THE COMPLETE SHERLOCK HOLMES THE CASE BOOK OF SHERLOCK HOLMES THE ADVENTURE OF SHOSCOMBE OLD PLACE

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$Title{THE CASE BOOK OF SHERLOCK HOLMES; The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place}

$Author{Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan}

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$Volume{}

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                         THE COMPLETE SHERLOCK HOLMES

                       THE CASE BOOK OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

                     THE ADVENTURE OF SHOSCOMBE OLD PLACE

SHERLOCK HOLMES had been bending for a long time over a low-power microscope.

Now he straightened himself up and looked round at me in triumph.

     "It is glue, Watson," said he.  "Unquestionably it is glue.  Have a look

at these scattered objects in the field!"

     I stooped to the eyepiece and focussed for my vision.

     "Those hairs are threads from a tweed coat.  The irregular gray masses

are dust.  There are epithelial scales on the left.  Those brown blobs in the

centre are undoubtedly glue."

     "Well," I said, laughing, "I am prepared to take your word for it.  Does

anything depend upon it?"

     "It is a very fine demonstration," he answered.  "In the St. Pancras case

you may remember that a cap was found beside the dead policeman.  The accused

man denies that it is his.  But he is a picture-frame maker who habitually

handles glue."

     "Is it one of your cases?"

     "No; my friend, Merivale, of the Yard, asked me to look into the case.

Since I ran down that coiner by the zinc and copper filings in the seam of his

cuff they have begun to realize the importance of the microscope."  He looked

impatiently at his watch.  "I had a new client calling, but he is overdue.  By

the way, Watson, you know something of racing?"

     "I ought to.  I pay for it with about half my wound pension."

     "Then I'll make you my 'Handy Guide to the Turf.'  What about Sir Robert

Norberton?  Does the name recall anything?"

     "Well, I should say so.  He lives at Shoscombe Old Place, and I know it

well, for my summer quarters were down there once.  Norberton nearly came

within your province once."

     "How was that?"

     "It was when he horsewhipped Sam Brewer, the well-known Curzon Street

money-lender, on Newmarket Heath.  He nearly killed the man."

     "Ah, he sounds interesting!  Does he often indulge in that way?"

     "Well, he has the name of being a dangerous man.  He is about the most

daredevil rider in England--second in the Grand National a few years back.  He

is one of those men who have overshot their true generation.  He should have

been a buck in the days of the Regency--a boxer, an athlete, a plunger on the

turf, a lover of fair ladies, and, by all account, so far down Queer Street

that he may never find his way back again."

     "Capital, Watson!  A thumb-nail sketch.  I seem to know the man.  Now,

can you give me some idea of Shoscombe Old Place?"

     "Only that it is in the centre of Shoscombe Park, and that the famous

Shoscombe stud and training quarters are to be found there."

     "And the head trainer," said Holmes, "is John Mason.  You need not look

surprised at my knowledge, Watson, for this is a letter from him which I am

unfolding.  But let us have some more about Shoscombe.  I seem to have struck

a rich vein."

     "There are the Shoscombe spaniels," said I.  "You hear of them at every

dog show.  The most exclusive breed in England.  They are the special pride of

the lady of Shoscombe Old Place."

     "Sir Robert Norberton's wife, I presume!"

     "Sir Robert has never married.  Just as well, I think, considering his

prospects.  He lives with his widowed sister, Lady Beatrice Falder."

     "You mean that she lives with him?"

     "No, no.  The place belonged to her late husband, Sir James.  Norberton

has no claim on it at all.  It is only a life interest and reverts to her

husband's brother.  Meantime, she draws the rents every year."

     "And brother Robert, I suppose, spends the said rents?"

     "That is about the size of it.  He is a devil of a fellow and must lead

her a most uneasy life.  Yet I have heard that she is devoted to him.  But

what is amiss at Shoscombe?"

     "Ah, that is just what I want to know.  And here, I expect, is the man

who can tell us."

     The door had opened and the page had shown in a tall, clean-shaven man

with the firm, austere expression which is only seen upon those who have to

control horses or boys.  Mr. John Mason had many of both under his sway, and

he looked equal to the task.  He bowed with cold self-possession and seated

himself upon the chair to which Holmes had waved him.

     "You had my note, Mr. Holmes?"

     "Yes, but it explained nothing."

     "It was too delicate a thing for me to put the details on paper.  And too

complicated.  It was only face to face I could do it."

     "Well, we are at your disposal."

     "First of all, Mr. Holmes, I think that my employer, Sir Robert, has gone

mad."

     Holmes raised his eyebrows.  "This is Baker Street, not Harley Street,"

said he.  "But why do you say so?"

     "Well, sir, when a man does one queer thing, or two queer things, there

may be a meaning to it, but when everything he does is queer, then you begin

to wonder.  I believe Shoscombe Prince and the Derby have turned his brain."

     "That is a colt you are running?"

     "The best in England, Mr. Holmes.  I should know, if anyone does.  Now,

I'll be plain with you, for I know you are gentlemen of honour and that it

won't go beyond the room.  Sir Robert has got to win this Derby.  He's up to

the neck, and it's his last chance.  Everything he could raise or borrow is on

the horse --and at fine odds, too!  You can get forties now, but it was nearer

the hundred when he began to back him."

     "But how is that if the horse is so good?"

     "The public don't know how good he is.  Sir Robert has been too clever

for the touts.  He has the Prince's half-brother out for spins.  You can't

tell 'em apart.  But there are two lengths in a furlong between them when it

comes to a gallop.  He thinks of nothing but the horse and the race.  His

whole life is on it.  He's holding off the Jews till then.  If the Prince

fails him he is done."

     "It seems a rather desperate gamble, but where does the madness come in?"

     "Well, first of all, you have only to look at him.  I don't believe he

sleeps at night.  He is down at the stables at all hours.  His eyes are wild.

It has all been too much for his nerves.  Then there is his conduct to Lady

Beatrice!"

     "Ah!  What is that?"

     "They have always been the best of friends.  They had the same tastes,

the two of them, and she loved the horses as much as he did.  Every day at the

same hour she would drive down to see them--and, above all, she loved the

Prince.  He would prick up his ears when he heard the wheels on the gravel,

and he would trot out each morning to the carriage to get his lump of sugar.

But that's all over now."

     "Why?"

     "Well, she seems to have lost all interest in the horses.  For a week now

she has driven past the stables with never so much as 'Good-morning'!"

     "You think there has been a quarrel?"

     "And a bitter, savage, spiteful quarrel at that.  Why else would he give

away her pet spaniel that she loved as if he were her child?  He gave it a few

days ago to old Barnes, what keeps the Green Dragon, three miles off, at

Crendall."

     "That certainly did seem strange."

     "Of course, with her weak heart and dropsy one couldn't expect that she

could get about with him, but he spent two hours every evening in her room.

He might well do what he could, for she has been a rare good friend to him.

But that's all over, too.  He never goes near her.  And she takes it to heart.

She is brooding and sulky and drinking, Mr. Holmes--drinking like a fish."

     "Did she drink before this estrangement?"

     "Well, she took her glass, but now it is often a whole bottle of an

evening.  So Stephens, the butler, told me.  It's all changed, Mr. Holmes, and

there is something damned rotten about it.  But then, again, what is master

doing down at the old church crypt at night?  And who is the man that meets

him there?"

     Holmes rubbed his hands.

     "Go on, Mr. Mason.  You get more and more interesting."

     "It was the butler who saw him go.  Twelve o'clock at night and raining

hard.  So next night I was up at the house and, sure enough, master was off

again.  Stephens and I went after him, but it was jumpy work, for it would

have been a bad job if he had seen us.  He's a terrible man with his fists if

he gets started, and no respecter of persons.  So we were shy of getting too

near, but we marked him down all right.  It was the haunted crypt that he was

making for, and there was a man waiting for him there."

     "What is this haunted crypt?"

     "Well, sir, there is an old ruined chapel in the park.  It is so old that

nobody could fix its date.  And under it there's a crypt which has a bad name

among us.  It's a dark, damp, lonely place by day, but there are few in that

county that would have the nerve to go near it at night.  But master's not

afraid.  He never feared anything in his life.  But what is he doing there in

the night-time?"

     "Wait a bit!" said Holmes.  "You say there is another man there.  It must

be one of your own stablemen, or someone from the house!  Surely you have only

to spot who it is and question him?"

     "It's no one I know."

     "How can you say that?"

     "Because I have seen him, Mr. Holmes.  It was on that second night.  Sir

Robert turned and passed us--me and Stephens, quaking in the bushes like two

bunny-rabbits, for there was a bit of moon that night.  But we could hear the

other moving about behind.  We were not afraid of him.  So we up when Sir

Robert was gone and pretended we were just having a walk like in the

moonlight, and so we came right on him as casual and innocent as you please.

'Hullo, mate! who may you be?' says I.  I guess he had not heard us coming, so

he looked over his shoulder with a face as if he had seen the devil coming out

of hell.  He let out a yell, and away he went as hard as he could lick it in

the darkness.  He could run!--I'll give him that.  In a minute he was out of

sight and hearing, and who he was, or what he was, we never found."

     "But you saw him clearly in the moonlight?"

     "Yes, I would swear to his yellow face--a mean dog, I should say.  What

could he have in common with Sir Robert?"

     Holmes sat for some time lost in thought.

     "Who keeps Lady Beatrice Falder company?" he asked at last.

     "There is her maid, Carrie Evans.  She has been with her this five

years."

     "And is, no doubt, devoted?"

     Mr. Mason shuffled uncomfortably.

     "She's devoted enough," he answered at last.  "But I won't say to whom."

     "Ah!" said Holmes.

     "I can't tell tales out of school."

     "I quite understand, Mr. Mason.  Of course, the situation is clear

enough.  From Dr. Watson's description of Sir Robert I can realize that no

woman is safe from him.  Don't you think the quarrel between brother and

sister may lie there?"

     "Well, the scandal has been pretty clear for a long time."

     "But she may not have seen it before.  Let us suppose that she has

suddenly found it out.  She wants to get rid of the woman.  Her brother will

not permit it.  The invalid, with her weak heart and inability to get about,

has no means of enforcing her will.  The hated maid is still tied to her.  The

lady refuses to speak, sulks, takes to drink.  Sir Robert in his anger takes

her pet spaniel away from her.  Does not all this hang together?"

     "Well, it might do--so far as it goes."

     "Exactly!  As far as it goes.  How would all that bear upon the visits by

night to the old crypt?  We can't fit that into our plot."

     "No, sir, and there is something more that I can't fit in.  Why should

Sir Robert want to dig up a dead body?"

     Holmes sat up abruptly.

     "We only found it out yesterday--after I had written to you.  Yesterday

Sir Robert had gone to London, so Stephens and I went down to the crypt.  It

was all in order, sir, except that in one corner was a bit of a human body."

     "You informed the police, I suppose?"

     Our visitor smiled grimly.

     "Well, sir, I think it would hardly interest them.  It was just the head

and a few bones of a mummy.  It may have been a thousand years old.  But it

wasn't there before.  That I'll swear, and so will Stephens.  It had been

stowed away in a corner and covered over with a board, but that corner had

always been empty before."

     "What did you do with it?"

     "Well, we just left it there."

     "That was wise.  You say Sir Robert was away yesterday.  Has he

returned?"

     "We expect him back to-day."

     "When did Sir Robert give away his sister's dog?"

     "It was just a week ago to-day.  The creature was howling outside the old

well-house, and Sir Robert was in one of his tantrums that morning.  He caught

it up, and I thought he would have killed it.  Then he gave it to Sandy Bain,

the jockey, and told him to take the dog to old Barnes at the Green Dragon,

for he never wished to see it again."

     Holmes sat for some time in silent thought.  He had lit the oldest and

foulest of his pipes.

     "I am not clear yet what you want me to do in this matter, Mr. Mason," he

said at last.  "Can't you make it more definite?"

     "Perhaps this will make it more definite, Mr. Holmes," said our visitor.

     He took a paper from his pocket, and, unwrapping it carefully, he exposed

a charred fragment of bone.

     Holmes examined it with interest.

     "Where did you get it?"

     "There is a central heating furnace in the cellar under Lady Beatrice's

room.  It's been off for some time, but Sir Robert complained of cold and had

it on again.  Harvey runs it--he's one of my lads.  This very morning he came

to me with this which he found raking out the cinders.  He didn't like the

look of it."

     "Nor do I," said Holmes.  "What do you make of it, Watson?"

     It was burned to a black cinder, but there could be no question as to its

anatomical significance.

     "It's the upper condyle of a human femur," said I.

     "Exactly!"  Holmes had become very serious.  "When does this lad tend to

the furnace?"

     "He makes it up every evening and then leaves it."

     "Then anyone could visit it during the night?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "Can you enter it from outside?"

     "There is one door from outside.  There is another which leads up by a

stair to the passage in which Lady Beatrice's room is situated."

     "These are deep waters, Mr. Mason; deep and rather dirty.  You say that

Sir Robert was not at home last night?"

     "No, sir."

     "Then, whoever was burning bones, it was not he."

     "That's true, sir."

     "What is the name of that inn you spoke of?"

     "The Green Dragon."

     "Is there good fishing in that part of Berkshire?"  The honest trainer

showed very clearly upon his face that he was convinced that yet another

lunatic had come into his harassed life.

     "Well, sir, I've heard there are trout in the mill-stream and pike in the

Hall lake."

     "That's good enough.  Watson and I are famous fishermen--are we not,

Watson?  You may address us in future at the Green Dragon.  We should reach it

to-night.  I need not say that we don't want to see you, Mr. Mason, but a note

will reach us, and no doubt I could find you if I want you.  When we have gone

a little farther into the matter I will let you have a considered opinion."

     Thus it was that on a bright May evening Holmes and I found ourselves

alone in a first-class carriage and bound for the little "halt-on-demand"

station of Shoscombe.  The rack above us was covered with a formidable litter

of rods, reels, and baskets.  On reaching our destination a short drive took

us to an old-fashioned tavern, where a sporting host, Josiah Barnes, entered

eagerly into our plans for the extirpation of the fish of the neighbourhood.

     "What about the Hall lake and the chance of a pike?" said Holmes.

     The face of the innkeeper clouded.

     "That wouldn't do, sir.  You might chance to find yourself in the lake

before you were through."

     "How's that, then?"

     "It's Sir Robert, sir.  He's terrible jealous of touts.  If you two

strangers were as near his training quarters as that he'd be after you as sure

as fate.  He ain't taking no chances, Sir Robert ain't."

     "I've heard he has a horse entered for the Derby."

     "Yes, and a good colt, too.  He carries all our money for the race, and

all Sir Robert's into the bargain.  By the way"--he looked at us with

thoughtful eyes--"I suppose you ain't on the turf yourselves?"

     "No, indeed.  Just two weary Londoners who badly need some good Berkshire

air."

     "Well, you are in the right place for that.  There is a deal of it lying

about.  But mind what I have told you about Sir Robert.  He's the sort that

strikes first and speaks afterwards.  Keep clear of the park."

     "Surely, Mr. Barnes!  We certainly shall.  By the way, that was a most

beautiful spaniel that was whining in the hall."

     "I should say it was.  That was the real Shoscombe breed.  There ain't a

better in England."

     "I am a dog-fancier myself," said Holmes.  "Now, if it is a fair

question, what would a prize dog like that cost?"

     "More than I could pay, sir.  It was Sir Robert himself who gave me this

one.  That's why I have to keep it on a lead.  It would be off to the Hall in

a jiffy if I gave it its head."

     "We are getting some cards in our hand, Watson," said Holmes when the

landlord had left us.  "It's not an easy one to play, but we may see our way

in a day or two.  By the way, Sir Robert is still in London, I hear.  We

might, perhaps, enter the sacred domain to-night without fear of bodily

assault.  There are one or two points on which I should like reassurance."

     "Have you any theory, Holmes?"

     "Only this, Watson, that something happened a week or so ago which has

cut deep into the life of the Shoscombe household.  What is that something?

We can only guess at it from its effects.  They seem to be of a curiously

mixed character.  But that should surely help us.  It is only the colourless,

uneventful case which is hopeless.

     "Let us consider our data.  The brother no longer visits the beloved

invalid sister.  He gives away her favourite dog.  Her dog, Watson!  Does that

suggest nothing to you?"

     "Nothing but the brother's spite."

     "Well, it might be so.  Or--well, there is an alternative.  Now to

continue our review of the situation from the time that the quarrel, if there

is a quarrel, began.  The lady keeps her room, alters her habits, is not seen

save when she drives out with her maid, refuses to stop at the stables to

greet her favourite horse, and apparently takes to drink.  That covers the

case, does it not?"

     "Save for the business in the crypt."

     "That is another line of thought.  There are two, and I beg you will not

tangle them.  Line A, which concerns Lady Beatrice, has a vaguely sinister

flavour, has it not?"

     "I can make nothing of it."

     "Well, now, let us take up line B, which concerns Sir Robert.  He is mad

keen upon winning the Derby.  He is in the hands of the Jews, and may at any

moment be sold up and his racing stables seized by his creditors.  He is a

daring and desperate man.  He derives his income from his sister.  His

sister's maid is his willing tool.  So far we seem to be on fairly safe

ground, do we not?"

     "But the crypt?"

     "Ah, yes, the crypt!  Let us suppose, Watson--it is merely a scandalous

supposition, a hypothesis put forward for argument's sake--that Sir Robert has

done away with his sister."

     "My dear Holmes, it is out of the question."

     "Very possibly, Watson.  Sir Robert is a man of an honourable stock.  But

you do occasionally find a carrion crow among the eagles.  Let us for a moment

argue upon this supposition.  He could not fly the country until he had

realized his fortune, and that fortune could only be realized by bringing off

this coup with Shoscombe Prince.  Therefore, he has still to stand his ground.

To do this he would have to dispose of the body of his victim, and he would

also have to find a substitute who would impersonate her.  With the maid as

his confidante that would not be impossible.  The woman's body might be

conveyed to the crypt, which is a place so seldom visited, and it might be

secretly destroyed at night in the furnace, leaving behind it such evidence as

we have already seen.  What say you to that, Watson?"

     "Well, it is all possible if you grant the original monstrous

supposition."

     "I think that there is a small experiment which we may try to-morrow,

Watson, in order to throw some light on the matter.  Meanwhile, if we mean to

keep up our characters, I suggest that we have our host in for a glass of his

own wine and hold some high converse upon eels and dace, which seems to be the

straight road to his affections.  We may chance to come upon some useful local

gossip in the process."

     In the morning Holmes discovered that we had come without our spoon-bait

for jack, which absolved us from fishing for the day.  About eleven o'clock we

started for a walk, and he obtained leave to take the black spaniel with us.

     "This is the place," said he as we came to two high park gates with

heraldic griffins towering above them.  "About midday, Mr. Barnes informs me,

the old lady takes a drive, and the carriage must slow down while the gates

are opened.  When it comes through, and before it gathers speed, I want you,

Watson, to stop the coachman with some question.  Never mind me.  I shall

stand behind this holly-bush and see what I can see."

     It was not a long vigil.  Within a quarter of an hour we saw the big open

yellow barouche coming down the long avenue, with two splendid, high-stepping

gray carriage horses in the shafts.  Holmes crouched behind his bush with the

dog.  I stood unconcernedly swinging a cane in the roadway.  A keeper ran out

and the gates swung open.

     The carriage had slowed to a walk, and I was able to get a good look at

the occupants.  A highly coloured young woman with flaxen hair and impudent

eyes sat on the left.  At her right was an elderly person with rounded back

and a huddle of shawls about her face and shoulders which proclaimed the

invalid.  When the horses reached the highroad I held up my hand with an

authoritative gesture, and as the coachman pulled up I inquired if Sir Robert

was at Shoscombe Old Place.

     At the same moment Holmes stepped out and released the spaniel.  With a

joyous cry it dashed forward to the carriage and sprang upon the step.  Then

in a moment its eager greeting changed to furious rage, and it snapped at the

black skirt above it.

     "Drive on!  Drive on!" shrieked a harsh voice.  The coachman lashed the

horses, and we were left standing in the roadway.

     "Well, Watson, that's done it," said Holmes as he fastened the lead to

the neck of the excited spaniel.  "He thought it was his mistress, and he

found it was a stranger.  Dogs don't make mistakes."

     "But it was the voice of a man!" I cried.

     "Exactly!  We have added one card to our hand, Watson, but it needs

careful playing, all the same."

     My companion seemed to have no further plans for the day, and we did

actually use our fishing tackle in the mill-stream, with the result that we

had a dish of trout for our supper.  It was only after that meal that Holmes

showed signs of renewed activity.  Once more we found ourselves upon the same

road as in the morning, which led us to the park gates.  A tall, dark figure

was awaiting us there, who proved to be our London acquaintance, Mr. John

Mason, the trainer.

     "Good-evening, gentlemen," said he.  "I got your note, Mr. Holmes.  Sir

Robert has not returned yet, but I hear that he is expected to-night."

     "How far is this crypt from the house?" asked Holmes.

     "A good quarter of a mile."

     "Then I think we can disregard him altogether."

     "I can't afford to do that, Mr. Holmes.  The moment he arrives he will

want to see me to get the last news of Shoscombe Prince."

     "I see!  In that case we must work without you, Mr. Mason.  You can show

us the crypt and then leave us."

     It was pitch-dark and without a moon, but Mason led us over the

grass-lands until a dark mass loomed up in front of us which proved to be the

ancient chapel.  We entered the broken gap which was once the porch, and our

guide, stumbling among heaps of loose masonry, picked his way to the corner of

the building, where a steep stair led down into the crypt.  Striking a match,

he illuminated the melancholy place--dismal and evil-smelling, with ancient

crumbling walls of rough-hewn stone, and piles of coffins, some of lead and

some of stone, extending upon one side right up to the arched and groined roof

which lost itself in the shadows above our heads.  Holmes had lit his lantern,

which shot a tiny tunnel of vivid yellow light upon the mournful scene.  Its

rays were reflected back from the coffin-plates, many of them adorned with the

griffin and coronet of this old family which carried its honours even to the

gate of Death.

     "You spoke of some bones, Mr. Mason.  Could you show them before you go?"

     "They are here in this corner."  The trainer strode across and then stood

in silent surprise as our light was turned upon the place.  "They are gone,"

said he.

     "So I expected," said Holmes, chuckling.  "I fancy the ashes of them

might even now be found in that oven which had already consumed a part."

     "But why in the world would anyone want to burn the bones of a man who

has been dead a thousand years?" asked John Mason.

     "That is what we are here to find out," said Holmes.  "It may mean a long

search, and we need not detain you.  I fancy that we shall get our solution

before morning."

     When John Mason had left us, Holmes set to work making a very careful

examination of the graves, ranging from a very ancient one, which appeared to

be Saxon, in the centre, through a long line of Norman Hugos and Odos, until

we reached the Sir William and Sir Denis Falder of the eighteenth century.  It

was an hour or more before Holmes came to a leaden coffin standing on end

before the entrance to the vault.  I heard his little cry of satisfaction and

was aware from his hurried but purposeful movements that he had reached a

goal.  With his lens he was eagerly examining the edges of the heavy lid.

Then he drew from his pocket a short jemmy, a box-opener, which he thrust into

a chink, levering back the whole front, which seemed to be secured by only a

couple of clamps.  There was a rending, tearing sound as it gave way, but it

had hardly hinged back and partly revealed the contents before we had an

unforeseen interruption.

     Someone was walking in the chapel above.  It was the firm, rapid step of

one who came with a definite purpose and knew well the ground upon which he

walked.  A light streamed down the stairs, and an instant later the man who

bore it was framed in the Gothic archway.  He was a terrible figure, huge in

stature and fierce in manner.  A large stable-lantern which he held in front

of him shone upward upon a strong, heavily moustached face and angry eyes,

which glared round him into every recess of the vault, finally fixing

themselves with a deadly stare upon my companion and myself.

     "Who the devil are you?" he thundered.  "And what are you doing upon my

property?"  Then, as Holmes returned no answer, he took a couple of steps

forward and raised a heavy stick which he carried.  "Do you hear me?" he

cried.  "Who are you?  What are you doing here?"  His cudgel quivered in the

air.

     But instead of shrinking Holmes advanced to meet him.

     "I also have a question to ask you, Sir Robert," he said in his sternest

tone.  "Who is this?  And what is it doing here?"

     He turned and tore open the coffin-lid behind him.  In the glare of the

lantern I saw a body swathed in a sheet from head to foot, with dreadful,

witch-like features, all nose and chin, projecting at one end, the dim, glazed

eyes staring from a discoloured and crumbling face.

     The baronet had staggered back with a cry and supported himself against a

stone sarcophagus.

     "How came you to know of this?" he cried.  And then, with some return of

his truculent manner:  "What business is it of yours?"

     "My name is Sherlock Holmes," said my companion.  "Possibly it is

familiar to you.  In any case, my business is that of every other good

citizen--to uphold the law.  It seems to me that you have much to answer for."

     Sir Robert glared for a moment, but Holmes's quiet voice and cool,

assured manner had their effect.

     "'Fore God, Mr. Holmes, it's all right," said he.  "Appearances are

against me, I'll admit, but I could act no otherwise."

     "I should be happy to think so, but I fear your explanations must be

before the police."

     Sir Robert shrugged his broad shoulders.

     "Well, if it must be, it must.  Come up to the house and you can judge

for yourself how the matter stands."

     A quarter of an hour later we found ourselves in what I judge, from the

lines of polished barrels behind glass covers, to be the gun-room of the old

house.  It was comfortably furnished, and here Sir Robert left us for a few

moments.  When he returned he had two companions with him; the one, the florid

young woman whom we had seen in the carriage; the other, a small rat-faced man

with a disagreeably furtive manner.  These two wore an appearance of utter

bewilderment, which showed that the baronet had not yet had time to explain to

them the turn events had taken.

     "There," said Sir Robert with a wave of his hand, "are Mr. and Mrs.

Norlett.  Mrs. Norlett, under her maiden name of Evans, has for some years

been my sister's confidential maid.  I have brought them here because I feel

that my best course is to explain the true position to you, and they are the

two people upon earth who can substantiate what I say."

     "Is this necessary, Sir Robert?  Have you thought what you are doing?"

cried the woman.

     "As to me, I entirely disclaim all responsibility," said her husband.

     Sir Robert gave him a glance of contempt.  "I will take all

responsibility," said he.  "Now, Mr. Holmes, listen to a plain statement of

the facts.

     "You have clearly gone pretty deeply into my affairs or I should not have

found you where I did.  Therefore, you know already, in all probability, that

I am running a dark horse for the Derby and that everything depends upon my

success.  If I win, all is easy.  If I lose--well, I dare not think of that!"

     "I understand the position," said Holmes.

     "I am dependent upon my sister, Lady Beatrice, for everything.  But it is

well known that her interest in the estate is for her own life only.  For

myself, I am deeply in the hands of the Jews.  I have always known that if my

sister were to die my creditors would be on to my estate like a flock of

vultures.  Everything would be seized--my stables, my horses--everything.

Well, Mr. Holmes, my sister did die just a week ago."

     "And you told no one!"

     "What could I do?  Absolute ruin faced me.  If I could stave things off

for three weeks all would be well.  Her maid's husband--this man here--is an

actor.  It came into our heads--it came into my head--that he could for that

short period personate my sister.  It was but a case of appearing daily in the

carriage, for no one need enter her room save the maid.  It was not difficult

to arrange.  My sister died of the dropsy which had long afflicted her."

     "That will be for a coroner to decide."

     "Her doctor would certify that for months her symptoms have threatened

such an end."

     "Well, what did you do?"

     "The body could not remain there.  On the first night Norlett and I

carried it out to the old well-house, which is now never used.  We were

followed, however, by her pet spaniel, which yapped continually at the door,

so I felt some safer place was needed.  I got rid of the spaniel, and we

carried the body to the crypt of the church.  There was no indignity or

irreverence, Mr. Holmes.  I do not feel that I have wronged the dead."

     "Your conduct seems to me inexcusable, Sir Robert."

     The baronet shook his head impatiently.  "It is easy to preach," said he.

"Perhaps you would have felt differently if you had been in my position.  One

cannot see all one's hopes and all one's plans shattered at the last moment

and make no effort to save them.  It seemed to me that it would be no unworthy

resting-place if we put her for the time in one of the coffins of her

husband's ancestors lying in what is still consecrated ground.  We opened such

a coffin, removed the contents, and placed her as you have seen her.  As to

the old relics which we took out, we could not leave them on the floor of the

crypt.  Norlett and I removed them, and he descended at night and burned them

in the central furnace.  There is my story, Mr. Holmes, though how you forced

my hand so that I have to tell it is more than I can say."

     Holmes sat for some time lost in thought.

     "There is one flaw in your narrative, Sir Robert," he said at last.

"Your bets on the race, and therefore your hopes for the future, would hold

good even if your creditors seized your estate."

     "The horse would be part of the estate.  What do they care for my bets?

As likely as not they would not run him at all.  My chief creditor is,

unhappily, my most bitter enemy--a rascally fellow, Sam Brewer, whom I was

once compelled to horsewhip on Newmarket Heath.  Do you suppose that he would

try to save me?"

     "Well, Sir Robert," said Holmes, rising, "this matter must, of course, be

referred to the police.  It was my duty to bring the facts to light, and there

I must leave it.  As to the morality or decency of your conduct, it is not for

me to express an opinion.  It is nearly midnight, Watson, and I think we may

make our way back to our humble abode."

     It is generally known now that this singular episode ended upon a happier

note than Sir Robert's actions deserved.  Shoscombe Prince did win the Derby,

the sporting owner did net eighty thousand pounds in bets, and the creditors

did hold their hand until the race was over, when they were paid in full, and

enough was left to reestablish Sir Robert in a fair position in life.  Both

police and coroner took a lenient view of the transaction, and beyond a mild

censure for the delay in registering the lady's decease, the lucky owner got

away scatheless from this strange incident in a career which has now outlived

its shadows and promises to end in an honoured old age.