Part 7

The J.P. shrugged his shoulders, and led the way into his own chamber, which was a plainly furnished and commonplace room. As we moved across it in the direction of the window, Holmes fell back until he and I were the last of the group. Near the foot of the bed was a small square table, on which stood a dish of oranges and a carafe of water. As we passed it, Holmes, to my unutterable astonishment, leaned over in front of me and deliberately knocked the whole thing over. The glass smashed into a thousand pieces, and the fruit rolled about into every corner of the room.

"You've done it now, Watson," said he, coolly. "A pretty mess you've made of the carpet."

I stooped in some confusion and began to pick up the fruit, understanding that for some reason my companion desired me to take the blame upon myself. The others did the same, and set the table on its legs again.

"Halloa!" cried the Inspector, "where's he got to?"

Holmes had disappeared.

"Wait here an instant," said young Alec Cunningham. "The fellow is off his head, in my opinion. Come with me, father, and see where he has got to!"

They rushed out of the room, leaving the Inspector, the Colonel, and me staring at each other.

"'Pon my word, I am inclined to agree with Mister Alec," said the official. "It may be the effect of this illness, but it seems to me that----"

His words were cut short by a sudden scream of "Help! Help! Murder!" With a thrill I recognised the voice as that of my friend. I rushed madly from the room on to the landing. The cries, which had sunk down into a hoarse, inarticulate shouting, came from the room which we had first visited. I dashed in, and on into the dressing-room beyond. The two Cunninghams were bending over the prostrate figure of Sherlock Holmes, the younger clutching his throat with both hands, while the elder seemed to be twisting one of his wrists. In an instant the three of us had torn them away from him, and Holmes staggered to his feet, very pale, and evidently greatly exhausted.

"Arrest these men, Inspector," he gasped.

"On what charge?"

"That of murdering their coachman, William Kirwan!"

The Inspector stared about him in bewilderment. "Oh, come now, Mr. Holmes," said he at last; "I am sure you don't really mean to----"

"Tut, man; look at their faces!" cried Holmes, curtly.

Never, certainly, have I seen a plainer confession of guilt upon human countenances. The older man seemed numbed and dazed, with a heavy, sullen expression upon his strongly-marked face. The son, on the other hand, had dropped all that jaunty, dashing style which had characterized him, and the ferocity of a dangerous wild beast gleamed in his dark eyes and distorted his handsome features. The Inspector said nothing, but, stepping to the door, he blew his whistle. Two of his constables came at the call.

"I have no alternative, Mr. Cunningham," said he. "I trust that this may all prove to be an absurd mistake; but you can see that----Ah, would you? Drop it!" He struck out with his hand, and a revolver, which the younger man was in the act of cocking, clattered down upon the floor.

"Keep that," said Holmes, quickly putting his foot upon it. "You will find it useful at the trial. But this is what we really wanted." He held up a little crumpled piece of paper.

"The remainder of the sheet!" cried the Inspector.

"Precisely."

"And where was it?"

"Where I was sure it must be. I'll make the whole matter clear to you presently. I think, Colonel, that you and Watson might return now, and I will be with you again in an hour at the furthest. The Inspector and I must have a word with the prisoners; but you will certainly see me back at luncheon time."

Sherlock Holmes was as good as his word, for about one o'clock he rejoined us in the Colonel's smoking-room. He was accompanied by a little, elderly gentleman, who was introduced to me as the Mr. Acton whose house had been the scene of the original burglary.

"I wished Mr. Acton to be present while I demonstrated this small matter to you," said Holmes, "for it is natural that he should take a keen interest in the details. I am afraid, my dear Colonel, that you must regret the hour that you took in such a stormy petrel as I am."

"On the contrary," answered the Colonel, warmly, "I consider it the greatest privilege to have been permitted to study your methods of working. I confess that they quite surpass my expectations, and that I am utterly unable to account for your result. I have not yet seen the vestige of a clue."

"I am afraid that my explanation may disillusionize you, but it has always been my habit to hide none of my methods, either from my friend Watson or from anyone who might take an intelligent interest in them. But first, as I am rather shaken by the knocking about which I had in the dressing-room, I think that I shall help myself to a dash of your brandy, Colonel. My strength has been rather tried of late."

"I trust you had no more of those nervous attacks."

Sherlock Holmes laughed heartily. "We will come to that in its turn," said he. "I will lay an account of the case before you in its due order, showing you the various points which guided me in my decision. Pray interrupt me if there is any inference which is not perfectly clear to you.

"It is of the highest importance in the art of detection to be able to recognise out of a number of facts which are incidental and which vital. Otherwise your energy and attention must be dissipated instead of being concentrated. Now, in this case there was not the slightest doubt in my mind from the first that the key of the whole matter must be looked for in the scrap of paper in the dead man's hand.

"Before going into this I would draw your attention to the fact that if Alec Cunningham's narrative was correct, and if the assailant after shooting William Kirwan had _instantly_ fled, then it obviously could not be he who tore the paper from the dead man's hand. But if it was not he, it must have been Alec Cunningham himself, for by the time that the old man had descended several servants were upon the scene. The point is a simple one, but the Inspector had overlooked it because he had started with the supposition that these county magnates had had nothing to do with the matter. Now, I make a point of never having any prejudices and of following docilely wherever fact may lead me, and so in the very first stage of the investigation I found myself looking a little askance at the part which had been played by Mr. Alec Cunningham.

"And now I made a very careful examination of the corner of paper which the Inspector had submitted to us. It was at once clear to me that it formed part of a very remarkable document. Here it is. Do you not now observe something very suggestive about it?"

"It has a very irregular look," said the Colonel.

"My dear sir," cried Holmes, "there cannot be the least doubt in the world that it has been written by two persons doing alternate words. When I draw your attention to the strong t's of 'at' and 'to' and ask you to compare them with the weak ones of 'quarter' and 'twelve,' you will instantly recognise the fact. A very brief analysis of those four words would enable you to say with the utmost confidence that the 'learn' and the 'maybe' are written in the stronger hand, and the 'what' in the weaker."

"By Jove, it's as clear as day!" cried the Colonel. "Why on earth should two men write a letter in such a fashion?"

"Obviously the business was a bad one, and one of the men who distrusted the other was determined that, whatever was done, each should have an equal hand in it. Now, of the two men it is clear that the one who wrote the 'at' and 'to' was the ring-leader."

"How do you get at that?"

"We might deduce it from the mere character of the one hand as compared with the other. But we have more assured reasons than that for supposing it. If you examine this scrap with attention you will come to the conclusion that the man with the stronger hand wrote all his words first, leaving blanks for the other to fill up. These blanks were not always sufficient, and you can see that the second man had a squeeze to fit his 'quarter' in between the 'at' and the 'to,' showing that the latter were already written. The man who wrote all his words first is undoubtedly the man who planned this affair."

"Excellent!" cried Mr. Acton.

"But very superficial," said Holmes. "We come now, however, to a point which is of importance. You may not be aware that the deduction of a man's age from his writing is one which has been brought to considerable accuracy by experts. In normal cases one can place a man in his true decade with tolerable confidence. I say normal cases, because ill-health and physical weakness reproduce the signs of old age, even when the invalid is a youth. In this case, looking at the bold, strong hand of the one, and the rather broken-backed appearance of the other, which still retains its legibility, although the t's have begun to lose their crossings, we can say that the one was a young man, and the other was advanced in years without being positively decrepit."

"Excellent!" cried Mr. Acton again.

"There is a further point, however, which is subtler and of greater interest. There is something in common between these hands. They belong to men who are blood-relatives. It may be most obvious to you in the Greek e's, but to me there are many small points which indicate the same thing. I have no doubt at all that a family mannerism can be traced in these two specimens of writing. I am only, of course, giving you the leading results now of my examination of the paper. There were twenty-three other deductions which would be of more interest to experts than to you. They all tended to deepen the impression upon my mind that the Cunninghams, father and son, had written this letter.

"Having got so far, my next step was, of course, to examine into the details of the crime and to see how far they would help us. I went up to the house with the Inspector, and saw all that was to be seen. The wound upon the dead man was, as I was able to determine with absolute confidence, fired from a revolver at the distance of something over four yards. There was no powder-blackening on the clothes. Evidently, therefore, Alec Cunningham had lied when he said that the two men were struggling when the shot was fired. Again, both father and son agreed as to the place where the man escaped into the road. At that point, however, as it happens, there is a broadish ditch, moist at the bottom. As there were no indications of boot-marks about this ditch, I was absolutely sure not only that the Cunninghams had again lied, but that there had never been any unknown man upon the scene at all.

"And now I had to consider the motive of this singular crime. To get at this I endeavoured first of all to solve the reason of the original burglary at Mr. Acton's. I understood from something which the Colonel told us that a law-suit, had been going on between you, Mr. Acton, and the Cunninghams. Of course, it instantly occurred to me that they had broken into your library with the intention of getting at some document which might be of importance in the case."

"Precisely so," said Mr. Acton; "there can be no possible doubt as to their intentions. I have the clearest claim upon half their present estate, and if they could have found a single paper--which, fortunately, was in the strong box of my solicitors--they would undoubtedly have crippled our case."

"There you are!" said Holmes, smiling. "It was a dangerous, reckless attempt in which I seem to trace the influence of young Alec. Having found nothing, they tried to divert suspicion by making it appear to be an ordinary burglary, to which end they carried off whatever they could lay their hands upon. That is all clear enough, but there was much that was still obscure. What I wanted above all was to get the missing part of that note. I was certain that Alec had torn it out of the dead man's hand, and almost certain that he must have thrust it into the pocket of his dressing-gown. Where else could he have put it? The only question was whether it was still there. It was worth an effort to find out, and for that object we all went up to the house.

"The Cunninghams joined us, as you doubtless remember, outside the kitchen door. It was, of course, of the very first importance that they should not be reminded of the existence of this paper, otherwise they would naturally destroy it without delay. The Inspector was about to tell them the importance which we attached to it when, by the luckiest chance in the world, I tumbled down in a sort of fit and so changed the conversation."

"Good heavens!" cried the Colonel, laughing. "Do you mean to say all our sympathy was wasted and your fit an imposture?"

"Speaking professionally, it was admirably done," cried I, looking in amazement at this man who was for ever confounding me with some new phase of his astuteness.

"It is an art which is often useful," said he. "When I recovered I managed by a device, which had, perhaps, some little merit of ingenuity, to get old Cunningham to write the word 'twelve,' so that I might compare it with the 'twelve' upon the paper."

"Oh, what an ass I have been!" I exclaimed.

"I could see that you were commiserating with me over my weakness," said Holmes, laughing. "I was sorry to cause you the sympathetic pain which I know that you felt. We then went upstairs together, and having entered the room and seen the dressing-gown hanging up behind the door, I contrived by upsetting a table to engage their attention for the moment and slipped back to examine the pockets. I had hardly got the paper, however, which was, as I had expected, in one of them, when the two Cunninghams were on me, and would, I verily believe, have murdered me then and there but for your prompt and friendly aid. As it is, I feel that young man's grip on my throat now, and the father has twisted my wrist round in the effort to get the paper out of my hand. They saw that I must know all about it, you see, and the sudden change from absolute security to complete despair made them perfectly desperate.

"I had a little talk with old Cunningham afterwards as to the motive of the crime. He was tractable enough, though his son was a perfect demon, ready to blow out his own or anybody else's brains if he could have got to his revolver. When Cunningham saw that the case against him was so strong he lost all heart, and made a clean breast of everything. It seems that William had secretly followed his two masters on the night when they made their raid upon Mr. Acton's, and, having thus got them into his power, proceeded under threats of exposure to levy blackmail upon them. Mister Alec, however, was a dangerous man to play games of that sort with. It was a stroke of positive genius on his part to see in the burglary scare, which was convulsing the country side, an opportunity of plausibly getting rid of the man whom he feared. William was decoyed up and shot; and, had they only got the whole of the note, and paid a little more attention to detail in their accessories, it is very possible that suspicion might never have been aroused."

"And the note?" I asked.

Sherlock Holmes placed the subjoined paper before us:--

"It is very much the sort of thing that I expected," said he. "Of course, we do not yet know what the relations may have been between Alec Cunningham, William Kirwan, and Annie Morrison. The result shows that the trap was skilfully baited. I am sure that you cannot fail to be delighted with the traces of heredity shown in the p's and in the tails of the g's. The absence of the i-dots in the old man's writing is also most characteristic. Watson, I think our quiet rest in the country has been a distinct success, and I shall certainly return, much invigorated, to Baker Street to-morrow."

_Beauties._

_From Photos. by Messrs. Bassano, Old Bond Street._

LIEUTENANT GAUTHIER

By José de Campos

FROM THE FRENCH OF JOSÉ DE CAMPOS. AN EPISODE OF THE CRIMEAN WAR. APPROVED AND AUTHORIZED BY GENERAL SAUSSIER, MILITARY COMMANDER OF PARIS.

Nicolas Gauthier, Sergeant-Major in the Foreign Legion, was about twenty-six years of age. He was strikingly handsome, with black hair and moustache and a pale complexion. His dark eyes were perhaps somewhat dreamy and intensely sad, but they had a certain expression of gentleness and candour which won all hearts.

He was above the medium height, upright and broad-shouldered, and was altogether more fitted for a cuirassier than for a foot-soldier. As, however, he had entered the army from choice, it was for him to select the arms he preferred.

He had undoubtedly military tastes, but he had evidently some family trouble or some love affair which had made him anxious to leave Paris and to go to Africa with the Foreign Legion (which, as everyone knows, is always the first regiment to be called out in case of war).

He had been in the garrison at Constantine, and while there had been a great favourite with all the ladies, and the men had envied him.

It could scarcely be wondered at, for he was so handsome, and then, too, he had such a martial bearing and such pleasant, attractive manners.

All the sensation he caused was lost upon him, for he did not even seem to notice it himself.

He was a good soldier: subordinate to his superiors, and always indulgent to the men under his command, and, consequently, a great favourite in the Legion.

When Napoleon III. was reviewing the troops, he noticed Gauthier, who was at that time only a sub-officer. He made inquiries about him, and a fortnight later Gauthier was appointed sergeant-major.

It was evident that some great sorrow was weighing on him, for when he was free from his military duties, instead of going out with his comrades to any places of amusement, he would go off by himself for long, solitary walks.

Several times, on seeing him strolling along far from the walls of the city, the other officers had warned him of the risk he ran of being surprised by one of those bands of Arabs who wander about outside the Algerian cities, and who take their revenge on any European who falls into their hands for the yoke that has been put on to them.

Sergeant Gauthier took very little notice of these warnings. He loved solitude and was perfectly fearless. No one knew why he was so sad. Certainly he had lately lost his mother, and still wore a badge of crape on his arm. Of course, this had increased his melancholy, but it was not the original cause of it.

The war with Russia had just been declared. Gauthier, like a great many other officers and sub-officers, was tired of the monotony of garrison life, and volunteered to join the regiments which were to be sent to the Crimea. The Minister of War dispatched the Foreign Legion, to the great joy of Gauthier. His brother officers noticed that he was almost gay, not at all like his former self.

* * * * *

He soon distinguished himself; was always foremost in the fight. His courage and _sang-froid_ won the admiration of all. He was wounded, but he cared little for that; and shortly after he was promoted to the rank of sub-lieutenant.

Gauthier was very intimate with Lieutenant Saussier, another hero who had gone through the "baptism of fire" in Africa, and whose great valour and integrity have won for him the high office he now holds.

These two soldiers were of the same metal: they were able to understand and appreciate each other, and were almost inseparable.

One day during the siege of Sebastopol, Lieutenant Saussier said to his friend:--

"Gauthier, may I ask you a question?"

"Two questions, if you like."

"You won't think it mere curiosity?"

"Are we not friends, Saussier?"

"Yes, but perhaps this is a secret----"

"I have only one secret in the world, and as you do not know _that_ and could not even have an idea of it, there is no fear, so you can speak out."

"Well, will you tell me what is the cause of your sadness, I might almost say bitterness? When we left Africa I thought you had left it behind you; but now in Russia it is worse than ever."

At this unexpected question Gauthier started, then trying to smile he answered:--

"It must be a kind of complaint born in me, and perhaps the change of climate aggravates it."

"Perhaps so," said Lieutenant Saussier, slowly, and watching the expression of his friend's face.

"This cold goes right through me to my very bones," said Gauthier, shivering.

Saussier quite understood that his friend meant, "Let us change the subject," but he continued:--

"May I ask you another question?"

"You seem to have a few to ask to-day," said Gauthier, looking rather annoyed.

"I have often wanted to speak to you, but have never dared before."

"Well, to-day you don't seem afraid of running the risk."

"If it vexes you, don't answer me."

"Oh, I don't mind. I have had one; I may as well have the next."

"Well, will you tell me why, every time there is an engagement, you take such pains to find out the name of the chief who commands the enemy?"

This time Gauthier was visibly annoyed. He answered, after a few minutes' hesitation, "Because some day I intend writing the history of the Crimean War. It is only natural I should want to know the names of the commanders on the other side."

"Oh! of course," said Saussier, feeling rather disconcerted.

For some minutes the two friends continued their walk in silence. There was no sound but the crunching of the snow under their heavy boots, for it had been snowing hard in the district of Simferopol, and a thick white mantle covered the ground.

Lieutenant Saussier looked at Gauthier, and in spite of his friend's attempt to turn away his head, Saussier saw that there were tears in his eyes.

"Forgive me for asking you!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea of causing you pain."

"How do you know you have?" asked Gauthier, passing his arm through that of his friend.

"Don't try and hide it. I can see that, quite unintentional as it was, I have pained you with my questions."

"It is nothing, nothing at all; or rather your questions brought to mind something in my past life. It is only natural that you should have asked me, and as a proof of my friendship I will tell you all."

"No, no! Indeed I do not want you to. We will not talk about it. I am awfully sorry to have spoken of it."

"After all, you are my greatest friend. Why should I not tell you about it? Perhaps, too, it might relieve me to speak of my trouble."

"If it will be any relief to you, tell me; but if not, why, do not let us say any more about it."

"I would rather tell you. Life is very uncertain on the battlefield, and I would rather not die with this secret untold. Perhaps, too, if you knew it you might be able to help me."

"If I could help you in any way, you know you have only to tell me how."

"Well, you shall hear all. You know that, before leaving Algeria, I went to Paris with a three months' leave."

"Which you never stayed out, for you were back again in six weeks."