”
“Curious, Mr. Baynes, very curious. I should say almost unique.”
“Yes, sir, there must have been some very strange people with some very strange ways in this house. One of them is dead. Did his companions follow him and kill him? If they did we should have them, for every port is watched. But my own views are different. Yes, sir, my own views are very different.”
“You have a theory then?”
“And I’ll work it myself, Mr. Holmes. It’s only due to my own credit to do so. Your name is made, but I have still to make mine. I should be glad to be able to say afterwards that I had solved it without your help.”
Holmes laughed good-humouredly.
“Well, well, Inspector,” said he. “Do you follow your path and I will follow mine. My results are always very much at your service if you care to apply to me for them. I think that I have seen all that I wish in this house, and that my time may be more profitably employed elsewhere. Au revoir and good luck!”
I could tell by numerous subtle signs, which might have been lost upon anyone but myself, that Holmes was on a hot scent. As impassive as ever to the casual observer, there were none the less a subdued126 eagerness and suggestion of tension in his brightened eyes and brisker manner which assured me that the game was afoot. After his habit he said nothing, and after mine I asked no questions. Sufficient for me to share the sport and lend my humble127 help to the capture without distracting that intent brain with needless interruption. All would come round to me in due time.
I waited, therefore — but to my ever-deepening disappointment I waited in vain. Day succeeded day, and my friend took no step forward. One morning he spent in town, and I learned from a casual reference that he had visited the British Museum. Save for this one excursion, he spent his days in long and often solitary128 walks, or in chatting with a number of village gossips whose acquaintance he had cultivated.
“I’m sure, Watson, a week in the country will be invaluable129 to you,” he remarked. “It is very pleasant to see the first green shoots upon the hedges and the catkins on the hazels once again. With a spud, a tin box, and an elementary book on botany, there are instructive days to be spent.” He prowled about with this equipment himself, but it was a poor show of plants which he would bring back of an evening.
Occasionally in our rambles130 we came across Inspector Baynes. His fat, red face wreathed itself in smiles and his small eyes glittered as he greeted my companion. He said little about the case, but from that little we gathered that he also was not dissatisfied at the course of events. I must admit, however, that I was somewhat surprised when, some five days after the crime, I opened my morning paper to find in large letters:
THE OXSHOTT MYSTERY
A SOLUTION
ARREST OF SUPPOSED ASSASSIN
Holmes sprang in his chair as if he had been stung when I read the headlines.
“By Jove!” he cried. “You don’t mean that Baynes has got him?”
“Apparently,” said I as I read the following report:
“Great excitement was caused in Esher and the neighbouring district when it was learned late last night that an arrest had been effected in connection with the Oxshott murder. It will be remembered that Mr. Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, was found dead on Oxshott Common, his body showing signs of extreme violence, and that on the same night his servant and his cook fled, which appeared to show their participation131 in the crime. It was suggested, but never proved, that the deceased gentleman may have had valuables in the house, and that their abstraction was the motive132 of the crime. Every effort was made by Inspector Baynes, who has the case in hand, to ascertain133 the hiding place of the fugitives134, and he had good reason to believe that they had not gone far but were lurking135 in some retreat which had been already prepared. It was certain from the first, however, that they would eventually be detected, as the cook, from the evidence of one or two tradespeople who have caught a glimpse of him through the window, was a man of most remarkable appearance — being a huge and hideous136 mulatto, with yellowish features of a pronounced negroid type. This man has been seen since the crime, for he was detected and pursued by Constable Walters on the same evening, when he had the audacity to revisit Wisteria Lodge. Inspector Baynes, considering that such a visit must have some purpose in view and was likely, therefore, to be repeated, abandoned the house but left an ambuscade in the shrubbery. The man walked into the trap and was captured last night after a struggle in which Constable Downing was badly bitten by the savage120. We understand that when the prisoner is brought before the magistrates138 a remand will be applied139 for by the police, and that great developments are hoped from his capture.”
“Really we must see Baynes at once,” cried Holmes, picking up his hat. “We will just catch him before he starts.” We hurried down the village street and found, as we had expected, that the inspector was just leaving his lodgings140.
“You’ve seen the paper, Mr. Holmes?” he asked, holding one out to us.
“Yes, Baynes, I’ve seen it. Pray don’t think it a liberty if I give you a word of friendly warning.”
“Of warning, Mr. Holmes?”
“I have looked into this case with some care, and I am not convinced that you are on the right lines. I don’t want you to commit yourself too far unless you are sure.”
“You’re very kind, Mr. Holmes.”
“I assure you I speak for your good.”
It seemed to me that something like a wink4 quivered for an instant over one of Mr. Baynes’s tiny eyes.
“We agreed to work on our own lines, Mr. Holmes. That’s what I am doing.”
“Oh, very good,” said Holmes. “Don’t blame me.”
“No, sir; I believe you mean well by me. But we all have our own systems, Mr. Holmes. You have yours, and maybe I have mine.”
“Let us say no more about it.”
“You’re welcome always to my news. This fellow is a perfect savage, as strong as a cart-horse and as fierce as the devil. He chewed Downing’s thumb nearly off before they could master him. He hardly speaks a word of English, and we can get nothing out of him but grunts141.”
“And you think you have evidence that he murdered his late master?”
“I didn’t say so, Mr. Holmes — I didn’t say so. We all have our little ways. You try yours and I will try mine. That’s the agreement.”
Holmes shrugged142 his shoulders as we walked away together. “I can’t make the man out. He seems to be riding for a fall. Well, as he says, we must each try our own way and see what comes of it. But there’s something in Inspector Baynes which I can’t quite understand.”
“Just sit down in that chair, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes when we had returned to our apartment at the Bull. “I want to put you in touch with the situation, as I may need your help to-night. Let me show you the evolution of this case so far as I have been able to follow it. Simple as it has been in its leading features, it has none the less presented surprising difficulties in the way of an arrest. There are gaps in that direction which we have still to fill.
“We will go back to the note which was handed in to Garcia upon the evening of his death. We may put aside this idea of Baynes’s that Garcia’s servants were concerned in the matter. The proof of this lies in the fact that it was he who had arranged for the presence of Scott Eccles, which could only have been done for the purpose of an alibi. It was Garcia, then, who had an enterprise, and apparently a criminal enterprise, in hand that night in the course of which he met his death. I say ‘criminal’ because only a man with a criminal enterprise desires to establish an alibi. Who, then, is most likely to have taken his life? Surely the person against whom the criminal enterprise was directed. So far it seems to me that we are on safe ground.
“We can now see a reason for the disappearance of Garcia’s household. They were all confederates in the same unknown crime. If it came off when Garcia returned, any possible suspicion would be warded143 off by the Englishman’s evidence, and all would be well. But the attempt was a dangerous one, and if Garcia did not return by a certain hour it was probable that his own life had been sacrificed. It had been arranged, therefore, that in such a case his two subordinates were to make for some prearranged spot where they could escape investigation144 and be in a position afterwards to renew their attempt. That would fully71 explain the facts, would it not?”
The whole inexplicable145 tangle103 seemed to straighten out before me. I wondered, as I always did, how it had not been obvious to me before.
“But why should one servant return?”
“We can imagine that in the confusion of flight something precious, something which he could not bear to part with, had been left behind. That would explain his persistence146, would it not?”
“Well, what is the next step?”
“The next step is the note received by Garcia at the dinner. It indicates a confederate at the other end. Now, where was the other end? I have already shown you that it could only lie in some large house, and that the number of large houses is limited. My first days in this village were devoted147 to a series of walks in which in the intervals148 of my botanical researches I made a reconnaissance of all the large houses and an examination of the family history of the occupants. One house, and only one, riveted149 my attention. It is the famous old Jacobean grange of High Gable, one mile on the farther side of Oxshott, and less than half a mile from the scene of the tragedy. The other mansions150 belonged to prosaic151 and respectable people who live far aloof152 from romance. But Mr. Henderson, of High Gable, was by all accounts a curious man to whom curious adventures might befall. I concentrated my attention, therefore, upon him and his household.
“A singular set of people, Watson — the man himself the most singular of them all. I managed to see him on a plausible153 pretext154, but I seemed to read in his dark, deep-set, brooding eyes that he was perfectly aware of my true business. He is a man of fifty, strong, active, with iron-gray hair, great bunched black eyebrows155, the step of a deer, and the air of an emperor — a fierce, masterful man, with a red-hot spirit behind his parchment face. He is either a foreigner or has lived long in the tropics, for he is yellow and sapless, but tough as whipcord. His friend and secretary, Mr. Lucas, is undoubtedly a foreigner, chocolate brown, wily, suave156, and cat-like, with a poisonous gentleness of speech. You see, Watson, we have come already upon two sets of foreigners — one at Wisteria Lodge and one at High Gable — so our gaps are beginning to close.
“These two men, close and confidential157 friends, are the centre of the household; but there is one other person who for our immediate purpose may be even more important. Henderson has two children — girls of eleven and thirteen. Their governess is a Miss Burnet, an Englishwoman of forty or thereabouts. There is also one confidential manservant. This little group forms the real family, for they travel about together, and Henderson is a great traveller, always on the move. It is only within the last few weeks that he has returned, after a year’s absence, to High Gable. I may add that he is enormously rich, and whatever his whims158 may be he can very easily satisfy them. For the rest, his house is full of butlers, footmen, maidservants, and the usual overfed, underworked staff of a large English country-house.
“So much I learned partly from village gossip and partly from my own observation. There are no better instruments than discharged servants with a grievance159, and I was lucky enough to find one. I call it luck, but it would not have come my way had I not been looking out for it. As Baynes remarks, we all have our systems. It was my system which enabled me to find John Warner, late gardener of High Gable, sacked in a moment of temper by his imperious employer. He in turn had friends among the indoor servants who unite in their fear and dislike of their master. So I had my key to the secrets of the establishment.
“Curious people, Watson! I don’t pretend to understand it all yet, but very curious people anyway. It’s a double-winged house and the servants live on one side, the family on the other. There’s no link between the two save for Henderson’s own servant, who serves the family’s meals. Everything is carried to a certain door, which forms the one connection. Governess and children hardly go out at all, except into the garden. Henderson never by any chance walks alone. His dark secretary is like his shadow. The gossip among the servants is that their master is terribly afraid of something. ‘Sold his soul to the devil in exchange for money,’ says Warner, ‘and expects his creditor160 to come up and claim his own.’ Where they came from, or who they are, nobody has an idea. They are very violent. Twice Henderson has lashed161 at folk with his dog-whip, and only his long purse and heavy compensation have kept him out of the courts.
“Well, now, Watson, let us judge the situation by this new information. We may take it that the letter came out of this strange household and was an invitation to Garcia to carry out some attempt which had already been planned. Who wrote the note? It was someone within the citadel162, and it was a woman. Who then but Miss Burnet, the governess? All our reasoning seems to point that way. At any rate, we may take it as a hypothesis and see what consequences it would entail163. I may add that Miss Burnet’s age and character make it certain that my first idea that there might be a love interest in our story is out of the question.
“If she wrote the note she was presumably the friend and confederate of Garcia. What, then, might she be expected to do if she heard of his death? If he met it in some nefarious164 enterprise her lips might be sealed. Still, in her heart, she must retain bitterness and hatred165 against those who had killed him and would presumably help so far as she could to have revenge upon them. Could we see her, then, and try to use her? That was my first thought. But now we come to a sinister fact. Miss Burnet has not been seen by any human eye since the night of the murder. From that evening she has utterly166 vanished. Is she alive? Has she perhaps met her end on the same night as the friend whom she had summoned? Or is she merely a prisoner? There is the point which we still have to decide.
“You will appreciate the difficulty of the situation, Watson. There is nothing upon which we can apply for a warrant. Our whole scheme might seem fantastic if laid before a magistrate137. The woman’s disappearance counts for nothing, since in that extraordinary household any member of it might be invisible for a week. And yet she may at the present moment be in danger of her life. All I can do is to watch the house and leave my agent, Warner, on guard at the gates. We can’t let such a situation continue. If the law can do nothing we must take the risk ourselves.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I know which is her room. It is accessible from the top of an outhouse. My suggestion is that you and I go to-night and see if we can strike at the very heart of the mystery.”
It was not, I must confess, a very alluring167 prospect168. The old house with its atmosphere of murder, the singular and formidable inhabitants, the unknown dangers of the approach, and the fact that we were putting ourselves legally in a false position all combined to damp my ardour. But there was something in the ice-cold reasoning of Holmes which made it impossible to shrink from any adventure which he might recommend. One knew that thus, and only thus, could a solution be found. I clasped his hand in silence, and the die was cast.
But it was not destined169 that our investigation should have so adventurous170 an ending. It was about five o’clock, and the shadows of the March evening were beginning to fall, when an excited rustic171 rushed into our room.
“They’ve gone, Mr. Holmes. They went by the last train. The lady broke away, and I’ve got her in a cab downstairs.”
“Excellent, Warner!” cried Holmes, springing to his feet. “Watson, the gaps are closing rapidly.”
In the cab was a woman, half-collapsed from nervous exhaustion172. She bore upon her aquiline173 and emaciated174 face the traces of some recent tragedy. Her head hung listlessly upon her breast, but as she raised it and turned her dull eyes upon us I saw that her pupils were dark dots in the centre of the broad gray iris175. She was drugged with opium176.
“I watched at the gate, same as you advised, Mr. Holmes,” said our emissary, the discharged gardener. “When the carriage came out I followed it to the station. She was like one walking in her sleep, but when they tried to get her into the train she came to life and struggled. They pushed her into the carriage. She fought her way out again. I took her part, got her into a cab, and here we are. I shan’t forget the face at the carriage window as I led her away. I’d have a short life if he had his way — the black-eyed, scowling177, yellow devil.”
We carried her upstairs, laid her on the sofa, and a couple of cups of the strongest coffee soon cleared her brain from the mists of the drug. Baynes had been summoned by Holmes, and the situation rapidly explained to him.
“Why, sir, you’ve got me the very evidence I want,” said the inspector warmly, shaking my friend by the hand. “I was on the same scent as you from the first.”
“What! You were after Henderson?”
“Why, Mr. Holmes, when you were crawling in the shrubbery at High Gable I was up one of the trees in the plantation178 and saw you down below. It was just who would get his evidence first.”
“Then why did you arrest the mulatto?”
Baynes chuckled.
“I was sure Henderson, as he calls himself, felt that he was suspected, and that he would lie low and make no move so long as he thought he was in any danger. I arrested the wrong man to make him believe that our eyes were off him. I knew he would be likely to clear off then and give us a chance of getting at Miss Burnet.”
Holmes laid his hand upon the inspector’s shoulder.-
“You will rise high in your profession. You have instinct and intuition,” said he.
Baynes flushed with pleasure.
“I’ve had a plain-clothes man waiting at the station all the week. Wherever the High Gable folk go he will keep them in sight. But he must have been hard put to it when Miss Burnet broke away. However, your man picked her up, and it all ends well. We can’t arrest without her evidence, that is clear, so the sooner we get a statement the better.”
“Every minute she gets stronger,” said Holmes, glancing at the governess. “But tell me, Baynes, who is this man Henderson?”
“Henderson,” the inspector answered, “is Don Murillo, once called the Tiger of San Pedro.”
The Tiger of San Pedro! The whole history of the man came back to me in a flash. He had made his name as the most lewd179 and bloodthirsty tyrant180 that had ever governed any country with a pretence to civilization. Strong, fearless, and energetic, he had sufficient virtue181 to enable him to impose his odious182 vices82 upon a cowering183 people for ten or twelve years. His name was a terror through all Central America. At the end of that time there was a universal rising against him. But he was as cunning as he was cruel, and at the first whisper of coming trouble he had secretly conveyed his treasures aboard a ship which was manned by devoted adherents184. It was an empty palace which was stormed by the insurgents185 next day. The dictator, his two children, his secretary, and his wealth had all escaped them. From that moment he had vanished from the world, and his identity had been a frequent subject for comment in the European press.
“Yes, sir, Don Murillo, the Tiger of San Pedro,” said Baynes. “If you look it up you will find that the San Pedro colours are green and white, same as in the note, Mr. Holmes. Henderson he called himself, but I traced him back, Paris and Rome and Madrid to Barcelona, where his ship came in in ’86. They’ve been looking for him all the time for their revenge, but it is only now that they have begun to find him out.”
“They discovered him a year ago,” said Miss Burnet, who had sat up and was now intently following the conversation. “Once already his life has been attempted, but some evil spirit shielded him. Now, again, it is the noble, chivalrous186 Garcia who has fallen, while the monster goes safe. But another will come, and yet another, until some day justice will be done; that is as certain as the rise of to-morrow’s sun.” Her thin hands clenched187, and her worn face blanched188 with the passion of her hatred.
“But how come you into this matter Miss Burnet?” asked Holmes. “How can an English lady join in such a murderous affair?”
“I join in it because there is no other way in the world by which justice can be gained. What does the law of England care for the rivers of blood shed years ago in San Pedro, or for the shipload of treasure which this man has stolen? To you they are like crimes committed in some other planet. But we know. We have learned the truth in sorrow and in suffering. To us there is no fiend in hell like Juan Murillo, and no peace in life while his victims still cry for vengeance189.”
“No doubt,” said Holmes, “he was as you say. I have heard that he was atrocious. But how are you affected190?”
“I will tell you it all. This villain’s policy was to murder, on one pretext or another, every man who showed such promise that he might in time come to be a dangerous rival. My husband — yes, my real name is Signora Victor Durando — was the San Pedro minister in London. He met me and married me there. A nobler man never lived upon earth. Unhappily, Murillo heard of his excellence191, recalled him on some pretext, and had him shot. With a premonition of his fate he had refused to take me with him. His estates were confiscated192, and I was left with a pittance193 and a broken heart.
“Then came the downfall of the tyrant. He escaped as you have just described. But the many whose lives he had ruined, whose nearest and dearest had suffered torture and death at his hands, would not let the matter rest. They banded themselves into a society which should never be dissolved until the work was done. It was my part after we had discovered in the transformed Henderson the fallen despot, to attach myself to his household and keep the others in touch with his movements. This I was able to do by securing the position of governess in his family. He little knew that the woman who faced him at every meal was the woman whose husband he had hurried at an hour’s notice into eternity194. I smiled on him, did my duty to his children, and bided195 my time. An attempt was made in Paris and failed. We zig-zagged swiftly here and there over Europe to throw off the pursuers and finally returned to this house, which he had taken upon his first arrival in England.
“But here also the ministers of justice were waiting. Knowing that he would return there, Garcia, who is the son of the former highest dignitary in San Pedro, was waiting with two trusty companions of humble station, all three fired with the same reasons for revenge. He could do little during the day, for Murillo took every precaution and never went out save with his satellite Lucas, or Lopez as he was known in the days of his greatness. At night, however, he slept alone, and the avenger196 might find him. On a certain evening, which had been prearranged, I sent my friend final instructions, for the man was forever on the alert and continually changed his room. I was to see that the doors were open and the signal of a green or white light in a window which faced the drive was to give notice if all was safe or if the attempt had better be postponed197.
“But everything went wrong with us. In some way I had excited the suspicion of Lopez, the secretary. He crept up behind me and sprang upon me just as I had finished the note. He and his master dragged me to my room and held judgment198 upon me as a convicted traitress. Then and there they would have plunged their knives into me could they have seen how to escape the consequences of the deed. Finally, after much debate, they concluded that my murder was too dangerous. But they determined199 to get rid forever of Garcia. They had gagged me, and Murillo twisted my arm round until I gave him the address. I swear that he might have twisted it off had I understood what it would mean to Garcia. Lopez addressed the note which I had written, sealed it with his sleeve-link, and sent it by the hand of the servant, Jose. How they murdered him I do not know, save that it was Murillo’s hand who struck him down, for Lopez had remained to guard me. I believe he must have waited among the gorse bushes through which the path winds and struck him down as he passed. At first they were of a mind to let him enter the house and to kill him as a detected burglar; but they argued that if they were mixed up in an inquiry200 their own identity would at once be publicly disclosed and they would be open to further attacks. With the death of Garcia, the pursuit might cease, since such a death might frighten others from the task.
“All would now have been well for them had it not been for my knowledge of what they had done. I have no doubt that there were times when my life hung in the balance. I was confined to my room, terrorized by the most horrible threats, cruelly ill-used to break my spirit — see this stab on my shoulder and the bruises201 from end to end of my arms — and a gag was thrust into my mouth on the one occasion when I tried to call from the window. For five days this cruel imprisonment202 continued, with hardly enough food to hold body and soul together. This afternoon a good lunch was brought me, but the moment after I took it I knew that I had been drugged. In a sort of dream I remember being half-led, half-carried to the carriage; in the same state I was conveyed to the train. Only then, when the wheels were almost moving, did I suddenly realize that my liberty lay in my own hands. I sprang out, they tried to drag me back, and had it not been for the help of this good man, who led me to the cab, I should never have broken away. Now, thank God, I am beyond their power forever.”
We had all listened intently to this remarkable statement. It was Holmes who broke the silence.
“Our difficulties are not over,” he remarked, shaking his head. “Our police work ends, but our legal work begins.”
“Exactly,” said I. “A plausible lawyer could make it out as an act of self-defence. There may be a hundred crimes in the background, but it is only on this one that they can be tried.”
“Come, come,” said Baynes cheerily, “I think better of the law than that. Self-defence is one thing. To entice203 a man in cold blood with the object of murdering him is another, whatever danger you may fear from him. No, no, we shall all be justified204 when we see the tenants of High Gable at the next Guildford Assizes.”
It is a matter of history, however, that a little time was still to elapse before the Tiger of San Pedro should meet with his deserts. Wily and bold, he and his companion threw their pursuer off their track by entering a lodging-house in Edmonton Street and leaving by the back-gate into Curzon Square. From that day they were seen no more in England. Some six months afterwards the Marquess of Montalva and Signor Rulli, his secretary, were both murdered in their rooms at the Hotel Escurial at Madrid. The crime was ascribed to Nihilism, and the murderers were never arrested. Inspector Baynes visited us at Baker Street with a printed description of the dark face of the secretary, and of the masterful features, the magnetic black eyes, and the tufted brows of his master. We could not doubt that justice, if belated, had come at last.
“A chaotic205 case, my dear Watson,” said Holmes over an evening pipe. “It will not be possible for you to present it in that compact form which is dear to your heart. It covers two continents, concerns two groups of mysterious persons, and is further complicated by the highly respectable presence of our friend, Scott Eccles, whose inclusion shows me that the deceased Garcia had a scheming mind and a well-developed instinct of self-preservation. It is remarkable only for the fact that amid a perfect jungle of possibilities we, with our worthy206 collaborator207, the inspector, have kept our close hold on the essentials and so been guided along the crooked208 and winding209 path. Is there any point which is not quite clear to you?”
“The object of the mulatto cook’s return?”
“I think that the strange creature in the kitchen may account for it. The man was a primitive210 savage from the backwoods of San Pedro, and this was his fetish. When his companion and he had fled to some prearranged retreat — already occupied, no doubt by a confederate — the companion had persuaded him to leave so compromising an article of furniture. But the mulatto’s heart was with it, and he was driven back to it next day, when, on reconnoitring through the window, he found policeman Walters in possession. He waited three days longer, and then his piety211 or his superstition212 drove him to try once more. Inspector Baynes, who, with his usual astuteness213, had minimized the incident before me, had really recognized its importance and had left a trap into which the creature walked. Any other point, Watson?”
“The torn bird, the pail of blood, the charred bones, all the mystery of that weird214 kitchen?”
Holmes smiled as he turned up an entry in his notebook.
“I spent a morning in the British Museum reading up on that and other points. Here is a quotation215 from Eckermann’s Voodooism and the Negroid Religions:
The true voodoo-worshipper attempts nothing of importance without certain sacrifices which are intended to propitiate216 his unclean gods. In extreme cases these rites217 take the form of human sacrifices followed by cannibalism218. The more usual victims are a white cock, which is plucked in pieces alive, or a black goat, whose throat is cut and body burned.
“So you see our savage friend was very orthodox in his ritual. It is grotesque, Watson,” Holmes added, as he slowly fastened his notebook, “but, as I have had occasion to remark, there is but one step from the grotesque to the horrible.”
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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remarkable
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underlying
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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narrative
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afflicted
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conspiracy
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charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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racing
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sterile
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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17
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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19
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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20
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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22
spats
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| n.口角( spat的名词复数 )；小争吵；鞋罩；鞋套v.spit的过去式和过去分词( spat的第三人称单数 )；口角；小争吵；鞋罩 | |
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23
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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24
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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25
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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26
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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27
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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28
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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29
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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30
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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31
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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32
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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33
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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34
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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35
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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36
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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37
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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38
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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39
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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40
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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41
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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42
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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43
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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44
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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45
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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46
brewer
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| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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47
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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48
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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49
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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50
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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51
evergreen
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| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
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52
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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53
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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54
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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55
gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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56
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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57
distrait
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| adj.心不在焉的 | |
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58
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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59
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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60
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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61
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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62
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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63
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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64
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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65
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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66
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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67
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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68
creases
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的第三人称单数 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹 | |
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69
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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70
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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71
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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72
snips
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| n.（剪金属板的）铁剪，铁铗；剪下之物( snip的名词复数 )；一点点；零星v.剪( snip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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73
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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74
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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75
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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76
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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77
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
corroborates
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| v.证实，支持（某种说法、信仰、理论等）( corroborate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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79
pulp
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| n.果肉，纸浆；v.化成纸浆，除去...果肉，制成纸浆 | |
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80
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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81
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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82
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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83
collaborating
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| 合作( collaborate的现在分词 )； 勾结叛国 | |
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84
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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85
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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86
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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87
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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88
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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89
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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90
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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91
inspectors
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| n.检查员( inspector的名词复数 )；（英国公共汽车或火车上的）查票员；（警察）巡官；检阅官 | |
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92
alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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93
juggling
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| n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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94
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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95
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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96
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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97
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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98
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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99
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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100
tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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101
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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102
valid
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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103
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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104
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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105
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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106
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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107
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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108
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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109
goggle
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| n.瞪眼，转动眼珠，护目镜；v.瞪眼看，转眼珠 | |
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110
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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111
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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112
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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113
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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114
debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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115
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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116
dwarfish
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| a.像侏儒的，矮小的 | |
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117
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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118
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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119
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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120
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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121
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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122
zinc
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| n.锌；vt.在...上镀锌 | |
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123
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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124
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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125
stagnate
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| v.停止 | |
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126
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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127
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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128
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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129
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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130
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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131
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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132
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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133
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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134
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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135
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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136
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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137
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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138
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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139
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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140
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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141
grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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142
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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143
warded
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| 有锁孔的，有钥匙榫槽的 | |
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144
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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145
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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146
persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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147
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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148
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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149
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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150
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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151
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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152
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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153
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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154
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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155
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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156
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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157
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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158
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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159
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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160
creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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161
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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162
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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163
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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164
nefarious
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| adj.恶毒的，极坏的 | |
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165
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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166
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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167
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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168
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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169
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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170
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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171
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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172
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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173
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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174
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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175
iris
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| n.虹膜，彩虹 | |
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176
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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177
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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178
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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179
lewd
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| adj.淫荡的 | |
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180
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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181
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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182
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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183
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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184
adherents
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| n.支持者，拥护者( adherent的名词复数 )；党羽；徒子徒孙 | |
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185
insurgents
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| n.起义，暴动，造反( insurgent的名词复数 ) | |
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186
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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187
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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188
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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189
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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190
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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191
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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192
confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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193
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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194
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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195
bided
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| v.等待，停留( bide的过去式 )；居住；等待；面临 | |
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196
avenger
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| n. 复仇者 | |
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197
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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198
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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199
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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200
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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201
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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202
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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203
entice
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| v.诱骗，引诱，怂恿 | |
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204
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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205
chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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206
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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207
collaborator
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| n.合作者，协作者 | |
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208
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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209
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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210
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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211
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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212
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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213
astuteness
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| n.敏锐；精明；机敏 | |
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214
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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215
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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216
propitiate
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| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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217
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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218
cannibalism
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| n.同类相食；吃人肉 | |
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