ADVENTURE IV. THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY


We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the maid brought
in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran in this way:

Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from the west of
England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall be glad if you will
come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave Paddington by the 11:15.

"What do you say, dear?" said my wife, looking across at me. "Will you go?"

"I really don't know what to say. I have a fairly long list at present."

"Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking a little pale
lately. I think that the change would do you good, and you are always so
interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes's cases."

"I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained through one of
them," I answered. "But if I am to go, I must pack at once, for I have only
half an hour."

My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the effect of making
me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were few and simple, so that in less
than the time stated I was in a cab with my valise, rattling away to Paddington
Station. Sherlock Holmes was pacing up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt
figure made even gaunter and taller by his long gray travelling-cloak and
close-fitting cloth cap.

"It is really very good of you to come, Watson," said he. "It makes a
considerable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can thoroughly
rely. Local aid is always either worthless or else biassed. If you will keep
the two corner seats I shall get the tickets."

We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of papers which
Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged and read, with intervals
of note-taking and of meditation, until we were past Reading. Then he suddenly
rolled them all into a gigantic ball and tossed them up onto the rack.

"Have you heard anything of the case?" he asked.

"Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days."

"The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been looking
through all the recent papers in order to master the particulars. It seems,
from what I gather, to be one of those simple cases which are so extremely
difficult."

"That sounds a little paradoxical."

"But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clew. The more
featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it is to bring it
home. In this case, however, they have established a very serious case against
the son of the murdered man."

"It is a murder, then?"

"Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for granted until I
have the opportunity of looking personally into it. I will explain the state of
things to you, as far as I have been able to understand it, in a very few
words.

"Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in
Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr. John Turner,
who made his money in Australia and returned some years ago to the old country.
One of the farms which he held, that of Hatherley, was let to Mr. Charles
McCarthy, who was also an ex-Australian. The men had known each other in the
colonies, so that it was not unnatural that when they came to settle down they
should do so as near each other as possible. Turner was apparently the richer
man, so McCarthy became his tenant but still remained, it seems, upon terms of
perfect equality, as they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son, a lad
of eighteen, and Turner had an only daughter of the same age, but neither of
them had wives living. They appear to have avoided the society of the
neighboring English families and to have led retired lives, though both the
McCarthys were fond of sport and were frequently seen at the race-meetings of
the neighborhood. McCarthy kept two servants--a man and a girl. Turner had a
considerable household, some half-dozen at the least. That is as much as I have
been able to gather about the families. Now for the facts.

"On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at Hatherley
about three in the afternoon and walked down to the Boscombe Pool, which is a
small lake formed by the spreading out of the stream which runs down the
Boscombe Valley. He had been out with his serving-man in the morning at Ross,
and he had told the man that he must hurry, as he had an appointment of
importance to keep at three. From that appointment he never came back alive.

"From Hatherley Farm-house to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a mile, and two
people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an old woman, whose name
is not mentioned, and the other was William Crowder, a game-keeper in the
employ of Mr. Turner. Both these witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking
alone. The game-keeper adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr.
McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the same way with
a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the father was actually in
sight at the time, and the son was following him. He thought no more of the
matter until he heard in the evening of the tragedy that had occurred.

"The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder, the
game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly wooded round,
with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the edge. A girl of fourteen,
Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the lodge-keeper of the Boscombe Valley
estate, was in one of the woods picking flowers. She states that while she was
there she saw, at the border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy
and his son, and that they appeared to be having a violent quarrel. She heard
Mr. McCarthy the elder using very strong language to his son, and she saw the
latter raise up his hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by
their violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached home that
she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling near Boscombe Pool, and that she was
afraid that they were going to fight. She had hardly said the words when young
Mr. McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say that he had found his father
dead in the wood, and to ask for the help of the lodge-keeper. He was much
excited, without either his gun or his hat, and his right hand and sleeve were
observed to be stained with fresh blood. On following him they found the dead
body stretched out upon the grass beside the pool. The head had been beaten in
by repeated blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as
might very well have been inflicted by the butt-end of his son's gun, which was
found lying on the grass within a few paces of the body. Under these
circumstances the young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict of 'wilful
murder' having been returned at the inquest on Tuesday, he was on Wednesday
brought before the magistrates at Ross, who have referred the case to the next
Assizes. Those are the main facts of the case as they came out before the
coroner and the police-court."

"I could hardly imagine a more damning case," I remarked. "If ever
circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so here."

"Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing," answered Holmes thoughtfully.
"It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if you shift your own
point of view a little, you may find it pointing in an equally uncompromising
manner to something entirely different. It must be confessed, however, that the
case looks exceedingly grave against the young man, and it is very possible
that he is indeed the culprit. There are several people in the neighborhood,
however, and among them Miss Turner, the daughter of the neighboring landowner,
who believe in his innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you may
recollect in connection with 'A Study in Scarlet', to work out the case in his
interest. Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the case to me, and
hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are flying westward at fifty miles
an hour instead of quietly digesting their breakfasts at home."

"I am afraid," said I, "that the facts are so obvious that you will find little
credit to be gained out of this case."

"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact," he answered, laughing.
"Besides, we may chance to hit upon some other obvious facts which may have
been by no means obvious to Mr. Lestrade. You know me too well to think that I
am boasting when I say that I shall either confirm or destroy his theory by
means which he is quite incapable of employing, or even of understanding. To
take the first example to hand, I very clearly perceive that in your bedroom
the window is upon the right-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade
would have noted even so self-evident a thing as that."

"How on earth--"

"My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness which
characterizes you. You shave every morning, and in this season you shave by the
sunlight; but since your shaving is less and less complete as we get farther
back on the left side, until it becomes positively slovenly as we get round the
angle of the jaw, it is surely very clear that that side is less illuminated
than the other. I could not imagine a man of your habits looking at himself in
an equal light and being satisfied with such a result. I only quote this as a
trivial example of observation and inference. Therein lies my metier, and it is
just possible that it may be of some service in the investigation which lies
before us. There are one or two minor points which were brought out in the
inquest, and which are worth considering."

"What are they?"

"It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after the return to
Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of constabulary informing him that he was a
prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised to hear it, and that it was no
more than his deserts. This observation of his had the natural effect of
removing any traces of doubt which might have remained in the minds of the
coroner's jury."

"It was a confession," I ejaculated.

"No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence."

"Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at least a most
suspicious remark."

"On the contrary," said Holmes, "it is the brightest rift which I can at
present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be, he could not be such
an absolute imbecile as not to see that the circumstances were very black
against him. Had he appeared surprised at his own arrest, or feigned
indignation at it, I should have looked upon it as highly suspicious, because
such surprise or anger would not be natural under the circumstances, and yet
might appear to be the best policy to a scheming man. His frank acceptance of
the situation marks him as either an innocent man, or else as a man of
considerable self-restraint and firmness. As to his remark about his deserts,
it was also not unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the dead body of
his father, and that there is no doubt that he had that very day so far
forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words with him, and even, according to
the little girl whose evidence is so important, to raise his hand as if to
strike him. The self-reproach and contrition which are displayed in his remark
appear to me to be the signs of a healthy mind rather than of a guilty on."

I shook my head. "Many men have been hanged on far slighter evidence," I
remarked.

"So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged."

"What is the young man's own account of the matter?"

"It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters, though there are
one or two points in it which are suggestive. You will find it here, and may
read it for yourself."

He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire paper, and
having turned down the sheet he pointed out the paragraph in which the
unfortunate young man had given his own statement of what had occurred. I
settled myself down in the corner of the carriage and read it very carefully.
It ran in this way:

Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called and gave
evidence as follows: "I had been away from home for three days at Bristol, and
had only just returned upon the morning of last Monday, the 3d. My father was
absent from home at the time of my arrival, and I was informed by the maid that
he had driven over to Ross with John Cobb, the groom. Shortly after my return I
heard the wheels of his trap in the yard, and, looking out of my window, I saw
him get out and walk rapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware in which
direction he was going. I then took my gun and strolled out in the direction of
the Boscombe Pool, with the intention of visiting the rabbit warren which is
upon the other side. On my way I saw William Crowder, the game-keeper, as he
had stated in his evidence; but he is mistaken in thinking that I was following
my father. I had no idea that he was in front of me. When about a hundred yards
from the pool I heard a cry of 'Cooee!' which was a usual signal between my
father and myself. I then hurried forward, and found him standing by the pool.
He appeared to be much surprised at seeing me and asked me rather roughly what
I was doing there. A conversation ensued which led to high words and almost to
blows, for my father was a man of a very violent temper. Seeing that his
passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him and returned towards Hatherley
Farm. I had not gone more than 150 yards, however, when I heard a hideous
outcry behind me, which caused me to run back again. I found my father expiring
upon the ground, with his head terribly injured. I dropped my gun and held him
in my arms, but he almost instantly expired. I knelt beside him for some
minutes, and then made my way to Mr. Turner's lodge-keeper, his house being the
nearest, to ask for assistance. I saw no one near my father when I returned,
and I have no idea how he came by his injuries. He was not a popular man, being
somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners, but he had, as far as I know, no
active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter."

"The Coroner: 'Did your father make any statement to you before he died?'

"Witness: 'He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some allusion to a
rat.'

"The Coroner: 'What did you understand by that?'

"Witness: 'It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was delirious.'

"The Coroner: 'What was the point upon which you and your father had this final
quarrel?'

"Witness: 'I should prefer not to answer.'

"The Coroner: 'I am afraid that I must press it.'

"Witness: 'It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can assure you that it
has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which followed.'

"The Coroner: 'That is for the court to decide. I need not point out to you
that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case considerably in any future
proceedings which may arise'

"Witness: 'I must still refuse.'

"The Coroner: 'I understand that the cry of "Cooee" was a common signal between
you and your father?'

"Witness: 'It was.'

"The Coroner: 'How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw you, and
before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol?'

"Witness (with considerable confusion): 'I do not know.'

"A Juryman: 'Did you see nothing which aroused your suspiclons when you
returned on hearing the cry and found your father fatally injured?'

"Witness: 'Nothing definite.'

"The Coroner: 'What do you mean?'

"Witness: 'I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into the open, that I
could think of nothing except of my father. Yet I have a vague impression that
as I ran forward something lay upon the ground to the left of me. It seemed to
me to be something gray in color, a coat of some sort, or a plaid perhaps. When
I rose from my father I looked round for it, but it was gone.'

"'Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help?'

"'Yes, it was gone.'

"'You cannot say what it was?'

"'No, I had a feeling something was there.'

"'How far from the body?'

"'A dozen yards or so.'

"'And how far from the edge of the wood?'

"'About the same.'

"'Then if it was removed it was while you were within a dozen yards of it?'

"'Yes, but with my back towards it.'

"This concluded the examination of the witness."

"I see," said I as I glanced down the column, "that the coroner in his
concluding remarks was rather severe upon young McCarthy. He calls attention,
and with reason, to the discrepancy about his father having signalled to him
before seeing him also to his refusal to give details of his conversation with
his father, and his singular account of his father's dying words. They are all,
as he remarks, very much against the son."

Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon the cushioned
seat. "Both you and the coroner have been at some pains," said he, "to single
out the very strongest points in the young man's favor. Don't you see that you
alternately give him credit for having too much imaginition and too little? Too
little, if he could not invent a cause of quarrel which would give him the
sympathy of the jury; too much, if he evolved from his own inner consciousness
anything so outre as a dying reference to a rat, and the incident of the
vanishing cloth. No, sir, I shall approach this case from the point of view
that what this young man says is true, and we shall see whither that hypothesis
will lead us. And now here is my pocket Petrarch, and not another word shall I
say of this case until we are on the scene of action. We lunch at Swindon, and
I see that we shall be there in twenty minutes."

It was nearly four o'clock when we at last, after passing through the beautiful
Stroud Valley, and over the broad gleaming Severn, found ourselves at the
pretty little country-town of Ross. A lean, ferret-like man, furtive and
sly-looking, was waiting for us upon the platform. In spite of the light brown
dustcoat and leather-leggings which he wore in deference to his rustic
surroundings, I had no difficulty in recognizing Lestrade, of Scotland Yard.
With him we drove to the Hereford Arms where a room had already been engaged
for us.

"I have ordered a carriage," said Lestrade as we sat over a cup of tea. "I knew
your energetic nature, and that you would not be happy until you had been on
the scene of the crime."

"It was very nice and complimentary of you," Holmes answered. "It is entirely a
question of barometric pressure."

Lestrade looked startled. "I do not quite follow," he said.

"How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud in the sky. I
have a caseful of cigarettes here which need smoking, and the sofa is very much
superior to the usual country hotel abomination. I do not think that it is
probable that I shall use the carriage to-night."

Lestrade laughed indulgently. "You have, no doubt, already formed your
conclusions from the newspapers," he said. "The case is as plain as a
pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer it becomes. Still, of
course, one can't refuse a lady, and such a very positive one, too. She has
heard of you, and would have your opinion, though I repeatedly told her that
there was nothing which you could do which I had not already done. Why, bless
my soul! here is her carriage at the door."

He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the most lovely
young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet eyes shining, her lips
parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all thought of her natural reserve lost
in her overpowering excitement and concern.

"Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" she cried, glancing from one to the other of us, and
finally, with a woman's quick intuition, fastening upon my companion, "I am so
glad that you have come. I have driven down to tell you so. I know that James
didn't do it. I know it, and I want you to start upon your work knowing it,
too. Never let yourself doubt upon that point. We have known each other since
we were little children, and I know his faults as no one else does; but he is
too tenderhearted to hurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who really
knows him."

"I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner," said Sherlock Holmes. "You may rely
upon my doing all that I can."

"But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion? Do you not
see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that he is innocent?"

"I think that it is very probable."

"There, now!" she cried, throwing back her head and looking defiantly at
Lestrade. "You hear! He gives me hopes."

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am afraid that my colleague has been a
little quick in forming his conclusions," he said.

"But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never did it. And about
his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the reason why he would not speak
about it to the coroner was because I was concerned in it."

"In what way?" asked Holmes.

"It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had many
disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there should be a
marriage between us. James and I have always loved each other as brother and
sister; but of course he is young and has seen very little of life yet,
and--and--well, he naturally did not wish to do anything like that yet. So
there were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one of them."

"And your father?" asked Holmes. "Was he in favor of such a union?"

"No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in favor of it." A
quick blush passed over her fresh young face as Holmes shot one of his keen,
questioning glances at her.

"Thank you for this information," said he. "May I see your father if I call
to-morrow?"

"I am afraid the doctor won't allow it."

"The doctor?"

"Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for years back, but
this has broken him down completely. He has taken to his bed, and Dr. Willows
says that he is a wreck and that his nlervous system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy
was the only man alive who had known dad in the old days in Victoria."

"Ha! ln Victoria! That is important."

"Yes, at the mines."

"Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner made his
money."

"Yes, certainly."

"Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to me."

"You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow. No doubt you will go to the
prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell him that I know him to
be innocent."

"I will, Miss Turner."

"I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so if I leave him.
Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking." She hurried from the room as
impulsively as she had entered, and we heard the wheels of her carriage rattle
off down the street.

"I am ashamed of you, Holmes," said Lestrade with dignity after a few minutes'
silence. "Why should you raise up hopes which you are bound to disappoint? I am
not over-tender of heart, but I call it cruel."

"I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy," said Holmes. "Have you
an order to see him in prison?"

"Yes, but only for you and me."

"Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have still time to
take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?"

"Ample."

"Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very slow, but I shall
only be away a couple of hours."

I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through the streets
of the little town, finally returning to the hotel, where I lay upon the sofa
and tried to interest myself in a yellow-backed novel. The puny plot of the
story was so thin, however, when compared to the deep mystery through which we
were groping, and I found my attention wander so continually from the action to
the fact, that I at last flung it across the room and gave myself up entirely
to a consideration of the events of the day. Supposing that this unhappy young
man's story were absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely
unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between the time when
he parted from his father, and the moment when drawn back by his screams, he
rushed into the glade? It was something terrible and deadly. What could it be?
Might not the nature of the injuries reveal something to my medical instincts?
I rang the bell and called for the weekly county paper, which contained a
verbatim account of the inquest. In the surgeon's deposition it was stated that
the posterior third of the left parietal bone and the left half of the
occipital bone hail been shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. I
marked the spot upon my own head. Clearly such a blow must have been struck
from behind. That was to some extent in favor of the accused, as when seen
quarrelling he was face to face with his father. Still, it did not go for very
much, for the older man might have turned his back before the blow fell. Still,
it might be worth while to call Holmes's attention to it. Then there was the
peculiar dying reference to a rat. What could that mean? It could not be
delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become delirious.
No, it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how he met his fate. But
what could it indicate? I cudgelled my brains to find some possible
explanation. And then the incident of the gray cloth seen by young McCarthy. If
that were true the murderer must have dropped some part of his dress,
presumably his overcoat, in his flight, and must have had the hardihood to
return and to carry it away at the instant when the son was kneeling with his
back turned not a dozen paces off. What a tissue of mysteries and
improbabilities the whole thing was! I did not wonder at Lestrade's opinion,
and yet I had so much faith in Sherlock Holmes's insight that I could not lose
hope as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his conviction of young
McCarthy's innocence.

It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, for Lestrade
was staying in lodgings in the town.

"The glass still keeps very high," he remarked as he sat down. "It is of
importance that it should not rain before we are able to go over the ground. On
the other hand, a man should be at his very best and keenest for such nice work
as that, and I did not wish to do it when fagged by a long journey. I have seen
young McCarthy."

"And what did you learn from him?"

"Nothing."

"Could he throw no light?"

"None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who had done it
and was screening him or her, but I am convinced now that he is as puzzled as
everyone else. He is not a very quick-witted youth, though comely to look at
and, I should think, sound at heart."

"I cannot admire his taste," I remarked, "if it is indeed a fact that he was
averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as this Miss Turner."

"Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly, insanely, in
love with her, but some two years ago, when he was only a lad, and before he
really knew her, for she had been away five years at a boarding-school, what
does the idiot do but get into the clutches of a barmaid in Bristol and marry
her at a registry office? No one knows a word of the matter, but you can
imagine how maddening it must be to him to be upbraided for not doing what he
would give his very eyes to do, but what he knows to be absolutely impossible.
It was sheer frenzy of this sort which made him throw his hands up into the air
when his father, at their last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss
Turner. On the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself, and his
father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would have thrown him over
utterly had he known the truth. It was with his barmaid wife that he had spent
the last three days in Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. Mark
that point. It is of importance. Good has come out of evil, however, for the
barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in serious trouble and likely to be
hanged, has thrown him over utterly and has written to him to say that she has
a husband already in the Bermuda Dockyard, so that there is really no tie
between them. I think that that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all
that he has suffered."

"But if he is innocent, who has done it?"

"Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two points. One is
that the murdered man had an appointment with someone at the pool, and that the
someone could not have been his son, for his son was away, and he did not know
when he would return. The second is that the murdered man was heard to cry
'Cooee!' before he knew that his son had returned. Those are the crucial points
upon which the case depends. And now let us talk about George Meredith, if you
please, and we shall leave all minor matters until to-morrow."

There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke bright and
cloudless. At nine o'clock Lestrade called for us with the carriage, and we set
off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe Pool.

"There is serious news this morning," Lestrade observed. "It is said that Mr.
Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is despaired of."

"An elderly man, I presume?" saild Holmes.

"About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life abroad, and
he has been in failing health for some time. This business has had a very bad
effect upon him. He was an old friend of McCarthy's, and, I may add, a great
benefactor to him, for I have learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm rent
free."

"Indeed! That is interesting," said Holmes.

"Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody about here
speaks of his kindness to him."

"Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this McCarthy, who
appears to have had little of his own, and to have been under such obligations
to Turner, should still talk of marrying his son to Turner's daughter, who is,
presumably, heiress to the estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner, as
if it were merely a case of a proposal and all else would follow? It is the
more strange, since we know that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The
daughter told us as much. Do you not deduce something from that?"

"We have got to the deductions and the inferences," said Lestrade, winking at
me. "I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without flying away after
theories and fancies."

"You are right," said Holmes demurely; "you do find it very hard to tackle the
facts."

"Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult to get
hold of," replied Lesbiade with some warmth.

"And that is--"

"That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that all theories
to the contrary are the merest moonshine."

"Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog," said Holmes, laughing. "But I
am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm upon the left."

"Yes, that is it." It was a widespread, comfortable-looking building,
two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon the gray
walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys, however, gave it a stricken
look, as though the weight of this horror still lay heavy upon it. We called at
the door, when the maid, at Holmes's request, showed us the boots which her
master wore at the time of his death, and also a pair of the son's, though not
the pair which he had then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven
or eight different points, Holmes desired to be led to the court-yard, from
which we all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.

Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as this. Men
who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker Street would have
failed to recognize him. His face flushed and darkened. His brows were drawn
into two hard black lines, while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a
steely glitter. His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips
compressed, and the veins stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His
nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind
was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or
remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a quick,
impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way along the track
which ran through the meadows, and so by way of the woods to the Boscombe Pool.
It was damp, marshy ground, as is all that district, and there were marks of
many feet, both upon the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on
either side. Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he
made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked behind him,
the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while I watched my friend with the
interest which sprang from the conviction that every one of his actions was
directed towards a definite end.

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

"What did you go into the pool for?" he asked.

"I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or other
trace. But how on earth--"

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

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

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

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

"I see no marks."

"There are none."

"How do you know, then?"

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

"And the murderer?"

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

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

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

"And leave your case unfinished?"

"No, finished."

"But the mystery?"

"It is solved."

"Who was the criminal, then?"

"The gentleman I describe."

"But who is he?"

"Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a populous
neighborhood."

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

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

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

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

"Pray do so."

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

"What of this 'Cooee!' then?"

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

"What of the rat, then?"

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

"ARAT," I read.

"And now?" He raised his hand.

"BALLARAT."

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

"It is wonderful!" I exclaimed.

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

"Certainly."

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

"Quite so."

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

"But how did you gain them?"

"You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles."

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

"Yes, they were peculiar boots."

"But his lameness?"

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

"But his left-handedness."

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

"And the cigar-holder?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall."

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

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

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

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

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

"It may not come to that," said Holmes.

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

"It was in the early '60's at the diggings. I was a young chap then,
hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything; I got among bad
companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took to the bush, and in
a word became what you would call over here a highway robber. There were six of
us, and we had a wild, free life of it, sticking up a station from time to
time, or stopping the wagons on the road to the diggings. Black Jack of
Ballarat was the name I went under, and our party is still remembered in the
colony as the Ballarat Gang.

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

"I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in Regent Street with
hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his foot.

"'Here we are, Jack,' says he, touching me on the arm; 'we'll be as good as a
family to you. There's two of us, me and my son, and you can have the keeping
of us. If you don't--it's a fine, law-abiding country is England, and there's
always a policeman within hail.'

"Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking them off, and
there they have lived rent free on my best land ever since. There was no rest
for me, no peace, no forgetfulness; turn where I would, there was his cunning,
grinning face at my elbow. It grew worse as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I
was more afraid of her knowing my past than of the police. Whatever he wanted
he must have, and whatever it was I gave him without question, land, money,
houses, until at last he asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for
Alice.

"His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was known to be
in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that his lad should step into
the whole property. But there I was firm. I would not have his cursed stock
mixed with mine; not that I had any dislike to the lad, but his blood was in
him, and that was enough. I stood firm. McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do
his worst. We were to meet at the pool midway between our houses to talk it
over.

"When we went down there I found him talking with his son, so smoked a cigar
and waited behind a tree until he should be alone. But as I listened to his
talk all that was black and bitter in me seemed to come uppermost. He was
urging his son to marry my daughter with as little regard for what she might
think as if she were a slut from off the streets. It drove me mad to think that
I and all that I held most dear should be in the power of such a man as this.
Could I not snap the bond? I was already a dying and a desperate man. Though
clear of mind and fairly strong of limb, I knew that my own fate was sealed.
But my memory and my girl! Both could be saved if I could but silence that foul
tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I have sinned, I
have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that my girl should be
entangled in the same meshes which held me was more than I could suffer. I
struck him down with no more compunction than if he had been some foul and
venomous beast. His cry brought back his son; but I had gained the cover of the
wood, though I was forced to go back to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in
my flight. That is the true story, gentlemen, of all that occurred."

"Well, it is not for me to judge you," said Holmes as the old man signed the
statement which had been drawn out. "I pray that we may never be exposed to
such a temptation."

"I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?"

"In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you will soon
have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the Assizes. I will keep
your confession, and if McCarthy is condemned I shall be forced to use it. If
not, it shall never be seen by mortal eye; and your secret, whether you be
alive or dead, shall be safe with us."

"Farewell, then," said the old man solemnly. "Your own deathbeds, when they
come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace which you have given to
mine." Tottering and shaking in all his giant frame, he stumbled slowly from
the room.

"God help us!" said Holmes after a long silence. "Why does fate play such
tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as this that I do
not think of Baxter's words, and say, 'There, but for the grace of God, goes
Sherlock Holmes.'"

James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of a number of
objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and submitted to the defending
counsel. Old Turner lived for seven months after our interview, but he is now
dead; and there is every prospect that the son and daughter may come to live
happily together in ignorance of the black cloud which rests upon their past.