THE COMPLETE SHERLOCK HOLMES MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES THE REIGATE PUZZLE

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$Title{MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES; The Reigate Puzzle}

$Author{Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan}

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$Volume{}

$Date{}

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                         THE COMPLETE SHERLOCK HOLMES

                          MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

                              THE REIGATE PUZZLE

IT WAS some time before the health of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes recovered

from the strain caused by his immense exertions in the spring of '87.  The

whole question of the Netherland-Sumatra Company and of the colossal schemes

of Baron Maupertuis are too recent in the minds of the public, and are too

intimately concerned with politics and finance to be fitting subjects for this

series of sketches.  They led, however, in an indirect fashion to a singular

and complex problem which gave my friend an opportunity of demonstrating the

value of a fresh weapon among the many with which he waged his lifelong battle

against crime.

     On referring to my notes I see that it was upon the fourteenth of April

that I received a telegram from Lyons which informed me that Holmes was lying

ill in the Hotel Dulong.  Within twenty-four hours I was in his sick-room and

was relieved to find that there was nothing formidable in his symptoms.  Even

his iron constitution, however, had broken down under the strain of an

investigation which had extended over two months, during which period he had

never worked less than fifteen hours a day and had more than once, as he

assured me, kept to his task for five days at a stretch.  Even the triumphant

issue of his labours could not save him from reaction after so terrible an

exertion, and at a time when Europe was ringing with his name and when his

room was literally ankle-deep with congratulatory telegrams I found him a prey

to the blackest depression.  Even the knowledge that he had succeeded where

the police of three countries had failed, and that he had outmanoeuvred at

every point the most accomplished swindler in Europe, was insufficient to

rouse him from his nervous prostration.

     Three days later we were back in Baker Street together; but it was

evident that my friend would be much the better for a change, and the thought

of a week of springtime in the country was full of attractions to me also.  My

old friend, Colonel Hayter, who had come under my professional care in

Afghanistan, had now taken a house near Reigate in Surrey and had frequently

asked me to come down to him upon a visit.  On the last occasion he had

remarked that if my friend would only come with me he would be glad to extend

his hospitality to him also.  A little diplomacy was needed, but when Holmes

understood that the establishment was a bachelor one, and that he would be

allowed the fullest freedom, he fell in with my plans and a week after our

return from Lyons we were under the colonel's roof.  Hayter was a fine old

soldier who had seen much of the world, and he soon found, as I had expected,

that Holmes and he had much in common.

     On the evening of our arrival we were sitting in the colonel's gun-room

after dinner, Holmes stretched upon the sofa, while Hayter and I looked over

his little armory of Eastern weapons.

     "By the way," said he suddenly, "I think I'll take one of these pistols

upstairs with me in case we have an alarm."

     "An alarm!" said I.

     "Yes, we've had a scare in this part lately.  Old Acton, who is one of

our county magnates, had his house broken into last Monday.  No great damage

done, but the fellows are still at large."

     "No clue?" asked Holmes, cocking his eye at the colonel.

     "None as yet.  But the affair is a petty one, one of our little country

crimes, which must seem too small for your attention, Mr. Holmes, after this

great international affair."

     Holmes waved away the compliment, though his smile showed that it had

pleased him.

     "Was there any feature of interest?"

     "I fancy not.  The thieves ransacked the library and got very little for

their pains.  The whole place was turned upside down, drawers burst open, and

presses ransacked, with the result that an odd volume of Pope's Homer, two

plated candlesticks, an ivory letter-weight, a small oak barometer, and a ball

of twine are all that have vanished."

     "What an extraordinary assortment!" I exclaimed.

     "Oh, the fellows evidently grabbed hold of everything they could get."

     Holmes grunted from the sofa.

     "The county police ought to make something of that," said he; "why, it is

surely obvious that-- --"

     But I held up a warning finger.

     "You are here for a rest, my dear fellow.  For heaven's sake don't get

started on a new problem when your nerves are all in shreds."

     Holmes shrugged his shoulders with a glance of comic resignation towards

the colonel, and the talk drifted away into less dangerous channels.

     It was destined, however, that all my professional caution should be

wasted, for next morning the problem obtruded itself upon us in such a way

that it was impossible to ignore it, and our country visit took a turn which

neither of us could have anticipated.  We were at breakfast when the colonel's

butler rushed in with all his propriety shaken out of him.

     "Have you heard the news, sir?" he gasped.  "At the Cunningham's, sir!"

     "Burglary!" cried the colonel, with his coffee-cup in mid-air.

     "Murder!"

     The colonel whistled.  "By Jove!" said he.  "Who's killed, then?  The J.

P. or his son?"

     "Neither, sir.  It was William the coachman.  Shot through the heart,

sir, and never spoke again."

     "Who shot him, then?"

     "The burglar, sir.  He was off like a shot and got clean away.  He'd just

broke in at the pantry window when William came on him and met his end in

saving his master's property."

     "What time?"

     "It was last night, sir, somewhere about twelve."

     "Ah, then, we'll step over afterwards," said the colonel, coolly settling

down to his breakfast again.  "It's a baddish business," he added when the

butler had gone; "he's our leading man about here, is old Cunningham, and a

very decent fellow too.  He'll be cut up over this, for the man has been in

his service for years and was a good servant.  It's evidently the same

villains who broke into Acton's."

     "And stole that very singular collection," said Holmes thoughtfully.

     "Precisely."

     "Hum!  It may prove the simplest matter in the world, but all the same at

first glance this is just a little curious, is it not?  A gang of burglars

acting in the country might be expected to vary the scene of their operations,

and not to crack two cribs in the same district within a few days.  When you

spoke last night of taking precautions I remember that it passed through my

mind that this was probably the last parish in England to which the thief or

thieves would be likely to turn their attention--which shows that I have still

much to learn."

     "I fancy it's some local practitioner," said the colonel.  "In that case,

of course, Acton's and Cunningham's are just the places he would go for, since

they are far the largest about here."

     "And richest?"

     "Well, they ought to be, but they've had a lawsuit for some years which

has sucked the blood out of both of them, I fancy.  Old Acton has some claim

on half Cunningham's estate, and the lawyers have been at it with both hands."

     "If it's a local villain there should not be much difficulty in running

him down," said Holmes with a yawn.  "All right, Watson, I don't intend to

meddle."

     "Inspector Forrester, sir," said the butler, throwing open the door.

     The official, a smart, keen-faced young fellow, stepped into the room.

"Good-morning, Colonel," said he.  "I hope I don't intrude, but we hear that

Mr. Holmes of Baker Street is here."

     The colonel waved his hand towards my friend, and the inspector bowed.

     "We thought that perhaps you would care to step across, Mr. Holmes."

     "The fates are against you, Watson," said he, laughing.  "We were

chatting about the matter when you came in, Inspector.  Perhaps you can let us

have a few details."  As he leaned back in his chair in the familiar attitude

I knew that the case was hopeless.

     "We had no clue in the Acton affair.  But here we have plenty to go on,

and there's no doubt it is the same party in each case.  The man was seen."

     "Ah!"

     "Yes, sir.  But he was off like a deer after the shot that killed poor

William Kirwan was fired.  Mr. Cunningham saw him from the bedroom window, and

Mr. Alec Cunningham saw him from the back passage.  It was quarter to twelve

when the alarm broke out.  Mr. Cunningham had just got into bed, and Mr. Alec

was smoking a pipe in his dressing-gown.  They both heard William, the

coachman, calling for help, and Mr. Alec ran down to see what was the matter.

The back door was open, and as he came to the foot of the stairs he saw two

men wrestling together outside.  One of them fired a shot, the other dropped,

and the murderer rushed across the garden and over the hedge.  Mr. Cunningham,

looking out of his bedroom, saw the fellow as he gained the road, but lost

sight of him at once.  Mr. Alec stopped to see if he could help the dying man,

and so the villain got clean away.  Beyond the fact that he was a middle-sized

man and dressed in some dark stuff, we have no personal clue; but we are

making energetic inquiries, and if he is a stranger we shall soon find him

out."

     "What was this William doing there?  Did he say anything before he died?"

     "Not a word.  He lives at the lodge with his mother, and as he was a very

faithful fellow we imagine that he walked up to the house with the intention

of seeing that all was right there.  Of course this Acton business has put

everyone on their guard.  The robber must have just burst open the door--the

lock has been forced--when William came upon him."

     "Did William say anything to his mother before going out?"

     "She is very old and deaf, and we can get no information from her.  The

shock has made her half-witted, but I understand that she was never very

bright.  There is one very important circumstance, however.  Look at this!"

     He took a small piece of torn paper from a notebook and spread it out

upon his knee.

     "This was found between the finger and thumb of the dead man.  It appears

to be a fragment torn from a larger sheet.  You will observe that the hour

mentioned upon it is the very time at which the poor fellow met his fate.  You

see that his murderer might have torn the rest of the sheet from him or he

might have taken this fragment from the murderer.  It reads almost as though

it were an appointment."

     Holmes took up the scrap of paper, a facsimile of which is here

reproduced.

                             {see Text Image A}

     "Presuming that it is an appointment," continued the inspector, "it is of

course a conceivable theory that this William Kirwan, though he had the

reputation of being an honest man, may have been in league with the thief.  He

may have met him there, may even have helped him to break in the door, and

then they may have fallen out between themselves."

     "This writing is of extraordinary interest," said Holmes, who had been

examining it with intense concentration.  "These are much deeper waters than I

had thought."  He sank his head upon his hands, while the inspector smiled at

the effect which his case had had upon the famous London specialist.

     "Your last remark," said Holmes presently, "as to the possibility of

there being an understanding between the burglar and the servant, and this

being a note of appointment from one to the other, is an ingenious and not

entirely impossible supposition.  But this writing opens up-- --"  He sank his

head into his hands again and remained for some minutes in the deepest

thought.  When he raised his face again I was surprised to see that his cheek

was tinged with colour, and his eyes as bright as before his illness.  He

sprang to his feet with all his old energy.

     "I'll tell you what," said he, "I should like to have a quiet little

glance into the details of this case.  There is something in it which

fascinates me extremely.  If you will permit me, Colonel, I will leave my

friend Watson and you, and I will step round with the inspector to test the

truth of one or two little fancies of mine.  I will be with you again in half

an hour."

     An hour and a half had elapsed before the inspector returned alone.

     "Mr. Holmes is walking up and down in the field outside," said he.  "He

wants us all four to go up to the house together."

     "To Mr. Cunningham's?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "What for?"

     The inspector shrugged his shoulders.  "I don't quite know, sir.  Between

ourselves, I think Mr. Holmes has not quite got over his illness yet.  He's

been behaving very queerly, and he is very much excited."

     "I don't think you need alarm yourself," said I.  "I have usually found

that there was method in his madness."

     "Some folk might say there was madness in his method," muttered the

inspector.  "But he's all on fire to start, Colonel, so we had best go out if

you are ready."

     We found Holmes pacing up and down in the field, his chin sunk upon his

breast, and his hands thrust into his trousers pockets.

     "The matter grows in interest," said he.  "Watson, your country trip has

been a distinct success.  I have had a charming morning."

     "You have been up to the scene of the crime, I understand," said the

colonel.

     "Yes, the inspector and I have made quite a little reconnaissance

together."

     "Any success?"

     "Well, we have seen some very interesting things.  I'll tell you what we

did as we walk.  First of all, we saw the body of this unfortunate man.  He

certainly died from a revolver wound as reported."

     "Had you doubted it, then?"

     "Oh, it is as well to test everything.  Our inspection was not wasted.

We then had an interview with Mr. Cunningham and his son, who were able to

point out the exact spot where the murderer had broken through the

garden-hedge in his flight.  That was of great interest."

     "Naturally."

     "Then we had a look at this poor fellow's mother.  We could get no

information from her, however, as she is very old and feeble."

     "And what is the result of your investigations?"

     "The conviction that the crime is a very peculiar one.  Perhaps our visit

now may do something to make it less obscure.  I think that we are both

agreed, Inspector, that the fragment of paper in the dead man's hand, bearing,

as it does, the very hour of his death written upon it, is of extreme

importance."

     "It should give a clue, Mr. Holmes."

     "It does give a clue.  Whoever wrote that note was the man who brought

William Kirwan out of his bed at that hour.  But where is the rest of that

sheet of paper?"

     "I examined the ground carefully in the hope of finding it," said the

inspector.

     "It was torn out of the dead man's hand.  Why was someone so anxious to

get possession of it?  Because it incriminated him.  And what would he do with

it?  Thrust it into his pocket, most likely, never noticing that a corner of

it had been left in the grip of the corpse.  If we could get the rest of that

sheet it is obvious that we should have gone a long way towards solving the

mystery."

     "Yes, but how can we get at the criminal's pocket before we catch the

criminal?"

     "Well, well, it was worth thinking over.  Then there is another obvious

point.  The note was sent to William.  The man who wrote it could not have

taken it; otherwise, of course, he might have delivered his own message by

word of mouth.  Who brought the note, then?  Or did it come through the post?"

     "I have made inquiries," said the inspector.  "William received a letter

by the afternoon post yesterday.  The envelope was destroyed by him."

     "Excellent!" cried Holmes, clapping the inspector on the back.  "You've

seen the postman.  It is a pleasure to work with you.  Well, here is the

lodge, and if you will come up, Colonel, I will show you the scene of the

crime."

     We passed the pretty cottage where the murdered man had lived and walked

up an oak-lined avenue to the fine old Queen Anne house, which bears the date

of Malplaquet upon the lintel of the door.  Holmes and the inspector led us

round it until we came to the side gate, which is separated by a stretch of

garden from the hedge which lines the road.  A constable was standing at the

kitchen door.

     "Throw the door open, officer," said Holmes.  "Now, it was on those

stairs that young Mr. Cunningham stood and saw the two men struggling just

where we are.  Old Mr. Cunningham was at that window--the second on the

left--and he saw the fellow get away just to the left of that bush.  So did

the son.  They are both sure of it on account of the bush.  Then Mr. Alec ran

out and knelt beside the wounded man.  The ground is very hard, you see, and

there are no marks to guide us."  As he spoke two men came down the garden

path, from round the angle of the house.  The one was an elderly man, with a

strong, deep-lined, heavy-eyed face; the other a dashing young fellow, whose

bright, smiling expression and showy dress were in strange contrast with the

business which had brought us there.

     "Still at it, then?" said he to Holmes.  "I thought you Londoners were

never at fault.  You don't seem to be so very quick, after all."

     "Ah, you must give us a little time," said Holmes good-humouredly.

     "You'll want it," said young Alec Cunningham.  "Why, I don't see that we

have any clue at all."

     "There's only one," answered the inspector.  "We thought that if we could

only find-- --  Good heavens, Mr. Holmes!  what is the matter?"

     My poor friend's face had suddenly assumed the most dreadful expression.

His eyes rolled upward, his features writhed in agony, and with a suppressed

groan he dropped on his face upon the ground.  Horrified at the suddenness and

severity of the attack, we carried him into the kitchen, where he lay back in

a large chair and breathed heavily for some minutes.  Finally, with a

shamefaced apology for his weakness, he rose once more.

     "Watson would tell you that I have only just recovered from a severe

illness," he explained.  "I am liable to these sudden nervous attacks."

     "Shall I send you home in my trap?" asked old Cunningham.

     "Well, since I am here, there is one point on which I should like to feel

sure.  We can very easily verify it."

     "What is it?"

     "Well, it seems to me that it is just possible that the arrival of this

poor fellow William was not before, but after, the entrance of the burglar

into the house.  You appear to take it for granted that although the door was

forced the robber never got in."

     "I fancy that is quite obvious," said Mr. Cunningham gravely.  "Why, my

son Alec had not yet gone to bed, and he would certainly have heard anyone

moving about."

     "Where was he sitting?"

     "I was smoking in my dressing-room."

     "Which window is that?"

     "The last on the left, next my father's."

     "Both of your lamps were lit, of course?"

     "Undoubtedly."

     "There are some very singular points here," said Holmes, smiling.  "Is it

not extraordinary that a burglar--and a burglar who had some previous

experience--should deliberately break into a house at a time when he could see

from the lights that two of the family were still afoot?"

     "He must have been a cool hand."

     "Well, of course, if the case were not an odd one we should not have been

driven to ask you for an explanation," said young Mr. Alec.  "But as to your

ideas that the man had robbed the house before William tackled him, I think it

a most absurd notion.  Wouldn't we have found the place disarranged and missed

the things which he had taken?"

     "It depends on what the things were," said Holmes.  "You must remember

that we are dealing with a burglar who is a very peculiar fellow, and who

appears to work on lines of his own.  Look, for example, at the queer lot of

things which he took from Acton's--what was it?--a ball of string, a

letter-weight, and I don't know what other odds and ends."

     "Well, we are quite in your hands, Mr. Holmes," said old Cunningham.

"Anything which you or the inspector may suggest will most certainly be done."

     "In the first place," said Holmes, "I should like you to offer a reward--

coming from yourself, for the officials may take a little time before they

would agree upon the sum, and these things cannot be done too promptly.  I

have jotted down the form here, if you would not mind signing it.  Fifty

pounds was quite enough, I thought."

     "I would willingly give five hundred," said the J. P., taking the slip of

paper and the pencil which Holmes handed to him.  "This is not quite correct,

however," he added, glancing over the document.

     "I wrote it rather hurriedly."

     "You see you begin, 'Whereas, at about a quarter to one on Tuesday

morning an attempt was made,' and so on.  It was at a quarter to twelve, as a

matter of fact."

     I was pained at the mistake, for I knew how keenly Holmes would feel any

slip of the kind.  It was his specialty to be accurate as to fact, but his

recent illness had shaken him, and this one little incident was enough to show

me that he was still far from being himself.  He was obviously embarrassed for

an instant, while the inspector raised his eyebrows, and Alec Cunningham burst

into a laugh.  The old gentleman corrected the mistake, however, and handed

the paper back to Holmes.

     "Get it printed as soon as possible," he said; "I think your idea is an

excellent one."

     Holmes put the slip of paper carefully away into his pocketbook.

     "And now," said he, "it really would be a good thing that we should all

go over the house together and make certain that this rather erratic burglar

did not, after all, carry anything away with him."

     Before entering, Holmes made an examination of the door which had been

forced.  It was evident that a chisel or strong knife had been thrust in, and

the lock forced back with it.  We could see the marks in the wood where it had

been pushed in.

     "You don't use bars, then?" he asked.

     "We have never found it necessary."

     "You don't keep a dog?"

     "Yes, but he is chained on the other side of the house."

     "When do the servants go to bed?"

     "About ten."

     "I understand that William was usually in bed also at that hour?"

     "Yes."

     "It is singular that on this particular night he should have been up.

Now, I should be very glad if you would have the kindness to show us over the

house, Mr. Cunningham."

     A stone-flagged passage, with the kitchens branching away from it, led by

a wooden staircase directly to the first floor of the house.  It came out upon

the landing opposite to a second more ornamental stair which came up from the

front hall.  Out of this landing opened the drawing-room and several bedrooms,

including those of Mr. Cunningham and his son.  Holmes walked slowly, taking

keen note of the architecture of the house.  I could tell from his expression

that he was on a hot scent, and yet I could not in the least imagine in what

direction his inferences were leading him.

     "My good sir," said Mr. Cunningham, with some impatience, "this is surely

very unnecessary.  That is my room at the end of the stairs, and my son's is

the one beyond it.  I leave it to your judgment whether it was possible for

the thief to have come up here without disturbing us."

     "You must try round and get on a fresh scent, I fancy," said the son with

a rather malicious smile.

     "Still, I must ask you to humour me a little further.  I should like, for

example, to see how far the windows of the bedrooms command the front.  This,

I understand, is your son's room"--he pushed open the door--"and that, I

presume is the dressing-room in which he sat smoking when the alarm was given.

Where does the window of that look out to?"  He stepped across the bedroom,

pushed open the door, and glanced round the other chamber.

     "I hope that you are satisfied now?" said Mr. Cunningham tartly.

     "Thank you, I think I have seen all that I wished."

     "Then if it is really necessary we can go into my room."

     "If it is not too much trouble."

     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 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

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.

     "Hullo!" 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 Master 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 recognized 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'm 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, quietly 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 disillusion 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

recognize, 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

recognize the fact.  A very brief analysis of these 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 ringleader."

     "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 the 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 crossing, 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 tend 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 have 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 lawsuit 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 of 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 forever 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 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.  Mr. 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 countryside 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

                             {see Text Image B}

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."