                           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' 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 grey 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 clue.
     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 neighbouring 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 neighbourhood. 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
     neighbourhood, however, and among them Miss Turner, the daughter of
     the neighbouring landowner, who believe in his innocence, and who
     have retained Lestrade, whom you may recollect in connection with the
     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
     characterises 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
     métier, 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 one."

     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 3rd. 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 suspicions 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 grey in colour, 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
     favour. Don't you see that you alternately give him credit for having
     too much imagination 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 outré 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 recognising 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
     tender-hearted 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 favour of such a union?"

     "No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in favour
     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 nervous
     system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive who had
     known dad in the old days in Victoria."

     "Ha! In 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 had 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 favour 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' 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 grey
     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' 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?" said 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 Lestrade 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 grey 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'
     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 recognise 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 and 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 neighbourhood. 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 grey 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 luncheon. 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 grey 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 neighbourhood."

     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 favour 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 grey 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 grey 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 his 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 I went down there I found him talking with his son, so I 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.

