THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES This collection of twelve stories were originally published as single stories in the Strand Magazine from July 1891 to June 1892. The book was published in England in 1892 and quickly grew in popularity.

An original copy of the Strand Magazine containing one of the short stories

CONTENTS A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE A CASE OF IDENTITY THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER’S THUMB THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL CORONET THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES

Conan Doyle, at the time of publication

A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA I. To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer — excellent for drawing the veil from men’s motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory. I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in following out those clues, and clearing up those mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former friend and companion. One night — it was on the twentieth of March, 1888 — I was returning from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in part my own. His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before the fire and looked me over in his singular introspective fashion. “Wedlock suits you,” he remarked. “I think, Watson, that you have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you.” “Seven!” I answered. “Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me that you intended to go into harness.” “Then, how do you know?” “I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and careless servant girl?” “My dear Holmes,” said I, “this is too much. You would certainly have been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but as I have changed my clothes I can’t imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but there, again, I fail to see how you work it out.” He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together. “It is simplicity itself,” said he; “my eyes tell me that on the inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it, the leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round the edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it. Hence, you see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile weather, and that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting specimen of the London slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the right side of his top-hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce him to be an active member of the medical profession.” I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his process of deduction. “When I hear you give your reasons,” I remarked, “the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each successive instance of your reasoning I am baffled until you explain your process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good as yours.” “Quite so,” he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself down into an armchair. “You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps which lead up from the hall to this room.” “Frequently.” “How often?” “Well, some hundreds of times.” “Then how many are there?” “How many? I don’t know.” “Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have both seen and observed. By the way, since you are interested in these little problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one or two of my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this.” He threw over a sheet of thick, pink-tinted notepaper which had been lying open upon the table. “It came by the last post,” said he. “Read it aloud.” The note was undated, and without either signature or address. “There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o’clock,” it said, “a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses of Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated. This account of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your chamber then at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor wear a mask.” “This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked. “What do you imagine that it means?” “I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you deduce from it?” I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was written. “The man who wrote it was presumably well to do,” I remarked, endeavouring to imitate my companion’s processes. “Such paper could not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and stiff.” “Peculiar — that is the very word,” said Holmes. “It is not an English paper at all. Hold it up to the light.” I did so, and saw a large “E” with a small “g,” a “P,” and a large “G” with a small “t” woven into the texture of the paper. “What do you make of that?” asked Holmes. “The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.” “Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for ‘Gesellschaft,’ which is the German for ‘Company.’ It is a customary contraction like our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now for the ‘Eg.’ Let us glance at our Continental Gazetteer.” He took down a heavy brown volume from his shelves. “Eglow, Eglonitz — here we are, Egria. It is in a German-speaking country — in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. ‘Remarkable as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass-factories and paper-mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of that?” His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud from his cigarette. “The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said. “Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note the peculiar construction of the sentence—’This account of you we have from all quarters received.’ A Frenchman or Russian could not have written that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts.” As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses’ hoofs and grating wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes whistled. “A pair, by the sound,” said he. “Yes,” he continued, glancing out of the window. “A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There’s money in this case, Watson, if there is nothing else.” “I think that I had better go, Holmes.” “Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.” “But your client—” “Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes. Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention.” A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and authoritative tap. “Come in!” said Holmes. A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended halfway up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin suggestive of resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy. “You had my note?” he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly marked German accent. “I told you that I would call.” He looked from one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address. “Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom have I the honour to address?” “You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone.” I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into my chair. “It is both, or none,” said he. “You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to me.” The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I must begin,” said he, “by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too much to say that it is of such weight it may have an influence upon European history.” “I promise,” said Holmes. “And I.” “You will excuse this mask,” continued our strange visitor. “The august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I may confess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is not exactly my own.” “I was aware of it,” said Holmes dryly. “The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia.” “I was also aware of that,” murmured Holmes, settling himself down in his armchair and closing his eyes. Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid, lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client. “If your Majesty would condescend to state your case,” he remarked, “I should be better able to advise you.” The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. “You are right,” he cried; “I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal it?” “Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes. “Your Majesty had not spoken before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia.” “But you can understand,” said our strange visitor, sitting down once more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, “you can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power. I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting you.” “Then, pray consult,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more. “The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you.” “Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor,” murmured Holmes without opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish information. In this case I found her biography sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea fishes. “Let me see!” said Holmes. “Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto — hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw — yes! Retired from operatic stage — ha! Living in London — quite so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of getting those letters back.” “Precisely so. But how—” “Was there a secret marriage?” “None.” “No legal papers or certificates?” “None.” “Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to prove their authenticity?” “There is the writing.” “Pooh, pooh! Forgery.” “My private note-paper.” “Stolen.” “My own seal.” “Imitated.” “My photograph.” “Bought.” “We were both in the photograph.” “Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed committed an indiscretion.” “I was mad — insane.” “You have compromised yourself seriously.” “I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now.” “It must be recovered.” “We have tried and failed.” “Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought.” “She will not sell.” “Stolen, then.” “Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her house. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has been waylaid. There has been no result.” “No sign of it?” “Absolutely none.” Holmes laughed. “It is quite a pretty little problem,” said he. “But a very serious one to me,” returned the King reproachfully. “Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the photograph?” “To ruin me.” “But how?” “I am about to be married.” “So I have heard.” “To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the King of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her family. She is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my conduct would bring the matter to an end.” “And Irene Adler?” “Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul of steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry another woman, there are no lengths to which she would not go — none.” “You are sure that she has not sent it yet?” “I am sure.” “And why?” “Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday.” “Oh, then we have three days yet,” said Holmes with a yawn. “That is very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to look into just at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London for the present?” “Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the Count Von Kramm.” “Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress.” “Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety.” “Then, as to money?” “You have carte blanche.” “Absolutely?” “I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to have that photograph.” “And for present expenses?” The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak and laid it on the table. “There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes,” he said. Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book and handed it to him. “And Mademoiselle’s address?” he asked. “Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.” Holmes took a note of it. “One other question,” said he. “Was the photograph a cabinet?” “It was.” “Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have some good news for you. And good-night, Watson,” he added, as the wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street. “If you will be good enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three o’clock I should like to chat this little matter over with you.” II. At three o’clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the house shortly after eight o’clock in the morning. I sat down beside the fire, however, with the intention of awaiting him, however long he might be. I was already deeply interested in his inquiry, for, though it was surrounded by none of the grim and strange features which were associated with the two crimes which I have already recorded, still, the nature of the case and the exalted station of his client gave it a character of its own. Indeed, apart from the nature of the investigation which my friend had on hand, there was something in his masterly grasp of a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which made it a pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow the quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable success that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to enter into my head. It was close upon four before the door opened, and a drunken-looking groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and disreputable clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as I was to my friend’s amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look three times before I was certain that it was indeed he. With a nod he vanished into the bedroom, whence he emerged in five minutes tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting his hands into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the fire and laughed heartily for some minutes. “Well, really!” he cried, and then he choked and laughed again until he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the chair. “What is it?” “It’s quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I employed my morning, or what I ended by doing.” “I can’t imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the habits, and perhaps the house, of Miss Irene Adler.” “Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell you, however. I left the house a little after eight o’clock this morning in the character of a groom out of work. There is a wonderful sympathy and freemasonry among horsey men. Be one of them, and you will know all that there is to know. I soon found Briony Lodge. It is a bijou villa, with a garden at the back, but built out in front right up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock to the door. Large sitting-room on the right side, well furnished, with long windows almost to the floor, and those preposterous English window fasteners which a child could open. Behind there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage window could be reached from the top of the coach-house. I walked round it and examined it closely from every point of view, but without noting anything else of interest. “I then lounged down the street and found, as I expected, that there was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the garden. I lent the ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses, and received in exchange twopence, a glass of half-and-half, two fills of shag tobacco, and as much information as I could desire about Miss Adler, to say nothing of half a dozen other people in the neighbourhood in whom I was not in the least interested, but whose biographies I was compelled to listen to.” “And what of Irene Adler?” I asked. “Oh, she has turned all the men’s heads down in that part. She is the daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say the Serpentine-mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts, drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner. Seldom goes out at other times, except when she sings. Has only one male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark, handsome, and dashing, never calls less than once a day, and often twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple. See the advantages of a cabman as a confidant. They had driven him home a dozen times from Serpentine-mews, and knew all about him. When I had listened to all they had to tell, I began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge once more, and to think over my plan of campaign. “This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the matter. He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the relation between them, and what the object of his repeated visits? Was she his client, his friend, or his mistress? If the former, she had probably transferred the photograph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less likely. On the issue of this question depended whether I should continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my attention to the gentleman’s chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate point, and it widened the field of my inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these details, but I have to let you see my little difficulties, if you are to understand the situation.” “I am following you closely,” I answered. “I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab drove up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was a remarkably handsome man, dark, aquiline, and moustached — evidently the man of whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a great hurry, shouted to the cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who opened the door with the air of a man who was thoroughly at home. “He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch glimpses of him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and down, talking excitedly, and waving his arms. Of her I could see nothing. Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried than before. As he stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and looked at it earnestly, ‘Drive like the devil,’ he shouted, ‘first to Gross & Hankey’s in Regent Street, and then to the Church of St. Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you do it in twenty minutes!’ “Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do well to follow them when up the lane came a neat little landau, the coachman with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under his ear, while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of the buckles. It hadn’t pulled up before she shot out of the hall door and into it. I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment, but she was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die for. “ ’The Church of St. Monica, John,’ she cried, ‘and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.’ “This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just balancing whether I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind her landau when a cab came through the street. The driver looked twice at such a shabby fare, but I jumped in before he could object. ‘The Church of St. Monica,’ said I, ‘and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.’ It was twenty-five minutes to twelve, and of course it was clear enough what was in the wind. “My cabby drove fast. I don’t think I ever drove faster, but the others were there before us. The cab and the landau with their steaming horses were in front of the door when I arrived. I paid the man and hurried into the church. There was not a soul there save the two whom I had followed and a surpliced clergyman, who seemed to be expostulating with them. They were all three standing in a knot in front of the altar. I lounged up the side aisle like any other idler who has dropped into a church. Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at the altar faced round to me, and Godfrey Norton came running as hard as he could towards me. “ ’Thank God,’ he cried. ‘You’ll do. Come! Come!’ “ ’What then?’ I asked. “ ’Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it won’t be legal.’ “I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before I knew where I was I found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear, and vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally assisting in the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was all done in an instant, and there was the gentleman thanking me on the one side and the lady on the other, while the clergyman beamed on me in front. It was the most preposterous position in which I ever found myself in my life, and it was the thought of it that started me laughing just now. It seems that there had been some informality about their license, that the clergyman absolutely refused to marry them without a witness of some sort, and that my lucky appearance saved the bridegroom from having to sally out into the streets in search of a best man. The bride gave me a sovereign, and I mean to wear it on my watch chain in memory of the occasion.” “This is a very unexpected turn of affairs,” said I; “and what then?” “Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as if the pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate very prompt and energetic measures on my part. At the church door, however, they separated, he driving back to the Temple, and she to her own house. ‘I shall drive out in the park at five as usual,’ she said as she left him. I heard no more. They drove away in different directions, and I went off to make my own arrangements.” “Which are?” “Some cold beef and a glass of beer,” he answered, ringing the bell. “I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to be busier still this evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall want your co-operation.” “I shall be delighted.” “You don’t mind breaking the law?” “Not in the least.” “Nor running a chance of arrest?” “Not in a good cause.” “Oh, the cause is excellent!” “Then I am your man.” “I was sure that I might rely on you.” “But what is it you wish?” “When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear to you. Now,” he said as he turned hungrily on the simple fare that our landlady had provided, “I must discuss it while I eat, for I have not much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we must be on the scene of action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from her drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her.” “And what then?” “You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to occur. There is only one point on which I must insist. You must not interfere, come what may. You understand?” “I am to be neutral?” “To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in my being conveyed into the house. Four or five minutes afterwards the sitting-room window will open. You are to station yourself close to that open window.” “Yes.” “You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you.” “Yes.” “And when I raise my hand — so — you will throw into the room what I give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry of fire. You quite follow me?” “Entirely.” “It is nothing very formidable,” he said, taking a long cigar-shaped roll from his pocket. “It is an ordinary plumber’s smoke-rocket, fitted with a cap at either end to make it self-lighting. Your task is confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire, it will be taken up by quite a number of people. You may then walk to the end of the street, and I will rejoin you in ten minutes. I hope that I have made myself clear?” “I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you, and at the signal to throw in this object, then to raise the cry of fire, and to wait you at the corner of the street.” “Precisely.” “Then you may entirely rely on me.” “That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that I prepare for the new role I have to play.” He disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes in the character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman. His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and benevolent curiosity were such as Mr. John Hare alone could have equalled. It was not merely that Holmes changed his costume. His expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime. It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it still wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in Serpentine Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were just being lighted as we paced up and down in front of Briony Lodge, waiting for the coming of its occupant. The house was just such as I had pictured it from Sherlock Holmes’ succinct description, but the locality appeared to be less private than I expected. On the contrary, for a small street in a quiet neighbourhood, it was remarkably animated. There was a group of shabbily dressed men smoking and laughing in a corner, a scissors-grinder with his wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with a nurse-girl, and several well-dressed young men who were lounging up and down with cigars in their mouths. “You see,” remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of the house, “this marriage rather simplifies matters. The photograph becomes a double-edged weapon now. The chances are that she would be as averse to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton, as our client is to its coming to the eyes of his princess. Now the question is, Where are we to find the photograph?” “Where, indeed?” “It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It is cabinet size. Too large for easy concealment about a woman’s dress. She knows that the King is capable of having her waylaid and searched. Two attempts of the sort have already been made. We may take it, then, that she does not carry it about with her.” “Where, then?” “Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility. But I am inclined to think neither. Women are naturally secretive, and they like to do their own secreting. Why should she hand it over to anyone else? She could trust her own guardianship, but she could not tell what indirect or political influence might be brought to bear upon a business man. Besides, remember that she had resolved to use it within a few days. It must be where she can lay her hands upon it. It must be in her own house.” “But it has twice been burgled.” “Pshaw! They did not know how to look.” “But how will you look?” “I will not look.” “What then?” “I will get her to show me.” “But she will refuse.” “She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels. It is her carriage. Now carry out my orders to the letter.” As he spoke the gleam of the sidelights of a carriage came round the curve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau which rattled up to the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of the loafing men at the corner dashed forward to open the door in the hope of earning a copper, but was elbowed away by another loafer, who had rushed up with the same intention. A fierce quarrel broke out, which was increased by the two guardsmen, who took sides with one of the loungers, and by the scissors-grinder, who was equally hot upon the other side. A blow was struck, and in an instant the lady, who had stepped from her carriage, was the centre of a little knot of flushed and struggling men, who struck savagely at each other with their fists and sticks. Holmes dashed into the crowd to protect the lady; but, just as he reached her, he gave a cry and dropped to the ground, with the blood running freely down his face. At his fall the guardsmen took to their heels in one direction and the loungers in the other, while a number of better dressed people, who had watched the scuffle without taking part in it, crowded in to help the lady and to attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will still call her, had hurried up the steps; but she stood at the top with her superb figure outlined against the lights of the hall, looking back into the street. “Is the poor gentleman much hurt?” she asked. “He is dead,” cried several voices. “No, no, there’s life in him!” shouted another. “But he’ll be gone before you can get him to hospital.” “He’s a brave fellow,” said a woman. “They would have had the lady’s purse and watch if it hadn’t been for him. They were a gang, and a rough one, too. Ah, he’s breathing now.” “He can’t lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?” “Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable sofa. This way, please!” Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge and laid out in the principal room, while I still observed the proceedings from my post by the window. The lamps had been lit, but the blinds had not been drawn, so that I could see Holmes as he lay upon the couch. I do not know whether he was seized with compunction at that moment for the part he was playing, but I know that I never felt more heartily ashamed of myself in my life than when I saw the beautiful creature against whom I was conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with which she waited upon the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest treachery to Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had intrusted to me. I hardened my heart, and took the smoke-rocket from under my ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We are but preventing her from injuring another. Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man who is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the window. At the same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the signal I tossed my rocket into the room with a cry of “Fire!” The word was no sooner out of my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and ill — gentlemen, ostlers, and servant maids — joined in a general shriek of “Fire!” Thick clouds of smoke curled through the room and out at the open window. I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a moment later the voice of Holmes from within assuring them that it was a false alarm. Slipping through the shouting crowd I made my way to the corner of the street, and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find my friend’s arm in mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar. He walked swiftly and in silence for some few minutes until we had turned down one of the quiet streets which lead towards the Edgeware Road. “You did it very nicely, Doctor,” he remarked. “Nothing could have been better. It is all right.” “You have the photograph?” “I know where it is.” “And how did you find out?” “She showed me, as I told you she would.” “I am still in the dark.” “I do not wish to make a mystery,” said he, laughing. “The matter was perfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in the street was an accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening.” “I guessed as much.” “Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in the palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand to my face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick.” “That also I could fathom.” “Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What else could she do? And into her sitting-room, which was the very room which I suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was determined to see which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for air, they were compelled to open the window, and you had your chance.” “How did that help you?” “It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is on fire, her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she values most. It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once taken advantage of it. In the case of the Darlington Substitution Scandal it was of use to me, and also in the Arnsworth Castle business. A married woman grabs at her baby; an unmarried one reaches for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to me that our lady of to-day had nothing in the house more precious to her than what we are in quest of. She would rush to secure it. The alarm of fire was admirably done. The smoke and shouting were enough to shake nerves of steel. She responded beautifully. The photograph is in a recess behind a sliding panel just above the right bell-pull. She was there in an instant, and I caught a glimpse of it as she half drew it out. When I cried out that it was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced at the rocket, rushed from the room, and I have not seen her since. I rose, and, making my excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated whether to attempt to secure the photograph at once; but the coachman had come in, and as he was watching me narrowly, it seemed safer to wait. A little over-precipitance may ruin all.” “And now?” I asked. “Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the King to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We will be shown into the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is probable that when she comes she may find neither us nor the photograph. It might be a satisfaction to his Majesty to regain it with his own hands.” “And when will you call?” “At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall have a clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage may mean a complete change in her life and habits. I must wire to the King without delay.” We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He was searching his pockets for the key when someone passing said: “Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes.” There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had hurried by. “I’ve heard that voice before,” said Holmes, staring down the dimly lit street. “Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have been.” III. I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our toast and coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed into the room. “You have really got it!” he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by either shoulder and looking eagerly into his face. “Not yet.” “But you have hopes?” “I have hopes.” “Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone.” “We must have a cab.” “No, my brougham is waiting.” “Then that will simplify matters.” We descended and started off once more for Briony Lodge. “Irene Adler is married,” remarked Holmes. “Married! When?” “Yesterday.” “But to whom?” “To an English lawyer named Norton.” “But she could not love him.” “I am in hopes that she does.” “And why in hopes?” “Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future annoyance. If the lady loves her husband, she does not love your Majesty. If she does not love your Majesty, there is no reason why she should interfere with your Majesty’s plan.” “It is true. And yet — ! Well! I wish she had been of my own station! What a queen she would have made!” He relapsed into a moody silence, which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue. The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the brougham. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?” said she. “I am Mr. Holmes,” answered my companion, looking at her with a questioning and rather startled gaze. “Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left this morning with her husband by the 5:15 train from Charing Cross for the Continent.” “What!” Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and surprise. “Do you mean that she has left England?” “Never to return.” “And the papers?” asked the King hoarsely. “All is lost.” “We shall see.” He pushed past the servant and rushed into the drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture was scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and open drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding shutter, and, plunging in his hand, pulled out a photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening dress, the letter was superscribed to “Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till called for.” My friend tore it open, and we all three read it together. It was dated at midnight of the preceding night and ran in this way: “MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES, — You really did it very well. You took me in completely. Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a suspicion. But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I began to think. I had been warned against you months ago. I had been told that, if the King employed an agent, it would certainly be you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with all this, you made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I became suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind old clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage of the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you, ran upstairs, got into my walking clothes, as I call them, and came down just as you departed. “Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and started for the Temple to see my husband. “We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to possess; and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, “Very truly yours,             “IRENE NORTON, née ADLER.” “What a woman — oh, what a woman!” cried the King of Bohemia, when we had all three read this epistle. “Did I not tell you how quick and resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?” “From what I have seen of the lady, she seems, indeed, to be on a very different level to your Majesty,” said Holmes coldly. “I am sorry that I have not been able to bring your Majesty’s business to a more successful conclusion.” “On the contrary, my dear sir,” cried the King; “nothing could be more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire.” “I am glad to hear your Majesty say so.” “I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can reward you. This ring—” He slipped an emerald snake ring from his finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand. “Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly,” said Holmes. “You have but to name it.” “This photograph!” The King stared at him in amazement. “Irene’s photograph!” he cried. “Certainly, if you wish it.” “I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the matter. I have the honour to wish you a very good morning.” He bowed, and, turning away without observing the hand which the King had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers. And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman’s wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honourable title of the woman.

Scandalo in Boemia
I.
Per Sherlock Holmes, lei era sempre “la donna”. Raramente lo avevo sentito menzionarla con altro nome. Ai suoi occhi, lei eclissava e dominava tutto il suo stesso sesso. Non è che provasse emozioni simili all’amore per Irene Adler. Tutte le emozioni, soprattutto quella, erano odiate dal suo cervello freddo, preciso ma straordinariamente equilibrato. Era, senza dubbio, la macchina razionale e osservatrice più perfetta che il mondo avesse mai conosciuto. Ma come amante, si sarebbe posto in una posizione falsa. Non parlava mai delle passioni più tenere, se non con derisione e sarcasmo. Per l’osservatore, quelle erano cose ammirevoli. Ottimali per scoprire i veri motivi e le azioni degli uomini. Ma per un razionalista allenato, permettere a tali emozioni di invadere il proprio temperamento delicato ed equilibrato significava introdurre fattori distraggenti che avrebbero potuto mettere in dubbio tutti i risultati delle sue riflessioni. Il graffio su uno strumento sensibile, o una crepa nelle sue lenti di alta potenza, non sarebbero stati più disturbanti di un’emozione intensa in una natura come la sua. Eppure, per lui esisteva soltanto una donna, e quella donna era la defunta Irene Adler, di memoria dubbia e discutibile. Negli ultimi tempi vedevo poco Holmes. Il mio matrimonio ci aveva allontanati l’uno dall’altro. La mia completa felicità, e gli interessi legati alla vita domestica che sorgono naturalmente in un uomo che finalmente si è reso padrone della propria casa, bastavano a occupare tutta la mia attenzione. Holmes, invece, che odiava ogni forma di società con tutto il suo spirito bohémien, rimaneva nelle nostre stanze di Baker Street, sepolto tra i suoi vecchi libri. Passava le settimane alternando la sonnolenza indotta dalla cocaina all’energia furiosa della sua natura. Era ancora, come sempre, profondamente attratto dallo studio del crimine. E utilizzava le sue immense capacità e straordinarie facoltà di osservazione per seguire quelle tracce, risolvere quei misteri che la polizia ufficiale aveva già dato per irrisolvibili. Di tanto in tanto, sentivo qualche vaga notizia sulle sue attività: il suo viaggio a Odessa per il caso del delitto Trepoff, la sua soluzione della tragica storia dei fratelli Atkinson a Trincomalee. E infine, la missione che aveva svolto con tanta abilità e successo per la famiglia regnante degli Olanda. Ma oltre a queste notizie, che condividevo con tutti i lettori dei giornali quotidiani, sapevo poco del mio vecchio amico e compagno. Una notte – era il ventesimo marzo 1888 – stavo tornando da un viaggio presso un paziente (poiché avevo ripreso a esercitare la mia professione), quando il mio cammino mi portò lungo Baker Street. Passando davanti a quella porta ben ricordata, che nella mia mente è sempre associata ai miei tentativi di corteggiarla e agli eventi oscuri legati allo “Studio in Scarlet”, provai un forte desiderio di rivedere Holmes e di sapere come stesse utilizzando le sue straordinarie capacità. Le sue stanze erano luminose; appena alzai lo sguardo, vidi la sua alta figura passare due volte contro il paravento, in silhouette scura. Camminava avanti e indietro con rapidità, con la testa china sul petto e le mani incrociate dietro la schiena. Per me, che conoscevo ogni suo umore e abitudine, quel comportamento parlava da solo: era di nuovo al lavoro, aveva lasciato i sogni indotti dalle sostanze stupefacenti e stava già affrontando qualche nuovo problema. Suonai il campanello e fui introdotto nella stanza che un tempo era in parte anche mia. Il suo modo di comportarsi non fu particolarmente caloroso; di rado lo era. Ma credo fosse contento di vedermi. Senza dire quasi una parola, mi fece segno di sedermi in una poltrona, gettò accanto a me la scatola dei sigari e indicò nella stanza un barattolo contenente liquori alcolici e un apparecchio per produrre gas. Poi si fermò davanti al camino e mi osservò con quel suo modo caratteristico di riflessione. “Il matrimonio ti dona,” disse. “Credo, Watson, che tu abbia messo su sette o otto chili da quando ci siamo visti l’ultima volta.” “Sette!” risposi. “In effetti. Forse anche di più. E vedo che hai ripreso a lavorare, vero? Non mi avevi detto che intendevi tornare alla tua attività professionale.” “Allora, come lo sai?” “Lo so. Lo deduco. Vedo anche che ultimamente ti bagni spesso e che la tua domestica è molto inadeguata.” “Mio caro Holmes,” dissi, “questo è troppo! Se fossi vissuto alcuni secoli fa, sicuramente saresti morto bruciato. È vero che giovedì ho fatto una passeggiata e sono tornato a casa in uno stato pessimo, ma visto che mi sono cambiato, non capisco proprio come tu abbia fatto a indovinarlo. Per quanto riguarda Mary Jane, beh, è irrimediabile; mia moglie le ha già dato il preavviso, ” Ma di nuovo, non riuscivo a comprendere come avesse fatto a scoprirlo. Lui ridacchiò tra sé e si strofinò le mani lunghe e nervose. “Il segreto sta proprio nella semplicità,” disse lui; “i miei occhi mi dicono che, all’interno della tua scarpa sinistra, esattamente nel punto in cui colpisce la luce del fuoco, il cuoio presenta sei tagli quasi paralleli. Ovviamente sono stati causati da qualcuno che ha raschiato con grande superficialità i bordi della suola per eliminare lo strato di fango. Da questo, ho dedotto che sei stato esposto a condizioni meteorologiche avverse, e inoltre che hai a che fare con un individuo particolarmente spregevole, uno di quei tipi che si dedicano a danneggiare le scarpe delle persone. Per quanto riguarda la tua abitudine, se un gentiluomo entra nelle mie stanze puzzando di iodoformio, con una macchia nera causata dal nitrato d’argento sul dito indice destro e un rigonfiamento sul lato destro del cappello a indicare dove ha nascosto lo stetoscopio, beh, sarei davvero stupido se non concludesse che appartiene al mondo medico.”
Non potei fare a meno di ridere per la facilità con cui spiegava il proprio processo di deduzione. “Quando ascolto le tue ragionamenti,” osservai, “tutto sembra così incredibilmente semplice che potrei farlo anch’io, anche se ogni volta rimango perplesso finché non mi spieghi i passaggi logici. Eppure credo di avere occhi altrettanto buoni dei tuoi.”
“Esatto,” rispose lui, accendendo una sigaretta e sdraiandosi in poltrona. “Tu vedi le cose, ma non le osservi attentamente. La differenza è evidente. Ad esempio, hai sicuramente visto molte volte i gradini che portano da questo corridoio alla stanza, ”
“Molte volte.”
“Quante volte?”
“Beh, alcune centinaia, direi.”
“Allora quanti sono in totale?”
“Quanti? Non lo so.”
“Esatto! Non hai osservato. Eppure li hai visti. Questo è proprio il punto. Io, invece, so che ci sono diciassette gradini, perché li ho visti e osservati attentamente. A proposito, poiché sei interessato a questi piccoli enigmi, e dato che sei abbastanza gentile da registrare alcune delle mie esperienze banali, potresti essere interessato anche a questa.” Mi passò un foglio di carta spessa, dal colore rosa pallido, che giaceva aperto sul tavolo. “È arrivato con l’ultima posta,” disse. “Leggilo ad alta voce.”
La nota non aveva data, né firma né indirizzo.
“Stasera, alle sette e quindici, qualcuno verrà a trovarti, un gentiluomo che desidera consultarti su una questione di estrema importanza. I tuoi recenti servizi a una delle case reali d’Europa hanno dimostrato che puoi essere affidato a compiti di grande rilevanza. Abbiamo ricevuto informazioni positive su di te da tutte le parti. Presentati nella tua stanza alle sette e quindici, e non prendertela se il tuo visitatore indosserà una maschera.”
“Questo è davvero un mistero, ” commentai. “Cosa pensi che significhi?”
“Non ho ancora informazioni sufficienti. È un errore grave formulare teorie prima di disporre dei dati necessari. Inconsapevolmente, si inizia a manipolare i fatti per farli adattare alle proprie ipotesi, invece di adattare le ipotesi ai fatti. Ma la nota stessa. Cosa ne deduci?”
Esaminai attentamente la scrittura e il foglio su cui era stata trascritta. “Il uomo che l’ha scritta probabilmente era piuttosto benestante,” osservai, cercando di imitare i modi di fare del mio compagno. “Un foglio del genere non si può comprare per meno di mezza corona al pacchetto. È particolarmente resistente e rigido.”
“Particolare. Esattamente la parola giusta,” disse Holmes. “Non è affatto carta inglese. Tienila davanti alla luce.”
Così feci, e vidi nella trama del foglio una grande “E” con una piccola “g”, una “P” e una grande “G” con una piccola “t”.
“Cosa ne pensi?” chiese Holmes.
“Senza dubbio il nome del produttore, o meglio, il suo monogramma.”
“Niente affatto. La ‘G’ con la piccola ‘t’ sta per ‘Gesellschaft’, che in tedesco significa ‘Compagnia’. È una contrazione comune, simile al nostro ‘Co.’ La ‘P’, naturalmente, sta per ‘Papier’. Ora, quella ‘Eg.’. Diamo un’occhiata al nostro dizionario geografico continentale.” Prese un grosso volume marrone dagli scaffali. “Eglow, Eglonitz, eccoci qua: Egria. Si trova in una regione di lingua tedesca, in Boemia, non lontano da Karlovy Vary. ‘Nota soprattutto per essere il luogo della morte di Wallenstein, oltre che per le numerose sue fabbriche di vetro e cartiere.’ Ah ah. Cosa ne pensi?” I suoi occhi brillavano mentre esalava una grande boccata di fumo dalla sigaretta.
“La carta è stata prodotta in Boemia,” dissi.
“Esatto. E l’uomo che ha scritto quel biglietto è tedesco. Noti la struttura particolare della frase: ‘Queste informazioni su di te ci sono arrivate da tutte le parti.’ Un francese o un russo non avrebbe potuto scrivere così. È proprio il tedesco a essere così scortese nei confronti dei verbi. Resta solo scoprire cosa vuole questo tedesco che scrive su carta boema e preferisce nascondere il proprio volto dietro una maschera. E eccolo qui, se non mi sbaglio, per risolvere tutti i nostri dubbi.”
Mentre parlava, si udì il rumore nitido degli zoccoli dei cavalli e lo stridio delle ruote sui ciottoli; poi qualcuno bussò con forza alla porta. Holmes fischiò.
“Una coppia, a giudicare dal rumore,” disse. “Sì, ” continuò, guardando fuori dalla finestra. “Un grazioso piccolo calesino e due bellissime cavalle. Centocinquanta ghinee l’una. In questo caso c’è del denaro in gioco, Watson, anche se forse non solo.”
“Credo che sia meglio che vada, Holmes, ”
“Assolutamente no, Dottore. Resta qui. Senza di te sarei perso. E questa situazione promette di essere interessante. Sarebbe un peccato perderla.”
“Ma il tuo cliente, ”
“Lascialo stare. Potrei aver bisogno del tuo aiuto, e forse anche lui. Ecco che arriva. Siediti in quella poltrona, Dottore, e prestaci tutta la tua attenzione.”
Si udì un passo lento e pesante sulle scale e nel corridoio; poi qualcuno bussò di nuovo alla porta con forza.
“Entra!” disse Holmes. Un uomo entrò; doveva essere alto almeno sei piedi e sei pollici, con un torace e delle membra da Ercole. Il suo abbigliamento era sontuoso in modo che, in Inghilterra, sarebbe stato considerato di cattivo gusto. Spesse strisce di astrakhan erano applicate sulle maniche e sulla parte anteriore del suo soprabito a doppio petto; il mantello blu scuro che gli copriva le spalle era foderato di seta color fuoco e fissato al collo da un broccia costituito da un unico berillo fiammeggiante. Stivali che gli arrivavano a metà polpaccio, con la parte superiore decorata di pelliccia marrone scuro, completavano l’impressione di una ricchezza barbarica che il suo aspetto complessivo trasmetteva. Teneva in mano un cappello a tesa larga e indossava sul viso, che si estendeva oltre le guance, una maschera nera; evidentemente l’aveva appena sistemata, poiché la sua mano era ancora posata su di essa mentre entrava. La parte inferiore del suo viso rivelava un uomo dal carattere deciso: labbra spesse e pendule, mento lungo e dritto, che suggerivano una risolutezza quasi ostinata.
“Avete ricevuto la mia nota?” chiese con voce profonda e roca, con un forte accento tedesco. “Vi avevo detto che avrei chiamato.” Ci guardò uno dopo l’altro, come se non fosse sicuro a chi rivolgersi.
“Prego, si sieda,” disse Holmes. “Questo è il mio amico e collega, il dottor Watson, che di tanto in tanto mi aiuta nei miei casi. A chi ho l’onore di parlare?”
“Potete chiamarmi conte Von Kramm, un nobile boemo. So che questo signore, vostro amico, è una persona onesta e discreta, su cui posso fare affidamento per una questione di estrema importanza. Altrimenti, preferirei parlare solo con voi.”
Mi alzai per andarmene, ma Holmes mi afferrò per il polso e mi spinse di nuovo a sedere. “O tutto o niente,” disse. “Potete dire davanti a questo signore qualsiasi cosa direste a me.”
Il conte scrollò le spalle. “Allora devo iniziare,” disse, “imponendovi entrambi il segreto assoluto per due anni; al termine di quel periodo, la questione non avrà più importanza. Per ora, posso dire che è così grave da poter influenzare la storia europea.”
“Prometto,” disse Holmes.
“E anch’io.”
“Perdonate questa maschera,” continuò il nostro strano visitatore. “La persona che mi paga desidera che il suo agente rimanga sconosciuto a voi. Devo ammettere che il titolo con cui mi sono appena presentato non è esattamente il mio vero nome.”
“Lo sapevo,” disse Holmes in tono secco.
“Le circostanze sono molto delicate; bisogna prendere tutte le precauzioni possibili per evitare uno scandalo enorme che potrebbe compromettere gravemente una delle famiglie regnanti d’Europa. Per essere chiaro, la questione riguarda la nobile casata degli Ormstein, re ereditari della Boemia.”
“Lo sapevo anche questo,” mormorò Holmes, sistemandosi nella sua poltrona e chiudendo gli occhi. Il nostro visitatore lanciò uno sguardo di evidente sorpresa verso quella figura languida e distesa dell’uomo che, senza dubbio, gli era stato descritto come il ragionatore più acuto e l’agente più energico d’Europa. Holmes riaprì lentamente gli occhi e guardò con impazienza il suo enorme cliente.
“Se Vostra Maestà volesse avere la gentilezza di esporre il vostro problema,” disse, “potrei consigliarvi meglio.”
L’uomo balzò in piedi e cominciò a camminare avanti e indietro nella stanza, preso da un’agitazione incontrollabile. Poi, con un gesto di disperazione, strappò la maschera dal viso e la gettò a terra. “Avete ragione,” gridò; “io sono il Re. Perché dovrei cercare di nasconderlo?”
“Perché mai?” mormorò Holmes. “Vostra Maestà non aveva ancora parlato, quando mi resi conto che stavo parlando con Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Gran Duca di Cassel-Felstein e Re ereditario della Boemia.” “Ma potete capire,” disse il nostro strano visitatore, sedendosi di nuovo e passandosi la mano sulla sua alta fronte bianca, “potete capire che non sono abituato a occuparmi personalmente di simili affari. Tuttavia, la questione era così delicata che non potevo affidarla a nessun intermediario senza esporre me stesso al suo potere. Sono venuto da Praga in incognito proprio per consultarvi.”
“Allora, vi prego, consultate pure,” disse Holmes, chiudendo di nuovo gli occhi.
“I fatti sono questi: circa cinque anni fa, durante una lunga visita a Varsavia, ebbi l’occasione di conoscere la famosa avventuriera Irene Adler. Il nome vi sarà sicuramente noto.”
“Per favore, cercatela nel mio indice, dottore,” mormorò Holmes senza aprire gli occhi. Da molti anni utilizzava un sistema di catalogazione per tutti i documenti relativi a persone e fatti; quindi era impossibile nominare un argomento o una persona senza che potesse fornire immediatamente informazioni al riguardo. In questo caso, trovai la sua biografia inserita tra quella di un rabbino ebraico e quella di un comandante navale che aveva scritto una monografia sui pesci d’acqua profonda. “Lasciatemi vedere!” disse Holmes. “Hmm. Nato nel New Jersey nel 1858. Contralto. La Scala. Prima donna dell’Opera Imperiale di Varsavia. Sì! Si è ritirato dalle scene operistiche. Vive a Londra. Esatto! Vostra Maestà, da quanto capisco, si è implicata in questa situazione con questa giovane donna, le ha scritto alcune lettere compromettenti e ora desidera riaverle indietro.”
“Esattamente. Ma come, ”
“C’è stata un’unione segreta?”
“No.”
“Nessun documento legale o certificato?”
“Nessuno.”
“Allora non capisco, Vostra Maestà. Se questa giovane donna dovesse presentare quelle lettere per ricattarvi o per altri scopi, come potrebbe provare la loro autenticità?”
“C’è la mia calligrafia, ”
“Pff. Falsificazione.”
“Il mio cartaio personale, ”
“Rubato.”
“The mia stessa firma, ”
“Imitata.”
“La mia fotografia, ”
“Comprata.”
“Siamo entrambi nella fotografia, ”
“Oh, cielo. Questo è molto grave! Vostra Maestà ha davvero commesso un errore.”
“Ero pazzo. Folle, ”
“Vi siete messa in una situazione molto pericolosa, ”
“Allora ero solo Principe Ereditario. Ero giovane. Ora ho soltanto trent’anni.” “Deve essere recuperata.”
“Abbiamo provato, ma senza successo.”
“Sua Maestà deve pagare. Deve essere comprata.”
“Non la venderà mai.”
“Allora è stata rubata, ”
“Sono stati fatti cinque tentativi: due volte dei ladri assoldati da me hanno saccheggiato la sua casa; una volta abbiamo deviato i suoi bagagli durante un viaggio; altre due volte è stata assalita lungo la strada. Nessun risultato.”
“Nessuna traccia?”
“Assolutamente nessuna.”
Holmes rise. “È davvero un piccolo problema piuttosto interessante,” disse.
“Ma per me è molto grave,” rispose il Re in tono di rimprovero.
“Molto, davvero. E cosa intende fare con quella fotografia?”
“Rovinarmi.”
“Ma come?”
“Sto per sposarmi, ”
“Lo so.”
“Con Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, seconda figlia del Re di Scandinavia. Conoscete sicuramente i rigidi principi della sua famiglia. Lei stessa è l’incarnazione della delicatezza. Qualsiasi dubbio sul mio comportamento significherebbe la fine di tutto.”
“E Irene Adler?” “Minaccia di inviargli la fotografia. E lo farà. So che lo farà. Voi non la conoscete, ma lei ha un’anima d’acciaio. Ha il viso della donna più bella e la mente dell’uomo più risoluto. Piuttosto che io sposassi un’altra donna, non esistono limiti che lei non sia disposta a superare. Nessun limite.”
“Siete sicuro che non l’abbia ancora inviata?”
“Ne sono sicuro.”
“E perché?”
“Perché ha detto che l’avrebbe inviata il giorno in cui la promessa di matrimonio verrà annunciata pubblicamente. Sarà lunedì prossimo.”
“Oh, allora abbiamo ancora tre giorni,” disse Holmes sbadigliando. “È molto fortunato. In questo momento ho un paio di questioni importanti da risolvere. Vostra Maestà rimarrà certamente a Londra per il momento, vero?”
“Certo. Mi troverete all’Langham, sotto il nome di Conte Von Kramm.”
“Allora vi scriverò per farvi sapere come procediamo.”
“Per favore. Sarò molto ansioso di ricevere notizie.”
“E riguardo al denaro?”
“Avevate carta bianca.”
“Assolutamente?”
“Vi dico che darei una delle province del mio regno pur di ottenere quella fotografia.”
“E per le spese immediate?” Il Re prese da sotto il suo mantello un pesante sacco di pelle di camoscio e lo posò sul tavolo.
“Ci sono trecento libbre d’oro e settecento in banconote,” disse.
Holmes scrisse una ricevuta su un foglio del suo taccuino e gliela porse.
“E l’indirizzo di Mademoiselle?” chiese.
“È Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.”
Holmes lo annotò. “Un’ultima domanda,” disse. “Quella fotografia era in una cornice?”
“Sì.”
“Allora, buonanotte, Vostra Maestà. Spero che presto avremo buone notizie per voi. E buonanotte, Watson,” aggiunse mentre le ruote della carrozza reale si allontanavano lungo la strada. “Se foste così gentile da venire da me domani pomeriggio alle tre, vorrei discutere ancora un po’ di questa questione con voi.” Erano quasi le quattro quando la porta si aprì; un cocchiere dall’aspetto ubriaco, trasandato e con la barba incolta, il viso arrossato e vestiti poco dignitosi entrò nella stanza. Essendo abituato alle straordinarie capacità di mio amico nell’uso dei travestimenti, dovetti guardarlo tre volte prima di essere sicuro che fosse davvero lui. Con un cenno della testa scomparve nella camera da letto e ne uscì cinque minuti dopo, vestito con abiti di tweed e dignitoso come al solito. Mettendosi le mani in tasca, allungò le gambe davanti al fuoco e rise a crepapelle per alcuni minuti.
“Beh, davvero!” esclamò, poi scoppiò di nuovo a ridere fino a quando non dovette sdraiarsi, privo di forze, sulla sedia.
“Che c’è?”
“È troppo divertente. Sono sicuro che non riuscireste mai a indovinare come ho trascorso la mattina, o cosa ho finito per fare.”
“Non riesco proprio a immaginarlo. Immagino che abbiate osservato le abitudini, e forse anche la casa, di Miss Irene Adler, ”
“Esatto; ma la conseguenza è stata piuttosto insolita. Vi racconterò tutto. Questa mattina, poco dopo le otto, sono uscito di casa travestito da cocchiere disoccupato. C’è una strana solidarietà tra i lavoratori del settore equino. Se fai parte di loro, scopri tutto ciò che c’è da sapere. Ho presto trovato la Briony Lodge: è una piccola villa con un giardino sul retro, ma costruita in modo che il davanti arrivasse fino alla strada; due piani. La porta era chiusa a chiave. Nella stanza principale c’erano mobili eleganti, grandi finestre quasi fino al pavimento, e quei ridicoli sistemi di chiusura inglesi che anche un bambino potrebbe aprire. Dietro non c’era nulla di particolare, tranne il fatto che dalla parte superiore della stalla si poteva raggiungere la finestra del corridoio. L’ho esaminata attentamente da tutti i punti di vista, ma non ho notato nulla d’interessante, ” “Poi mi distesi lungo la strada e, come mi aspettavo, trovai un vicolo che correva lungo uno dei muri del giardino. Aiutai gli stallieri a pulire i loro cavalli e in cambio ricevetti due penny, un bicchiere di panna fresca, due tazze di tabacco da fiuto, e tutte le informazioni che desideravo su Miss Adler, per non parlare di altre mezza dozzina di persone del quartiere di cui non mi interessava affatto, ma le cui storie fui costretto ad ascoltare.”
“E cosa ne è stato di Irene Adler?” chiesi. “Oh, ha fatto perdere la testa a tutti gli uomini di quella zona. È davvero la donna più deliziosa che esista su questo pianeta. Vive in tranquillità, canta ai concerti, esce alle cinque ogni giorno e rientra puntualmente alle sette per cena. Raramente esce in altri momenti, tranne quando canta. Ha soltanto un visitatore maschile, ma uno che la frequenta molto spesso: è un uomo scuro di pelle, bello e affascinante; telefona almeno una volta al giorno, spesso anche due. Si chiama Mr. Godfrey Norton, del Inner Temple. Vedete quali vantaggi possa offrire un tassista come confidente? L’hanno accompagnato a casa un’infinità di volte da Serpentine-mews e conoscevano tutto di lui. Dopo aver ascoltato quello che avevano da raccontare, ho iniziato di nuovo a passeggiare avanti e indietro vicino a Briony Lodge, riflettendo sul mio piano d’azione.” “Questo Godfrey Norton era evidentemente un fattore importante in questa faccenda. Era un avvocato. Il che suonava minaccioso. Qual era la loro relazione, e qual era lo scopo delle sue ripetute visite? Era sua cliente, sua amica o sua amante? Se la prima ipotesi fosse vera, probabilmente le aveva affidato la fotografia. Ma se fosse stata l’ultima, sembrava meno probabile. Dalla risposta a questa domanda dipendeva se dovessi continuare il mio lavoro a Briony Lodge o rivolgere la mia attenzione agli uffici di quell’avvocato nel Temple. Era una questione delicata, e ampliava notevolmente l’ambito delle mie indagini. Temo di avervi annoiato con questi dettagli, ma devo farvi comprendere le piccole difficoltà che incontro se voglio capire veramente la situazione, ”
“Vi seguo attentamente,” risposi.
“Stavo ancora valutando la questione quando un cab si fermò davanti a Briony Lodge; ne scese un signore. Un uomo estremamente attraente, di pelle scura, con lineamenti affilati e baffi ben curati. Chiaramente l’uomo di cui avevo sentito parlare. Sembrava avere molta fretta: gridò al conducente di aspettare e superò la cameriera che aprì la porta con l’aria di chi si sente completamente a proprio agio in quel luogo.” “È rimasto in casa per circa mezz’ora; riuscivo a intravederlo dalle finestre del salotto: camminava avanti e indietro, parlava con eccitazione e gesticolava con le braccia. Di lei, invece, non vedevo nulla. Poco dopo uscì, ancora più agitato di prima. Mentre saliva in cabina, tirò fuori un orologio d’oro dalla tasca e lo guardò attentamente; poi gridò: ‘Guida come il diavolo! Prima a Gross & Hankey’s in Regent Street, poi alla Church of St. Monica in Edgeware Road. Mezza ghinea se ci arrivi in venti minuti!’” “Se ne andarono, e io stavo proprio pensando se non dovesse essere una buona idea seguirli, quando lungo la strada apparve una graziosa piccola carrozza: il cocchiere aveva il cappotto solo parzialmente abbottonato e la cravatta sotto l’orecchio; tutti i nastri del suo equipaggiamento spuntavano fuori dalle fibbie. Prima che potesse fermarsi, lei uscì di corsa dalla porta d’ingresso e salì sulla carrozza. Vidi solo un attimo il suo viso, ma era davvero una donna incantevole, “‘Chiesa di Santa Monica,’ gridò, ‘e mezzo sovrano se ci arrivi in venti minuti.’“ Era un’occasione troppo ghiotta da perdere, Watson. Stavo ancora decidendo se correre dietro di loro o sedermi sul retro della carrozza, quando passò una vettura a noleggio. Il conducente guardò con scetticismo quella vettura così malandata, ma io saltai dentro prima che potesse obiettare: ‘Chiesa di Santa Monica, e mezzo sovrano se ci arrivate in venti minuti.’ Erano le dodici meno venticinque. Era ovvio cosa sarebbe successo. Il conducente accelerò al massimo, ma arrivammo dopo gli altri. La carrozza e la vettura a noleggio con i cavalli sudati erano già davanti alla porta della chiesa quando arrivai. Pagai il conducente e entrai di corsa nella chiesa. Non c’era nessuno, tranne le due persone che avevo seguito e un prete in abito da cerimonia che sembrava stesse discutendo con loro. Erano tutti e tre raggruppati davanti all’altare. Mi avvicinai lentamente lungo il corridoio laterale, come qualsiasi altro ozioso che entri in chiesa per caso. All’improvviso, con mia grande sorpresa, i tre si girarono verso di me. Godfrey Norton corse verso di me a tutta velocità, ‘Grazie a Dio!’ gridò. ‘Ce la farai. Vieni, vieni!’ ‘E poi?’ chiesi. ‘Vieni, uomo, solo altri tre minuti, altrimenti non sarà legale, ’ Fui trascinato davanti all’altare. Prima ancora di rendermi conto di cosa stesse succedendo, iniziai a ripetere frasi sussurrate all’orecchio mio, ad affermare cose di cui non sapevo nulla. Insomma, aiutai a legare Irene Adler, zitella, a Godfrey Norton, scapolo. Tutto avvenne in un istante. Il signore mi ringraziò da una parte, la signora dall’altra. Il prete sorrideva felice davanti a me. Era la situazione più assurda in cui mi fossi mai trovato nella mia vita. E proprio pensandoci ho iniziato a ridere. A quanto pare, c’era qualche problema con il loro certificato di matrimonio. Il prete si rifiutava assolutamente di celebrare il matrimonio senza un testimone. E la mia fortunata apparizione salvò lo sposo dal dover andare in giro per le strade alla ricerca di un testimone. La sposa mi diede un sovrano. Intendo metterlo sulla catena dell’orologio, in memoria di quell’evento, ”
“È davvero una svolta inaspettata degli eventi. E poi?” chiesi. “Beh, ho trovato i miei piani seriamente minacciati. Sembrava che quei due potessero partire immediatamente, quindi era necessario che io prendessi misure immediate ed energiche. Tuttavia, alla porta della chiesa si separarono: lui tornò al Tempio, mentre lei andò a casa sua. ‘Uscirò nel parco alle cinque, come al solito,’ disse prima di lasciarlo. Non ho saputo più nulla dopo. Se ne andarono in direzioni diverse, e io andai a fare i miei preparativi.”
“Quali preparativi?”
“Un po’ di carne fredda e una birra,” rispose, suonando il campanello. “Sono stato troppo occupato per pensare al cibo, e probabilmente lo sarò ancora stasera. A proposito, dottore, avrò bisogno del suo aiuto.”
“Con piacere.”
“Non le dispiace infrangere la legge?”
“Per niente.”
“Nemmeno correre il rischio di essere arrestato?”
“Non per una buona causa.”
“Oh, è davvero una causa eccellente!”
“Allora posso contare su di lei.”
“Ero sicuro che potessi fare affidamento su di lei.”
“Ma di cosa ha bisogno esattamente?”
“Quando la signora Turner porterà il vassoio, le spiegherò tutto. Ora,” disse, rivolgendo uno sguardo affamato al semplice pasto che ci aveva preparato la padrona di casa, “devo discuterne mentre mangio. Non ho molto tempo. Sono quasi le cinque; tra due ore dobbiamo essere sul posto. La signorina Irene, o meglio, la signora, tornerà dal suo giro alle sette. Dobbiamo essere a Briony Lodge ad aspettarla.”
“E poi?”
“Lasci che me ne occupi io. Ho già pianificato tutto. C’è solo un punto su cui devo insistere: non deve intervenire, per nulla. Capisce?”
“Devo rimanere neutrale?”
“Assolutamente niente. Probabilmente ci saranno alcuni piccoli imprevisti. Non si immischi. Alla fine, verrò portato dentro la casa. Quattro o cinque minuti dopo, la finestra del salotto si aprirà. Deve mettersi vicino a quella finestra.”
“Sì.”
“Deve osservarmi. Sarò visibile per lei.”
“Sì.”
“E quando alzerò la mano, lei dovrà gettare dentro la stanza ciò che le dirò di gettare, e contemporaneamente gridare ‘al fuoco’! Ha capito?”
“Del tutto.”
“Non è niente di particolarmente pericoloso,” disse, tirando fuori dalla tasca un lungo rotolo a forma di sigaro. “È una semplice ‘fionda fumogena’ da idraulico, con due estremità che si accendono automaticamente. Il suo compito è solo quello. Quando griderà ‘al fuoco’, molte persone seguiranno il suo esempio. Può andare fino alla fine della strada; la raggiungerò tra dieci minuti. Spero di essere stato chiaro, ”
“Devo rimanere neutrale, avvicinarmi alla finestra, osservarla, e al segnale gettare quell’oggetto dentro la stanza, poi gridare ‘al fuoco’ e aspettarla all’angolo della strada.”
“Esatto.”
“Allora può contare completamente su di me.”
“È ottimo. Penso che sia quasi ora di prepararmi al nuovo ruolo che dovrò interpretare, ” Erano le sei e un quarto quando lasciammo Baker Street, e mancavano ancora dieci minuti all’ora in cui saremmo arrivati a Serpentine Avenue. Era già calato il crepuscolo, e le luci stavano appena venendo accese mentre camminavamo avanti e indietro davanti a Briony Lodge, in attesa dell’arrivo della sua occupante. La casa era esattamente come l’avevo immaginata dalla descrizione succinta di Sherlock Holmes, ma il luogo sembrava meno riservato di quanto mi aspettassi. Al contrario, per essere una piccola strada in un quartiere tranquillo, era sorprendentemente animata: c’era un gruppo di uomini vestiti in modo trasandato che fumavano e ridevano in un angolo, un tagliaunghi con la sua ruota, due guardie che flirtavano con una infermiera, e diversi giovani ben vestiti che se ne stavano sdraiati avanti e indietro con le sigarette in bocca.
“Vedi,” osservò Holmes mentre camminavamo avanti e indietro davanti alla casa, “questo matrimonio semplifica un po’ le cose. La fotografia diventa ora uno strumento a doppio taglio: è probabile che lei sia altrettanto riluttante che il nostro cliente nel farla vedere a Mr. Godfrey Norton. Ora la domanda è, dove possiamo trovarla?”
“Dove, davvero?”
“È molto improbabile che la porti con sé. È di dimensioni considerevoli; troppo grande per essere nascosta facilmente sotto il vestito di una donna. Sa che il Re potrebbe farla fermare e perquisire. Ne sono già stati fatti due tentativi del genere. Quindi, possiamo presumere che non la porti con sé.”
“Dove, allora?”
“Forse presso il suo banchiere o il suo avvocato. Ci sono queste due possibilità. Ma tendo a escluderle entrambe. Le donne sono naturalmente riservate e preferiscono gestire da sole i propri segreti. Perché dovrebbe affidarla ad altri? Potrebbe fidarsi della propria protezione, ma non sa quali influenze indirette o politiche potrebbero intervenire in una questione del genere. Inoltre, ricorda che aveva deciso di usarla entro pochi giorni. Deve essere quindi dove può trovarla facilmente. Deve essere nella sua stessa casa, ”
“Ma la casa è stata rapinata due volte, ”
“Pah! Non sapevano come cercare, ”
“E tu, come farai a trovarla?”
“Non cercherò io, ”
“Allora, come?”
“La farò mostrarmela lei, ”
“Ma rifiuterà, ”
“Non potrà rifiutare. Ascolta. Si sente il rumore delle ruote. È la sua carrozza. Ora esegui fedelmente i miei ordini.” Mentre parlava, il bagliore delle luci laterali di una carrozza apparve all’angolo dell’avenue. Era un grazioso piccolo landau che si fermò davanti alla porta della Briony Lodge. Mentre si avvicinava, uno dei vagabondi all’angolo corse ad aprire la porta nella speranza di guadagnare qualche penny, ma fu spinto via da un altro vagabondo che era arrivato con lo stesso scopo. Scaturì una violenta lite, alimentata dai due guardie che presero le parti di uno dei vagabondi e dal tagliaunghie, altrettanto deciso a sostenere l’altro. Fu sferrato un colpo, e in un istante la signora, appena scesa dalla carrozza, si trovò al centro di un gruppo di uomini pallidi e impegnati nella lotta, che si colpivano selvaggiamente con pugni e bastoni. Holmes si precipitò nella folla per proteggere la signora; ma appena le arrivò vicino, emise un grido e cadde a terra, il sangue che gli scorreva copiosamente sul viso. Alla sua caduta, i due guardie fuggirono in una direzione, mentre i vagabondi nell’altra; intanto, alcune persone più ben vestite, che avevano osservato la rissa senza parteciparvi, si affollarono intorno per aiutare la signora e curare l’uomo ferito. Irene Adler, come continuerò a chiamarla, aveva affrettato il passo su per le scale; ma si fermò in cima, la sua splendida figura stagliata contro la luce del corridoio, guardando indietro verso la strada. “Quel povero signore è gravemente ferito?” chiese lei.
“È morto,” gridarono diverse voci.
“No, no, c’è ancora vita in lui!” urlò un altro. “Ma morirà prima che riusciate a portarlo in ospedale.”
“È un uomo coraggioso,” disse una donna. “Se non fosse stato per lui, avrebbero preso la borsa e l’orologio della signora. Erano una banda, e per di più molto violenta. Ah, ora sta respirando, ”
“Non può rimanere per strada. Possiamo portarlo dentro, per favore?”
“Certo. Portatelo nel salotto. C’è un divano comodo. Da questa parte, per favore!” Lentamente e solennemente lo portarono nella Briony Lodge e lo adagiarono nella stanza principale; io continuavo a osservare tutto da dove mi trovavo, vicino alla finestra. Le lampade erano accese, ma le tende non erano state tirate giù, quindi potevo vedere Holmes sdraiato sul divano. Non so se in quel momento provasse rimorso per il ruolo che stava svolgendo, ma so di certo che non mi sono mai sentita così profondamente in colpa in tutta la mia vita come quando vidi quella bellissima donna contro cui stavo complottando, e la grazia e la gentilezza con cui si prendeva cura dell’uomo ferito. Eppure, ritirarsi ora dal compito che Holmes mi aveva affidato sarebbe stato il tradimento più spregevole possibile. Mi resi forte nel cuore e presi il razzo fumogeno nascosto sotto il mio cappotto. Dopotutto, pensai, non la stiamo facendo del male. Stiamo solo impedendole di farne a qualcun altro. Holmes si era alzato sul divano; lo vidi fare dei gesti come se avesse bisogno d’aria. Una cameriera corse subito ad aprire la finestra. Nello stesso istante lo vidi alzare la mano, e su quel segnale gettai la mia “razzaia” nella stanza gridando “Fuoco!”. Non appena quelle parole uscirono dalla mia bocca, l’intera folla di spettatori – signori, stallieri e cameriere – iniziò a urlare “Fuoco!”. dense nuvole di fumo si diffusero nella stanza e fuori dalla finestra aperta. Intravidi delle figure che correvano avanti e indietro; poco dopo la voce di Holmes dall’interno rassicurò tutti che si trattava di un falso allarme. In mezzo a quel clamore, raggiunsi l’angolo della strada; dieci minuti dopo fui felice di ritrovare il braccio del mio amico e di allontanarmi da quel luogo di confusione. Camminò velocemente e in silenzio per qualche minuto, fino a quando non svoltammo in una delle strade tranquille che portano verso Edgeware Road.
“Hai fatto molto bene, dottore,” disse. “Non avrebbe potuto andare meglio. Tutto è a posto.”
“Hai la fotografia?”
“So dove si trova.”
“E come l’hai scoperta?”
“Me l’ha mostrata, proprio come ti avevo detto che avrebbe fatto.”
“Per me è ancora un mistero, ”
“Non voglio creare suspense,” rispose ridendo. “È stato tutto molto semplice. Ovviamente hai notato che tutte le persone presenti in strada erano complici: erano state assunte apposta per quella sera.”
“L’avevo immaginato, ”
“Allora, quando è scoppiata la rissa, avevo un po’ di vernice rossa umida nella mano. Sono corso avanti, sono caduto a terra, mi sono coperto il viso con la mano. E ho creato uno spettacolo patetico. È un vecchio trucco.”
“Anche quello me lo aspettavo, ”
“Allora mi hanno portato dentro. Lei doveva assolutamente tenermi lì. Cosa avrebbe potuto fare altrimenti? Mi hanno portato nel suo salotto. Proprio la stanza che sospettavo. Era tra il salotto e la sua camera da letto. E io volevo assolutamente scoprire quale fosse. Mi hanno messo su un divano, ho fatto finta di aver bisogno d’aria. Hanno dovuto aprire la finestra. E tu hai avuto la tua opportunità, ”
“Come ti è stato utile tutto questo?” “Era di fondamentale importanza. Quando una donna pensa che la sua casa stia bruciando, il suo istinto è immediatamente quello di correre verso ciò che le è più prezioso. È un impulso davvero irresistibile, e io ne ho approfittato più volte. Nel caso dello scandalo legato alla sostituzione dei documenti a Darlington, come anche nell’affare del castello di Arnsworth, questo principio si è rivelato utile. Una donna sposata afferra il proprio bambino; una single cerca subito la sua scatola dei gioielli. Ora era chiaro che, nella casa di questa signora, non c’era nulla di più prezioso di ciò che stavamo cercando. Lei avrebbe fatto di tutto per proteggerlo. L’allarme incendiario era stato realizzato in modo impeccabile: il fumo e le grida erano sufficienti a far tremare anche i nervi più saldi. Lei ha reagito alla perfezione. La fotografia si trovava in un nascondiglio, dietro una lastra scorrevole appena sopra la campanella di destra; lei è arrivata lì in un attimo, e io ho intravisto la foto mentre la tirava fuori. Quando ho gridato che si trattava di un falso allarme, lei l’ha rimessa a posto, ha dato un’occhiata alla “razza di razzi” utilizzata per l’allarme e se n’è andata. Da allora non l’ho più vista. Mi sono alzato e, scusandomi in qualche modo, sono fuggito dalla casa.” Esitavo se tentare di ottenere quella fotografia subito; ma il cocchiere era entrato e, poiché mi osservava con attenzione, sembrava più sicuro aspettare. Un po’ di precipitazione avrebbe potuto rovinare tutto. “E ora?” chiesi.
“Il nostro compito è praticamente terminato. Domani chiamerò il Re, e anche te, se vuoi venire con noi. Ci faranno entrare nel salotto ad aspettare la signora, ma è probabile che quando arriverà non troverà né noi né la fotografia. Potrebbe essere una soddisfazione per Sua Maestà riconquistarla con le sue stesse mani.”
“E quando chiamerai?”
“All’otto di mattina. Lei non sarà ancora sveglia, quindi avremo tutto il tempo che ci serve. Inoltre dobbiamo essere rapidi: questo matrimonio potrebbe significare un cambiamento totale nella sua vita e nei suoi abitudini. Devo telegrafiare al Re senza indugio.”
Eravamo arrivati in Baker Street e ci eravamo fermati davanti alla porta. Lui stava cercando le chiavi nelle tasche quando qualcuno che passava disse:
“Buonanotte, signor Sherlock Holmes.”
C’erano diverse persone sul marciapiede in quel momento, ma sembrava che l’appello provenisse da un giovane snello con un ulster che era appena passato di corsa.
“Ho già sentito quella voce,” disse Holmes, guardando lungo la strada poco illuminata. “Ora mi chiedo, chi diavolo potrebbe essere, ”
III.
Quella notte dormii a Baker Street, e la mattina, mentre stavamo mangiando il pane tostato e bevendo il caffè, il Re di Boemia irruppe nella stanza. “Ce l’hai davvero fatta!” esclamò, afferrando Sherlock Holmes per entrambe le spalle e guardandolo con ansia negli occhi.
“Non ancora.”
“Ma hai delle speranze?”
“Ho delle speranze.”
“Allora vieni. Non vedo l’ora di partire.”
“Dobbiamo prendere una cabina.”
“No, il mio brougham ci aspetta.”
“Allora andrà tutto più facilmente.” Scendemmo e ripartimmo verso Briony Lodge.
“Irene Adler è sposata,” osservò Holmes.
“Sposata! Quando?”
“Ieri.”
“Ma con chi?”
“Con un avvocato inglese di nome Norton.”
“Ma non poteva amarlo, ”
“Spero proprio che lo ami.” “E perché mai sperare?”
“Perché così Vostra Maestà potrebbe evitare ogni futuro dispiacere. Se la signora ama suo marito, non ama Vostra Maestà. Se non ama Vostra Maestà, non c’è motivo che interferisca nei piani di Vostra Maestà.”
“È vero. Eppure. Ah! Vorrei tanto che fosse della mia stessa condizione sociale! Che regina sarebbe stata!” Ripiombò in un silenzio malinconico, che non fu interrotto fino a quando non arrivammo in Serpentine Avenue.
La porta di Briony Lodge era aperta; una donna anziana ci aspettava sulle scale, osservandoci con uno sguardo sarcastico mentre scendevamo dal calesse.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, giusto?” disse.
“Sì, sono io,” rispose il mio compagno, guardandola con aria perplessa e sorpresa.
“Esatto! Mia padrona mi aveva detto che probabilmente sareste venuti. È partita stamattina con suo marito sul treno delle 5:15 da Charing Cross per l’Europa continentale.”
“Cosa!” Sherlock Holmes indietreggiò, pallido di rabbia e sorpresa. “Volete dire che ha lasciato l’Inghilterra?”
“Per non tornare mai più.”
“E i documenti?” chiese il Re con voce roca. “Tutto è perduto, ”
“ Vedremo, ” Superò la domestica e corse nel salotto, seguito dal Re e da me. I mobili erano sparsi dappertutto; gli scaffali erano stati smontati, i cassetti aperti. Sembrava che la signora li avesse frugati in fretta prima di fuggire. Holmes si precipitò verso il campanello, strappò via una piccola persiana e tirò fuori una fotografia e una lettera. La fotografia raffigurava Irene Adler in abito da sera; la lettera era indirizzata a “Sherlock Holmes, Esq. Da lasciare su richiesta”. Il mio amico l’aprì subito e noi tre la lessimo insieme. Era datata mezzanotte del giorno precedente e diceva così:
“Mio caro Mr. Sherlock Holmes, avete fatto davvero un ottimo lavoro. Mi avete completamente ingannata. Fino all’allarme per l’incendio, non avevo il minimo sospetto. Ma poi, quando ho capito di essermi tradita, ho iniziato a riflettere. Mi era stato detto mesi fa che, se il Re avesse assunto un agente, sareste sicuramente stato voi. E mi era stata data anche la vostra indirizzo. Eppure, nonostante tutto questo, siete riuscito a farmi rivelare ciò che volevate sapere. Anche dopo essermi insospettita, mi è stato difficile pensare male di un uomo così gentile e premuroso. Ma, come sapete, anch’io sono stata addestrata come attrice. Gli abiti da uomo non rappresentano nulla di nuovo per me. Spesso ne approfitto per godere della libertà che mi offrono. Ho mandato John, il cocchiere, a osservarvi, sono salita di sopra, ho indossato i miei vestiti da passeggio e sono scesa proprio nel momento in cui ve ne andavate. Beh, vi ho seguito fino alla porta, per assicurarmi davvero di essere l’oggetto dell’interesse del famoso Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Poi, piuttosto imprudentemente, vi ho augurato la buonanotte e sono andata al Temple a vedere mio marito, ” “Entrambi abbiamo ritenuto che la soluzione migliore fosse fuggire, di fronte a un avversario così temibile; quindi troverete il nido vuoto quando ci tornerete domani. Per quanto riguarda la fotografia, il vostro cliente può riposare in pace: io amo e sono amata da un uomo migliore di lui. Il Re può fare ciò che vuole, senza alcun ostacolo da parte di qualcuno che ha crudelmente ingiustiziato. La conservo soltanto per proteggermi e per disporre di un’arma che mi garantirà sicurezza in futuro. Vi lascio una fotografia che forse a lui piacerà possedere. E rimango, caro signor Sherlock Holmes,
“Vostro sinceramente devoto,
“IRENE NORTON, nata ADLER.”
“Che donna, oh, che donna!” esclamò il Re di Boemia dopo aver letto questa lettera. “Non vi avevo detto quanto fosse rapida e risoluta? Non sarebbe stata un’imperatrice straordinaria? È un peccato che non fosse alla mia stessa altezza, ”
“Da ciò che ho visto di lei, sembra davvero essere a un livello molto diverso da quello di Vostra Maestà,” disse freddamente Holmes. “Mi dispiace di non essere riuscito a portare a termine con successo la missione affidatami.” “Al contrario, mio caro signore,” esclamò il Re; “non potrebbe esserci nulla di più riuscito. So che la sua parola è inviolabile. La fotografia ora è al sicuro, come se fosse custodita nel fuoco stesso.”
“Sono felice di sentire Vostra Maestà dirlo.”
“Sono immensamente in debito con voi. Per favore, ditemi in che modo posso ricompensarvi. Questo anello, ” Estrasse un anello a forma di serpente smaltato di smeraldo dal proprio dito e lo tenne aperto nel palmo della mano.
“Vostra Maestà possiede qualcosa che io apprezzerei ancora di più,” disse Holmes.
“Dite pure.”
“Questa fotografia, ”
Il Re lo fissò, stupito.
“La fotografia di Irene!” esclamò. “Certamente, se lo desiderate.”
“Grazie, Vostra Maestà. Allora non c’è più nulla da fare in questa faccenda. Ho l’onore di augurarvi una buona mattina.” Si inchinò e, senza prendere l’anello che il Re gli tendeva, se ne andò con me verso le sue stanze. E così fu che un grande scandalo minacciò di colpire il regno della Boemia, e che i migliori piani del signor Sherlock Holmes furono vanificati dall’intelligenza di una donna. Solitamente scherzava sulla astuzia delle donne, ma ultimamente non l’ho più sentito farlo. E quando parla di Irene Adler, o menziona la sua fotografia, lo fa sempre con il rispetto dovuto a una donna onesta e meritevole.

THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me. “You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he said cordially. “I was afraid that you were engaged.” “So I am. Very much so.” “Then I can wait in the next room.” “Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also.” The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small fat-encircled eyes. “Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. “I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures.” “Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,” I observed. “You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination.” “A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.” “You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard, it is impossible for me to say whether the present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, unique.” The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the paper flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man and endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion, to read the indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance. I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd’s check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man save his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features. Sherlock Holmes’ quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances. “Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else.” Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion. “How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “How did you know, for example, that I did manual labour. It’s as true as gospel, for I began as a ship’s carpenter.” “Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more developed.” “Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?” “I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that, especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use an arc-and-compass breastpin.” “Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?” “What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where you rest it upon the desk?” “Well, but China?” “The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes’ scales of a delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter becomes even more simple.” Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I never!” said he. “I thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see that there was nothing in it after all.” “I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I make a mistake in explaining. ‘Omne ignotum pro magnifico,’ you know, and my poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?” “Yes, I have got it now,” he answered with his thick red finger planted halfway down the column. “Here it is. This is what began it all. You just read it for yourself, sir.” I took the paper from him and read as follows: “TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a salary of £4 a week for purely nominal services. All red-headed men who are sound in body and mind and above the age of twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.” “What on earth does this mean?” I ejaculated after I had twice read over the extraordinary announcement. Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in high spirits. “It is a little off the beaten track, isn’t it?” said he. “And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all about yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper and the date.” “It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago.” “Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?” “Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; “I have a small pawnbroker’s business at Coburg Square, near the City. It’s not a very large affair, and of late years it has not done more than just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to pay him but that he is willing to come for half wages so as to learn the business.” “What is the name of this obliging youth?” asked Sherlock Holmes. “His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not such a youth, either. It’s hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could better himself and earn twice what I am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?” “Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employé who comes under the full market price. It is not a common experience among employers in this age. I don’t know that your assistant is not as remarkable as your advertisement.” “Oh, he has his faults, too,” said Mr. Wilson. “Never was such a fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought to be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main fault, but on the whole he’s a good worker. There’s no vice in him.” “He is still with you, I presume?” “Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple cooking and keeps the place clean — that’s all I have in the house, for I am a widower and never had any family. We live very quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our debts, if we do nothing more. “The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight weeks, with this very paper in his hand, and he says: “ ’I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.’ “ ’Why that?’ I asks. “ ’Why,’ says he, ‘here’s another vacancy on the League of the Red-headed Men. It’s worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are men, so that the trustees are at their wits’ end what to do with the money. If my hair would only change colour, here’s a nice little crib all ready for me to step into.’ “ ’Why, what is it, then?’ I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn’t know much of what was going on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news. “ ’Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?’ he asked with his eyes open. “ ’Never.’ “ ’Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the vacancies.’ “ ’And what are they worth?’ I asked. “ ’Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and it need not interfere very much with one’s other occupations.’ “Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for the business has not been over good for some years, and an extra couple of hundred would have been very handy. “ ’Tell me all about it,’ said I. “ ’Well,’ said he, showing me the advertisement, ‘you can see for yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so, when he died, it was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose hair is of that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay and very little to do.’ “ ’But,’ said I, ‘there would be millions of red-headed men who would apply.’ “ ’Not so many as you might think,’ he answered. ‘You see it is really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.’ “Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if there was to be any competition in the matter I stood as good a chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for the day and to come right away with me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the business up and started off for the address that was given us in the advertisement. “I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope’s Court looked like a coster’s orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so many in the whole country as were brought together by that single advertisement. Every shade of colour they were — straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up to the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could and soon found ourselves in the office.” “Your experience has been a most entertaining one,” remarked Holmes as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff. “Pray continue your very interesting statement.” “There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that was even redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he came up, and then he always managed to find some fault in them which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy matter, after all. However, when our turn came the little man was much more favourable to me than to any of the others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he might have a private word with us. “ ’This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,’ said my assistant, ‘and he is willing to fill a vacancy in the League.’ “ ’And he is admirably suited for it,’ the other answered. ‘He has every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine.’ He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on my success. “ ’It would be injustice to hesitate,’ said he. ‘You will, however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.’ With that he seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the pain. ‘There is water in your eyes,’ said he as he released me. ‘I perceive that all is as it should be. But we have to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler’s wax which would disgust you with human nature.’ He stepped over to the window and shouted through it at the top of his voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below, and the folk all trooped away in different directions until there was not a red-head to be seen except my own and that of the manager. “ ’My name,’ said he, ‘is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?’ “I answered that I had not. “His face fell immediately. “ ’Dear me!’ he said gravely, ‘that is very serious indeed! I am sorry to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the propagation and spread of the red-heads as well as for their maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor.’ “My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for a few minutes he said that it would be all right. “ ’In the case of another,’ said he, ‘the objection might be fatal, but we must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a head of hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties?’ “ ’Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,’ said I. “ ’Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!’ said Vincent Spaulding. ‘I should be able to look after that for you.’ “ ’What would be the hours?’ I asked. “ ’Ten to two.’ “Now a pawnbroker’s business is mostly done of an evening, Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn a little in the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that he would see to anything that turned up. “ ’That would suit me very well,’ said I. ‘And the pay?’ “ ’Is £4 a week.’ “ ’And the work?’ “ ’Is purely nominal.’ “ ’What do you call purely nominal?’ “ ’Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building, the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole position forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You don’t comply with the conditions if you budge from the office during that time.’ “ ’It’s only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,’ said I. “ ’No excuse will avail,’ said Mr. Duncan Ross; ‘neither sickness nor business nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose your billet.’ “ ’And the work?’ “ ’Is to copy out the Encyclopaedia Britannica. There is the first volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be ready to-morrow?’ “ ’Certainly,’ I answered. “ ’Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once more on the important position which you have been fortunate enough to gain.’ He bowed me out of the room and I went home with my assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at my own good fortune. “Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that anyone could make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying out the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I determined to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I started off for Pope’s Court. “Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon the letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from time to time to see that all was right with me. At two o’clock he bade me good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had written, and locked the door of the office after me. “This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week’s work. It was the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after a time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come, and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would not risk the loss of it. “Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots and Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with diligence that I might get on to the B’s before very long. It cost me something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my writings. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end.” “To an end?” “Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual at ten o’clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little square of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself.” He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of note-paper. It read in this fashion: THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE IS DISSOLVED. October 9, 1890. Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely overtopped every other consideration that we both burst out into a roar of laughter. “I cannot see that there is anything very funny,” cried our client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. “If you can do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere.” “No, no,” cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he had half risen. “I really wouldn’t miss your case for the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps did you take when you found the card upon the door?” “I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at the offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the ground floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the name was new to him. “ ’Well,’ said I, ‘the gentleman at No. 4.’ “ ’What, the red-headed man?’ “ ’Yes.’ “ ’Oh,’ said he, ‘his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor and was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.’ “ ’Where could I find him?’ “ ’Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul’s.’ “I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross.” “And what did you do then?” asked Holmes. “I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right away to you.” “And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your case is an exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you have told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from it than might at first sight appear.” “Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “Why, I have lost four pound a week.” “As far as you are personally concerned,” remarked Holmes, “I do not see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some £30, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every subject which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them.” “No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what their object was in playing this prank — if it was a prank — upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and thirty pounds.” “We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first, one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called your attention to the advertisement — how long had he been with you?” “About a month then.” “How did he come?” “In answer to an advertisement.” “Was he the only applicant?” “No, I had a dozen.” “Why did you pick him?” “Because he was handy and would come cheap.” “At half wages, in fact.” “Yes.” “What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?” “Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face, though he’s not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his forehead.” Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. “I thought as much,” said he. “Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for earrings?” “Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he was a lad.” “Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. “He is still with you?” “Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.” “And has your business been attended to in your absence?” “Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s never very much to do of a morning.” “That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion.” “Well, Watson,” said Holmes when our visitor had left us, “what do you make of it all?” “I make nothing of it,” I answered frankly. “It is a most mysterious business.” “As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter.” “What are you going to do, then?” I asked. “To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg that you won’t speak to me for fifty minutes.” He curled himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece. “Sarasate plays at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he remarked. “What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few hours?” “I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing.” “Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first, and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal of German music on the programme, which is rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to introspect. Come along!” We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with “JABEZ WILSON” in white letters, upon a corner house, announced the place where our red-headed client carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker’s, and, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step in. “Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how you would go from here to the Strand.” “Third right, fourth left,” answered the assistant promptly, closing the door. “Smart fellow, that,” observed Holmes as we walked away. “He is, in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known something of him before.” “Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts for a good deal in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired your way merely in order that you might see him.” “Not him.” “What then?” “The knees of his trousers.” “And what did you see?” “What I expected to see.” “Why did you beat the pavement?” “My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in an enemy’s country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it.” The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and west. The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realise as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately business premises that they really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant square which we had just quitted. “Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along the line, “I should like just to remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is Mortimer’s, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane’s carriage-building depot. That carries us right on to the other block. And now, Doctor, we’ve done our work, so it’s time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums.” My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter editions. Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the level of intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his methods would look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St. James’s Hall I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom he had set himself to hunt down. “You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,” he remarked as we emerged. “Yes, it would be as well.” “And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This business at Coburg Square is serious.” “Why serious?” “A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help to-night.” “At what time?” “Ten will be early enough.” “I shall be at Baker Street at ten.” “Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket.” He waved his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd. I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw clearly not only what had happened but what was about to happen, while to me the whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the Encyclopaedia down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed? Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant was a formidable man — a man who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set the matter aside until night should bring an explanation. It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room, I found Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognised as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat. “Ha! Our party is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. “Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night’s adventure.” “We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,” said Jones in his consequential way. “Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down.” “I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,” observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily. “You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,” said the police agent loftily. “He has his own little methods, which are, if he won’t mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the official force.” “Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the stranger with deference. “Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my rubber.” “I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will play for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be some £30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands.” “John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He’s a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to find the man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next. I’ve been on his track for years and have never set eyes on him yet.” “I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I’ve had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second.” Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into Farrington Street. “We are close there now,” my friend remarked. “This fellow Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for us.” We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all round with crates and massive boxes. “You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes remarked as he held up the lantern and gazed about him. “Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the flags which lined the floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!” he remarked, looking up in surprise. “I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!” said Holmes severely. “You have already imperilled the whole success of our expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?” The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his glass in his pocket. “We have at least an hour before us,” he remarked, “for they can hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at present, Doctor — as no doubt you have divined — in the cellar of the City branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that there are reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take a considerable interest in this cellar at present.” “It is our French gold,” whispered the director. “We have had several warnings that an attempt might be made upon it.” “Your French gold?” “Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France. It has become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch office, and the directors have had misgivings upon the subject.” “Which were very well justified,” observed Holmes. “And now it is time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark lantern.” “And sit in the dark?” “I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I thought that, as we were a partie carrée, you might have your rubber after all. But I see that the enemy’s preparations have gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down.” I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his lantern and left us in pitch darkness — such an absolute darkness as I have never before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to assure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at a moment’s notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold dank air of the vault. “They have but one retreat,” whispered Holmes. “That is back through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I asked you, Jones?” “I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.” “Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and wait.” What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the gentle breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director. From my position I could look over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light. At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid spark which marked a chink between the stones. Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of the hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair. “It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have you the chisel and the bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I’ll swing for it!” Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes’ hunting crop came down on the man’s wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor. “It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes blandly. “You have no chance at all.” “So I see,” the other answered with the utmost coolness. “I fancy that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails.” “There are three men waiting for him at the door,” said Holmes. “Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must compliment you.” “And I you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was very new and effective.” “You’ll see your pal again presently,” said Jones. “He’s quicker at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the derbies.” “I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,” remarked our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. “You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness, also, when you address me always to say ‘sir’ and ‘please.’ ” “All right,” said Jones with a stare and a snigger. “Well, would you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your Highness to the police-station?” “That is better,” said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the detective. “Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from the cellar, “I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you. There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery that have ever come within my experience.” “I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John Clay,” said Holmes. “I have been at some small expense over this matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the Red-headed League.” “You see, Watson,” he explained in the early hours of the morning as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, “it was perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible object of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the League, and the copying of the Encyclopaedia, must be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours every day. It was a curious way of managing it, but, really, it would be difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to Clay’s ingenious mind by the colour of his accomplice’s hair. The £4 a week was a lure which must draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together they manage to secure his absence every morning in the week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive for securing the situation.” “But how could you guess what the motive was?” “Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The man’s business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which could account for such elaborate preparations, and such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant’s fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in London. He was doing something in the cellar — something which took many hours a day for months on end. What could it be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel to some other building. “So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend’s premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have seen.” “And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?” I asked. “Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson’s presence — in other words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it would give them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I expected them to come to-night.” “You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed in unfeigned admiration. “It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true.” “It saved me from ennui,” he answered, yawning. “Alas! I already feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do so.” “And you are a benefactor of the race,” said I. He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some little use,” he remarked. “ ’L’homme c’est rien — l’oeuvre c’est tout,’ as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand.”

THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me. “You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he said cordially. “I was afraid that you were engaged.” “So I am. Very much so.” “Then I can wait in the next room.” “Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also.” The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small fat-encircled eyes. “Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. “I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures.” “Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,” I observed. “You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination.” “A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.” “You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard, it is impossible for me to say whether the present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, unique.” The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the paper flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man and endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion, to read the indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance. I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd’s check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man save his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features. Sherlock Holmes’ quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances. “Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else.” Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion. “How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “How did you know, for example, that I did manual labour. It’s as true as gospel, for I began as a ship’s carpenter.” “Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more developed.” “Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?” “I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that, especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use an arc-and-compass breastpin.” “Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?” “What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where you rest it upon the desk?” “Well, but China?” “The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes’ scales of a delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter becomes even more simple.” Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I never!” said he. “I thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see that there was nothing in it after all.” “I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I make a mistake in explaining. ‘Omne ignotum pro magnifico,’ you know, and my poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?” “Yes, I have got it now,” he answered with his thick red finger planted halfway down the column. “Here it is. This is what began it all. You just read it for yourself, sir.” I took the paper from him and read as follows: “TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a salary of £4 a week for purely nominal services. All red-headed men who are sound in body and mind and above the age of twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.” “What on earth does this mean?” I ejaculated after I had twice read over the extraordinary announcement. Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in high spirits. “It is a little off the beaten track, isn’t it?” said he. “And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all about yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper and the date.” “It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago.” “Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?” “Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; “I have a small pawnbroker’s business at Coburg Square, near the City. It’s not a very large affair, and of late years it has not done more than just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to pay him but that he is willing to come for half wages so as to learn the business.” “What is the name of this obliging youth?” asked Sherlock Holmes. “His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not such a youth, either. It’s hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could better himself and earn twice what I am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?” “Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employé who comes under the full market price. It is not a common experience among employers in this age. I don’t know that your assistant is not as remarkable as your advertisement.” “Oh, he has his faults, too,” said Mr. Wilson. “Never was such a fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought to be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main fault, but on the whole he’s a good worker. There’s no vice in him.” “He is still with you, I presume?” “Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple cooking and keeps the place clean — that’s all I have in the house, for I am a widower and never had any family. We live very quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our debts, if we do nothing more. “The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight weeks, with this very paper in his hand, and he says: “ ’I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.’ “ ’Why that?’ I asks. “ ’Why,’ says he, ‘here’s another vacancy on the League of the Red-headed Men. It’s worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are men, so that the trustees are at their wits’ end what to do with the money. If my hair would only change colour, here’s a nice little crib all ready for me to step into.’ “ ’Why, what is it, then?’ I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn’t know much of what was going on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news. “ ’Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?’ he asked with his eyes open. “ ’Never.’ “ ’Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the vacancies.’ “ ’And what are they worth?’ I asked. “ ’Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and it need not interfere very much with one’s other occupations.’ “Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for the business has not been over good for some years, and an extra couple of hundred would have been very handy. “ ’Tell me all about it,’ said I. “ ’Well,’ said he, showing me the advertisement, ‘you can see for yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so, when he died, it was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose hair is of that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay and very little to do.’ “ ’But,’ said I, ‘there would be millions of red-headed men who would apply.’ “ ’Not so many as you might think,’ he answered. ‘You see it is really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.’ “Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if there was to be any competition in the matter I stood as good a chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for the day and to come right away with me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the business up and started off for the address that was given us in the advertisement. “I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope’s Court looked like a coster’s orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so many in the whole country as were brought together by that single advertisement. Every shade of colour they were — straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up to the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could and soon found ourselves in the office.” “Your experience has been a most entertaining one,” remarked Holmes as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff. “Pray continue your very interesting statement.” “There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that was even redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he came up, and then he always managed to find some fault in them which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy matter, after all. However, when our turn came the little man was much more favourable to me than to any of the others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he might have a private word with us. “ ’This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,’ said my assistant, ‘and he is willing to fill a vacancy in the League.’ “ ’And he is admirably suited for it,’ the other answered. ‘He has every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine.’ He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on my success. “ ’It would be injustice to hesitate,’ said he. ‘You will, however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.’ With that he seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the pain. ‘There is water in your eyes,’ said he as he released me. ‘I perceive that all is as it should be. But we have to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler’s wax which would disgust you with human nature.’ He stepped over to the window and shouted through it at the top of his voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below, and the folk all trooped away in different directions until there was not a red-head to be seen except my own and that of the manager. “ ’My name,’ said he, ‘is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?’ “I answered that I had not. “His face fell immediately. “ ’Dear me!’ he said gravely, ‘that is very serious indeed! I am sorry to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the propagation and spread of the red-heads as well as for their maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor.’ “My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for a few minutes he said that it would be all right. “ ’In the case of another,’ said he, ‘the objection might be fatal, but we must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a head of hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties?’ “ ’Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,’ said I. “ ’Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!’ said Vincent Spaulding. ‘I should be able to look after that for you.’ “ ’What would be the hours?’ I asked. “ ’Ten to two.’ “Now a pawnbroker’s business is mostly done of an evening, Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn a little in the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that he would see to anything that turned up. “ ’That would suit me very well,’ said I. ‘And the pay?’ “ ’Is £4 a week.’ “ ’And the work?’ “ ’Is purely nominal.’ “ ’What do you call purely nominal?’ “ ’Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building, the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole position forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You don’t comply with the conditions if you budge from the office during that time.’ “ ’It’s only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,’ said I. “ ’No excuse will avail,’ said Mr. Duncan Ross; ‘neither sickness nor business nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose your billet.’ “ ’And the work?’ “ ’Is to copy out the Encyclopaedia Britannica. There is the first volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be ready to-morrow?’ “ ’Certainly,’ I answered. “ ’Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once more on the important position which you have been fortunate enough to gain.’ He bowed me out of the room and I went home with my assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at my own good fortune. “Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that anyone could make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying out the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I determined to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I started off for Pope’s Court. “Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon the letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from time to time to see that all was right with me. At two o’clock he bade me good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had written, and locked the door of the office after me. “This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week’s work. It was the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after a time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come, and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would not risk the loss of it. “Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots and Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with diligence that I might get on to the B’s before very long. It cost me something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my writings. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end.” “To an end?” “Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual at ten o’clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little square of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself.” He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of note-paper. It read in this fashion: THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE IS DISSOLVED. October 9, 1890. Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely overtopped every other consideration that we both burst out into a roar of laughter. “I cannot see that there is anything very funny,” cried our client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. “If you can do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere.” “No, no,” cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he had half risen. “I really wouldn’t miss your case for the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps did you take when you found the card upon the door?” “I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at the offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the ground floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the name was new to him. “ ’Well,’ said I, ‘the gentleman at No. 4.’ “ ’What, the red-headed man?’ “ ’Yes.’ “ ’Oh,’ said he, ‘his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor and was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.’ “ ’Where could I find him?’ “ ’Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul’s.’ “I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross.” “And what did you do then?” asked Holmes. “I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right away to you.” “And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your case is an exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you have told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from it than might at first sight appear.” “Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “Why, I have lost four pound a week.” “As far as you are personally concerned,” remarked Holmes, “I do not see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some £30, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every subject which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them.” “No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what their object was in playing this prank — if it was a prank — upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and thirty pounds.” “We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first, one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called your attention to the advertisement — how long had he been with you?” “About a month then.” “How did he come?” “In answer to an advertisement.” “Was he the only applicant?” “No, I had a dozen.” “Why did you pick him?” “Because he was handy and would come cheap.” “At half wages, in fact.” “Yes.” “What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?” “Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face, though he’s not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his forehead.” Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. “I thought as much,” said he. “Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for earrings?” “Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he was a lad.” “Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. “He is still with you?” “Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.” “And has your business been attended to in your absence?” “Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s never very much to do of a morning.” “That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion.” “Well, Watson,” said Holmes when our visitor had left us, “what do you make of it all?” “I make nothing of it,” I answered frankly. “It is a most mysterious business.” “As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter.” “What are you going to do, then?” I asked. “To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg that you won’t speak to me for fifty minutes.” He curled himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece. “Sarasate plays at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he remarked. “What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few hours?” “I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing.” “Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first, and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal of German music on the programme, which is rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to introspect. Come along!” We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with “JABEZ WILSON” in white letters, upon a corner house, announced the place where our red-headed client carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker’s, and, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step in. “Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how you would go from here to the Strand.” “Third right, fourth left,” answered the assistant promptly, closing the door. “Smart fellow, that,” observed Holmes as we walked away. “He is, in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known something of him before.” “Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts for a good deal in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired your way merely in order that you might see him.” “Not him.” “What then?” “The knees of his trousers.” “And what did you see?” “What I expected to see.” “Why did you beat the pavement?” “My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in an enemy’s country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it.” The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and west. The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realise as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately business premises that they really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant square which we had just quitted. “Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along the line, “I should like just to remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is Mortimer’s, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane’s carriage-building depot. That carries us right on to the other block. And now, Doctor, we’ve done our work, so it’s time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums.” My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter editions. Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the level of intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his methods would look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St. James’s Hall I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom he had set himself to hunt down. “You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,” he remarked as we emerged. “Yes, it would be as well.” “And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This business at Coburg Square is serious.” “Why serious?” “A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help to-night.” “At what time?” “Ten will be early enough.” “I shall be at Baker Street at ten.” “Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket.” He waved his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd. I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw clearly not only what had happened but what was about to happen, while to me the whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the Encyclopaedia down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed? Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant was a formidable man — a man who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set the matter aside until night should bring an explanation. It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room, I found Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognised as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat. “Ha! Our party is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. “Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night’s adventure.” “We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,” said Jones in his consequential way. “Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down.” “I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,” observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily. “You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,” said the police agent loftily. “He has his own little methods, which are, if he won’t mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the official force.” “Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the stranger with deference. “Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my rubber.” “I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will play for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be some £30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands.” “John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He’s a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to find the man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next. I’ve been on his track for years and have never set eyes on him yet.” “I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I’ve had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second.” Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into Farrington Street. “We are close there now,” my friend remarked. “This fellow Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for us.” We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all round with crates and massive boxes. “You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes remarked as he held up the lantern and gazed about him. “Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the flags which lined the floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!” he remarked, looking up in surprise. “I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!” said Holmes severely. “You have already imperilled the whole success of our expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?” The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his glass in his pocket. “We have at least an hour before us,” he remarked, “for they can hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at present, Doctor — as no doubt you have divined — in the cellar of the City branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that there are reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take a considerable interest in this cellar at present.” “It is our French gold,” whispered the director. “We have had several warnings that an attempt might be made upon it.” “Your French gold?” “Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France. It has become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch office, and the directors have had misgivings upon the subject.” “Which were very well justified,” observed Holmes. “And now it is time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark lantern.” “And sit in the dark?” “I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I thought that, as we were a partie carrée, you might have your rubber after all. But I see that the enemy’s preparations have gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down.” I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his lantern and left us in pitch darkness — such an absolute darkness as I have never before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to assure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at a moment’s notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold dank air of the vault. “They have but one retreat,” whispered Holmes. “That is back through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I asked you, Jones?” “I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.” “Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and wait.” What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the gentle breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director. From my position I could look over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light. At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid spark which marked a chink between the stones. Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of the hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair. “It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have you the chisel and the bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I’ll swing for it!” Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes’ hunting crop came down on the man’s wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor. “It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes blandly. “You have no chance at all.” “So I see,” the other answered with the utmost coolness. “I fancy that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails.” “There are three men waiting for him at the door,” said Holmes. “Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must compliment you.” “And I you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was very new and effective.” “You’ll see your pal again presently,” said Jones. “He’s quicker at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the derbies.” “I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,” remarked our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. “You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness, also, when you address me always to say ‘sir’ and ‘please.’ ” “All right,” said Jones with a stare and a snigger. “Well, would you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your Highness to the police-station?” “That is better,” said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the detective. “Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from the cellar, “I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you. There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery that have ever come within my experience.” “I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John Clay,” said Holmes. “I have been at some small expense over this matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the Red-headed League.” “You see, Watson,” he explained in the early hours of the morning as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, “it was perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible object of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the League, and the copying of the Encyclopaedia, must be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours every day. It was a curious way of managing it, but, really, it would be difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to Clay’s ingenious mind by the colour of his accomplice’s hair. The £4 a week was a lure which must draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together they manage to secure his absence every morning in the week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive for securing the situation.” “But how could you guess what the motive was?” “Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The man’s business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which could account for such elaborate preparations, and such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant’s fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in London. He was doing something in the cellar — something which took many hours a day for months on end. What could it be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel to some other building. “So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend’s premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have seen.” “And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?” I asked. “Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson’s presence — in other words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it would give them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I expected them to come to-night.” “You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed in unfeigned admiration. “It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true.” “It saved me from ennui,” he answered, yawning. “Alas! I already feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do so.” “And you are a benefactor of the race,” said I. He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some little use,” he remarked. “ ’L’homme c’est rien — l’oeuvre c’est tout,’ as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand.”

A CASE OF IDENTITY “My dear fellow,” said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, “life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and leading to the most outré results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable.” “And yet I am not convinced of it,” I answered. “The cases which come to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and vulgar enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to its extreme limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed, neither fascinating nor artistic.” “A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a realistic effect,” remarked Holmes. “This is wanting in the police report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of the magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is nothing so unnatural as the commonplace.” I smiled and shook my head. “I can quite understand your thinking so.” I said. “Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout three continents, you are brought in contact with all that is strange and bizarre. But here” — I picked up the morning paper from the ground—”let us put it to a practical test. Here is the first heading upon which I come. ‘A husband’s cruelty to his wife.’ There is half a column of print, but I know without reading it that it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is, of course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of writers could invent nothing more crude.” “Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument,” said Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. “This is the Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged in clearing up some small points in connection with it. The husband was a teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of was that he had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his wife, which, you will allow, is not an action likely to occur to the imagination of the average story-teller. Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge that I have scored over you in your example.” He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in the centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his homely ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it. “Ah,” said he, “I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks. It is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers.” “And the ring?” I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which sparkled upon his finger. “It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of my little problems.” “And have you any on hand just now?” I asked with interest. “Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of interest. They are important, you understand, without being interesting. Indeed, I have found that it is usually in unimportant matters that there is a field for the observation, and for the quick analysis of cause and effect which gives the charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime the more obvious, as a rule, is the motive. In these cases, save for one rather intricate matter which has been referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing which presents any features of interest. It is possible, however, that I may have something better before very many minutes are over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken.” He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted blinds gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London street. Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite there stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck, and a large curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted in a coquettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her ear. From under this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous, hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body oscillated backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her glove buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves the bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp clang of the bell. “I have seen those symptoms before,” said Holmes, throwing his cigarette into the fire. “Oscillation upon the pavement always means an affaire de coeur. She would like advice, but is not sure that the matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet even here we may discriminate. When a woman has been seriously wronged by a man she no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom is a broken bell wire. Here we may take it that there is a love matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry as perplexed, or grieved. But here she comes in person to resolve our doubts.” As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed merchant-man behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with the easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and, having closed the door and bowed her into an armchair, he looked her over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him. “Do you not find,” he said, “that with your short sight it is a little trying to do so much typewriting?” “I did at first,” she answered, “but now I know where the letters are without looking.” Then, suddenly realising the full purport of his words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face. “You’ve heard about me, Mr. Holmes,” she cried, “else how could you know all that?” “Never mind,” said Holmes, laughing; “it is my business to know things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook. If not, why should you come to consult me?” “I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege, whose husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much for me. I’m not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in my own right, besides the little that I make by the machine, and I would give it all to know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel.” “Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?” asked Sherlock Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to the ceiling. Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss Mary Sutherland. “Yes, I did bang out of the house,” she said, “for it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr. Windibank — that is, my father — took it all. He would not go to the police, and he would not go to you, and so at last, as he would do nothing and kept on saying that there was no harm done, it made me mad, and I just on with my things and came right away to you.” “Your father,” said Holmes, “your stepfather, surely, since the name is different.” “Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny, too, for he is only five years and two months older than myself.” “And your mother is alive?” “Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn’t best pleased, Mr. Holmes, when she married again so soon after father’s death, and a man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father was a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman; but when Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the business, for he was very superior, being a traveller in wines. They got £4700 for the goodwill and interest, which wasn’t near as much as father could have got if he had been alive.” I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this rambling and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he had listened with the greatest concentration of attention. “Your own little income,” he asked, “does it come out of the business?” “Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle Ned in Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4½ per cent. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can only touch the interest.” “You interest me extremely,” said Holmes. “And since you draw so large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the bargain, you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in every way. I believe that a single lady can get on very nicely upon an income of about £60.” “I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you understand that as long as I live at home I don’t wish to be a burden to them, and so they have the use of the money just while I am staying with them. Of course, that is only just for the time. Mr. Windibank draws my interest every quarter and pays it over to mother, and I find that I can do pretty well with what I earn at typewriting. It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in a day.” “You have made your position very clear to me,” said Holmes. “This is my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection with Mr. Hosmer Angel.” A flush stole over Miss Sutherland’s face, and she picked nervously at the fringe of her jacket. “I met him first at the gasfitters’ ball,” she said. “They used to send father tickets when he was alive, and then afterwards they remembered us, and sent them to mother. Mr. Windibank did not wish us to go. He never did wish us to go anywhere. He would get quite mad if I wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school treat. But this time I was set on going, and I would go; for what right had he to prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to know, when all father’s friends were to be there. And he said that I had nothing fit to wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never so much as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would do, he went off to France upon the business of the firm, but we went, mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it was there I met Mr. Hosmer Angel.” “I suppose,” said Holmes, “that when Mr. Windibank came back from France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball.” “Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying anything to a woman, for she would have her way.” “I see. Then at the gasfitters’ ball you met, as I understand, a gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel.” “Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if we had got home all safe, and after that we met him — that is to say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father came back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house any more.” “No?” “Well, you know father didn’t like anything of the sort. He wouldn’t have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to say that a woman should be happy in her own family circle. But then, as I used to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to begin with, and I had not got mine yet.” “But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see you?” “Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to see each other until he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he used to write every day. I took the letters in in the morning, so there was no need for father to know.” “Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?” “Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that we took. Hosmer — Mr. Angel — was a cashier in an office in Leadenhall Street — and—” “What office?” “That’s the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don’t know.” “Where did he live, then?” “He slept on the premises.” “And you don’t know his address?” “No — except that it was Leadenhall Street.” “Where did you address your letters, then?” “To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called for. He said that if they were sent to the office he would be chaffed by all the other clerks about having letters from a lady, so I offered to typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn’t have that, for he said that when I wrote them they seemed to come from me, but when they were typewritten he always felt that the machine had come between us. That will just show you how fond he was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little things that he would think of.” “It was most suggestive,” said Holmes. “It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important. Can you remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?” “He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me in the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to be conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his voice was gentle. He’d had the quinsy and swollen glands when he was young, he told me, and it had left him with a weak throat, and a hesitating, whispering fashion of speech. He was always well dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak, just as mine are, and he wore tinted glasses against the glare.” “Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather, returned to France?” “Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed that we should marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest and made me swear, with my hands on the Testament, that whatever happened I would always be true to him. Mother said he was quite right to make me swear, and that it was a sign of his passion. Mother was all in his favour from the first and was even fonder of him than I was. Then, when they talked of marrying within the week, I began to ask about father; but they both said never to mind about father, but just to tell him afterwards, and mother said she would make it all right with him. I didn’t quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that I should ask his leave, as he was only a few years older than me; but I didn’t want to do anything on the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the company has its French offices, but the letter came back to me on the very morning of the wedding.” “It missed him, then?” “Yes, sir; for he had started to England just before it arrived.” “Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then, for the Friday. Was it to be in church?” “Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour’s, near King’s Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the St. Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there were two of us he put us both into it and stepped himself into a four-wheeler, which happened to be the only other cab in the street. We got to the church first, and when the four-wheeler drove up we waited for him to step out, but he never did, and when the cabman got down from the box and looked there was no one there! The cabman said that he could not imagine what had become of him, for he had seen him get in with his own eyes. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard anything since then to throw any light upon what became of him.” “It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated,” said Holmes. “Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all the morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to be true; and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to separate us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to him, and that he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed strange talk for a wedding-morning, but what has happened since gives a meaning to it.” “Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?” “Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he would not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw happened.” “But you have no notion as to what it could have been?” “None.” “One more question. How did your mother take the matter?” “She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter again.” “And your father? Did you tell him?” “Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that something had happened, and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest could anyone have in bringing me to the doors of the church, and then leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he had married me and got my money settled on him, there might be some reason, but Hosmer was very independent about money and never would look at a shilling of mine. And yet, what could have happened? And why could he not write? Oh, it drives me half-mad to think of it, and I can’t sleep a wink at night.” She pulled a little handkerchief out of her muff and began to sob heavily into it. “I shall glance into the case for you,” said Holmes, rising, “and I have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind dwell upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from your memory, as he has done from your life.” “Then you don’t think I’ll see him again?” “I fear not.” “Then what has happened to him?” “You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an accurate description of him and any letters of his which you can spare.” “I advertised for him in last Saturday’s Chronicle,” said she. “Here is the slip and here are four letters from him.” “Thank you. And your address?” “No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell.” “Mr. Angel’s address you never had, I understand. Where is your father’s place of business?” “He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers of Fenchurch Street.” “Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect your life.” “You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back.” For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled our respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon the table and went her way, with a promise to come again whenever she might be summoned. Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from the rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor, and, having lit it, he leaned back in his chair, with the thick blue cloud-wreaths spinning up from him, and a look of infinite languor in his face. “Quite an interesting study, that maiden,” he observed. “I found her more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult my index, in Andover in ‘77, and there was something of the sort at The Hague last year. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two details which were new to me. But the maiden herself was most instructive.” “You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite invisible to me,” I remarked. “Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to realise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails, or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace. Now, what did you gather from that woman’s appearance? Describe it.” “Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her dress was brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little purple plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish and were worn through at the right forefinger. Her boots I didn’t observe. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly well-to-do in a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way.” Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled. “ ’Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general impressions, my boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is always at a woman’s sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first to take the knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush upon her sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing traces. The double line a little above the wrist, where the typewritist presses against the table, was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of the hand type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face, and, observing the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I ventured a remark upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to surprise her.” “It surprised me.” “But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd ones; the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry.” “And what else?” I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by my friend’s incisive reasoning. “I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go back to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?” I held the little printed slip to the light. “Missing,” it said, “on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer Angel. About five ft. seven in. in height; strongly built, sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in the centre, bushy, black side-whiskers and moustache; tinted glasses, slight infirmity of speech. Was dressed, when last seen, in black frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and grey Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots. Known to have been employed in an office in Leadenhall Street. Anybody bringing—” “That will do,” said Holmes. “As to the letters,” he continued, glancing over them, “they are very commonplace. Absolutely no clue in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you.” “They are typewritten,” I remarked. “Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the neat little ‘Hosmer Angel’ at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The point about the signature is very suggestive — in fact, we may call it conclusive.” “Of what?” “My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it bears upon the case?” “I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished to be able to deny his signature if an action for breach of promise were instituted.” “No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters, which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City, the other is to the young lady’s stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking him whether he could meet us here at six o’clock to-morrow evening. It is just as well that we should do business with the male relatives. And now, Doctor, we can do nothing until the answers to those letters come, so we may put our little problem upon the shelf for the interim.” I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend’s subtle powers of reasoning and extraordinary energy in action that I felt that he must have some solid grounds for the assured and easy demeanour with which he treated the singular mystery which he had been called upon to fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in the case of the King of Bohemia and of the Irene Adler photograph; but when I looked back to the weird business of the Sign of Four, and the extraordinary circumstances connected with the Study in Scarlet, I felt that it would be a strange tangle indeed which he could not unravel. I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would find that he held in his hands all the clues which would lead up to the identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland. A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own attention at the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside of the sufferer. It was not until close upon six o’clock that I found myself free and was able to spring into a hansom and drive to Baker Street, half afraid that I might be too late to assist at the dénouement of the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half asleep, with his long, thin form curled up in the recesses of his armchair. A formidable array of bottles and test-tubes, with the pungent cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent his day in the chemical work which was so dear to him. “Well, have you solved it?” I asked as I entered. “Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta.” “No, no, the mystery!” I cried. “Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon. There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday, some of the details are of interest. The only drawback is that there is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel.” “Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss Sutherland?” The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the passage and a tap at the door. “This is the girl’s stepfather, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “He has written to me to say that he would be here at six. Come in!” The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some thirty years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a bland, insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating grey eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his shiny top-hat upon the sideboard, and with a slight bow sidled down into the nearest chair. “Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “I think that this typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an appointment with me for six o’clock?” “Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite my own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has troubled you about this little matter, for I think it is far better not to wash linen of the sort in public. It was quite against my wishes that she came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may have noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has made up her mind on a point. Of course, I did not mind you so much, as you are not connected with the official police, but it is not pleasant to have a family misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a useless expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?” “On the contrary,” said Holmes quietly; “I have every reason to believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel.” Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped his gloves. “I am delighted to hear it,” he said. “It is a curious thing,” remarked Holmes, “that a typewriter has really quite as much individuality as a man’s handwriting. Unless they are quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some letters get more worn than others, and some wear only on one side. Now, you remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every case there is some little slurring over of the ‘e,’ and a slight defect in the tail of the ‘r.’ There are fourteen other characteristics, but those are the more obvious.” “We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office, and no doubt it is a little worn,” our visitor answered, glancing keenly at Holmes with his bright little eyes. “And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study, Mr. Windibank,” Holmes continued. “I think of writing another little monograph some of these days on the typewriter and its relation to crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some little attention. I have here four letters which purport to come from the missing man. They are all typewritten. In each case, not only are the ‘e’s’ slurred and the ‘r’s’ tailless, but you will observe, if you care to use my magnifying lens, that the fourteen other characteristics to which I have alluded are there as well.” Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat. “I cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “If you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know when you have done it.” “Certainly,” said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the door. “I let you know, then, that I have caught him!” “What! where?” shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips and glancing about him like a rat in a trap. “Oh, it won’t do — really it won’t,” said Holmes suavely. “There is no possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that it was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That’s right! Sit down and let us talk it over.” Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a glitter of moisture on his brow. “It — it’s not actionable,” he stammered. “I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves, Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong.” The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands in his pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to us. “The man married a woman very much older than himself for her money,” said he, “and he enjoyed the use of the money of the daughter as long as she lived with them. It was a considerable sum, for people in their position, and the loss of it would have made a serious difference. It was worth an effort to preserve it. The daughter was of a good, amiable disposition, but affectionate and warm-hearted in her ways, so that it was evident that with her fair personal advantages, and her little income, she would not be allowed to remain single long. Now her marriage would mean, of course, the loss of a hundred a year, so what does her stepfather do to prevent it? He takes the obvious course of keeping her at home and forbidding her to seek the company of people of her own age. But soon he found that that would not answer forever. She became restive, insisted upon her rights, and finally announced her positive intention of going to a certain ball. What does her clever stepfather do then? He conceives an idea more creditable to his head than to his heart. With the connivance and assistance of his wife he disguised himself, covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked the face with a moustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice into an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the girl’s short sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by making love himself.” “It was only a joke at first,” groaned our visitor. “We never thought that she would have been so carried away.” “Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very decidedly carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that her stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for an instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman’s attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly expressed admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as it would go if a real effect were to be produced. There were meetings, and an engagement, which would finally secure the girl’s affections from turning towards anyone else. But the deception could not be kept up forever. These pretended journeys to France were rather cumbrous. The thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in such a dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression upon the young lady’s mind and prevent her from looking upon any other suitor for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a Testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility of something happening on the very morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and so uncertain as to his fate, that for ten years to come, at any rate, she would not listen to another man. As far as the church door he brought her, and then, as he could go no farther, he conveniently vanished away by the old trick of stepping in at one door of a four-wheeler and out at the other. I think that was the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!” Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes had been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer upon his pale face. “It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “but if you are so very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is you who are breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing actionable from the first, but as long as you keep that door locked you lay yourself open to an action for assault and illegal constraint.” “The law cannot, as you say, touch you,” said Holmes, unlocking and throwing open the door, “yet there never was a man who deserved punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he ought to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!” he continued, flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man’s face, “it is not part of my duties to my client, but here’s a hunting crop handy, and I think I shall just treat myself to—” He took two swift steps to the whip, but before he could grasp it there was a wild clatter of steps upon the stairs, the heavy hall door banged, and from the window we could see Mr. James Windibank running at the top of his speed down the road. “There’s a cold-blooded scoundrel!” said Holmes, laughing, as he threw himself down into his chair once more. “That fellow will rise from crime to crime until he does something very bad, and ends on a gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not entirely devoid of interest.” “I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning,” I remarked. “Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr. Hosmer Angel must have some strong object for his curious conduct, and it was equally clear that the only man who really profited by the incident, as far as we could see, was the stepfather. Then the fact that the two men were never together, but that the one always appeared when the other was away, was suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles and the curious voice, which both hinted at a disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. My suspicions were all confirmed by his peculiar action in typewriting his signature, which, of course, inferred that his handwriting was so familiar to her that she would recognise even the smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated facts, together with many minor ones, all pointed in the same direction.” “And how did you verify them?” “Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I knew the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed description. I eliminated everything from it which could be the result of a disguise — the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I sent it to the firm, with a request that they would inform me whether it answered to the description of any of their travellers. I had already noticed the peculiarities of the typewriter, and I wrote to the man himself at his business address asking him if he would come here. As I expected, his reply was typewritten and revealed the same trivial but characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter from Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the description tallied in every respect with that of their employé, James Windibank. Voilà tout!” “And Miss Sutherland?” “If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old Persian saying, ‘There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub, and danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.’ There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the world.”

“Caro mio,” disse Sherlock Holmes mentre eravamo seduti uno di fronte all’altro accanto al fuoco nel suo appartamento di Baker Street, “la vita è infinitamente più strana di qualsiasi cosa possa inventare la mente umana. Non oseremmo nemmeno immaginare le cose che in realtà sono semplici banalità dell’esistenza. Se potessimo volare fuori da quella finestra, tenendoci per mano, fluttuare sopra questa grande città, sollevare delicatamente i tetti e dare un’occhiata a tutte le cose strane che vi avvengono, alle strane coincidenze, ai piani, agli scopi contrastanti, alle meravigliose catene di eventi che si sviluppano attraverso generazioni e portano a risultati estremamente inaspettati, allora tutta la narrativa convenzionale con le sue conclusioni prevedibili sembrerebbe noiosa e priva di valore.”
“Eppure non ne sono convinto,” risposi. “I casi che vengono pubblicati sui giornali sono, in genere, piuttosto banali e volgari. Nei rapporti della polizia il realismo viene portato alle sue estreme conseguenze, ma devo ammettere che il risultato non è né affascinante né artistico.”
“Per ottenere un effetto realistico è necessario fare una certa selezione e usare la discrezione,” osservò Holmes. “In questi rapporti si dà troppo peso alle banalità del magistrato, piuttosto che ai dettagli che, per un osservatore attento, rappresentano l’essenza stessa della questione. Fidatevi: non c’è nulla di più artificioso della banalità.”
Sorrisi e scossi la testa. “Capisco perfettamente il vostro punto di vista,” dissi. “Certo, nella vostra posizione di consulente e aiutante informale per chiunque si trovi in difficoltà, su tre continenti diversi, vi capita di incontrare molte cose strane e bizzarre. Ma ecco, ” presi il giornale del mattino dal pavimento, “mettiamolo alla prova concretamente. Ecco il primo titolo che mi salta all’occhio: ‘La crudeltà di un marito verso sua moglie’. C’è mezza colonna di testo, ma so già senza leggerlo che si tratta di una storia del tutto familiare per me. Ci sono sempre la donna altra, l’alcol, la lite, il livido, la sorella o la padrona di casa comprensiva. Anche il più rozzo degli scrittori non potrebbe inventare nulla di più banale.”
“Infatti, il vostro esempio è sfortunato per la vostra argomentazione,” disse Holmes prendendo il giornale e scorrendolo rapidamente. “Si tratta del caso di separazione di Dundas. E, per coincidenza, stavo proprio cercando di chiarire alcuni dettagli in relazione a quel caso. Il marito era un astemio; non c’era nessuna altra donna. L’unica cosa che faceva era quella di togliersi i denti falsi dopo ogni pasto e lanciarli contro sua moglie. Una cosa che, credetemi, difficilmente verrebbe in mente a uno scrittore che inventa storie, ” Mi offrì il suo snuffbox d’oro antico, con un grande ametista al centro del coperchio. Il suo splendore, così in contrasto con i suoi modi semplici e la sua vita modesta, mi fece inevitabilmente commentare. “Ah,” disse lui, “mi ero dimenticato di non avervi visto da alcune settimane. Questo è un piccolo ricordo del Re di Boemia, in ringraziamento per il mio aiuto nel caso dei documenti di Irene Adler.”
“E l’anello?” chiesi, notando un anello straordinariamente luminoso al suo dito.
“Proveniva dalla famiglia regnante degli Olandesi. Anche se la questione per cui li ho aiutati era così delicata che non posso nemmeno confidarvela, voi che siete stato così gentile da raccontare alcune delle mie piccole avventure, ”
“E in questo momento avete qualche caso simile tra le mani?” chiesi con interesse.
“Circa dieci o dodici. Ma nessuno di particolare rilievo. Sono importanti, capite, ma non particolarmente interessanti. In realtà, spesso sono proprio nelle questioni meno importanti che si trova l’occasione per osservare e analizzare rapidamente cause ed effetti. Il fascino di un’indagine risiede proprio in questo. I crimini più gravi, invece, tendono ad essere anche i più semplici: più il crimine è grave, più spesso il movente è ovvio. A parte un caso piuttosto complicato che mi è stato affidato da Marsiglia, al momento non c’è nulla di davvero interessante. Tuttavia, forse tra pochi minuti avrò qualcosa di meglio. Perché questo è uno dei miei clienti, ”
Si era alzato dalla sedia e stava in piedi tra le tende socchiuse, guardando giù per la strada monotona e dai toni neutri di Londra. Guardando oltre le sue spalle, vidi sul marciapiede opposto una donna alta, con un pesante boa di pelliccia intorno al collo e un grande piumaggio rosso che spuntava da un cappello a tesa larga, inclinato in modo affettuoso sopra l’orecchio. Da sotto quel grande abbigliamento, lei sbirciava nervosamente dalle nostre finestre, dondolando avanti e indietro mentre giocherellava con i bottoni del guanto. All’improvviso, come un nuotatore che lascia la riva, attraversò di corsa la strada. E sentimmo il suono acuto della campanella.
“Ho già visto questi segni prima,” disse Holmes, gettando la sigaretta nel fuoco. “Quando una donna dondola avanti e indietro sul marciapiede, significa sempre che c’è una questione d’amore. Vuole un consiglio, ma non è sicura che la situazione sia abbastanza delicata da essere discussa. Eppure anche in questo caso possiamo fare delle deduzioni. Quando una donna viene gravemente ingannata da un uomo, di solito smette di dondolare. Il segno tipico in questi casi è il filo della campanella spezzato. Qui, quindi, sembra che ci sia una questione amorosa. Ma la ragazza non è tanto arrabbiata quanto perplessa o addolorata. E ora, è venuta di persona a risolvere i nostri dubbi, ” Mentre parlava, si sentì bussare alla porta; il ragazzo con i bottoni entrò per annunciare la presenza di Miss Mary Sutherland, mentre lei stessa apparve alle sue spalle, come una grande nave mercantile dietro a un piccolo battello pilota. Sherlock Holmes la accolse con quella disinvolta cortesia che lo caratterizzava; dopo aver chiuso la porta e fatto accomodare la donna in una poltrona, la osservò con quel suo modo rapido ma attento, tipico di lui.
“Non le sembra,” disse, “che, a causa della sua miopia, scrivere a macchina sia un po’ faticoso?”
“All’inizio sì,” rispose lei, “ma ora so dove si trovano le lettere senza nemmeno guardarle.” Poi, improvvisamente comprendendo il vero significato delle sue parole, trasalì e alzò lo sguardo, con espressione di paura e sorpresa sul suo viso gentile. “Ha sentito parlare di me, signor Holmes,” esclamò, “altrimenti come potrebbe sapere tutto questo?”
“Niente importa,” disse Holmes ridendo; “è il mio lavoro conoscere le cose. Forse mi sono allenato a notare ciò che gli altri trascurano. Altrimenti, perché sarebbe venuta da me per chiedere aiuto?”
“Sono venuta da lei, signore, perché ho sentito parlare di lei dalla signora Etherege, la cui marito ha trovato una soluzione così semplice quando tutti ormai lo davano per morto. Oh, signor Holmes, vorrei che facesse lo stesso per me. Non sono ricca, ma ho comunque cento sterline all’anno, oltre a quello che guadagno con la macchina da scrivere. Darei tutto pur di sapere cosa è successo al signor Hosmer Angel.”
“Perché è venuta da me in tutta questa fretta?” chiese Sherlock Holmes, con le dita unite e lo sguardo rivolto al soffitto.
Di nuovo, un’espressione sorpresa apparve sul viso di Miss Mary Sutherland. “Sì, sono uscita di casa in fretta,” disse, “perché mi ha infastidito vedere con quanta facilità il signor Windibank, cioè mio padre, si è impossessato di tutto. Non voleva andare dalla polizia, né venire da lei. Alla fine, poiché non faceva nulla e continuava a dire che non era successo nulla di male, sono diventata furiosa. Ho raccolto le mie cose e sono venuta subito da lei.”
“Suo padre, intendo, suo patrigno,” disse Holmes, “poiché il nome è diverso, ”
“Sì, mio patrigno. Lo chiamo padre, anche se suona strano. Dopotutto, ha solo cinque anni e due mesi più di me, ”
“E sua madre è ancora viva?”
“Oh, sì, mia madre è ancora viva e sta bene. Non ero molto contenta quando si è risposata così presto dopo la morte di mio padre, con un uomo che aveva quasi quindici anni meno di lei. Mio padre lavorava come idraulico in Tottenham Court Road e ha lasciato un’attività redditizia. Mia madre l’ha continuata insieme al caposquadra, il signor Hardy. Ma quando è arrivato il signor Windibank, le ha fatto vendere l’attività. Lui era molto più importante, lavorava nel commercio del vino. Hanno ottenuto 4700 sterline per la goodwill e gli interessi. Ma non era nemmeno lontanamente quanto avrebbe potuto guadagnare mio padre se fosse stato ancora vivo, ” “Mi aspettavo che Sherlock Holmes mostrasse impazienza di fronte a questa narrazione prolissa e irrilevante, ma al contrario, ha ascoltato con la massima attenzione. ‘Il tuo piccolo reddito personale,’ chiese, ‘proviene dall’attività commerciale?’ ‘Oh no, signore. È completamente separato da essa ed è stato lasciato a me dal mio zio Ned in Auckland. Si tratta di azioni neozelandesi che rendono il 4½ per cento. L’importo totale era di duemilacinquecento sterline, ma posso utilizzare soltanto gli interessi.’ ‘Gli interessi mi interessano molto,’ disse Holmes. ‘E dato che ricevi un reddito annuo di cento sterline, oltre a quello che guadagni lavorando come dattilografa, senza dubbio viaggi spesso e ti concedi qualche lusso. Credo che una donna possa vivere molto bene con un reddito di circa sessanta sterline.’ ‘Potrei cavarmela anche con molto meno, signor Holmes, ma capisce che finché vivo a casa non voglio essere un peso per loro, quindi mi lasciano usare quel denaro mentre sto da loro. Naturalmente, questo è solo temporaneo. Il signor Windibank ritira gli interessi ogni trimestre e li versa a mia madre; inoltre, guadagnando come dattilografa riesco a cavarmela abbastanza bene, mi danno due penny a foglio, e spesso riesco a compiere quindici o venti pagine al giorno.’ ‘Mi hai spiegato molto chiaramente la situazione,’ disse Holmes. ‘Questo è il mio amico, il dottor Watson, puoi parlare con lui liberamente come fai con me. Ora raccontaci tutto riguardo alla tua relazione con il signor Hosmer Angel.’ Il viso di Miss Sutherland si arrossì; iniziò a tormentare nervosamente il bordo della sua giacca e disse: ‘L’ho incontrato per la prima volta al ballo organizzato dagli installatori di gas. Prima che mio padre morisse, loro gli inviavano i biglietti, dopo la sua morte ci hanno ricordate e li hanno inviati a mia madre. Il signor Windibank non voleva che andassimo, non voleva mai che andassimo da nessuna parte. Si arrabbiava anche solo se volevo partecipare a un’attività del coro domenicale. Ma questa volta ero decisa ad andare, e ci sarei andata, perché aveva il diritto di impedirmelo? Diceva che quelle persone non erano adatte a noi, quando tutti gli amici di mio padre avrebbero partecipato. E diceva anche che non avevo niente di adatto da indossare, mentre avevo quel peluche viola che non avevo mai nemmeno tirato fuori dall’armadio. Alla fine, quando nulla altro ha funzionato, lui è partito per la Francia per lavoro, ma io e mia madre siamo andate con il signor Hardy, che un tempo era il nostro caposquadra, ed è lì che ho incontrato il signor Hosmer Angel.’ ‘Immagino,’ disse Holmes, ‘che quando il signor Windibank è tornato dalla Francia sia stato molto infastidito dal fatto che tu fossi andata al ballo.’ ‘Oh, beh, in realtà si è comportato bene. Ricordo che ha riso, ha alzato le spalle e ha detto che non c’è modo di negare nulla a una donna, perché lei ottiene comunque ciò che vuole.’ ‘Capisco. Quindi, al ballo degli installatori di gas, hai incontrato un signore di nome Hosmer Angel.’” “Sì, signore. L’ho incontrato quella notte, e il giorno dopo mi ha chiamato per sapere se eravamo tornati a casa sani e salvi; dopo di allora l’ho rivisto altre due volte, durante delle passeggiate, cioè, signor Holmes, l’ho incontrato due volte per fare una passeggiata insieme. Ma poi mio padre è tornato in Francia, e il signor Hosmer Angel non ha più potuto venire a casa nostra.”
“Ah, ”
“Beh, sa, a mio padre non piacevano queste cose. Non voleva che avessimo visite, se poteva evitarlo, e diceva sempre che una donna dovrebbe essere felice nel proprio ambiente familiare. Ma, come dicevo spesso a mia madre, una donna ha comunque bisogno di avere il proprio giro di amici. E io non ne avevo ancora uno.”
“E il signor Hosmer Angel? Non ha provato a cercarti?”
“Mio padre doveva partire per la Francia tra una settimana, e Hosmer mi scrisse dicendo che sarebbe stato meglio non vederci fino al suo ritorno. Potevamo comunque scriverci. Lui scriveva ogni giorno. Io prendevo le lettere al mattino, così mio padre non doveva saperlo.”
“Eravate già fidanzati a quel tempo?”
“Oh, sì, signor Holmes. Eravamo fidanzati dopo la prima passeggiata che abbiamo fatto insieme. Hosmer, il signor Angel, lavorava come cassiere in un ufficio in Leadenhall Street, ”
“In quale ufficio?”
“Ecco il problema, signor Holmes, non lo so.”
“Allora dove abitava?”
“Dormiva nel posto di lavoro stesso.”
“E non conoscivi nemmeno l’indirizzo preciso?”
“No, solo che si trovava in Leadenhall Street.”
“In quel caso, a chi inviavi le tue lettere?”
“Alla Posta di Leadenhall Street, per essere consegnate su richiesta. Lui diceva che se le avessero inviate all’ufficio, tutti gli altri impiegati lo avrebbero preso in giro per ricevere lettere da una donna. Così ho proposto di scriverglie io stessa, come faceva lui, ma non voleva. Diceva che quando le scrivevo io, sembravano davvero venire da me, mentre se erano scritte a macchina, aveva sempre l’impressione che qualcosa ci fosse di diverso. Questo dimostra quanto fosse affezionato a me, signor Holmes, ”
“È molto interessante,” disse Holmes. “Da tempo ritengo che siano proprio le piccole cose quelle più importanti. Ricordi qualche altra particolarità riguardo al signor Hosmer Angel?”
“Era un uomo molto timido, signor Holmes. Preferiva passeggiare con me di notte piuttosto che di giorno, perché diceva di odiare attirare l’attenzione. Era davvero riservato e gentiluomo. Anche la sua voce era dolce. Mi aveva detto che da giovane aveva avuto problemi alle ghiandole linfatiche, il che gli aveva lasciato una voce debole e un modo di parlare esitante e sommesso. Si vestiva sempre in modo elegante e ordinato. Ma i suoi occhi erano deboli, proprio come i miei. Indossava quindi occhiali colorati per proteggersi dal bagliore.”
“E poi, cosa è successo quando tuo patrigno, il signor Windibank, è tornato in Francia?” “Il signor Hosmer Angel tornò a casa e ci propose di sposarci prima del ritorno di mio padre. Era estremamente serio e mi fece giurare, con le mani sul Testamento, che qualunque cosa fosse successa, sarei sempre rimasta fedele a lui. Mia madre disse che era giusto che mi facesse giurare, e che questo era un segno della sua passione. Fin dall’inizio lei era dalla sua parte, anzi, lo amava ancora di più di me. Poi, quando parlarono di sposarci entro una settimana, iniziai a chiedere notizie di mio padre; ma loro dissero che non dovevo preoccuparmene per il momento, e che glielo avremmo detto dopo. Mia madre promise che si sarebbe occupata lei di tutto. A me non piaceva molto questa idea. Sembrava strano dover chiedere il permesso a lui, visto che era solo qualche anno più vecchio di me; ma non volevo fare nulla di nascosto, quindi scrissi a mio padre a Bordeaux, dove l’azienda aveva gli uffici francesi. Ma la lettera mi tornò indietro proprio la mattina del matrimonio.”
“Quindi lui non era lì, ”
“No, signore; era partito per l’Inghilterra poco prima che arrivasse la lettera.”
“Ah. Che sfortuna. Il vostro matrimonio era fissato per venerdì. Si sarebbe tenuto in chiesa?”
“Sì, signore. Ma in modo molto discreto. Avrebbe avuto luogo a St. Saviour’s, vicino a King’s Cross, e dopo avremmo pranzato all’hotel St. Pancras. Hosmer venne a prenderci con una vettura a cavalli. Ma poiché eravamo in due, ci fece salire entrambe e lui salì su un altro veicolo a quattro ruote. L’unico altro taxi presente in strada. Arrivammo per primi in chiesa; quando il veicolo a quattro ruote arrivò, aspettammo che Hosmer scendesse. Ma non lo fece mai. Il conducente scese e non c’era nessuno dentro. Disse di non riuscire a capire cosa fosse successo, perché l’aveva visto salire con i suoi occhi. È stato venerdì scorso, signor Holmes. Da allora non ho più saputo nulla di lui, ”
“Mi sembra che vi abbiano trattato in modo molto ingiusto,” disse Holmes.
“Oh no, signore. Era troppo buono e gentile per lasciarmi così. Tutto il mattino continuava a dirmi che, qualunque cosa fosse successa, dovevo rimanere fedele a lui. E che anche se qualcosa di imprevisto ci avesse separati, dovevo sempre ricordare che ero promessa a lui. Che prima o poi avrebbe rivendicato il suo diritto. Sembrava una strana cosa da dire la mattina del matrimonio. Ma quello che è successo dopo le dà un senso, ”
“Certamente. Quindi secondo voi è accaduta qualche catastrofe imprevista, ”
“Sì, signore. Credo che avesse previsto qualche pericolo. Altrimenti non avrebbe parlato in quel modo. E penso che ciò che aveva previsto sia davvero successo, ”
“Ma non avete idea di cosa possa essere stato, ”
“No, ”
“Un’ultima domanda. Come ha reagito vostra madre?”
“È stata arrabbiata. E ha detto che non dovevo mai più parlare dell’argomento, ”
“E vostro padre? Glielo avete detto?” “Sì; sembrava anche lui che fosse successo qualcosa e che avrei sentito parlare di Hosmer di nuovo. Come diceva lui, quale motivo potrebbe avere qualcuno nel portarmi alle porte della chiesa per poi lasciarmi lì? Se avesse preso in prestito i miei soldi, o se si fosse sposato con me e avesse fatto intestare i miei beni a lui, forse ci sarebbe stato un motivo. Ma Hosmer era molto indipendente riguardo al denaro e non avrebbe mai accettato nemmeno uno scellino dei miei. Eppure, cosa potrebbe essere successo? E perché non scriveva? Oh, mi fa impazzire solo a pensarci. Non riesco nemmeno a dormire la notte.” Tirò fuori un fazzoletto dalla sua muffa e iniziò a singhiozzare disperatamente.
“Darò un’occhiata alla questione per te,” disse Holmes alzandosi, “e non dubito che arriveremo a una conclusione definitiva. Lascia che io mi occupi di tutto questo, e non pensarci più. Soprattutto, cerca di dimenticare completamente il signor Hosmer Angel, proprio come se non fosse mai esistito nella tua vita.”
“Allora non credi che lo rivedrò mai più?”
“Temo di no.”
“Ma allora, cosa gli è successo?”
“Lascia che sia io a rispondere a questa domanda. Avrei bisogno di una descrizione accurata di lui, e di qualsiasi lettera sua tu possa aver conservato.” “Ho pubblicizzato la sua offerta sul ‘Chronicle’ di sabato scorso,” disse lei. “Ecco il foglio pubblicitario e quattro lettere da parte sua.”
“Grazie. E qual è il suo indirizzo?”
“No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell.”
“Capisco che non abbia mai avuto l’indirizzo di Mr. Angel. Dove si trova l’ufficio di suo padre?”
“Lui lavora per Westhouse & Marbank, i grandi importatori di vino rosso di Fenchurch Street.”
“Grazie. Ha spiegato tutto molto chiaramente. Lasci questi documenti qui e ricordi il consiglio che le ho dato: lasci che tutta questa faccenda rimanga un segreto, e non permetta che influisca sulla sua vita.”
“È molto gentile da parte sua, signor Holmes. Ma non posso farlo. Sarò fedele a Hosmer. Lui mi troverà pronta quando tornerà.”
Nonostante quel cappello assurdo e quel viso vuoto, nella semplice fede di quella donna c’era qualcosa di nobile che ci fece provare rispetto. Lasciò il suo piccolo mazzo di documenti sul tavolo e se ne andò, promettendo di tornare ogni volta che fosse stata chiamata. Sherlock Holmes rimase seduto in silenzio per alcuni minuti, con le dita ancora unite, le gambe distese davanti a sé e lo sguardo rivolto verso il soffitto. Poi prese dall’armadio quella vecchia pipa di argilla unta, che per lui rappresentava una sorta di consigliere; l’accese e si appoggiò allo schienale della sedia, mentre dense volute di fumo blu si alzavano intorno a lui, con un’espressione di infinito languore sul viso.
“Una ragazza davvero interessante, ”, osservò. “Mi è sembrata più interessante del suo piccolo problema, che, tra l’altro, è piuttosto banale. Potrete trovare casi simili consultando il mio indice: ad Andover nel ‘77, e anche all’Aia lo scorso anno ci sono stati episodi del genere. Anche se l’idea in sé è vecchia, c’erano uno o due dettagli che per me erano nuovi. Ma la ragazza stessa è stata davvero molto istruttiva.” “Sembravi aver notato molte cose su di lei che a me erano completamente sfuggite,” osservai.
“Non sfuggite, ma semplicemente ignorate, Watson. Non sapevi dove guardare, e per questo hai perso tutto ciò che era importante. Non riuscirai mai a capire l’importanza delle maniche, della suggestività delle unghie dei pollici, o di questioni fondamentali che possono nascondersi in un laccio da stivale. Ora, cosa hai dedotto dall’aspetto di quella donna? Descrivilo.”
“Beh, indossava un cappello di paglia a tesa larga di colore grigio-bluastro, con una piuma di colore rosso-brunastro. Il suo giubbotto era nero, decorato con perle nere e frange di piccoli ornamenti neri. La sua gonna era marrone scuro, con un po’ di peluche viola sul collo e sulle maniche. I guanti erano grigiastri e logori sul dito indice destro. Gli stivali non li ho notati. Portava orecchini dorati a forma di cerchio e aveva un aspetto generale che indicava una certa agiatezza, in modo volgare, comodo e disinvolto.”
Sherlock Holmes batté le mani delicatamente e ridacchiò.
“Davvero, Watson, stai facendo grandi progressi. Hai davvero fatto molto bene. È vero che hai perso tutto ciò che era importante, ma hai individuato il metodo giusto e hai un occhio attento ai dettagli dei colori. Non fidarti mai delle impressioni generali, ragazzo mio: concentrati sui particolari. Il mio sguardo cade sempre prima sulle maniche di una donna. In un uomo, forse è meglio osservare prima il ginocchio dei pantaloni. Come hai notato, quella donna aveva peluche sulle maniche, il che è un materiale molto utile per rilevare tracce. La doppia linea sopra il polso, dove la persona che scrive a macchina preme contro la scrivania, era ben definita. La macchina da cucire a mano lascia una marca simile, ma solo sul braccio sinistro, e sul lato più lontano dal pollice. Mentre in questo caso la macchia si trovava proprio sulla parte più larga del braccio. Poi ho osservato il suo viso. Notando le impronte lasciate dagli occhiali da vista vicina sui lati del naso, ho fatto un commento riguardo alla sua miopia e al fatto che probabilmente scriveva a macchina. Il che sembrò sorprenderla.”
“Mi ha davvero sorpreso, ”
“Ma certo. Era ovvio. Poi, guardandole i piedi, sono rimasto molto sorpreso e interessato: sebbene gli stivali che indossava fossero simili tra loro, erano davvero strani. Uno aveva la punta leggermente decorata, l’altro no. Uno era abbottonato solo ai primi due bottoni su cinque, l’altro al primo, terzo e quinto. Ora, quando vedi che una giovane donna, altrimenti ben vestita, esce di casa con stivali strani e mezzo abbottonati, non è difficile dedurre che sia uscita in fretta, ”
“E poi?” chiesi, interessato come sempre dai ragionamenti incisivi del mio amico. “Ho notato, per inciso, che aveva scritto un biglietto prima di uscire di casa, ma dopo essersi completamente vestita. Hai osservato che il suo guanto destro era strappato sul dito mignolo, ma non hai probabilmente notato che sia il guanto che il dito erano macchiati d’inchiostro viola. Aveva scritto in fretta e aveva immerso la penna troppo a fondo. Dev’essere stato stamattina, altrimenti la macchia non sarebbe ancora visibile sul dito. Tutto questo è divertente, anche se piuttosto banale. Ma devo tornare al lavoro, Watson. Potresti leggermi la descrizione pubblicata di Mr. Hosmer Angel?”
Presi il foglietto stampato e lo esaminai alla luce. “Disperso,” recitava, “la mattina del quattordicesimo. Un gentiluomo di nome Hosmer Angel. Alto circa cinque piedi e sette pollici; corporatura robusta, carnagione giallastra, capelli neri, con una leggera calvizie al centro; baffi e mustache neri e folti; occhiali colorati; lieve difficoltà nel parlare. L’ultima volta che è stato visto indossava un abito nero foderato di seta, gilet nero, catena d’oro tipo Albert e pantaloni di tweed grigi, con calzini marroni sopra stivali con lacci elastici. Si sapeva che lavorasse in un ufficio in Leadenhall Street. Chiunque lo avesse visto, ”
“Basta così,” disse Holmes. “Per quanto riguarda le lettere, ”, continuò, esaminandole, “sono molto ordinarie. Non contengono alcuna informazione utile su Mr. Angel, tranne il fatto che una volta cita Balzac. C’è però un dettaglio significativo che sicuramente ti colpirà, ”
“Sono scritte a macchina,” osservai.
“Non solo: anche la firma è scritta a macchina. Guarda quel grazioso ‘Hosmer Angel’ in fondo al foglio. C’è una data, ma nessun altro indizio, se non il nome Leadenhall Street, che è piuttosto vago. Il fatto che la firma sia scritta a macchina è molto significativo. Anzi, potremmo dire decisivo, ”
“Per cosa?”
“Mio caro amico. Non capisci quanto ciò sia rilevante per il caso?”
“Non riesco proprio a comprenderlo. A meno che non volesse poter negare la propria firma in caso venisse intentata un’azione legale per mancato adempimento di promesse, ”
“No, non è questo il punto. Comunque, scriverò due lettere che risolveranno la questione. Una va a una ditta della City; l’altra al patrigno della ragazza, Mr. Windibank, chiedendogli se possa incontrarci qui domani sera alle sei. È meglio occuparsi anche dei parenti maschi. Ora, dottore, non possiamo fare nulla fino a quando non arriveranno le risposte a queste lettere. Quindi possiamo mettere da parte questo piccolo problema per il momento.” Avevo così tante ragioni per credere nei sottili poteri di ragionamento e nell’eccezionale energia del mio amico che ero convinto che dovesse disporre di fondamenti solidi per il comportamento sicuro e tranquillo con cui affrontava quel mistero straordinario che gli era stato chiesto di risolvere. Solo una volta lo avevo visto fallire, nel caso del Re di Boemia e della fotografia di Irene Adler; ma ripensando agli strani avvenimenti legati al “Segno dei Quattro” e alle circostanze insolite associate allo “Studio in Rosso”, mi resi conto che si trattava davvero di un enigma complesso che probabilmente nemmeno lui sarebbe riuscito a risolvere.
Lo lasciai quindi, ancora impegnato a fumare la sua pipa di argilla nera, convinto che il giorno dopo avrei trovato in sue mani tutte le indagini necessarie per scoprire l’identità dello sposo scomparso della signorina Mary Sutherland.
In quel momento, la mia attenzione era assorbita da un caso professionale di grande gravità; trascorsi quindi l’intera giornata al capezzale del malato. Solo verso le sei riuscii a liberarmi e a prendere una vettura per Baker Street, temendo di arrivare troppo tardi per assistere alla risoluzione di quel piccolo mistero. Tuttavia, trovai Sherlock Holmes da solo, semiaddormentato, con il suo corpo snello rannicchiato nell’angolo della poltrona. Una serie di bottiglie e tubi di laboratorio, insieme all’intenso odore dell’acido cloridrico, indicavano che aveva trascorso la giornata impegnato in lavori chimici che gli erano molto cari.
“Bene, l’hai risolto?” chiesi non appena entrai.
“Sì. Si trattava di bisolfato di bario.”
“No, no. Intendo il mistero!” esclamai.
“Oh, quello! Mi ero ricordato del composto su cui stavo lavorando. In realtà non c’era alcun mistero, anche se, come ho detto ieri, alcuni dettagli sono interessanti. L’unica sfortuna è che, temo, non esista alcuna legge in grado di punire quel farabutto.”
“Allora, chi era e qual era il suo scopo nel abbandonare la signorina Sutherland?”
Non avevo ancora finito di parlare che sentimmo dei passi pesanti nel corridoio e qualcuno bussò alla porta.
“È il patrigno della ragazza, il signor James Windibank,” disse Holmes. “Mi ha scritto dicendo che sarebbe arrivato alle sei. Entrate!”
L’uomo che entrò era un individuo robusto, di media statura, circa trent’anni, con la faccia rasata e la pelle giallastra; aveva un modo di fare insinuante e due occhi grigi, acuti e penetranti. Ci lanciò uno sguardo interrogativo, posò il suo cappello lucido sul comodino e si sedette nella sedia più vicina.
“Buonasera, signor James Windibank,” disse Holmes. “Credo che questa lettera scritta a macchina sia sua. In essa aveva fissato un appuntamento con me alle sei, vero?” “Sì, signore. Temo di essere un po’ in ritardo, ma sa, non sono del tutto padrone di me stesso. Mi dispiace che la signorina Sutherland abbia disturbato lei per questa faccenda; penso infatti che sia molto meglio non lavare biancheria del genere in pubblico. Non era affatto nelle mie intenzioni che venisse, ma è una ragazza molto impulsiva e irruente, come avrà notato anche lei, e non è facile controllarla quando si è decisa per qualcosa. Certo, non mi dispiaceva così tanto per lei, visto che non ha nulla a che fare con la polizia ufficiale, ma non è certo piacevole che una sfortuna familiare del genere venga divulgata in giro. Inoltre, è uno spreco di denaro: come potrebbe mai essere possibile trovare questo Hosmer Angel?”
“Al contrario,” disse Holmes con calma, “ho tutte le ragioni per credere di riuscire a scoprire il signor Hosmer Angel.”
Il signor Windibank ebbe un sussulto e lasciò cadere i guanti. “Ne sono molto felice,” disse.
“È una cosa curiosa, ”, osservò Holmes, “che una macchina da scrivere abbia davvero tanto carattere quanto la scrittura di una persona. A meno che non siano completamente nuove, nessuna due scrive esattamente allo stesso modo: alcune lettere si usano di più altre, e alcune si consumano solo su un lato. Ora, in questa sua nota, signor Windibank, si nota chiaramente che la ‘e’ viene sempre tracciata in modo approssimativo, e la coda della ‘r’ è sempre mancante. Ci sono altre quattordici caratteristiche simili, ma queste sono le più evidenti.”
“Tutta la nostra corrispondenza viene redatta con questa macchina in ufficio, sicuramente quindi è un po’ consumata,” rispose il nostro ospite, guardando Holmes con i suoi occhi brillanti.
“E ora le mostrerò qualcosa di davvero molto interessante, signor Windibank,” continuò Holmes. “Sto pensando di scrivere una piccola monografia su questo argomento, sulle macchine da scrivere e il loro legame con i crimini. Ho già dedicato un po’ di attenzione a questa questione. Ho qui quattro lettere che presumibilmente provengono dall’uomo scomparso, tutte scritte a macchina. In ognuna di esse, non solo le ‘e’ sono tracciate in modo approssimativo e la coda delle ‘r’ è mancante, ma se vuole usare il mio microscopio, noterà anche che le altre quattordici caratteristiche menzionate sono presenti.”
Il signor Windibank balzò in piedi e prese il cappello. “Non posso perdere tempo con queste sciocchezze, signor Holmes,” disse. “Se riesce a catturare quell’uomo, lo faccia pure, e mi avvisi non appena ci sarà riuscito.”
“Certamente,” rispose Holmes, avvicinandosi alla porta e girando la chiave. “Allora le dico subito: l’ho catturato!”
“Cosa? Dove?” esclamò il signor Windibank, impallidendo e guardandosi intorno come un topo in trappola.
“Oh, non va affatto bene,” disse Holmes con calma. “Non c’è modo di uscire da questa situazione, signor Windibank. È troppo evidente. E è stato davvero un brutto complimento da parte sua dire che non sarei riuscito a risolvere una questione così semplice. Si sieda e parliamone.” Il nostro visitatore si accasciò su una sedia, con un viso orribile e delle gocce di sudore sulla fronte. “Non, non si può fare nulla al riguardo,” balbettò.
“Temo molto che non si possa davvero fare nulla. Ma tra noi, Windibank, si tratta di uno dei trucchi più crudeli, egoisti e spietati che abbia mai incontrato. Lasciate che vi racconti gli eventi in ordine, contraddirmi pure se sbaglio.”
L’uomo sedeva rannicchiato sulla sedia, con la testa china sul petto, come se fosse completamente distrutto. Holmes appoggiò i piedi sul bordo del camino e, con le mani in tasca, cominciò a parlare, più che altro a se stesso, sembrava.
“Quell’uomo sposò una donna molto più anziana di lui per i suoi soldi,” disse, “e approfittò anche dei soldi della figlia finché lei visse con loro. Si trattava di una somma considerevole, per persone nella loro posizione, la perdita di quei soldi avrebbe significato un grosso problema. Valeva quindi la pena fare di tutto per conservarli. La figlia aveva un carattere gentile e affabile, ma era anche molto sentimentale, con i suoi bei lineamenti e il suo modesto reddito, era evidente che non sarebbe rimasta single a lungo. Il suo matrimonio avrebbe quindi significato la perdita di cento sterline all’anno. Così cosa fece il suo patrigno per impedirlo? Prese la strada più ovvia: la tenne in casa e le vietò di frequentare persone della sua età. Ma presto capì che questo non sarebbe bastato a lungo. La ragazza divenne irrequieta, insistette sui suoi diritti, e alla fine annunciò decisamente di partecipare a una certa festa. Allora cosa fece il suo astuto patrigno? Pensò a un piano, più degno della sua intelligenza che del suo cuore. Con la complicità di sua moglie, si travestì: indossò occhiali da sole per nascondere i suoi occhi acuti, si mise una barba e dei baffi folti per alterare il proprio aspetto, e, grazie alla miopia della ragazza, apparve come il signor Hosmer Angel, e riuscì così a tenersi lontano da eventuali altri corteggiatori.”
“All’inizio era solo uno scherzo,” gemette il nostro visitatore. “Non avremmo mai pensato che lei potesse prendersela così sul serio, ” “È molto probabile che no. Comunque sia, la giovane signorina era decisamente influenzata da queste attenzioni; essendo ormai convinta che suo patrigno si trovasse in Francia, non le passò nemmeno per l’anticipo il sospetto di tradimento. Era lusingata dalle attenzioni di quel gentiluomo, e l’effetto di queste manifestazioni d’interesse fu ulteriormente rafforzato dall’ammirazione apertamente espressa da sua madre. Poi il signor Angel iniziò a insistere. Era evidente che la situazione doveva essere portata fino alle sue estreme conseguenze se si voleva ottenere un effetto reale. Ci furono incontri, e infine un fidanzamento che avrebbe definitivamente assicurato che i sentimenti della ragazza non si rivolgessero verso nessun altro. Ma questa inganno non poteva continuare all’infinito. Quei viaggi fingiti in Francia risultavano piuttosto complicati e dispendiosi. L’unica soluzione era concludere tutta la faccenda in modo drammatico, in modo che lasciasse un’impressione indelebile nella mente della giovane signorina e le impedisse per un certo periodo di considerare altri pretendenti. Ecco quindi quei giuramenti di fedeltà richiesti sotto forma di testamento. Ecco anche quelle allusioni a possibili eventi imprevisti proprio la mattina del matrimonio.” James Windibank desiderava che Miss Sutherland fosse così legata a Hosmer Angel, e così incerta riguardo al suo destino, da non ascoltare nessun altro uomo per almeno dieci anni. La portò fino alla porta della chiesa; poi, non potendo andare oltre, scomparve con l’antico trucco di entrare da una porta di un veicolo a quattro ruote e uscire dall’altra. “Penso che sia stata questa la sequenza degli eventi, signor Windibank!” Il nostro visitatore aveva riacquistato un po’ della sua sicurezza mentre Holmes parlava; ora si alzò dalla sedia con un freddo sorriso sul viso pallido.
“Può darsi, oppure no, signor Holmes,” disse, “ma se siete davvero così astuto, dovreste essere abbastanza perspicace da capire che è voi ad infrangere la legge in questo momento, non io. Non ho fatto nulla di illegale fin dall’inizio; tuttavia, finché tenete quella porta chiusa a chiave, vi esponete a accuse di aggressione e sequestro illegale.”
“La legge, come dite voi, non può toccarvi,” rispose Holmes, aprendo la porta, “ma non c’è mai stato un uomo che meritasse di più una punizione. Se quella giovane signora ha un fratello o un amico, dovrebbe farvi assaggiare la frusta. Per Giove!” continuò, arrossendo alla vista del sorriso crudele sul volto dell’uomo. “Non è certo mio dovere nei confronti del mio cliente, ma, ecco qui una bella frusta; penso che me ne servirò.” Fece due rapidi passi verso la frusta, ma prima che potesse afferrarla, si udì un rumore di passi affrettati sulle scale; la porta d’ingresso si aprì con violenza e dalla finestra vedemmo il signor James Windibank correre a tutta velocità lungo la strada. “È un individuo spietato e senza cuore!” disse Holmes ridendo, mentre si lasciava cadere di nuovo sulla sedia. “Quel tipo continuerà a commettere crimine dopo crimine, fino a quando non farà qualcosa di davvero terribile e finirà impiccato. In alcuni aspetti, questo caso non è stato affatto privo di interesse, ”
“Non riesco ancora a comprendere completamente tutti i passaggi della tua deduzione,” osservai.
“Beh, era ovvio fin dall’inizio che quel signor Hosmer Angel doveva avere un motivo molto preciso per comportarsi in modo così strano. E altrettanto chiaro era che l’unico ad trarre veramente vantaggio da quella situazione, secondo quanto riuscivamo a capire, era il patrigno del ragazzo. Inoltre, il fatto che i due uomini non si incontrassero mai, e che uno comparisse sempre quando l’altro era assente, era molto significativo. Così come gli occhiali colorati e quella voce strana, che suggerivano entrambi un travestimento, così come le folte basette. Tutti questi indizi confermarono le mie sospetti. E poi c’era il modo in cui aveva scritto la sua firma a macchina: questo dimostrava chiaramente che la sua calligrafia era così familiare per lei da permetterle di riconoscerla anche in un campione molto piccolo. Tutti questi elementi, insieme ad altri ancora, puntavano nella stessa direzione, ”
“E come hai verificato tutto ciò?”
“Una volta individuato il mio uomo, è stato facile ottenere conferme. Conoscevo l’azienda per cui lavorava; dopo aver preso la descrizione scritta di lui, ho eliminato tutti gli elementi che potevano essere dovuti a un travestimento – le basette, gli occhiali, la voce – e l’ho inviata all’azienda, chiedendo loro di dirmi se corrispondeva alla descrizione di qualche loro dipendente. Avevo già notato le caratteristiche particolari della macchina da scrivere; ho quindi scritto direttamente a quell’uomo, chiedendogli di venire qui. Come previsto, la sua risposta era stata scritta a macchina, e presentava gli stessi difetti banali ma caratteristici della sua calligrafia. Nella stessa lettera ho ricevuto anche una comunicazione da parte dell’azienda Westhouse & Marbank di Fenchurch Street: la descrizione corrispondeva perfettamente a quella del loro dipendente James Windibank. Ecco tutto!”
“E Miss Sutherland?”
“Se glielo dico, non mi crederà. Potreste ricordare quel vecchio detto persiano: ‘Chi prende un cucciolo di tigre corre pericolo; chi sottrae una illusione da una donna corre ugualmente pericolo’. Ci sono tanto senso nelle parole dell’Hafiz quanto in quelle dell’Orazio. E anche molta conoscenza del mondo.”

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 Farmhouse 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 gaol.” 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.

Il mistero della valle di Boscombe
Una mattina, mentre eravamo a colazione, mia moglie ed io, la cameriera portò un telegramma. Era di Sherlock Holmes e diceva:
“Avete qualche giorno libero? Mi hanno appena contattato dall’ovest dell’Inghilterra in relazione al tragico caso della valle di Boscombe. Sarei molto grato se veniste con me. L’aria e il paesaggio sono perfetti; partite da Paddington alle 11:15.”
“Cosa ne pensi, caro?” chiese mia moglie. “Andrai?”
“Non so davvero cosa dire. Al momento ho molte cose da fare, ”
“Oh, Anstruther potrebbe occuparsi del tuo lavoro al posto tuo. Ultimamente sembri un po’ pallido. Penso che un cambiamento ti farebbe bene, e inoltre sei sempre molto interessato ai casi di Sherlock Holmes.”
“Sarei ingrato se non lo facessi, visto ciò che ho imparato grazie a uno dei suoi casi, ” risposi. “Ma se decido di andare, devo prepararmi subito. Ho solo mezz’ora.”
La mia esperienza nella vita da campeggiatore in Afghanistan mi aveva reso un viaggiatore veloce e organizzato. Avevo poche esigenze, quindi in meno del tempo previsto ero già in taxi, diretto alla stazione di Paddington. Sherlock Holmes camminava avanti e indietro sul binario; la sua alta figura magra sembrava ancora più snella sotto il lungo mantello grigio e il cappello di stoffa aderente.
“È davvero gentile da parte tua venire, Watson. È molto importante avere qualcuno su cui poter contare completamente. L’aiuto locale è spesso inutile o prevenzioso. Tu occupati tu dei due posti vicini al finestrino; io mi occuperò dei biglietti.”
Avevamo il vagone tutto per noi, tranne che per un mucchio enorme di documenti che Holmes aveva portato con sé. Li sfogliava e li leggeva, prendendo appunti di tanto in tanto, fino a quando non superammo Reading. Poi li raccolse tutti in un grosso mucchio e li gettò sullo scaffale sopra i sedili.
“Hai sentito qualcosa riguardo al caso?” chiese.
“Niente. Non ho letto nessun giornale da diversi giorni.”
“I giornali di Londra non hanno fornito molte informazioni. Ho appena esaminato tutti i giornali recenti per capire meglio la situazione. Sembra che si tratti di uno di quei casi apparentemente semplici ma in realtà estremamente complessi, ”
“Suona un po’ paradossale, ”
“Ma è assolutamente vero. La stranezza dei fatti è quasi sempre una pista importante. Più un crimine sembra banale e comune, più diventa difficile risolverlo. In questo caso, però, hanno raccolto prove molto concrete contro il figlio della vittima, ”
“Quindi si tratta davvero di un omicidio?”
“Beh, è solo una congettura. Non prenderò nulla per scontato finché non avrò l’opportunità di indagare personalmente. Ti spiegherò brevemente la situazione, per quanto ne abbia capito, ” “La valle di Boscombe è una zona rurale situata non lontano da Ross, nel Herefordshire. Il più grande proprietario terriero di quella regione è un certo signor John Turner, che ha fatto fortuna in Australia e è tornato alcuni anni fa nella sua patria d’origine. Una delle fattorie che possedeva, quella di Hatherley, fu affittata al signor Charles McCarthy, anch’egli ex australiano. I due si conoscevano già nelle colonie, quindi non era strano che decidessero di stabilirsi uno vicino all’altro quando tornarono in Inghilterra. Turner sembrava essere la persona più ricca dei due, quindi McCarthy divenne suo affittuario; tuttavia, a quanto pare, i loro rapporti erano basati su una perfetta parità, visto che trascorrevano molto tempo insieme. McCarthy aveva un figlio di diciotto anni, mentre Turner aveva una sola figlia della stessa età, ma nessuno dei due aveva moglie. Sembra che evitassero la compagnia delle famiglie inglesi del vicinato e conducessero una vita ritirata; tuttavia, sia i McCarthy che Turner amavano lo sport e spesso partecipavano alle gare della zona. McCarthy aveva due domestici: un uomo e una ragazza; Turner, invece, aveva un’intera famiglia di servitori, almeno sei persone. Questo è tutto ciò che sono riuscito a scoprire su queste due famiglie. Ora veniamo ai fatti, ”
“Il 3 giugno, lunedì scorso, McCarthy lasciò la sua casa a Hatherley verso le tre del pomeriggio e si diresse verso il lago Boscombe Pool, un piccolo stagno formato dal corso d’acqua che attraversa la valle. La mattina era stato con il suo domestico a Ross e aveva detto al ragazzo di affrettarsi, poiché doveva partecipare a un appuntamento molto importante alle tre. Da quell’appuntamento non tornò mai più vivo.”
“Dal casale di Hatherley al lago Boscombe Pool ci sono circa venti minuti a piedi; due persone lo videro mentre attraversava quella zona. Una era una vecchia donna il cui nome non è stato menzionato; l’altra era William Crowder, un guardiacaccia al servizio del signor Turner. Entrambi i testimoni affermano che McCarthy camminasse da solo. Il guardiacaccia aggiunse che, pochi minuti dopo aver visto passare McCarthy, aveva notato suo figlio, il signor James McCarthy, che procedeva nella stessa direzione con un fucile in spalla. Per quanto ne sapeva lui, il padre era ancora visibile in quel momento e il figlio lo stava seguendo. Non pensò più a quella faccenda fino a quando, la sera dello stesso giorno, non venne a sapere dell’incidente tragico che era accaduto.” “Il giovane McCarthy fu visto dopo che William Crowder, il custode del campo da gioco, perse le tracce di lui. Il Boscombe Pool è circondato da una fitta foresta, con solo una striscia di erba e canne lungo il bordo. Una ragazza di quattordici anni, Patience Moran, figlia del custode della tenuta di Boscombe Valley, si trovava nella foresta a raccogliere fiori. Afferma di aver visto, ai confini del bosco, vicino al lago, il signor McCarthy e suo figlio, e che sembravano essere impegnati in una violenta lite. Ha sentito il signor McCarthy usare un linguaggio molto aggressivo nei confronti di suo figlio e ha visto quest’ultimo alzare la mano come se volesse colpire suo padre. Spaventata dalla loro violenza, è fuggita e, tornata a casa, ha raccontato alla madre di aver visto i due McCarthy litigare vicino al Boscombe Pool, temendo che potessero venire alle mani. Appena finì di parlare, il giovane McCarthy arrivò di corsa alla locanda dicendo di aver trovato suo padre morto nella foresta e chiedendo l’aiuto del custode. Era molto agitato, senza né pistola né cappello; si notava inoltre che la sua mano destra e la manica della giacca erano macchiate di sangue fresco. Seguendolo, trovarono il corpo steso sull’erba accanto al lago; la testa era stata colpita più volte con un oggetto pesante e appuntito. Le ferite corrispondevano perfettamente a quelle che avrebbe potuto causare il calcio della pistola di suo figlio, trovata a pochi passi dal corpo. In queste circostanze, il giovane fu immediatamente arrestato; martedì, durante l’inchiesta, fu emesso un verdetto di ‘omicidio premeditato’, e mercoledì fu portato davanti ai magistrati di Ross, i quali hanno rinviato il caso alle prossime assise. Questi sono i fatti principali del caso, così come emersi durante l’inchiesta del coroner e al tribunale di polizia.” “Difficilmente si potrebbe immaginare un caso più incriminante,” commentai. “Se mai le prove circostanziali indicano chiaramente la colpevolezza di qualcuno, in questo caso è proprio così.” “Le prove circostanziali sono una cosa molto complessa,” rispose Holmes pensierosamente. “Potrebbero sembrare puntare direttamente verso una certa conclusione, ma se si cambia un po’ prospettiva, possono indicare altrettanto chiaramente qualcosa di completamente diverso. Bisogna ammettere, tuttavia, che il caso appare estremamente grave contro il giovane McCarthy. È molto probabile che sia davvero colpevole. Tuttavia, ci sono alcune persone nel quartiere, tra cui la signorina Turner, figlia del proprietario terriero vicino di casa, che credono nella sua innocenza e hanno assunto Lestrade – che potreste ricordare per il caso ‘Lo studio in rosso’ – affinché indaghi a suo favore. Essendo piuttosto perplesso, Lestrade mi ha affidato il caso. Ed è così che due signori di mezza età stanno viaggiando verso ovest a cinquanta miglia orarie, invece di godersi tranquillamente la colazione a casa.” “Temo,” dissi, “che i fatti siano così evidenti che non troverete molto merito da ottenere in questo caso.”
“Non c’è nulla di più ingannevole di un fatto evidente,” rispose lui ridendo. “Inoltre, potremmo anche scoprire altri fatti evidenti che probabilmente non sono stati notati affatto dal signor Lestrade. Mi conoscete troppo bene per pensare che stia vantandomi quando dico che riuscirò a confermare o confutare la sua teoria con metodi che lui è completamente incapace di utilizzare, o persino di comprendere. Prendiamo ad esempio il vostro letto: vedo chiaramente che la finestra si trova sul lato destro, ma dubito che il signor Lestrade abbia notato una cosa così ovvia.”
“Ma come,?”
“Caro amico, vi conosco bene. So della precisione militare che vi caratterizza: vi rasegate ogni mattina, e in questa stagione lo fate alla luce del sole; tuttavia, poiché la rasatura diventa sempre meno accurata man mano che ci si sposta verso il lato sinistro, fino a diventare praticamente trascurata nell’angolo della mandibola, è evidente che quel lato sia meno illuminato dell’altro. Non riesco proprio a immaginare che una persona con le vostre abitudini si guardi allo specchio in condizioni di luce uguali e rimanga soddisfatta del risultato. Vi cito questo solo come un esempio banale di osservazione e deduzione. Questo è il mio mestiere, e potrebbe rivelarsi utile nell’indagine che ci attende. Ci sono uno o due dettagli minori emersi durante l’inchiesta che meritano di essere presi in considerazione.”
“Di cosa si tratta?”
“Sembra che il suo arresto non sia avvenuto subito, ma dopo il ritorno a Hatherley Farm. Quando l’ispettore della polizia gli comunicò che era un prigioniero, lui rispose di non essere sorpreso e che quella non era altro che la conseguenza dei suoi atti. Questa dichiarazione eliminò naturalmente qualsiasi dubbio potesse rimanere nella mente della giuria.”
“È stata una confessione, ” esclamai.
“No, perché subito dopo ne fece una di innocenza.”
“Detto dopo una serie di eventi così incriminanti, è senz’altro una dichiarazione molto sospetta.” “Al contrario,” disse Holmes, “è proprio questa la ‘fessura più luminosa’ che riesco attualmente a vedere tra le nuvole. Per quanto innocente possa essere, non può essere così assolutamente stupido da non rendersi conto che le circostanze sono molto sfavorevoli per lui. Se si fosse mostrato sorpreso della propria arrestazione, o avesse finto indignazione, l’avrei considerato estremamente sospetto. Poiché una tale reazione non sarebbe stata naturale in quelle circostanze, eppure potrebbe sembrare la strategia migliore per un uomo che ha dei piani precisi. Il suo modo franco di accettare la situazione lo indica come un uomo innocente, oppure come qualcuno dotato di grande autocontrollo e fermezza. Per quanto riguarda il suo commento sui propri errori, non è affatto insolito, se si considera che si trovava accanto al cadavere di suo padre. E senza dubbio quel giorno aveva completamente dimenticato i propri doveri filiali al punto da discutere con lui, e persino, secondo quanto afferma quella bambina la cui testimonianza è così importante, di alzare la mano come se volesse colpirlo. Il rimorso e il pentimento che mostra in quel commento, a mio parere, sono segni di una mente sana, piuttosto che di una mente colpevole.”
Scossi la testa. “Molti uomini sono stati impiccati su prove molto più fragili,” osservai.
“È vero. E molti uomini sono stati ingiustamente impiccati.”
“Qual è la versione dei fatti fornita dal giovane stesso?”
“Purtroppo, non è molto incoraggiante per i suoi sostenitori. Anche se ci sono un paio di punti che possono essere interessanti. Potrete trovarla qui; leggetela voi stessi.”
Prese da dentro il suo fagotto un esemplare del giornale locale dell’Herefordshire e, dopo averlo aperto, indicò il paragrafo in cui il giovane aveva fornito la propria versione degli eventi. Mi sistemai nell’angolo della carrozza e lessi attentamente quel resoconto. Diceva più o meno così: “Mr. James McCarthy, l’unico figlio del defunto, fu quindi chiamato a testimoniare e dichiarò quanto segue: ‘Ero stato via da casa per tre giorni a Bristol e ero appena tornato la mattina di lunedì 3. Mio padre non era in casa al mio arrivo; la domestica mi disse che era andato a Ross con John Cobb, lo sposo. Poco dopo il mio ritorno sentii il rumore delle ruote della sua carrozza nel cortile e, guardando fuori dalla finestra, lo vidi scendere e allontanarsi rapidamente, anche se non sapevo in quale direzione fosse andato. Presi quindi la mia pistola e mi diressi verso il Boscombe Pool, con l’intenzione di visitare il recinto dei conigli che si trova dall’altra parte. Lungo la strada vidi William Crowder, il guardiacaccia, proprio come aveva detto nella sua testimonianza; ma si sbaglia pensando che stessi seguendo mio padre. Non sapevo affatto che fosse davanti a me. Dopo aver percorso circa cento metri dal lago, sentii un grido: “Cooee!”, che era il segnale convenuto tra me e mio padre. Corsi subito verso di lui e lo trovai in piedi vicino al lago. Sembrava molto sorpreso di vedermi e mi chiese in modo piuttosto brusco cosa facessi lì. Ne seguì una discussione che sfociò in parole dure e quasi in una rissa, perché mio padre aveva un temperamento molto violento. Vedendo che la sua rabbia diventava incontrollabile, lo lasciai e tornai verso Hatherley Farm. Tuttavia, non avevo percorso più di 150 metri quando sentii un terribile grido alle mie spalle. Corsi indietro e trovai mio padre a terra, con la testa gravemente ferita. Lasciai cadere la pistola e lo abbracciai, ma morì quasi immediatamente. Rimasi inginocchiato accanto a lui per alcuni minuti, poi andai dal custode della casa di Mr. Turner, l’abitazione più vicina, per chiedere aiuto. Non vidi nessuno vicino a mio padre quando tornai. Non so come abbia riportato quelle ferite. Non era una persona molto popolare. Era piuttosto freddo e distaccato nei modi. Ma, per quanto ne so, non aveva nemici. Non so nulla di più su questa faccenda.’ “Il Coroner: Vostro padre vi ha detto qualcosa prima di morire? “Testimone: Ha mormorato alcune parole. Ma ho capito solo che si riferiva a un topo. “Coroner: Cosa intendevate dire con questo? “Testimone: Non aveva alcun senso. Pensavo fosse delirante. “Coroner: Di cosa è nata l’ultima lite tra voi e vostro padre? “Testimone: Preferirei non rispondere. “Coroner: Temo di dover insistere. “Testimone: È davvero impossibile per me dirvelo. Vi assicuro che non ha nulla a che fare con la tragica conseguenza che ne è seguita. “Coroner: Questo spetta al tribunale decidere. Non devo certo ricordarvi che il vostro rifiuto di rispondere potrebbe danneggiare notevolmente la vostra posizione in eventuali processi futuri. “Testimone: Devo comunque rifiutare. “Coroner: Ho capito che “Cooee!” era il segnale convenuto tra voi e vostro padre, giusto? “Testimone: Sì.” “Il medico legale: Allora, come mai quelle parole furono pronunciate prima ancora che lui ti vedesse, e prima ancora che sapesse che eri tornato da Bristol?
“Testimone (con notevole confusione): Non lo so.
“Un giurato: Non hai visto nulla che potesse suscitare i tuoi sospetti quando sei tornato, sentendo quel grido e trovando tuo padre gravemente ferito?
“Testimone: Niente di preciso.
“Medico legale: Cosa intendi dire?
“Testimone: Ero così turbato ed eccitato mentre correvo fuori che non riuscivo a pensare ad altro che a mio padre. Tuttavia ho una vaga impressione che, mentre correvo, ci fosse qualcosa per terra a sinistra di me. Sembrava di colore grigio, forse un cappotto o un plaid. Quando mi sono alzato accanto a mio padre l’ho cercato, ma era scomparso.
“‘Intendi dire che è sparito prima che tu andassi a chiamare aiuto?’
“‘Sì, era già sparito.’
“‘Non puoi dirci di cosa si trattasse?’
“‘No. Avevo la sensazione che ci fosse qualcosa lì.’
“‘A quale distanza dal corpo?’
“‘Circa dodici metri.’
“‘E a quale distanza dal bordo del bosco?’
“‘Più o meno lo stesso.’
“‘Quindi, se è stato rimosso, deve essere avvenuto mentre eri a meno di dodici metri da esso?’
“‘Sì, ma con le spalle rivolte verso di esso.’”
“Con questo terminò l’interrogatorio del testimone.”
“Vedo,” dissi scorrendo la colonna, “che il medico legale, nelle sue osservazioni finali, è stato piuttosto severo con il giovane McCarthy. Ha sottolineato, e a ragione, le contraddizioni riguardo al fatto che suo padre gli avesse fatto segni prima di vederlo, così come il suo rifiuto di fornire dettagli sulla conversazione avuta con lui, e la sua strana descrizione delle ultime parole di suo padre. Tutto ciò, secondo lui, è molto contro il giovane.”
Holmes rise sottovoce e si sdraiò sul sedile imbottito. “Tu e il medico legale avete entrambi fatto del vostro meglio per evidenziare i punti a favore di quel ragazzo,” disse. “Ma non vi rendete conto che alternativamente lo lodate per avere troppa immaginazione, o troppo poco? Troppo poco, se non è riuscito a inventare una ragione per la quale litigare, così da guadagnarsi la simpatia della giuria; troppa immaginazione, se ha tirato fuori dalla propria coscienza cose così assurde come un’allusione a un topo prima di morire, o l’episodio del panno scomparso. No, signore: affronteremo questo caso partendo dall’ipotesi che quanto dice quel ragazzo sia vero, e vedremo dove ci porterà questa ipotesi. Ora, ecco il mio taccuino. Non dirò più una parola su questo caso fino a quando non saremo sul posto. Pranziamo a Swindon. Arriveremo lì in venti minuti.” Era quasi le quattro quando finalmente, dopo aver attraversato la bellissima valle di Stroud e il vasto fiume Severn scintillante al sole, arrivammo nella graziosa cittadina di Ross. Sulla banchina ci aspettava un uomo magro, dall’aspetto furtivo e astuto. Nonostante indossasse un cappotto marrone chiaro e delle calzamaglie di cuoio per adattarsi al contesto rurale, riconobbi subito Lestrade, dell’Scotland Yard. Con lui ci recammo all’Hereford Arms, dove avevamo già prenotato una stanza.
“Ho ordinato una carrozza,” disse Lestrade mentre bevevamo il tè. “Conoscevo la tua natura energica e sapevo che non saresti stato soddisfatto finché non avessi visitato la scena del crimine.”
“È stata davvero una gentilezza da parte tua,” rispose Holmes. “In realtà, si tratta semplicemente di una questione legata alla pressione atmosferica, ”
Lestrade sembrò perplesso. “Non capisco bene, ”
“La temperatura è di ventinove gradi. Nessun vento, nessuna nuvola nel cielo. Ho con me un intero scatolo di sigarette da fumare, e il divano qui è decisamente più confortevole delle solite strutture rurali. Penso che stasera non avrò bisogno della carrozza.”
Lestrade rise indulgentemente. “Senza dubbio hai già tratto le tue conclusioni dai giornali,” disse. “Il caso è piuttosto evidente. Ma, naturalmente, non si può rifiutare una signora, soprattutto una così insistente. Ha sentito parlare di te e vuole conoscere la tua opinione. Anche se le ho ripetuto più volte che non c’è nulla che tu possa fare che io non abbia già fatto. Ecco. La sua carrozza è già alla porta.”
Prima ancora che finisse di parlare, entrò nella stanza una delle donne più belle che avessi mai visto in vita mia. I suoi occhi viola brillavano, le labbra erano leggermente dischiuse, le guance arrossate. Tutto il suo naturale riserbo era svanito a causa dell’emozione e della preoccupazione.
“Oh, signor Sherlock Holmes!” esclamò, guardandoci uno dopo l’altro, fino a fermarsi su di me con un’intuizione femminile immediata. “Sono così felice che siate venuti. Sono venuta apposta per dirvelo. So che James non è stato lui. Lo so, e voglio che iniziate le vostre indagini con questa certezza. Non permettete mai che vi sorgano dubbi su questo punto. Ci conosciamo da quando eravamo bambine. Conosco i suoi difetti meglio di chiunque altro. Ma è troppo buono per fare del male a qualcuno. Una simile accusa è assurda per chi lo conosce davvero, ”
“Spero di poterlo scagionare, signorina Turner,” disse Sherlock Holmes. “Potete contare sul fatto che farò tutto il possibile.”
“Ma avete letto le prove. Avete già tratto qualche conclusione. Non notate nessuna incongruenza, nessun errore? Anche voi pensate che sia innocente?”
“Penso che sia molto probabile, ”
“Ecco!” esclamò lei, alzando la testa e guardando Lestrade con aria di sfida. “Sentite. Vi dà speranza, ” Lestrade alzò le spalle. “Temo che mio collega abbia tratto conclusioni un po’ troppo affrettate,” disse.
“Ma ha ragione. Oh, so che ha ragione. James non l’ha fatto davvero. E per quanto riguarda la sua lite con suo padre, sono sicura che il motivo per cui non ne ha parlato al coroner sia perché anch’io ero coinvolta in quella situazione.”
“In che modo?” chiese Holmes.
“Non è il momento di nascondere nulla. James e suo padre avevano molte divergenze su di me. Il signor McCarthy desiderava ardentemente che noi due ci sposassimo. James ed io ci siamo sempre voluti bene come fratello e sorella; ma lui è ancora giovane, non ha ancora vissuto molto. E naturalmente non voleva affatto considerare l’idea di sposarsi in quel momento. Così c’erano delle discussioni. E questa, ne sono sicura, era una di esse.”
“E suo padre?” chiese Holmes. “Anche lui era a favore di questo matrimonio?”
“No, anche lui era contrario. Solo il signor McCarthy lo sosteneva, ” Un rapido rossore le apparve sul viso giovane e fresco mentre Holmes la fissava con i suoi occhi acuti e indagatori.
“Grazie per queste informazioni,” disse. “Posso vedere suo padre se vengo a trovarlo domani?”
“Temo che il dottore non lo permetterà, ”
“Il dottore?” “Sì, non l’avete sentito? Povero papà da anni non è più stato forte, ma questa situazione lo ha completamente distrutto. È rimasto a letto, e il dottor Willows dice che è un disastro e che il suo sistema nervoso è completamente rovinato. Il signor McCarthy era l’unico uomo ancora in vita che avesse conosciuto papà ai tempi di Victoria, ”
“Ah! A Victoria. Questo è importante.”
“Sì, nelle miniere.”
“Esatto; nelle miniere d’oro, dove, per quanto ne so, il signor Turner ha fatto fortuna.”
“Certamente.”
“Grazie, signorina Turner. Mi avete davvero aiutato molto.”
“Mi farà sapere se avrà qualche notizia domani. Senza dubbio andrà in prigione a vedere James. Oh, se ci va, signor Holmes, per favore gli dica che so che è innocente.”
“Lo farò, signorina Turner.”
“Devo andare ora. Papà sta molto male e mi manca tantissimo se resto lontana da lui. Addio. Che Dio la aiuti nel suo compito.” Uscì dalla stanza con la stessa impulsività con cui era entrata, e sentimmo le ruote della sua carrozza allontanarsi lungo la strada.
“Mi vergogno di lei, Holmes,” disse Lestrade con dignità dopo alcuni minuti di silenzio. “Perché dovrebbe suscitare speranze che inevitabilmente dovrà deludere? Non sono certo un uomo troppo sensibile. Ma la considero una crudeltà.” “Credo di aver trovato un modo per far liberare James McCarthy,” disse Holmes. “Avete l’autorizzazione per incontrarlo in prigione?” “Sì, ma solo per voi e me.” “Allora ripenserò alla mia decisione di non andare. Abbiamo ancora il tempo di prendere il treno per Hereford e vederlo stasera, vero?” “Certo.” “Allora facciamolo. Watson, temo che vi sembrerà molto lento, ma sarò via solo un paio d’ore.” Scendii con loro alla stazione, poi vagai per le strade della piccola città, fino a tornare all’hotel. Mi sdraiai sul divano e provai a leggere un romanzo con copertina gialla; tuttavia, la trama banale di quella storia era così debole rispetto al mistero profondo che stavamo cercando di risolvere, che la mia attenzione continuava a distrarsi. Alla fine gettai il libro da parte e mi concentrai completamente sugli eventi della giornata. Supponendo che la storia di quel giovane fosse assolutamente vera, quale terribile calamità, quale evento inaspettato e straordinario poteva essere accaduto tra il momento in cui aveva lasciato suo padre e quello in cui, attirato dai suoi urla, era corso nella radura? Qualcosa di orribile e mortale. Cosa poteva essere? Forse la natura delle ferite avrebbe potuto rivelarmi qualcosa attraverso i miei istinti medici. Suonai il campanello e chiesi il giornale settimanale della contea, che conteneva un resoconto dettagliato dell’inchiesta. Nella deposizione del chirurgo si affermava che il terzo posteriore dell’osso parietale sinistro e la metà sinistra dell’osso occipitale fossero stati frantumati da un colpo violento inferto con un’arma contusa. Ho indicato quella zona sulla mia stessa testa: chiaramente, un simile colpo doveva essere stato sferrato da dietro. Questo fatto poteva essere a favore dell’accusato, poiché, quando lo si vedeva litigare, lui e suo padre erano faccia a faccia. Tuttavia, questo non rappresentava un elemento decisivo, poiché l’uomo più anziano avrebbe potuto girarsi di spalle prima che il colpo fosse inferto. Comunque, valeva la pena attirare l’attenzione di Holmes su questo dettaglio. Inoltre, c’era quella strana allusione alla morte riguardante un topo. Cosa poteva significare? Non poteva trattarsi di delirio: una persona che muore a seguito di un colpo improvviso di solito non entra in delirio. Piuttosto, sembrava un tentativo di spiegare come fosse avvenuta la sua morte. Ma cosa poteva indicare esattamente? Mi sforzavo disperatamente di trovare una possibile spiegazione. E poi c’era quell’episodio del tessuto grigio visto dal giovane McCarthy. Se ciò fosse vero, l’assassino avrebbe sicuramente perso qualche parte del suo abito, probabilmente il cappotto, durante la fuga, e avrebbe dovuto avere il coraggio di tornare indietro a prenderlo proprio nel momento in cui il giovane McCarthy era inginocchiato, con le spalle rivolte, a non più di una dozzina di passi di distanza. Che insieme di misteri e improbabilità. Non mi meravigliavo quindi dell’opinione di Lestrade; tuttavia avevo così tanta fiducia nell’intuizione di Sherlock Holmes che non potevo perdere la speranza, finché ogni nuovo fatto sembrava rafforzare la sua convinzione sull’innocenza del giovane McCarthy. Era tardi quando Sherlock Holmes tornò. Tornò da solo, perché Lestrade era rimasto in una locanda in città.
“Il livello dell’acqua è ancora molto alto,” osservò mentre si sedeva. “È importante che non piova prima che possiamo procedere con l’esplorazione del sito. D’altra parte, per un lavoro così delicato è necessario essere al massimo delle proprie forze. E non volevo affrontarlo dopo un lungo viaggio. Ho visto il giovane McCarthy.” “E cosa hai imparato da lui?”
“Niente.”
“Non è stato in grado di fornire alcuna informazione utile?”
“Assolutamente no. Per un po’ ho pensato che sapesse chi aveva commesso il crimine e stesse proteggendo quella persona, ma ora sono convinto che sia altrettanto perplesso di tutti gli altri. Non è un giovane molto intelligente, anche se è piacevole da vedere e, credo, anche dal punto di vista del carattere.”
“Non posso certo ammirare il suo gusto,” osservai, “se è vero che si è rifiutato di sposare una giovane così affascinante come la signorina Turner.” “Ah, c’è una storia piuttosto dolorosa dietro a tutto questo. Questo ragazzo è pazzamente, follemente innamorato di lei; ma circa due anni fa, quando era ancora un ragazzo e non la conosceva davvero bene – poiché lei era stata via per cinque anni in una scuola interna – che cosa fa? Finisce nelle grinfie di una barista a Bristol e la sposa in municipio. Nessuno sa nulla di questa storia, ma potete immaginare quanto debba essere frustrante per lui essere rimproverato perché non fa ciò che sarebbe disposto a fare con tutto se stesso, anche se sa benissimo che è assolutamente impossibile. È stata proprio una follia del genere a far sì che alzasse le mani al cielo quando suo padre, durante l’ultima loro conversazione, lo incoraggiò ad chiedere la mano di Miss Turner. D’altra parte, non aveva alcun mezzo per mantenersi, e suo padre, che era considerato una persona molto rigida, lo avrebbe completamente abbandonato se avesse scoperto la verità. Gli ultimi tre giorni li ha trascorsi con sua moglie, quella barista a Bristol. E suo padre non sapeva nemmeno dove si trovasse. Tenete bene a mente questo punto: è molto importante.” Dall’evil è nato il bene, tuttavia: per la cameriera, infatti, aver scoperto dai giornali che lui si trovava in gravi difficoltà e che probabilmente sarebbe stato impiccato l’ha completamente abbandonato, scrivendogli che aveva già un marito presso il cantiere navale delle Bermuda, quindi non esisteva davvero alcun legame tra loro. Penso che questa notizia abbia consolato il giovane McCarthy per tutto ciò che aveva sofferto. “Ma se è innocente, allora chi l’ha fatto?”
“Ah! chi? Vorrei attirare la vostra attenzione su due punti in particolare. Il primo è che l’uomo assassinato aveva un appuntamento con qualcuno presso il laghetto, e quella persona non poteva essere suo figlio, perché suo figlio era via e lui non sapeva quando sarebbe tornato. Il secondo è che si è sentito l’uomo assassinato gridare ‘Cooee!’ prima ancora di rendersi conto che suo figlio era tornato. Questi sono i punti cruciali su cui dipende il caso. Ora, se volete, parliamo di George Meredith; lasciamo da parte tutte le questioni secondarie per domani.”
Non piovve, come Holmes aveva previsto; la mattina iniziò serena e senza nuvole. Alle nove in punto Lestrade venne a prenderci con la carrozza e partimmo per Hatherley Farm e il Boscombe Pool.
“Questa mattina ci sono notizie serie,” osservò Lestrade. “Si dice che il signor Turner, della Hall, sia così malato da essere considerato fuori pericolo.”
“Un uomo anziano, presumo?” disse Holmes. “Il signor McCarthy ha circa sessant’anni; ma la sua salute è stata gravemente compromessa dalla vita all’estero, e da tempo soffre di problemi di salute. Questa situazione lo ha colpito molto negativamente. Era un vecchio amico di McCarthy, e, devo aggiungere, anche un grande benefattore: ho infatti appreso che gli aveva concesso in affitto la fattoria Hatherley senza alcun canone.”
“Davvero! È interessante,” disse Holmes.
“Oh, sì! In molti altri modi anche lui lo ha aiutato. Tutti qui parlano della sua gentilezza verso di lui.”
“Davvero? Non vi sembra un po’ strano che questo McCarthy, che a quanto pare non aveva molto e doveva molto a Turner, voglia ancora far sposare suo figlio con la figlia di Turner, che presumibilmente erediterà la proprietà. E lo fa in modo così sicuro di sé, come se si trattasse semplicemente di una proposta e tutto il resto seguirebbe naturalmente. È ancora più strano, visto che anche Turner stesso era contrario all’idea. La figlia stessa ce l’ha detto. Non ne deducete nulla?”
“Abbiamo già iniziato a fare delle deduzioni,” disse Lestrade, facendomi l’occhiolino. “Per me è già abbastanza difficile affrontare i fatti concreti, senza perdere tempo in teorie e supposizioni.”
“Hai ragione,” disse Holmes con modestia; “trovare le vere risposte ai fatti è davvero difficile.”
“In ogni caso, ho capito una cosa che a voi sembra sfuggire, ” replicò Lestrade con un certo calore.
“E cioè,?”
“Che il signor McCarthy senior è morto a causa del signor McCarthy junior. E che tutte le teorie contrarie sono semplicemente assurdità.”
“Beh, l’assurdità a volte può essere più chiara della verità, ” disse Holmes ridendo. “Ma mi sbaglio di grosso se questa non è proprio la fattoria Hatherley, sulla sinistra?”
“Sì, è proprio quella.” Era un edificio grande e confortevole, a due piani, con il tetto in lastre di ardesia; le pareti grigie erano macchiate di licheni gialli. Tuttavia, le tende chiuse e i camini senza fumo gli davano un aspetto desolato, come se il peso di un terribile evento continuasse a opprimerlo. Bussammo alla porta; su richiesta di Holmes, la domestica ci mostrò gli stivali che il suo padrone indossava al momento della morte, nonché un paio di quelli del figlio, anche se non erano proprio quelli che lui aveva indossato in quel momento. Dopo averli misurati con attenzione da diversi angoli, Holmes chiese di essere portato nel cortile interno; da lì seguimmo un sentiero tortuoso che conduceva al laghetto Boscombe Pool. Sherlock Holmes cambiò completamente quando percepì quell’odore particolare. Chi lo conosceva solo come il tranquillo pensatore e logico di Baker Street non l’avrebbe riconosciuto: il suo viso si arrossì, le sopracciglia si contrassero in due linee dure e scure, mentre i suoi occhi brillavano intensamente. Teneva la testa bassa, le spalle curve, le labbra strette; le vene del suo lungo collo muscoloso sembravano gonfiarsi per l’eccitazione della caccia. Era completamente concentrato sulla sua missione: qualsiasi domanda o commento veniva ignorato, o al massimo risposto con un ringhio impaziente. Si muoveva velocemente e silenziosamente lungo il sentiero che attraversava i prati, per poi addentrarsi nel bosco verso il Boscombe Pool. Quel luogo era umido e paludoso; c’erano tracce di molte persone sia sul sentiero che sull’erba che lo delimitava su entrambi i lati. A volte Holmes accelerava, a volte si fermava di colpo; una volta fece addirittura un piccolo giro attorno al prato. Lestrade e io lo seguivamo: il detective sembrava indifferente e sprezzante, mentre io osservavo il mio amico con grande interesse, convinto che ogni sua azione fosse mirata a uno scopo preciso.
Il Boscombe Pool era un piccolo stagno circondato da canne, largo circa cinquanta metri; si trovava al confine tra la fattoria Hatherley e il parco privato del ricco signor Turner. Oltre i boschi che lo delimitavano sul lato opposto, si vedevano le guglie rosse della residenza del proprietario terriero. Sul lato della fattoria Hatherley, i boschi erano molto fitti; tra il bordo degli alberi e le canne che costeggiavano lo stagno c’era una stretta striscia di erba umida. Lestrade ci indicò esattamente il punto in cui era stato trovato il corpo; il terreno era così bagnato che si potevano chiaramente vedere le tracce lasciate dalla caduta dell’uomo colpito. Per Holmes, come si evinceva dal suo viso attento e dai suoi occhi fissi, c’erano molte altre informazioni da ricavare da quell’erba calpestata. Girò intorno al luogo, come un cane che segue una traccia, poi si rivolse a mio compagno:
“Perché sei entrato nello stagno?” chiese.
“Ho cercato qualcosa con una rastrelliera. Pensavo potesse esserci qualche arma o qualche indizio utile. Ma come diavolo, ” “Oh, tut, tut! Non ho tempo! Quel tuo piede sinistro, con quella torsione verso l’interno, lascia tracce ovunque. Una talpa potrebbe seguirle facilmente. E poi scompaiono tra i canneti. Oh, quanto sarebbe stato tutto più semplice se fossi stato qui prima che arrivassero, come una mandria di bufali, e rovinassero tutto. Ecco dove è passata la compagnia del custode della capanna: hanno cancellato tutte le tracce per un raggio di sei o otto piedi intorno al corpo. Ma ecco qui tre tracce distinte dello stesso piede, ” Estrasse una lente e si sdraiò sul suo telo impermeabile per vedere meglio, parlando continuamente più che a noi. “Queste sono le tracce del giovane McCarthy: due volte ha camminato, una volta è corso velocemente. Le suole delle scarpe sono profondamente segnate, mentre i tacchi quasi non si vedono. Questo conferma la sua storia. È corso quando ha visto suo padre a terra. E poi ci sono le tracce di suo padre che andava avanti e indietro. Ma cos’è questo? È l’estremità posteriore della pistola. Il figlio deve essersi fermato ad ascoltare. E questo? Ah, ah! Cosa abbiamo qui? Piedi di punta. Piedi di punta. E scarpe piuttosto insolite. Vengono, vanno, tornano indietro. Ovviamente, era per prendere il mantello, ” “Da dove sono venuti?” Camminava avanti e indietro, a volte perdendo traccia del sentiero, a volte ritrovandolo, fino a quando non ci trovammo ben dentro il bosco, all’ombra di un grande faggio, l’albero più grande della zona. Holmes proseguì lungo il sentiero fino al lato opposto dell’albero e si sdraiò di nuovo a faccia in giù, emettendo un leggero sospiro di soddisfazione. Rimase lì per molto tempo, esaminando foglie e rametti secchi, raccogliendo quella che a me sembrava polvere in un foglio e osservandola con la sua lente non solo sul terreno, ma anche sulla corteccia dell’albero, fino dove riusciva ad arrivare. Tra il muschio giaceva una pietra frastagliata; anche questa fu esaminata attentamente e conservata. Poi seguì un sentiero attraverso il bosco fino a raggiungere la strada principale, dove tutte le tracce scomparvero. “È stato un caso di notevole interesse,” osservò, tornando al suo modo di parlare abituale. “Credo che quella casa grigia a destra debba essere la capanna in questione. Penso di entrare e parlare con Moran, magari anche scrivergli una breve nota. Dopo aver fatto questo, possiamo tornare al nostro pranzo. Tu puoi andare a piedi fino alla vettura, io arriverò subito dopo.”
Passarono circa dieci minuti prima che riuscissimo a riprendere la nostra vettura e dirigerci di nuovo verso Ross; Holmes continuava a tenere con sé la pietra che aveva raccolto nel bosco.
“Questo potrebbe interessarti, Lestrade,” disse, porgendogliela. “L’omicidio è stato commesso con questa.”
“Non vedo alcun segno, ”
“Infatti non ce ne sono.”
“Allora come fai a saperlo?”
“Il prato cresceva sotto di essa. Era lì da pochi giorni soltanto. Non c’era traccia del luogo da cui era stata presa; corrisponde perfettamente alle ferite causate dall’arma utilizzata. Non esistono segni di alcun altro strumento offensivo.”
“E l’assassino?” “È un uomo alto, mancino, zoppica con la gamba destra, indossa stivali da caccia con suole spesse e un mantello grigio, fuma sigari indiani, utilizza un portasigari e tiene in tasca un coltello a lama piatta. Ci sono altre alcune indicazioni, ma queste potrebbero essere sufficienti per aiutarci nella nostra ricerca.”
Lestrade rise. “Temo di rimanere scettico,” disse. “Le teorie vanno bene, ma dobbiamo affrontare una giuria britannica molto pragmatica.”
“Lo vedremo,” rispose Holmes con calma. “Tu usa il tuo metodo, e io userò il mio. Sarò impegnato questo pomeriggio e probabilmente tornerò a Londra con il treno serale.”
“E lascerai il caso irrisolto?”
“No, è risolto.”
“Ma il mistero?”
“È stato chiarito.”
“Allora, chi era il colpevole?”
“L’uomo che ho descritto.”
“Ma chi è?”
“Di certo non sarà difficile scoprirlo. Non si tratta di un quartiere molto affollato.”
Lestrade alzò le spalle. “Sono una persona pratica,” disse, “e sinceramente non posso mettermi a cercare per tutta la città un uomo mancino con una gamba zoppa. Diventerei lo zimbello di Scotland Yard.” “Bene,” disse Holmes in tono tranquillo. “Vi ho dato questa opportunità. Ecco dove potrete alloggiare. Addio. Vi scriverò prima di partire.”
Dopo aver lasciato Lestrade nelle sue stanze, ci recammo all’hotel, dove trovammo il pranzo già pronto sul tavolo. Holmes rimase in silenzio, immerso nei suoi pensieri con un’espressione preoccupata, come chi si trovi di fronte a una situazione complicata.
“Ascolta, Watson,” disse quando il cibo fu servito. “Siediti su questa sedia e lasciami parlare per un po’. Non so esattamente cosa fare. Apprezzerei molto i tuoi consigli. Accendi una sigara e ascoltami attentamente.”
“Fa’ pure.”
“Bene, considerando questo caso, ci sono due punti nella narrazione del giovane McCarthy che ci hanno colpiti entrambi immediatamente. Anche se uno di questi punti mi ha fatto pensare a suo favore, l’altro invece contro di lui. Il primo è il fatto che, secondo quanto raccontato da lui, suo padre avrebbe gridato ‘Cooee!’ prima di vederlo. L’altro è quel riferimento strano riguardo a un topo. Ha mormorato alcune parole, capisci. Ma è stato questo l’unico dettaglio che il figlio ha ricordato. Da questi due punti dobbiamo iniziare le nostre indagini. E cominceremo supponendo che quanto dice quel ragazzo sia assolutamente vero.”
“E per quanto riguarda quel ‘Cooee!’?” “Beh, ovviamente non poteva essere rivolto al figlio. Il figlio, per quanto ne sapeva lui, si trovava a Bristol. Era pura coincidenza che fosse nelle vicinanze. Quel ‘Cooee!’ era destinato ad attirare l’attenzione di quella persona con cui aveva appuntamento. Ma ‘Cooee’ è un grido tipicamente australiano, utilizzato soltanto tra australiani. C’è quindi una forte probabilità che la persona che McCarthy si aspettava di incontrare a Boscombe Pool fosse qualcuno che era stato in Australia, ”
“E poi, cosa c’entra il topo?” Sherlock Holmes tirò fuori dalla tasca un foglio di carta piegato e lo aprì sul tavolo. “Questa è una mappa della Colonia di Victoria,” disse. “Ieri sera l’ho fatta spedire da Bristol.” Posò la mano su una parte della mappa. “Cosa leggete?”
“ARAT,” lessi.
“E ora?” Alzò di nuovo la mano.
“BALLARAT.”
“Esatto. Quella era la parola che quell’uomo ha pronunciato; suo figlio ne ha captato soltanto le ultime due sillabe. Stava cercando di dire il nome del suo assassino. Ballarat, appunto.”
“È meraviglioso!” esclamai.
“È ovvio. Ora, come vedete, abbiamo restringito notevolmente i possibili sospettati. Il possesso di un abito grigio rappresentava un altro indizio certo, ammesso che la testimonianza del figlio fosse vera. Siamo passati da informazioni vaghe a una descrizione precisa: si tratta di un uomo originario di Ballarat, con un mantello grigio. E che conosce bene quella zona, visto che il laghetto può essere raggiunto soltanto dalla fattoria o dalla tenuta, luoghi in cui gli estranei difficilmente potrebbero vagabondare.”
“Certamente.”
“E poi c’è stata la nostra spedizione di oggi. Esaminando il terreno, ho raccolto quei dettagli che ho fornito a quel stupido Lestrade riguardo alla personalità del criminale.”
“Ma come li avete ottenuti?” “Conosci il mio metodo: si basa sull’osservazione dei dettagli più insignificanti.”
“Per quanto riguarda la sua statura, potresti giudicarla approssimativamente in base alla lunghezza dei suoi passi; anche le sue scarpe potrebbero essere riconosciute dai loro segni lasciati sul terreno.”
“Sì, erano scarpe particolari, ”
“Ma la sua zoppia?”
“L’impronta del suo piede destro era sempre meno evidente rispetto a quella del sinistro; poggiava su di esso meno peso. Perché? Perché zoppicava.”
“E poi, il fatto che fosse mancino, ” “Anche tu sei stato colpito dalla natura di quella ferita, così come descritta dal chirurgo durante l’inchiesta. Il colpo è stato inferto da dietro, eppure ha colpito il lato sinistro. Come può essere possibile, se non da parte di una persona mancina? Durante l’incontro tra padre e figlio, si era nascosto dietro quell’albero; aveva persino fumato lì. Ho trovato la cenere di un sigaro. La mia particolare conoscenza delle ceneri di tabacco mi permette di affermare che si trattava di un sigaro indiano. Come sai, ho dedicato del tempo a questo argomento e ho scritto una piccola monografia sulle ceneri di 140 diverse varietà di tabacco per pipe, sigari e sigarette. Dopo aver trovato la cenere, ho guardato intorno e ho scoperto il ceppo tra la muschio: era proprio quel sigaro indiano, di quella varietà che viene arrotolata a Rotterdam.”
“E l’astuccio del sigaro?”
“Ho notato che l’estremità non era stata messa in bocca. Quindi doveva utilizzare un astuccio. La punta del sigaro era stata tagliata, non morsa. Ma il taglio non era netto. Quindi ho dedotto che fosse stato usato un coltello a lama piatta.” “Holmes,” dissi, “avete creato una rete attorno a quest’uomo dalla quale non può sfuggire; avete salvato la vita di un innocente esattamente come se aveste tagliato il cordone che lo stava strangolando. Capisco chiaramente verso cosa tutto ciò conduce. Il colpevole è, ”
“Mr. John Turner,” gridò il cameriere dell’hotel, aprendo la porta del nostro salotto e facendo entrare un visitatore. L’uomo che entrò era una figura strana e imponente. Il suo passo lento e zoppicante, le spalle curve gli davano un aspetto di decrepitezza; tuttavia, i suoi tratti marcati, le sue enormi membra rivelavano una forza fisica e caratteriale insolite. La sua barba incolta, i capelli grigiastri e le sopracciglia sporgenti gli conferivano un’aria di dignità e potere; ma il suo viso era di un bianco cenere, mentre le labbra e gli angoli delle narici presentavano una sfumatura blu. Fu subito evidente che soffriva di qualche malattia mortale e cronica. “Si sieda pure sul divano,” disse Holmes con gentilezza. “Ha ricevuto il mio biglietto?” “Sì, l’addetto alla locanda me lo ha portato. Ha detto che voleva vedermi qui per evitare scandali.” “Pensavo che la gente avrebbe parlato se fossi andato al tribunale.” “E perché voleva vedermi?” Guardò il mio compagno con occhi stanchi e pieni di disperazione, come se la sua domanda fosse già stata risposta. “Sì,” disse Holmes, rispondendo allo sguardo piuttosto che alle parole. “È così. So tutto su McCarthy.” L’uomo anziano nascose il viso tra le mani. “Dio mi aiuti!” esclamò. “Ma non avrei mai permesso che quel giovane venisse in pericolo. Le giuro che avrei parlato se ci fosse stato qualcosa contro di lui al processo.” “Sono contento di sentirlo dire,” rispose Holmes seriamente. “Avrei parlato anche ora, se non fosse stata per mia figlia. Le spezzerebbe il cuore. Le spezzerà il cuore quando saprà che sono stato arrestato.” “Forse non arriverà a quel punto,” disse Holmes. “Cosa?” “Non sono un agente ufficiale. So che è stata sua figlia ad avermi chiesto di venire qui, e sto agendo per i suoi interessi. Comunque, quel giovane McCarthy deve essere liberato.” “Sono un uomo morente,” disse il vecchio Turner. “Soffro di diabete da anni. Il mio medico dice che non so se vivrò ancora un mese. Preferirei morire sotto il mio tetto piuttosto che in prigione.” Holmes si alzò e si sedette alla scrivania, con la penna in mano e un mucchio di fogli davanti a sé. “Dica semplicemente la verità,” disse. “Io annoterò i fatti. Lei li firmerà, e Watson qui potrà farne da testimone. In quel caso, potrei presentare la sua confessione in caso di estrema necessità per salvare il giovane McCarthy. Le prometto che non la userò a meno che non sia assolutamente necessario.” “È meglio così, ” disse l’uomo anziano. “Ormai non so nemmeno se arriverò al processo. Quindi non ha molta importanza. Ma vorrei risparmiare ad Alice lo shock. Ora le spiegherò tutto chiaramente. Ho recitato questa parte per molto tempo, ma non mi ci vorrà molto per raccontare, ” “Non conosceva questo McCarthy. Era un vero diavolo in carne e ossa. Le dico una cosa: Dio la protegga dal potere di un uomo del genere. È stato lui a dominarmi per vent’anni. Ha distrutto la mia vita. Lasci che le racconti come sono finito nelle sue mani, ” Era all’inizio degli anni ’60, nei campi d’oro. Allora ero un giovane impulsivo e sconsiderato, pronto a provare qualsiasi cosa; mi misi con compagnie poco affidabili, iniziai a bere, non riuscii nel mio tentativo di ottenere della terra, finii per rifugiarmi nella natura selvaggia. Insomma, diventai quello che qui si definirebbe un “ladro di strada”. Eravamo in sei e conducevamo una vita disordinata: di tanto in tanto assaltavamo le stazioni di posta o fermavamo i carri diretti ai campi d’oro. Mi facevo chiamare Black Jack of Ballarat, e la nostra banda è ancora ricordata nella colonia come la “Banda di Ballarat”.
Un giorno arrivò un convoglio di oro da Ballarat a Melbourne; ci appostammo e lo attaccammo. Eravamo in sei contro sei. Fu una battaglia intensa, ma riuscimmo a privarli di quattro cavalli al primo sparo. Tuttavia, tre dei nostri compagni morirono prima che potessimo prendere il bottino. Puntai la pistola alla testa del conducente del carro. Quell’uomo era proprio McCarthy. Vorrei tanto averlo ucciso allora, ma lo risparmiai. Anche se vidi i suoi occhi malvagi fissarsi sul mio viso, come se volessero ricordare ogni singola mia caratteristica. Riuscimmo a portare via l’oro, diventammo uomini ricchi e ci recammo in Inghilterra senza essere sospettati. Lì mi separai dai miei vecchi compagni e decisi di condurre una vita tranquilla e rispettabile. Comprai questa tenuta. E decisi di utilizzare i miei soldi per fare del bene, per compensare il modo in cui li avevo guadagnati. Mi sposai anche. Anche se mia moglie morì giovane, mi lasciò la mia adorabile Alice. Fin da quando era solo una bambina, sembrava che fosse lei a guidarmi sulla retta strada. Insomma, iniziai una nuova vita, facendo del mio meglio per rimediare al passato. Tutto andava bene, finché McCarthy non mi mise alle strette. Ero andato in città per discutere di un investimento. Lo incontrai in Regent Street. A malapena aveva addosso un cappotto o una scarpa. “Eccoci qui, Jack,” disse, toccandomi il braccio, “Sarà come se fossimo una famiglia. Siamo solo in due: io e mio figlio. Puoi prenderti cura di noi. Se non lo fai, beh, l’Inghilterra è un paese giusto e rispettabile. Ci sono sempre i poliziotti nelle vicinanze, ”
Insomma, si trasferirono nel Galles occidentale. Non riuscii a liberarmi di loro. Da allora vivono gratuitamente sulla mia migliore terra. Per me non ci fu mai pace. Ovunque andassi, c’era il suo viso astuto e sorridente. Le cose peggiorarono quando Alice iniziò ad crescere. Capì subito che temevo di più che lei scoprisse il mio passato rispetto ai poliziotti. Voleva tutto ciò che desiderava. Glielo davo senza esitazione: terra, soldi, case. Fino a quando non chiese qualcosa che non potevo dargli. Chiese Alice. “Il figlio suo, capite, era ormai cresciuto, così come la mia ragazza; e poiché ero conosciuto per la mia cattiva salute, sembrava una grande opportunità per lui che il suo ragazzo ereditasse tutta la proprietà. Ma io fui irremovibile: non volevo che il suo sangue si mescolasse al mio; non che avessi nulla contro quel ragazzo, ma il fatto che portasse il suo stesso sangue era sufficiente per me. McCarthy minacciò, ma io lo sfidai a fare ciò che voleva. Ci saremmo incontrati vicino alla pozza, a metà strada tra le nostre case, per discuterne. Quando arrivai lì, lo trovai mentre parlava con suo figlio; così mi misi a fumare una sigara e aspettai dietro un albero finché non rimasero soli. Ma ascoltando la loro conversazione, tutto ciò che era oscuro e amaro dentro di me venne in superficie. Lui stava incoraggiando suo figlio a sposare mia figlia, senza alcun riguardo per i suoi sentimenti, come se fosse una donna di strada. Pensare che io e tutto ciò che avevo di più caro potessimo finire nelle mani di un uomo del genere mi fece impazzire. Non avrei potuto rompere quel legame? Ero già un uomo morente, disperato. Anche se la mente era lucida e il corpo abbastanza forte, sapevo che il mio destino era segnato. Ma la mia memoria, e mia figlia! Entrambe potevano essere salvate, se solo fossi riuscito a zittire quella lingua infame. L’ho fatto, signor Holmes. Lo farei di nuovo. Per quanto abbia peccato profondamente, ho vissuto una vita di martirio per espiare. Ma che mia figlia finisse nelle stesse trappole in cui ero caduto io. Era qualcosa che non potevo sopportare. L’ho ucciso senza alcun rimorso, come se fosse stato un animale velenoso e disgustoso. Il suo grido attirò il figlio; ma io riuscii a nascondermi nel bosco. Anche se dovetti tornare indietro a prendere il mantello che avevo perso durante la fuga. Questa è la vera storia di ciò che è accaduto, signori. Beh, non spetta a me giudicarvi, ” disse Holmes mentre l’uomo firmava la dichiarazione redatta. “Spero che non dovremo mai affrontare una tentazione del genere, ” “Lo spero anch’io, signore. E cosa intende fare?” “Considerando la sua salute, nulla. Lei stesso sa che presto dovrà rispondere delle sue azioni davanti a un tribunale superiore. Conserverò la sua confessione. Se McCarthy verrà condannato, sarò costretto ad usarla. Altrimenti, nessuno la vedrà mai. E il suo segreto, sia che lei viva o muoia, sarà al sicuro con noi, ” “Allora addio, ” disse l’uomo solennemente. “I vostri ultimi momenti saranno più sereni, sapendo che avete portato pace nella mia vita, ” Barcollando e tremando in tutto il suo corpo gigantesco, uscì lentamente dalla stanza. “Dio ci aiuti, ” disse Holmes dopo un lungo silenzio. “Perché il destino gioca tali scherzi con poveri esseri indifesi. Non ricordo mai di aver incontrato un caso del genere senza pensare alle parole di Baxter, e dire: ‘Ecco, se non fosse per la grazia di Dio, Sherlock Holmes sarebbe finito così.’” James McCarthy fu assolto durante il processo grazie a numerose obiezioni sollevate da Holmes e presentate all’avvocato difensore. Old Turner visse per sette mesi dopo il nostro incontro, ma ora è morto; c’è tutta la probabilità che suo figlio e sua figlia possano vivere felicemente insieme, ignari della “nuvola nera” che grava sul loro passato.

THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes cases between the years ‘82 and ‘90, I am faced by so many which present strange and interesting features that it is no easy matter to know which to choose and which to leave. Some, however, have already gained publicity through the papers, and others have not offered a field for those peculiar qualities which my friend possessed in so high a degree, and which it is the object of these papers to illustrate. Some, too, have baffled his analytical skill, and would be, as narratives, beginnings without an ending, while others have been but partially cleared up, and have their explanations founded rather upon conjecture and surmise than on that absolute logical proof which was so dear to him. There is, however, one of these last which was so remarkable in its details and so startling in its results that I am tempted to give some account of it in spite of the fact that there are points in connection with it which never have been, and probably never will be, entirely cleared up. The year ‘87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my headings under this one twelve months I find an account of the adventure of the Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a luxurious club in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse, of the facts connected with the loss of the British barque Sophy Anderson, of the singular adventures of the Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa, and finally of the Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as may be remembered, Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead man’s watch, to prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and that therefore the deceased had gone to bed within that time — a deduction which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the case. All these I may sketch out at some future date, but none of them present such singular features as the strange train of circumstances which I have now taken up my pen to describe. It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales had set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had screamed and the rain had beaten against the windows, so that even here in the heart of great, hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds for the instant from the routine of life and to recognise the presence of those great elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilisation, like untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the storm grew higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a child in the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the fireplace cross-indexing his records of crime, while I at the other was deep in one of Clark Russell’s fine sea-stories until the howl of the gale from without seemed to blend with the text, and the splash of the rain to lengthen out into the long swash of the sea waves. My wife was on a visit to her mother’s, and for a few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at Baker Street. “Why,” said I, glancing up at my companion, “that was surely the bell. Who could come to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?” “Except yourself I have none,” he answered. “I do not encourage visitors.” “A client, then?” “If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out on such a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more likely to be some crony of the landlady’s.” Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there came a step in the passage and a tapping at the door. He stretched out his long arm to turn the lamp away from himself and towards the vacant chair upon which a newcomer must sit. “Come in!” said he. The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at the outside, well-groomed and trimly clad, with something of refinement and delicacy in his bearing. The streaming umbrella which he held in his hand, and his long shining waterproof told of the fierce weather through which he had come. He looked about him anxiously in the glare of the lamp, and I could see that his face was pale and his eyes heavy, like those of a man who is weighed down with some great anxiety. “I owe you an apology,” he said, raising his golden pince-nez to his eyes. “I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I have brought some traces of the storm and rain into your snug chamber.” “Give me your coat and umbrella,” said Holmes. “They may rest here on the hook and will be dry presently. You have come up from the south-west, I see.” “Yes, from Horsham.” “That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is quite distinctive.” “I have come for advice.” “That is easily got.” “And help.” “That is not always so easy.” “I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast how you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal.” “Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards.” “He said that you could solve anything.” “He said too much.” “That you are never beaten.” “I have been beaten four times — three times by men, and once by a woman.” “But what is that compared with the number of your successes?” “It is true that I have been generally successful.” “Then you may be so with me.” “I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour me with some details as to your case.” “It is no ordinary one.” “None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of appeal.” “And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you have ever listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of events than those which have happened in my own family.” “You fill me with interest,” said Holmes. “Pray give us the essential facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards question you as to those details which seem to me to be most important.” The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out towards the blaze. “My name,” said he, “is John Openshaw, but my own affairs have, as far as I can understand, little to do with this awful business. It is a hereditary matter; so in order to give you an idea of the facts, I must go back to the commencement of the affair. “You must know that my grandfather had two sons — my uncle Elias and my father Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry, which he enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. He was a patentee of the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and his business met with such success that he was able to sell it and to retire upon a handsome competence. “My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man and became a planter in Florida, where he was reported to have done very well. At the time of the war he fought in Jackson’s army, and afterwards under Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When Lee laid down his arms my uncle returned to his plantation, where he remained for three or four years. About 1869 or 1870 he came back to Europe and took a small estate in Sussex, near Horsham. He had made a very considerable fortune in the States, and his reason for leaving them was his aversion to the negroes, and his dislike of the Republican policy in extending the franchise to them. He was a singular man, fierce and quick-tempered, very foul-mouthed when he was angry, and of a most retiring disposition. During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I doubt if ever he set foot in the town. He had a garden and two or three fields round his house, and there he would take his exercise, though very often for weeks on end he would never leave his room. He drank a great deal of brandy and smoked very heavily, but he would see no society and did not want any friends, not even his own brother. “He didn’t mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the time when he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This would be in the year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years in England. He begged my father to let me live with him and he was very kind to me in his way. When he was sober he used to be fond of playing backgammon and draughts with me, and he would make me his representative both with the servants and with the tradespeople, so that by the time that I was sixteen I was quite master of the house. I kept all the keys and could go where I liked and do what I liked, so long as I did not disturb him in his privacy. There was one singular exception, however, for he had a single room, a lumber-room up among the attics, which was invariably locked, and which he would never permit either me or anyone else to enter. With a boy’s curiosity I have peeped through the keyhole, but I was never able to see more than such a collection of old trunks and bundles as would be expected in such a room. “One day — it was in March, 1883 — a letter with a foreign stamp lay upon the table in front of the colonel’s plate. It was not a common thing for him to receive letters, for his bills were all paid in ready money, and he had no friends of any sort. ‘From India!’ said he as he took it up, ‘Pondicherry postmark! What can this be?’ Opening it hurriedly, out there jumped five little dried orange pips, which pattered down upon his plate. I began to laugh at this, but the laugh was struck from my lips at the sight of his face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were protruding, his skin the colour of putty, and he glared at the envelope which he still held in his trembling hand, ‘K. K. K.!’ he shrieked, and then, ‘My God, my God, my sins have overtaken me!’ “ ’What is it, uncle?’ I cried. “ ’Death,’ said he, and rising from the table he retired to his room, leaving me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope and saw scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the gum, the letter K three times repeated. There was nothing else save the five dried pips. What could be the reason of his overpowering terror? I left the breakfast-table, and as I ascended the stair I met him coming down with an old rusty key, which must have belonged to the attic, in one hand, and a small brass box, like a cashbox, in the other. “ ’They may do what they like, but I’ll checkmate them still,’ said he with an oath. ‘Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my room to-day, and send down to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.’ “I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked to step up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the grate there was a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned paper, while the brass box stood open and empty beside it. As I glanced at the box I noticed, with a start, that upon the lid was printed the treble K which I had read in the morning upon the envelope. “ ’I wish you, John,’ said my uncle, ‘to witness my will. I leave my estate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to my brother, your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to you. If you can enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you find you cannot, take my advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest enemy. I am sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I can’t say what turn things are going to take. Kindly sign the paper where Mr. Fordham shows you.’ “I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with him. The singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest impression upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it every way in my mind without being able to make anything of it. Yet I could not shake off the vague feeling of dread which it left behind, though the sensation grew less keen as the weeks passed and nothing happened to disturb the usual routine of our lives. I could see a change in my uncle, however. He drank more than ever, and he was less inclined for any sort of society. Most of his time he would spend in his room, with the door locked upon the inside, but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of drunken frenzy and would burst out of the house and tear about the garden with a revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid of no man, and that he was not to be cooped up, like a sheep in a pen, by man or devil. When these hot fits were over, however, he would rush tumultuously in at the door and lock and bar it behind him, like a man who can brazen it out no longer against the terror which lies at the roots of his soul. At such times I have seen his face, even on a cold day, glisten with moisture, as though it were new raised from a basin. “Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to abuse your patience, there came a night when he made one of those drunken sallies from which he never came back. We found him, when we went to search for him, face downward in a little green-scummed pool, which lay at the foot of the garden. There was no sign of any violence, and the water was but two feet deep, so that the jury, having regard to his known eccentricity, brought in a verdict of ‘suicide.’ But I, who knew how he winced from the very thought of death, had much ado to persuade myself that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The matter passed, however, and my father entered into possession of the estate, and of some £14,000, which lay to his credit at the bank.” “One moment,” Holmes interposed, “your statement is, I foresee, one of the most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me have the date of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and the date of his supposed suicide.” “The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks later, upon the night of May 2nd.” “Thank you. Pray proceed.” “When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my request, made a careful examination of the attic, which had been always locked up. We found the brass box there, although its contents had been destroyed. On the inside of the cover was a paper label, with the initials of K. K. K. repeated upon it, and ‘Letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register’ written beneath. These, we presume, indicated the nature of the papers which had been destroyed by Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was nothing of much importance in the attic save a great many scattered papers and note-books bearing upon my uncle’s life in America. Some of them were of the war time and showed that he had done his duty well and had borne the repute of a brave soldier. Others were of a date during the reconstruction of the Southern states, and were mostly concerned with politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in opposing the carpet-bag politicians who had been sent down from the North. “Well, it was the beginning of ‘84 when my father came to live at Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the January of ‘85. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my father give a sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the breakfast-table. There he was, sitting with a newly opened envelope in one hand and five dried orange pips in the outstretched palm of the other one. He had always laughed at what he called my cock-and-bull story about the colonel, but he looked very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come upon himself. “ ’Why, what on earth does this mean, John?’ he stammered. “My heart had turned to lead. ‘It is K. K. K.,’ said I. “He looked inside the envelope. ‘So it is,’ he cried. ‘Here are the very letters. But what is this written above them?’ “ ’Put the papers on the sundial,’ I read, peeping over his shoulder. “ ’What papers? What sundial?’ he asked. “ ’The sundial in the garden. There is no other,’ said I; ‘but the papers must be those that are destroyed.’ “ ’Pooh!’ said he, gripping hard at his courage. ‘We are in a civilised land here, and we can’t have tomfoolery of this kind. Where does the thing come from?’ “ ’From Dundee,’ I answered, glancing at the postmark. “ ’Some preposterous practical joke,’ said he. ‘What have I to do with sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such nonsense.’ “ ’I should certainly speak to the police,’ I said. “ ’And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.’ “ ’Then let me do so?’ “ ’No, I forbid you. I won’t have a fuss made about such nonsense.’ “It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate man. I went about, however, with a heart which was full of forebodings. “On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went from home to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is in command of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad that he should go, for it seemed to me that he was farther from danger when he was away from home. In that, however, I was in error. Upon the second day of his absence I received a telegram from the major, imploring me to come at once. My father had fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound in the neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull. I hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered his consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from Fareham in the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him, and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of ‘death from accidental causes.’ Carefully as I examined every fact connected with his death, I was unable to find anything which could suggest the idea of murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no robbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads. And yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I was well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been woven round him. “In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why I did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well convinced that our troubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in my uncle’s life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house as in another. “It was in January, ‘85, that my poor father met his end, and two years and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I have lived happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this curse had passed away from the family, and that it had ended with the last generation. I had begun to take comfort too soon, however; yesterday morning the blow fell in the very shape in which it had come upon my father.” The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and turning to the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips. “This is the envelope,” he continued. “The postmark is London — eastern division. Within are the very words which were upon my father’s last message: ‘K. K. K.’; and then ‘Put the papers on the sundial.’ ” “What have you done?” asked Holmes. “Nothing.” “Nothing?” “To tell the truth” — he sank his face into his thin, white hands—”I have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions can guard against.” “Tut! tut!” cried Sherlock Holmes. “You must act, man, or you are lost. Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for despair.” “I have seen the police.” “Ah!” “But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that the inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all practical jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really accidents, as the jury stated, and were not to be connected with the warnings.” Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. “Incredible imbecility!” he cried. “They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in the house with me.” “Has he come with you to-night?” “No. His orders were to stay in the house.” Again Holmes raved in the air. “Why did you come to me,” he cried, “and, above all, why did you not come at once?” “I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major Prendergast about my troubles and was advised by him to come to you.” “It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have acted before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than that which you have placed before us — no suggestive detail which might help us?” “There is one thing,” said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted paper, he laid it out upon the table. “I have some remembrance,” said he, “that on the day when my uncle burned the papers I observed that the small, unburned margins which lay amid the ashes were of this particular colour. I found this single sheet upon the floor of his room, and I am inclined to think that it may be one of the papers which has, perhaps, fluttered out from among the others, and in that way has escaped destruction. Beyond the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us much. I think myself that it is a page from some private diary. The writing is undoubtedly my uncle’s.” Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper, which showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a book. It was headed, “March, 1869,” and beneath were the following enigmatical notices: “4th. Hudson came. Same old platform. “7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and         John Swain, of St. Augustine. “9th. McCauley cleared. “10th. John Swain cleared. “12th. Visited Paramore. All well.” “Thank you!” said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it to our visitor. “And now you must on no account lose another instant. We cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told me. You must get home instantly and act.” “What shall I do?” “There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must put this piece of paper which you have shown us into the brass box which you have described. You must also put in a note to say that all the other papers were burned by your uncle, and that this is the only one which remains. You must assert that in such words as will carry conviction with them. Having done this, you must at once put the box out upon the sundial, as directed. Do you understand?” “Entirely.” “Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present. I think that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our web to weave, while theirs is already woven. The first consideration is to remove the pressing danger which threatens you. The second is to clear up the mystery and to punish the guilty parties.” “I thank you,” said the young man, rising and pulling on his overcoat. “You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall certainly do as you advise.” “Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of yourself in the meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that you are threatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do you go back?” “By train from Waterloo.” “It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that you may be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too closely.” “I am armed.” “That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case.” “I shall see you at Horsham, then?” “No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek it.” “Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with news as to the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in every particular.” He shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside the wind still screamed and the rain splashed and pattered against the windows. This strange, wild story seemed to have come to us from amid the mad elements — blown in upon us like a sheet of sea-weed in a gale — and now to have been reabsorbed by them once more. Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk forward and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he lit his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue smoke-rings as they chased each other up to the ceiling. “I think, Watson,” he remarked at last, “that of all our cases we have had none more fantastic than this.” “Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four.” “Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw seems to me to be walking amid even greater perils than did the Sholtos.” “But have you,” I asked, “formed any definite conception as to what these perils are?” “There can be no question as to their nature,” he answered. “Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he pursue this unhappy family?” Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the arms of his chair, with his finger-tips together. “The ideal reasoner,” he remarked, “would, when he had once been shown a single fact in all its bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which led up to it but also all the results which would follow from it. As Cuvier could correctly describe a whole animal by the contemplation of a single bone, so the observer who has thoroughly understood one link in a series of incidents should be able to accurately state all the other ones, both before and after. We have not yet grasped the results which the reason alone can attain to. Problems may be solved in the study which have baffled all those who have sought a solution by the aid of their senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest pitch, it is necessary that the reasoner should be able to utilise all the facts which have come to his knowledge; and this in itself implies, as you will readily see, a possession of all knowledge, which, even in these days of free education and encyclopaedias, is a somewhat rare accomplishment. It is not so impossible, however, that a man should possess all knowledge which is likely to be useful to him in his work, and this I have endeavoured in my case to do. If I remember rightly, you on one occasion, in the early days of our friendship, defined my limits in a very precise fashion.” “Yes,” I answered, laughing. “It was a singular document. Philosophy, astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I remember. Botany variable, geology profound as regards the mud-stains from any region within fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy unsystematic, sensational literature and crime records unique, violin-player, boxer, swordsman, lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco. Those, I think, were the main points of my analysis.” Holmes grinned at the last item. “Well,” he said, “I say now, as I said then, that a man should keep his little brain-attic stocked with all the furniture that he is likely to use, and the rest he can put away in the lumber-room of his library, where he can get it if he wants it. Now, for such a case as the one which has been submitted to us to-night, we need certainly to muster all our resources. Kindly hand me down the letter K of the American Encyclopaedia which stands upon the shelf beside you. Thank you. Now let us consider the situation and see what may be deduced from it. In the first place, we may start with a strong presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong reason for leaving America. Men at his time of life do not change all their habits and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida for the lonely life of an English provincial town. His extreme love of solitude in England suggests the idea that he was in fear of someone or something, so we may assume as a working hypothesis that it was fear of someone or something which drove him from America. As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by considering the formidable letters which were received by himself and his successors. Did you remark the postmarks of those letters?” “The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the third from London.” “From East London. What do you deduce from that?” “They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship.” “Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that the probability — the strong probability — is that the writer was on board of a ship. And now let us consider another point. In the case of Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its fulfilment, in Dundee it was only some three or four days. Does that suggest anything?” “A greater distance to travel.” “But the letter had also a greater distance to come.” “Then I do not see the point.” “There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man or men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always send their singular warning or token before them when starting upon their mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the sign when it came from Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer they would have arrived almost as soon as their letter. But, as a matter of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that those seven weeks represented the difference between the mail-boat which brought the letter and the sailing vessel which brought the writer.” “It is possible.” “More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly urgency of this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to caution. The blow has always fallen at the end of the time which it would take the senders to travel the distance. But this one comes from London, and therefore we cannot count upon delay.” “Good God!” I cried. “What can it mean, this relentless persecution?” “The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance to the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think that it is quite clear that there must be more than one of them. A single man could not have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a coroner’s jury. There must have been several in it, and they must have been men of resource and determination. Their papers they mean to have, be the holder of them who it may. In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be the initials of an individual and becomes the badge of a society.” “But of what society?” “Have you never—” said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking his voice—”have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?” “I never have.” Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. “Here it is,” said he presently: “ ’Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to the sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret society was formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the Southern states after the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local branches in different parts of the country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida. Its power was used for political purposes, principally for the terrorising of the negro voters and the murdering and driving from the country of those who were opposed to its views. Its outrages were usually preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic but generally recognised shape — a sprig of oak-leaves in some parts, melon seeds or orange pips in others. On receiving this the victim might either openly abjure his former ways, or might fly from the country. If he braved the matter out, death would unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some strange and unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organisation of the society, and so systematic its methods, that there is hardly a case upon record where any man succeeded in braving it with impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to the perpetrators. For some years the organisation flourished in spite of the efforts of the United States government and of the better classes of the community in the South. Eventually, in the year 1869, the movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there have been sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date.’ “You will observe,” said Holmes, laying down the volume, “that the sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the disappearance of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may well have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his family have some of the more implacable spirits upon their track. You can understand that this register and diary may implicate some of the first men in the South, and that there may be many who will not sleep easy at night until it is recovered.” “Then the page we have seen—” “Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, ‘sent the pips to A, B, and C’ — that is, sent the society’s warning to them. Then there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or left the country, and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a sinister result for C. Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let some light into this dark place, and I believe that the only chance young Openshaw has in the meantime is to do what I have told him. There is nothing more to be said or to be done to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget for half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable ways of our fellow men.” It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the great city. Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down. “You will excuse me for not waiting for you,” said he; “I have, I foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of young Openshaw’s.” “What steps will you take?” I asked. “It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I may have to go down to Horsham, after all.” “You will not go there first?” “No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the maid will bring up your coffee.” As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill to my heart. “Holmes,” I cried, “you are too late.” “Ah!” said he, laying down his cup, “I feared as much. How was it done?” He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved. “My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading ‘Tragedy Near Waterloo Bridge.’ Here is the account: “ ’Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and a splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and stormy, so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it was quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given, and, by the aid of the water-police, the body was eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman whose name, as it appears from an envelope which was found in his pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured that he may have been hurrying down to catch the last train from Waterloo Station, and that in his haste and the extreme darkness he missed his path and walked over the edge of one of the small landing-places for river steamboats. The body exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt that the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident, which should have the effect of calling the attention of the authorities to the condition of the riverside landing-stages.’ ” We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and shaken than I had ever seen him. “That hurts my pride, Watson,” he said at last. “It is a petty feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand upon this gang. That he should come to me for help, and that I should send him away to his death — !” He sprang from his chair and paced about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and unclasping of his long thin hands. “They must be cunning devils,” he exclaimed at last. “How could they have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the direct line to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a night, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in the long run. I am going out now!” “To the police?” “No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may take the flies, but not before.” All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come back yet. It was nearly ten o’clock before he entered, looking pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece from the loaf he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long draught of water. “You are hungry,” I remarked. “Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since breakfast.” “Nothing?” “Not a bite. I had no time to think of it.” “And how have you succeeded?” “Well.” “You have a clue?” “I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not long remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!” “What do you mean?” He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote “S. H. for J. O.” Then he sealed it and addressed it to “Captain James Calhoun, Barque Lone Star, Savannah, Georgia.” “That will await him when he enters port,” said he, chuckling. “It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor of his fate as Openshaw did before him.” “And who is this Captain Calhoun?” “The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first.” “How did you trace it, then?” He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with dates and names. “I have spent the whole day,” said he, “over Lloyd’s registers and files of the old papers, following the future career of every vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in ‘83. There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there during those months. Of these, one, the Lone Star, instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was reported as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to one of the states of the Union.” “Texas, I think.” “I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must have an American origin.” “What then?” “I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque Lone Star was there in January, ‘85, my suspicion became a certainty. I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of London.” “Yes?” “The Lone Star had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend and learned that she had passed some time ago, and as the wind is easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins and not very far from the Isle of Wight.” “What will you do, then?” “Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I learn, the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away from the ship last night. I had it from the stevedore who has been loading their cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried this letter, and the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a charge of murder.” There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips which would show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very severe were the equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for news of the Lone Star of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did at last hear that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of a boat was seen swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters “L. S.” carved upon it, and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate of the Lone Star.

I CINQUE BACCELLI ARANCIONI
Rivedendo i miei appunti e le registrazioni relative ai casi di Sherlock Holmes tra gli anni ’82 e ’90, mi rendo conto che molti di essi presentano caratteristiche strane e interessanti; non è quindi facile decidere quali scegliere e quali lasciare da parte. Alcuni, tuttavia, hanno già ottenuto attenzione dalla stampa, altri non hanno offerto l’occasione per mettere in evidenza quelle qualità particolari che il mio amico possedeva in misura così elevata, e che sono proprio lo scopo di questi scritti. Alcuni casi, inoltre, hanno messo alla prova le sue capacità analitiche; si trattava di storie senza fine, mentre altri sono stati risolti solo parzialmente, e le loro spiegazioni si basano più su congetture che su prove logiche, tanto care a Sherlock Holmes. C’è però un caso tra questi ultimi che, per i suoi dettagli straordinari e i risultati sorprendenti, mi spinge a descriverlo nonostante alcune questioni ad esso relative non siano mai state, e probabilmente non saranno mai, del tutto chiarite.
L’anno ’87 ci ha fornito una lunga serie di casi, più o meno interessanti; ne ho conservato i resoconti. Tra questi, trovo descrizioni dell’avventura della “Paradol Chamber”, della società dei “Mendicanti Amatoriali” che teneva un club lussuoso nel seminterrato di un magazzino di mobili, dei fatti legati alla scomparsa della barca britannica Sophy Anderson, delle strane avventure dei Grice Paterson sull’isola di Uffa, e infine del caso di avvelenamento a Camberwell. In quest’ultimo caso, come si ricorderà, Sherlock Holmes riuscì a dimostrare che l’orologio della vittima era stato caricato due ore prima dell’omicidio; questa scoperta fu di fondamentale importanza per risolvere il caso. Potrò descrivere tutti questi casi in un futuro prossimo, ma nessuno di essi presenta caratteristiche così straordinarie come quelle della serie di eventi che sto ora cercando di descrivere. Era verso la fine di settembre, e i venti equinoziali si scatenavano con una violenza eccezionale. Per tutto il giorno il vento aveva ululato e la pioggia batteva contro le finestre; così anche qui, nel cuore della grande e magnificamente costruita Londra, eravamo costretti a distogliere per un momento la nostra attenzione dalla routine quotidiana per riconoscere la presenza di quelle potenti forze naturali che urlano contro l’umanità attraverso le barriere della sua civiltà, come bestie selvagge in gabbia. Con l’avvicinarsi della sera, la tempesta divenne ancora più intensa; il vento piangeva e singhiozzava come un bambino nel camino. Sherlock Holmes sedeva pensieroso accanto al caminetto, sistemando i suoi appunti sui crimini, mentre io, dall’altra parte, ero immerso in una delle bellissime storie marine di Clark Russell. Finché il fragore della tempesta sembrò fondersi con il testo, e il rumore della pioggia divenne simile al suono delle onde. Mia moglie era andata a visitare sua madre, quindi per alcuni giorni tornai ad abitare nella mia vecchia casa in Baker Street. “Perché, ”, dissi alzando lo sguardo verso il mio compagno, “quello deve essere il campanello. Chi potrebbe venire stasera? Forse un tuo amico?” “A parte te, non ne ho nessuno”, rispose lui. “Non incoraggio le visite.” “Allora è un cliente?” “Se così fosse, si tratterebbe di un caso serio. Nulla di meno potrebbe spingere qualcuno a venire in un giorno e a un’ora del genere. Ma probabilmente si tratta di qualche conoscente della padrona di casa.” Tuttavia, Sherlock Holmes si sbagliava: si sentirono dei passi nel corridoio e qualcuno bussò alla porta. Allungò il braccio per spostare la lampada lontano da sé, verso la sedia vuota dove il visitatore avrebbe dovuto sedersi. “Entri pure!”, disse. L’uomo che entrò era giovane, circa ventidue anni, ben curato e vestito con eleganza; nel suo portamento si percepiva una certa raffinatezza. L’ombrello gocciolante che teneva in mano e il suo impermeabile lucido testimoniavano del brutto tempo attraverso cui era venuto. Guardò intorno con ansia, sotto la luce intensa della lampada; il suo viso era pallido e i suoi occhi sembravano carichi di preoccupazione. “Devo scusarmi”, disse, alzando gli occhiali da vista dorati. “Spero di non essere invadente. Temo di aver portato con me tracce della tempesta e della pioggia nella vostra confortevole stanza.” “Dai il tuo cappotto e l’ombrello a me”, disse Holmes. “Possono asciugarsi qui sull’attaccapanni. Vieni dal sud-ovest, vero?” “Sì, da Horsham.” “Quella miscela di fango e gesso sui tuoi tacchi è davvero caratteristica, ” “Sono venuto per chiedervi un consiglio.” “Questo si può ottenere facilmente, ” “E anche aiuto.” “Questo non sempre è così semplice, ” “Ho sentito parlare di voi, signor Holmes. Il maggiore Prendergast mi ha raccontato come abbiate salvato lui nel caso del scandalo al Tankerville Club.” “Ah, certo. È stato accusato ingiustamente di barare a carte.” “Ha detto che siete in grado di risolvere qualsiasi problema, ” “Ha esagerato, ” “Che non vi siate mai sconfitti, ” “Sono stato sconfitto quattro volte: tre volte da uomini e una volta da una donna.”
“Ma cosa significa tutto questo rispetto al numero dei tuoi successi?”
“È vero che in generale ho avuto successo.”
“Allora potresti avere lo stesso successo anche con me.”
“Le prego, si avvicini al fuoco e mi racconti i dettagli della sua storia.”
“Non è una storia ordinaria, ”
“Nessuna delle storie che mi vengono raccontate lo è. Io sono l’ultimo tribunale di appello.”
“Eppure, signore, mi chiedo se, nella sua esperienza, abbia mai ascoltato una serie di eventi più misteriosi e inesplicabili di quelli che sono accaduti nella mia famiglia, ”
“Mi interessa molto,” disse Holmes. “Per favore, racconti i fatti essenziali dall’inizio. Poi potrò chiederle dei dettagli che mi sembrano più importanti.”
Il giovane avvicinò la sedia al fuoco e mise i piedi bagnati vicino alle fiamme.
“Mi chiamo John Openshaw,” disse, “ma le mie faccende personali, per quanto ne so, non hanno nulla a che fare con questa terribile storia. Si tratta di una questione ereditaria. Quindi, per farle capire meglio la situazione, devo tornare all’inizio di tutto.”
“Deve sapere che mio nonno aveva due figli: mio zio Elias e mio padre Joseph. Mio padre possedeva una piccola fabbrica a Coventry, che ampliò quando fu inventata la bicicletta. Era il titolare del brevetto per la gomma indistruttibile Openshaw, e il suo business ebbe così tanto successo che riuscì a venderlo e a ritirarsi con un’ottima fortuna.”
“Mio zio Elias emigrò negli Stati Uniti quando era giovane e divenne un piantatore in Florida. Si diceva che avesse avuto molto successo. Durante la guerra combatté nell’esercito di Jackson, e poi sotto Hood, dove raggiunse il rango di colonnello. Quando Lee si arrese, mio zio tornò alla sua piantagione, dove rimase per tre o quattro anni. Intorno al 1869 o 1870 tornò in Europa e acquistò una piccola tenuta nel Sussex, vicino a Horsham. Aveva fatto una fortuna considerevole negli Stati Uniti. Il motivo per cui li lasciò fu il suo odio verso i neri e il suo disprezzo per la politica repubblicana volta ad estendere i diritti civili anche a loro. Era un uomo strano: violento, irascibile, molto volgare quando si arrabbiava. E aveva una natura molto ritirata. Per tutti gli anni che visse a Horsham, dubito che abbia mai messo piede in città. Aveva un giardino e due o tre campi intorno alla casa. Lì faceva la sua passeggiata. Anche se spesso, per settimane intere, non lasciava nemmeno la sua stanza. Beveva molto brandy e fumava molto. Ma non frequentava nessuno. Non voleva amici. Nemmeno suo fratello.” “Non gli dispiacevo affatto; anzi, si era preso una simpatia per me, perché la prima volta che mi vide avevo circa dodici anni. Era l’anno 1878, e da allora erano passati otto o nove anni dal suo arrivo in Inghilterra. Mi pregò di mio padre di permettermi di vivere con lui e si comportava molto gentilmente con me. Quando era sobrio, gli piaceva giocare a dama e a scacchi con me, e mi incaricava di rappresentarlo sia nei confronti dei domestici che degli artigiani; così, quando ne avevo sedici, ormai ero completamente padrone di casa. Tenevo tutte le chiavi e potevo andare dove volevo e fare ciò che desideravo, purché non disturbassi la sua privacy. C’era però un’unica eccezione: aveva una stanza, situata tra gli attici, che era sempre chiusa a chiave e non permetteva mai né a me né a nessun altro di entrarvi. Con la curiosità tipica di un ragazzo, ho provato ad guardare attraverso la serratura, ma non sono mai riuscito a vedere nulla di particolare, se non vecchi bauli e pacchi, tipici di una stanza del genere.” “Un giorno – era marzo 1883 – una lettera con timbro straniero giaceva sul tavolo, davanti al piatto del colonnello. Non era cosa frequente che ricevesse lettere: i suoi conti venivano sempre pagati in contanti e non aveva amici di alcun tipo. ‘Dalla India!’ disse prendendola in mano. ‘Timbro di Pondicherry! Che cosa può essere?’ Aprì la lettera in fretta. Ne uscirono cinque piccoli semi d’arancia essiccati, che caddero sul suo piatto. Cominciai a ridere, ma mi fermai non appena vidi il suo viso: la bocca gli si era aperta, gli occhi sporgevano, la pelle aveva assunto un colore giallastro. Guardava fissamente l’indirizzo sulla busta, che ancora teneva nella mano tremante. ‘K.K.K.!’ gridò, poi aggiunse: ‘Mio Dio, i miei peccati mi hanno raggiunto!’ ‘Che cosa c’è, zio?’ chiesi.” “‘Morte,’ disse lui, e alzandosi dal tavolo si ritirò nella sua stanza, lasciandomi tremante di orrore. Presi la busta e vidi, scritto in inchiostro rosso sul lato interno, proprio sopra la colla, la lettera K ripetuta tre volte. Non c’era nulla altro, se non quelle cinque bucce essiccate. Qual poteva essere la causa del suo terrore folle? Lasciai il tavolo della colazione e, salendo le scale, lo incontrai mentre scendeva con un vecchio chiave arrugginito, che sicuramente apparteneva all’attico, in una mano, e una piccola scatola di bronzo, simile a una cassaforte, nell’altra.
“‘Possono fare ciò che vogliono, ma io li sconfiggerò comunque,’ disse lui, imprecando. ‘Dica a Mary che oggi voglio il fuoco acceso nella mia stanza, e mandi giù a Fordham l’avvocato Horsham.’
“Feci come mi aveva ordinato. Quando arrivò l’avvocato, fui invitato ad entrare nella stanza. Il fuoco ardeva vivacemente; nel camino c’era un mucchio di cenere nera e soffice, simile a carta bruciata, mentre la scatola di bronzo giaceva aperta e vuota accanto al camino. Guardandola, notai, con sorpresa, che sulla copertina era stampata la lettera K, proprio quella che avevo visto quella mattina sulla busta.” “‘Vorrei che tu fossi presente alla lettura del mio testamento, John,’ disse mio zio. ‘Lascio la mia proprietà, con tutti i suoi vantaggi e svantaggi, a mio fratello, tuo padre; sicuramente essa passerà poi a te. Se riuscirai ad godertela in pace, bene! Ma se scoprirai di non poterlo fare, segui il mio consiglio: lasciala al tuo peggiore nemico. Mi dispiace darti un oggetto così pericoloso, ma non posso prevedere come andranno a finire le cose. Firma pure il documento che il signor Fordham ti mostrerà.’ “Firmai come mi era stato detto, e l’avvocato se ne andò con esso. Quell’evento strano ebbe, come puoi immaginare, un impatto profondo su di me; ci pensai a lungo senza riuscire a capirne il significato. Tuttavia, non riuscivo a scacciare quella vaga sensazione di terrore che mi lasciava. Anche se quel sentimento si attenuò col passare delle settimane, e nulla disturbò la routine quotidiana della nostra vita. Notai però un cambiamento in mio zio: beveva più del solito e evitava ogni tipo di società. Passava la maggior parte del tempo nella sua stanza, con la porta chiusa a chiave dall’interno. A volte, però, usciva in uno stato di follia alcolica, correva fuori di casa e girovagava nel giardino con una pistola in mano, gridando che non aveva paura di nessuno e che non voleva essere rinchiuso come un animale. Dopo queste crisi, però, tornava dentro e chiudeva a chiave la porta, come se non potesse più sopportare quel terrore che si nascondeva nelle profondità della sua anima. In quei momenti, vedevo il suo viso, anche nei giorni freddi, brillare di sudore. Come se fosse appena stato lavato. “Bene, per concludere, signor Holmes. Per non farvi perdere troppo tempo. Una notte, fece una di quelle uscite ubriache da cui non tornò mai più. Quando andammo a cercarlo, lo trovammo sdraiato a faccia in giù in una piccola pozzanghera piena di schiuma verde, ai piedi del giardino. Non c’erano segni di violenza. L’acqua era alta solo due piedi. Quindi, considerando la sua eccentricità, la giuria dichiarò che si trattava di suicidio. Ma io, che sapevo quanto temesse la morte. Ebbi molta difficoltà a convincermi che fosse andato apposta ad incontrarla. Comunque, la cosa finì lì. Mio padre ereditò la proprietà e anche circa 14.000 sterline che aveva in banca, ” “Un momento,” intervenne Holmes. “La vostra storia è davvero una delle più straordinarie che abbia mai ascoltato. Potreste dirmi la data in cui vostro zio ricevette quella lettera, e la data del suo presunto suicidio?” “La lettera arrivò il 10 marzo 1883. Morì sette settimane dopo, nella notte del 2 maggio, ” “Grazie. Continuate pure.” Quando mio padre prese in mano la proprietà di Horsham, su mia richiesta esaminò attentamente il soffitto, che era sempre stato chiuso a chiave. Lì trovammo la scatola di bronzo, anche se il suo contenuto era stato distrutto. Sulla copertina c’era un cartellino con le iniziali K. K. K. ripetute più volte, e sotto si leggeva “Lettere, memorandini, ricevute e un registro”. Presumiamo che queste indicassero la natura dei documenti distrutti dal colonnello Openshaw. Per il resto, nel soffitto non c’era nulla di particolarmente importante, tranne molti fogli sparsi e quaderni relativi alla vita di mio zio in America. Alcuni risalivano al periodo della guerra e dimostravano che aveva adempiuto bene ai suoi doveri, guadagnandosi la reputazione di un soldato coraggioso; altri erano del periodo della ricostruzione degli stati del Sud e riguardavano principalmente questioni politiche, poiché evidentemente mio zio si era impegnato attivamente nella lotta contro quei politici provenienti dal Nord.
“Beh, fu all’inizio dell’anno ‘84 che mio padre iniziò a vivere a Horsham, e per un po’ tutto andò bene fino al gennaio ‘85. Il quarto giorno dell’anno nuovo, mentre eravamo seduti a tavola per colazione, sentii mio padre esclamare sorpreso. Teneva in una mano una busta appena aperta e nell’altra palma cinque buccie d’arancia secche. Aveva sempre riso alle mie storie sul colonnello, ma ora sembrava molto spaventato e perplesso. Perché gli era successa la stessa cosa.”
“‘Ma che diavolo significa tutto questo, John?’ balbettò.”
“Il mio cuore si riempì di preoccupazione. ‘È K. K. K.’ dissi.”
“Guardò all’interno della busta. ‘Infatti. Ecco le lettere. Ma cosa c’è scritto sopra?’”
“‘Metti i documenti sul soleario,’ lessi, guardando oltre la sua spalla.”
“‘Quali documenti? Quale soleario?’ chiese.”
“‘Quello nel giardino. Non ce n’è nessun altro,’ risposi; ‘ma quei documenti devono essere quelli distrutti.’”
“‘Bah!’ disse, cercando di mantenere la calma. ‘Siamo in un paese civile. Non possiamo permetterci queste sciocchezze. Da dove viene tutto questo?’”
“‘Da Dundee,’ risposi, guardando il timbro postale.”
“‘Qualche assurda battuta di spirito. Cosa c’entro io con soleari e documenti? Non darò peso a queste sciocchezze.’”
“‘Forse dovresti parlare con la polizia,’ dissi.”
“‘E farmi ridere in faccia per il mio disturbo. Assolutamente no.’”
“‘Allora lascia che sia io a farlo?’”
“‘No, te lo proibisco. Non voglio che si creino problemi per una cosa del genere.’”
Non c’era modo di convincerlo. Era davvero testardo. Comunque, continuai a sentirmi preoccupato. “Al terzo giorno dopo l’arrivo della lettera, mio padre lasciò casa per andare a trovare un vecchio amico, il maggiore Freebody, che comandava una delle fortezze sulle colline di Portsdown. Fui felice che se ne andasse, perché mi sembrava che fosse più al sicuro lontano da casa. Tuttavia, in questo mi sbagliavo. Il secondo giorno della sua assenza ricevetti un telegramma dal maggiore che mi chiedeva di venire immediatamente. Mio padre era caduto in uno dei profondi burroni di gesso presenti nella zona e giaceva privo di sensi, con il cranio frantumato. Corsi da lui, ma morì senza mai riprendere conoscenza. A quanto pare stava tornando da Fareham al crepuscolo; poiché non conosceva bene la zona e i burroni di gesso non erano recintati, la giuria non ebbe esitazioni a dichiarare ‘morte per cause accidentali’. Nonostante esaminassi attentamente ogni dettaglio legato alla sua morte, non riuscii a trovare nulla che potesse far pensare a un omicidio. Non c’erano segni di violenza, nessuna traccia di passi, nessun furto, né alcuna notizia di estranei visti nelle strade.” Eppure non c’è bisogno che vi dica che la mia mente non era affatto tranquilla, e ero quasi certo che intorno a lui fosse stato tessuto qualche oscuro complotto. “In questo modo sinistro ho ereditato ciò che mi spettava. Mi chiederete perché non l’ho liquidato. Rispondo: perché ero convinto che i nostri problemi fossero in qualche modo legati a un evento accaduto nella vita di mio zio, e che il pericolo fosse altrettanto grave in una casa quanto nell’altra.
Fu nel gennaio dell’85 che mio povero padre morì. Sono trascorsi due anni e otto mesi da allora. Durante questo periodo ho vissuto felicemente a Horsham, e avevo iniziato a sperare che questa maledizione fosse finalmente scomparsa dalla nostra famiglia. Ma mi ero rallegrato troppo presto: ieri mattina il colpo è arrivato esattamente nello stesso modo in cui era arrivato a mio padre.”
Il giovane tirò fuori dal gilet una busta sgualcita, la posò sul tavolo e ne fece cadere cinque piccoli semi di arancia essiccati.
“Questa è la busta,” continuò. “L’indirizzo postale è Londra – divisione orientale. All’interno ci sono esattamente le stesse parole presenti nell’ultima lettera di mio padre: ‘K. K. K.’; e poi ‘Metti i documenti sul soleggiatore’.”
“Cosa hai fatto?” chiese Holmes.
“Niente.”
“Niente?” “Per essere onesto, ” — disse, nascondendo il viso nelle sue sottili mani bianche— “mi sono sentito impotente. Mi sono sentito come uno di quei poveri conigli quando la serpente si avvicina a loro. Sembra che io sia nelle grinfie di qualche male irresistibile, inarrestabile, contro cui nessuna previsione e nessuna precauzione possono proteggermi.” “Tut! tut!” esclamò Sherlock Holmes. “Devi agire, uomo. Altrimenti sei perduto. Solo l’energia può salvarti. Ora non è il momento per la disperazione.” “Ho già contattato la polizia, ” “Ah, ” “Ma hanno ascoltato la mia storia sorridendo. Sono convinto che l’ispettore abbia concluso che quelle lettere siano solo scherzi e che le morti dei miei parenti siano state davvero incidenti, come ha affermato anche la giuria, e non abbiano alcun legame con quegli avvertimenti.”
Holmes scosse le mani strette a pugno. “Incredibile stupidità!” esclamò.
“Tuttavia mi hanno permesso di tenere un poliziotto in casa con me.”
“È venuto con te stasera?”
“No. Gli è stato ordinato di rimanere in casa.”
Di nuovo Holmes imprecò furiosamente.
“Perché sei venuto da me?” gridò. “E soprattutto, perché non sei venuto subito?”
“Non lo sapevo. Solo oggi ho parlato con il maggiore Prendergast dei miei problemi e lui mi ha consigliato di rivolgermi a te.”
“Sono davvero passati due giorni da quando hai ricevuto quella lettera. Avremmo dovuto agire prima. Non hai altre prove, oltre a quelle che ci hai raccontato. Nessun dettaglio che possa aiutarci?” “C’è una cosa,” disse John Openshaw. Frugò nella tasca del suo cappotto e, estraendo un pezzo di carta ingiallita con una leggera tonalità blu, lo posò sul tavolo. “Ho un ricordo,” continuò, “del giorno in cui mio zio bruciò quei documenti: notai che i margini piccoli e intatti rimasti tra le ceneri avevano proprio questo colore. Ho trovato questo foglio per terra nella sua stanza, e penso che possa trattarsi di uno dei documenti che, forse, si sono staccati dagli altri e così sono sopravvissuti alla distruzione. A parte menzionare questi ‘pips’, non credo che ci sia molto d’aiuto in questo foglio. Penso che si tratti di una pagina di un diario privato; la scrittura è senza dubbio di mio zio.”
Holmes spostò la lampada, e noi due ci chinammo su quel foglio di carta, il cui bordo strappato dimostrava chiaramente che era stato staccato da un libro. Era intitolato “Marzo 1869”, e sotto c’erano le seguenti note enigmatiche:
“4° – È venuto Hudson. Stessa vecchia piattaforma.”
“7° – Mettere i ‘pips’ su McCauley, Paramore e John Swain di St. Augustine.”
“9° – McCauley è stato scagionato.”
“10° – John Swain è stato scagionato.”
“12° – Ho visitato Paramore. Tutto a posto.” “Grazie!” disse Holmes, ripiegando il foglio di carta e restituendolo al nostro visitatore. “Ora non dovete perdere nemmeno un istante. Non abbiamo tempo nemmeno per discutere ciò che mi avete raccontato. Dovete tornare immediatamente a casa e agire.”
“Cosa devo fare?”
“C’è solo una cosa da fare, e deve essere fatta subito. Dovete mettere questo foglio di carta, che ci avete mostrato, nella scatola di bronzo che avete descritto. Dovete anche inserire un biglietto in cui dichiariate che tutti gli altri documenti sono stati bruciati dal vostro zio e che questo è l’unico rimasto. Dovete farlo in modo che le vostre parole siano convincenti. Una volta fatto ciò, dovete immediatamente posizionare la scatola sul soleggiatore, come vi è stato detto. Capite?”
“Del tutto.” “Per il momento, non pensare a vendetta o a nulla del genere. Credo che possiamo ottenerlo attraverso la legge; ma abbiamo ancora bisogno di tessere la nostra trama, mentre la loro è già pronta. La priorità è eliminare il pericolo imminente che ti minaccia. La seconda cosa da fare è chiarire questo mistero e punire i colpevoli.”
“Grazie,” disse il giovane alzandosi e infilando il cappotto. “Mi hai dato nuova vita e speranza. Sicuramente seguirò i tuoi consigli.”
“Non perdere un istante. E, soprattutto, prenditi cura di te stesso in questo frattempo. Credo senza dubbio che tu sia minacciato da un pericolo molto reale e imminente. Come tornerai a casa?”
“In treno da Waterloo.”
“Non sono ancora le nove. Le strade saranno affollate, quindi spero che tu possa arrivare sano e salvo. Ma devi comunque stare attento.”
“Sono armato.”
“Bene. Domani inizierò a lavorare sul tuo caso.”
“Allora ci vedremo a Horsham?”
“No. Il tuo segreto si trova a Londra. Lì sarà dove lo cercherò.” “Allora vi chiamerò tra un giorno o due con notizie riguardo alla scatola e ai documenti. Seguirò il vostro consiglio in ogni dettaglio.” Ci strinse la mano e se ne andò. Fuori, il vento continuava a ululare e la pioggia batteva contro le finestre. Questa strana, selvaggia storia sembrava essere arrivata fino a noi tra i furiosi elementi della natura – soffiata verso di noi come un lembo d’alghe marine durante una tempesta – e ora sembrava essere stata nuovamente assorbita da loro.
Sherlock Holmes rimase seduto in silenzio per qualche tempo, con la testa china e lo sguardo fisso sul rosso bagliore del fuoco. Poi accese la pipa e, appoggiandosi allo schienale della sedia, osservò i cerchi di fumo blu che si inseguivano fino al soffitto.
“Penso,” disse infine, “che tra tutti i casi che abbiamo affrontato, nessuno sia stato più fantastico di questo.”
“Forse ad eccezione del ‘Segno dei Quattro’, ”
“Beh, sì. Forse anche quello. Eppure, a mio parere, John Openshaw si trova ad affrontare pericoli ancora maggiori di quelli che avevano affrontato i membri della famiglia Sholtos.”
“Ma avete già una qualche idea riguardo a questi pericoli?” chiesi.
“Non c’è dubbio sulla loro natura,” rispose. “#Chi sono dunque questi individui? Chi è questo K.K.K. e perché perseguita questa sfortunata famiglia?” Sherlock Holmes chiuse gli occhi e appoggiò i gomiti sulle braccia della sedia, tenendo le punte delle dita unite. “Il ragionatore ideale,” osservò, “una volta che gli viene mostrato un singolo fatto in tutti i suoi aspetti, dovrebbe essere in grado di dedurne non solo tutta la catena di eventi che lo hanno portato a quel punto, ma anche tutti i risultati che ne deriverebbero. Proprio come Cuvier riusciva a descrivere un intero animale osservando un singolo osso, così l’osservatore che ha compreso appieno un singolo anello di una serie di eventi dovrebbe essere in grado di enunciare con precisione tutti gli altri, sia quelli precedenti che quelli successivi. Non abbiamo ancora raggiunto i risultati a cui solo il ragionamento può portarci. Problemi che hanno confuso tutti coloro che hanno cercato una soluzione affidandosi ai sensi possono essere risolti attraverso lo studio approfondito. Tuttavia, per elevare questa arte al suo massimo livello, è necessario che il ragionatore sia in grado di utilizzare tutti i fatti di cui è a conoscenza; e questo, come potrete facilmente capire, implica la possesso di una conoscenza completa, cosa che, anche ai giorni nostri dell’istruzione universale e delle enciclopedie, rappresenta un risultato piuttosto raro. Tuttavia, non è del tutto impossibile per un uomo acquisire tutta quella conoscenza che possa rivelarsi utile nel suo lavoro, ed è proprio ciò che ho cercato di fare io stesso. Se ricordo bene, una volta, nei primi giorni della nostra amicizia, hai definito in modo molto preciso i miei limiti.”
“Sì,” risposi ridendo. “È stato un documento davvero singolare. Filosofia, astronomia e politica venivano valutate zero; botanica considerata variabile; geologia profonda soltanto riguardo alle macchie di fango presenti entro cinquanta miglia dalla città; chimica eccentrica; anatomia disorganizzata; letteratura sensazionalistica e registri criminali unici. Suonatore di violino, pugile, spadaccino, avvocato, e anche autodotto di cocaina e tabacco. Questi, credo, fossero i punti principali della mia ‘analisi’.” Holmes sorrise alla vista dell’ultimo elemento menzionato. “Bene,” disse, “dico ancora una volta ciò che avevo detto allora: un uomo dovrebbe tenere il proprio ‘attico del cervello’ riempito di tutto ciò di cui potrebbe aver bisogno, mentre il resto può essere messo da parte nella ‘stanza degli oggetti inutili’ della sua biblioteca, dove poterlo ritrovare quando necessario. Ora, per un caso come quello che ci è stato presentato stasera, dobbiamo certamente mobilitare tutte le nostre risorse. Per favore, passatemi la lettera ‘K’ dell’Enciclopedia Americana che si trova sullo scaffale accanto a voi. Grazie. Ora analizziamo la situazione e vediamo cosa possiamo dedurne. Prima di tutto, possiamo partire da un’ipotesi forte: il colonnello Openshaw doveva avere motivi molto validi per lasciare l’America. A quell’età, una persona non cambia tutte le proprie abitudini e non sceglie volontariamente di sostituire il clima incantevole della Florida con la vita solitaria di una piccola città provinciale inglese. Il suo estremo amore per la solitudine in Inghilterra suggerisce l’idea che avesse paura di qualcuno o di qualcosa; quindi possiamo assumere, come ipotesi lavorativa, che sia stata proprio questa paura a spingerlo ad abbandonare l’America. Per quanto riguarda ciò di cui aveva paura, possiamo solo dedurlo esaminando le lettere minacciose che ha ricevuto lui stesso e i suoi successori. Avete notato gli indirizzi postali di quelle lettere?”
“La prima proveniva da Pondicherry, la seconda da Dundee, e la terza da Londra.”
“Da East London. Cosa ne deducete?”
“Sono tutte città portuali. Ciò significa che l’autore delle lettere si trovava a bordo di una nave.”
“Eccellente! Abbiamo già un indizio importante: c’è molta probabilità che l’autore fosse a bordo di una nave. Ora consideriamo un altro aspetto. Nel caso di Pondicherry, sono trascorse sette settimane tra la minaccia e il suo attuarsi; a Dundee, invece, solo tre o quattro giorni. Ciò vi suggerisce qualcosa?”
“Che la distanza da percorrere fosse maggiore, ”
“Ma anche la lettera doveva attraversare una distanza più lunga, ”
“Allora non capisco il punto, ”
“C’è almeno l’ipotesi che la nave su cui si trovava l’autore fosse una nave a vela. Sembra che inviassero sempre un avvertimento o un segnale prima di iniziare la loro missione. Vedete come l’azione sia seguita rapidamente dopo l’avvertimento ricevuto da Dundee? Se fossero arrivati da Pondicherry su una nave a vapore, sarebbero arrivati quasi contemporaneamente alla lettera. Ma invece sono trascorse sette settimane. Penso che quelle sette settimane rappresentino la differenza di tempo tra la nave postale che ha portato la lettera e la nave a vela che ha portato l’autore.”
“È possibile, ”
“Più di così. È probabile. E ora capite quanto sia urgente questo nuovo caso. E perché ho esortato il giovane Openshaw ad essere cauto. Le minacce sono sempre arrivate alla fine del tempo necessario per che i mittenti potessero raggiungere la loro destinazione. Ma questa volta proviene da Londra. Quindi non possiamo aspettarci ritardi, ”
“Dio mio!” esclamai. “Cosa significa tutto questo. Questa persecuzione spietata?” “I documenti che Openshaw portava con sé sono ovviamente di vitale importanza per la persona o le persone a bordo della nave. Penso sia abbastanza chiaro che ne debba esserci più di uno: un singolo uomo non avrebbe potuto orchestrare due omicidi in modo da ingannare una giuria medico-legale. Devono essercene stati diversi, e sicuramente individui capaci e risoluti. I documenti che cercano appartengono a chiunque li possieda. In questo modo, K.K.K. smette di essere semplicemente l’iniziale di una persona per diventare il simbolo di un’intera organizzazione.”
“Ma di quale organizzazione?”
“Non avete mai sentito parlare del Ku Klux Klan?” chiese Sherlock Holmes, chinandosi in avanti e abbassando la voce.
“Mai.”
Holmes sfogliò il libro che aveva sulle ginocchia. “Ecco,” disse dopo un po’, “qui c’è scritto:
‘Ku Klux Klan. Un nome derivato dall’aspetto simile al suono prodotto dal caricare un fucile. Questa terribile società segreta fu fondata da alcuni ex soldati confederati negli stati del Sud dopo la Guerra Civile, e rapidamente si diffuse in varie parti del paese, soprattutto in Tennessee, Louisiana, Carolina, Georgia e Florida. Il suo potere veniva utilizzato a scopi politici: principalmente per terrorizzare gli elettori neri e per assassinare o espellere coloro che erano contrari alle sue idee. Le sue aggressioni erano solitamente preludite da un avvertimento inviato alla vittima, sotto forma di simboli fantasiosi ma facilmente riconoscibili: in alcune zone una foglia d’quercia, in altre semi di melone o buccie di arancia. Ricevuto questo avvertimento, la vittima poteva either abiurare apertamente le sue precedenti azioni oppure fuggire dal paese. Se invece decideva di affrontarli, la morte lo attendeva inevitabilmente, e spesso in modi strani e imprevedibili. L’organizzazione era così ben strutturata e i suoi metodi così sistematici che quasi nessuno è mai riuscito a sfidarla senza conseguenze negative, né è mai stato possibile individuare con certezza gli autori dei suoi crimini. Per alcuni anni questa organizzazione ha continuato a prosperare nonostante gli sforzi del governo degli Stati Uniti e delle classi socialmente più avanzate del Sud. Alla fine, nel 1869, il movimento è crollato improvvisamente, anche se da allora si sono verificati alcuni episodi sporadici dello stesso tipo.’”
“Noterete,” aggiunse Holmes posando il libro, “che la improvvisa scomparsa di questa organizzazione coincide con la fuga di Openshaw dall’America insieme ai suoi documenti. È molto probabile che ci sia un legame tra i due eventi. Non sorprende quindi che lui e la sua famiglia siano perseguitati da persone determinate a vendicarsi. Capite ora perché questo registro e questo diario potrebbero coinvolgere alcune delle figure più influenti del Sud, e perché molte persone non riusciranno a dormire tranquille finché non verranno recuperati.”
“Quindi la pagina che abbiamo visto, ” La mattina si era schiarita, e il sole splendeva con una luce attenuata attraverso la nebbia che avvolgeva la grande città. Quando scesi, Sherlock Holmes stava già facendo colazione.
“Mi perdonerà se non l’ho aspettato,” disse; “prevedo che oggi sarà una giornata molto impegnativa per indagare su questo caso del giovane Openshaw.”
“Quali saranno i suoi passi?” chiesi.
“Dipenderà molto dai risultati delle mie prime indagini. Forse dovrò andare fino a Horsham.”
“Non inizierà prima da qui?”
“No, comincerò dalla City. Suoni il campanello, la cameriera le porterà il caffè.”
Mentre aspettavo, presi il giornale ancora aperto e diedi un’occhiata alle notizie. Il titolo che lessi mi fece gelare il sangue:
“Holmes,” esclamai, “è troppo tardi, ”
“Ah, ” disse lui, posando la tazza; “Me lo temevo. Com’è successo?” Parlava con calma, ma si vedeva che era profondamente scosso.
“Il nome di Openshaw attirò la mia attenzione. Ecco il resoconto:
‘Ieri sera, tra le nove e le dieci, il poliziotto Cook della H Division, di servizio vicino al ponte di Waterloo, sentì un grido d’aiuto e uno schianto nell’acqua. Tuttavia la notte era molto buia e tempestosa. Nonostante l’aiuto di alcuni passanti, non fu possibile effettuare il salvataggio. L’allarme fu comunque dato, e grazie alla polizia fluviale il corpo fu ritrovato. Si trattava di un giovane signore di nome John Openshaw, residente vicino a Horsham. Si presume che stesse cercando di prendere l’ultimo treno dalla stazione di Waterloo; nella fretta e nel buio totale deve essersi perso e essere caduto sul bordo di uno dei moli per i battelli fluviali. Il corpo non presentava segni di violenza. Senza dubbio è stato vittima di un tragico incidente.’”
Rimanemmo in silenzio per alcuni minuti. Holmes sembrava più depresso e scosso che mai. “Questo offende il mio orgoglio, Watson,” disse finalmente. “È senza dubbio un sentimento meschino, ma offende il mio orgoglio. Ora diventa una questione personale per me. E se Dio mi restituirà la salute, mi occuperò personalmente di questa banda. Che sia venuto da me in cerca di aiuto, e che io l’abbia invece mandato verso la morte,!” Si alzò di scatto dalla sedia e iniziò a camminare avanti e indietro nella stanza, in preda a un’agitazione incontrollabile; le sue guance giallastre erano arrossite, e le sue mani lunghe e magre si stringevano e si allentavano nervosamente.
“Devono essere diavoli astuti,” esclamò infine. “Come hanno fatto a ingannarlo e portarlo laggiù? Il lungofiume non è sulla linea diretta per la stazione. Il ponte, senza dubbio, era troppo affollato, anche in una notte del genere, per i loro scopi. Bene, Watson, vedremo chi vincerà alla fine. Ora esco!”
“Dalla polizia?”
“No. Sarò io stesso la mia polizia. Quando avrò tessuto la mia trappola, potranno prendere le “mosche”, ma non prima.” Per tutto il giorno ero impegnato nel mio lavoro professionale, e fu solo verso sera che tornai in Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes non era ancora rientrato. Erano quasi le dieci quando entrò, pallido e stanco. Si avvicinò al comodino, strappò un pezzo di pane e lo divorò voracemente, bevendo poi un lungo sorso d’acqua.
“Hai fame,” osservai.
“Morivo di fame. Me n’ero completamente dimenticato: non ho mangiato nulla da colazione.”
“Niente?”
“Nemmeno un boccone. Non ho avuto il tempo di pensarci.”
“E come hai fatto a portare a termine il tuo compito?”
“Bene, ”
“Hai qualche indizio?”
“Li ho tutti in mano. Il giovane Openshaw non resterà a lungo impunito. Watson, perché non mettiamo addirittura il loro stesso marchio diabolico su di lui? È un’ottima idea!”
“Cosa intendi?”
Prese un’arancia dal mobile, la strappò a pezzi e spremette i semi sul tavolo. Ne prese cinque, li mise in una busta e scrisse all’interno: “S. H. per J. O.” Poi la sigillò e la indirizzò a “Capitano James Calhoun, Barca Lone Star, Savannah, Georgia”. “Quello lo aspetterà quando entrerà in porto,” disse ridacchiando. “Forse gli farà passare una notte insonne. Lo considererà sicuramente un presagio del suo destino, proprio come fece Openshaw prima di lui.”
“E chi è questo Capitano Calhoun?”
“Il capo della banda. Prenderò prima lui, poi gli altri.”
“Come hai fatto a trovarlo?”
Prese un grande foglio di carta dalla tasca, pieno di date e nomi. “Ho passato l’intera giornata,” disse, “esaminando i registri e le carte antiche di Lloyd’s, seguendo la futura destinazione di ogni nave che aveva fatto scalo a Pondicherry nel gennaio e febbraio dell’83. In quei mesi furono segnalate trentasei navi di notevole tonnellaggio. Una di queste, la Lone Star, attirò immediatamente la mia attenzione: anche se era stata registrata come partita da Londra, il nome corrispondeva a uno degli stati dell’Unione, ”
“Texas, credo.”
“Non ne ero sicuro. Ma sapevo che quella nave doveva avere origini americane.”
“E poi?” “Ho cercato nei registri di Dundee, e quando ho scoperto che la barca Lone Star si trovava lì nel gennaio ’85, il mio sospetto è diventato certezza. Ho poi indagato riguardo alle navi attualmente presenti nel porto di Londra.”
“Sì?”
“La Lone Star era arrivata qui la scorsa settimana. Sono andato al Albert Dock e ho scoperto che quella mattina, con la marea alta, era stata spinta verso il fiume in direzione di Savannah. Ho telegrafato a Gravesend e ho appreso che aveva già superato quella zona; poiché il vento soffia da est, non ho dubbi che ora si trovi al di là delle isole Goodwins, non lontano dall’Isola di Wight.”
“E allora cosa farai?”
“Oh, li ho in pugno. Loro tre, insieme ai due compagni di bordo, sono gli unici americani nativi a bordo della nave; gli altri sono finlandesi e tedeschi. So anche che ieri sera erano tutti assenti dalla nave. Me lo ha detto lo scaricatore incaricato del carico. Quando la loro nave raggiungerà Savannah, questa lettera sarà già stata consegnata alla polizia, che avrà informato della loro ricercata per omicidio.”
Tuttavia, nei piani umani più ben congegnati esiste sempre un difetto. I responsabili dell’omicidio di John Openshaw non riceveranno mai quelle informazioni che avrebbero potuto rivelare loro l’esistenza di qualcuno altrettanto astuto e risoluto al loro inseguimento. Quell’anno i venti equinoziali furono particolarmente forti e violenti. Abbiamo atteso a lungo notizie sulla Lone Star, ma non ne è mai arrivata nessuna. Alla fine abbiamo appreso che, da qualche parte nell’Atlantico, era stata vista una poppa di barca spezzata che dondolava sulle onde, con le lettere “L.S.” incise sopra. Ed è tutto ciò che sapremo mai sulla sorte della Lone Star.

THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the Theological College of St. George’s, was much addicted to opium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he was at college; for having read De Quincey’s description of his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man. One night — it was in June, ‘89 — there came a ring to my bell, about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment. “A patient!” said she. “You’ll have to go out.” I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day. We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room. “You will excuse my calling so late,” she began, and then, suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my wife’s neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. “Oh, I’m in such trouble!” she cried; “I do so want a little help.” “Why,” said my wife, pulling up her veil, “it is Kate Whitney. How you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in.” “I didn’t know what to do, so I came straight to you.” That was always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a light-house. “It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you rather that I sent James off to bed?” “Oh, no, no! I want the doctor’s advice and help, too. It’s about Isa. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about him!” It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband’s trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find. Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we could bring him back to her? It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and shattered, in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do? How could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place and pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him? There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it. Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought, why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney’s medical adviser, and as such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were alone. I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only could show how strange it was to be. But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship. Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire. As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth. “Thank you. I have not come to stay,” said I. “There is a friend of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him.” There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring out at me. “My God! It’s Watson,” said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. “I say, Watson, what o’clock is it?” “Nearly eleven.” “Of what day?” “Of Friday, June 19th.” “Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What d’you want to frighten a chap for?” He sank his face onto his arms and began to sob in a high treble key. “I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!” “So I am. But you’ve got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few hours, three pipes, four pipes — I forget how many. But I’ll go home with you. I wouldn’t frighten Kate — poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Have you a cab?” “Yes, I have one waiting.” “Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe, Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself.” I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice whispered, “Walk past me, and then look back at me.” The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see him but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face half round to the company once more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped senility. “Holmes!” I whispered, “what on earth are you doing in this den?” “As low as you can,” he answered; “I have excellent ears. If you would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you.” “I have a cab outside.” “Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be with you in five minutes.” It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes’ requests, for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in the cab my mission was practically accomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be associated with my friend in one of those singular adventures which were the normal condition of his existence. In a few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney’s bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness. In a very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den, and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter. “I suppose, Watson,” said he, “that you imagine that I have added opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical views.” “I was certainly surprised to find you there.” “But not more so than I to find you.” “I came to find a friend.” “And I to find an enemy.” “An enemy?” “Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had I been recognised in that den my life would not have been worth an hour’s purchase; for I have used it before now for my own purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of that building, near the corner of Paul’s Wharf, which could tell some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights.” “What! You do not mean bodies?” “Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had £1000 for every poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more. But our trap should be here.” He put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly — a signal which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses’ hoofs. “Now, Watson,” said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side lanterns. “You’ll come with me, won’t you?” “If I can be of use.” “Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one.” “The Cedars?” “Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair’s house. I am staying there while I conduct the inquiry.” “Where is it, then?” “Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us.” “But I am all in the dark.” “Of course you are. You’ll know all about it presently. Jump up here. All right, John; we shall not need you. Here’s half a crown. Look out for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her head. So long, then!” He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat beside him, curious to learn what this new quest might be which seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several miles, and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he is acting for the best. “You have a grand gift of silence, Watson,” said he. “It makes you quite invaluable as a companion. ‘Pon my word, it is a great thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear little woman to-night when she meets me at the door.” “You forget that I know nothing about it.” “I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can get nothing to go upon. There’s plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can’t get the end of it into my hand. Now, I’ll state the case clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to me.” “Proceed, then.” “Some years ago — to be definite, in May, 1884 — there came to Lee a gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and lived generally in good style. By degrees he made friends in the neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer, by whom he now has two children. He had no occupation, but was interested in several companies and went into town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 5:14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr. St. Clair is now thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as far as we have been able to ascertain, amount to £88 10s., while he has £220 standing to his credit in the Capital and Counties Bank. There is no reason, therefore, to think that money troubles have been weighing upon his mind. “Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier than usual, remarking before he started that he had two important commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy home a box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife received a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to the effect that a small parcel of considerable value which she had been expecting was waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now, if you are well up in your London, you will know that the office of the company is in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, where you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch, started for the City, did some shopping, proceeded to the company’s office, got her packet, and found herself at exactly 4:35 walking through Swandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed me so far?” “It is very clear.” “If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St. Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, as she did not like the neighbourhood in which she found herself. While she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her husband looking down at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a second-floor window. The window was open, and she distinctly saw his face, which she describes as being terribly agitated. He waved his hands frantically to her, and then vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her that he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind. One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was that although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town in, he had on neither collar nor necktie. “Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the steps — for the house was none other than the opium den in which you found me to-night — and running through the front room she attempted to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At the foot of the stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of whom I have spoken, who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant there, pushed her out into the street. Filled with the most maddening doubts and fears, she rushed down the lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in Fresno Street a number of constables with an inspector, all on their way to their beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their way to the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that floor there was no one to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who, it seems, made his home there. Both he and the Lascar stoutly swore that no one else had been in the front room during the afternoon. So determined was their denial that the inspector was staggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell a cascade of children’s bricks. It was the toy which he had promised to bring home. “This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple showed, made the inspector realise that the matter was serious. The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an abominable crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a sitting-room and led into a small bedroom, which looked out upon the back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide but is covered at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water. The bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below. On examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill, and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch — all were there. There were no signs of violence upon any of these garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St. Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no other exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon the sill gave little promise that he could save himself by swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment of the tragedy. “And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated in the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair’s story, he was known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very few seconds of her husband’s appearance at the window, he could hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime. His defence was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he could not account in any way for the presence of the missing gentleman’s clothes. “So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which is familiar to every man who goes much to the City. He is a professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax vestas. Some little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat, cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I have watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought of making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. His appearance, you see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him without observing him. A shock of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him out from amid the common crowd of mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he is ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which may be thrown at him by the passers-by. This is the man whom we now learn to have been the lodger at the opium den, and to have been the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest.” “But a cripple!” said I. “What could he have done single-handed against a man in the prime of life?” “He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in other respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man. Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others.” “Pray continue your narrative.” “Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her presence could be of no help to them in their investigations. Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very careful examination of the premises, but without finding anything which threw any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made in not arresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutes during which he might have communicated with his friend the Lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he was seized and searched, without anything being found which could incriminate him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his right shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from there, adding that he had been to the window not long before, and that the stains which had been observed there came doubtless from the same source. He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr. Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes in his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As to Mrs. St. Clair’s assertion that she had actually seen her husband at the window, he declared that she must have been either mad or dreaming. He was removed, loudly protesting, to the police-station, while the inspector remained upon the premises in the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh clue. “And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they had feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair’s coat, and not Neville St. Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And what do you think they found in the pockets?” “I cannot imagine.” “No, I don’t think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with pennies and half-pennies — 421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It was no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide. But a human body is a different matter. There is a fierce eddy between the wharf and the house. It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained when the stripped body had been sucked away into the river.” “But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room. Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?” “No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose that this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the window, there is no human eye which could have seen the deed. What would he do then? It would of course instantly strike him that he must get rid of the tell-tale garments. He would seize the coat, then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when it would occur to him that it would swim and not sink. He has little time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife tried to force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard from his Lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street. There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and he stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure of the coat’s sinking. He throws it out, and would have done the same with the other garments had not he heard the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the window when the police appeared.” “It certainly sounds feasible.” “Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better. Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but it could not be shown that there had ever before been anything against him. He had for years been known as a professional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one. There the matter stands at present, and the questions which have to be solved — what Neville St. Clair was doing in the opium den, what happened to him when there, where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance — are all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I cannot recall any case within my experience which looked at the first glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties.” While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great town until the last straggling houses had been left behind, and we rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us. Just as he finished, however, we drove through two scattered villages, where a few lights still glimmered in the windows. “We are on the outskirts of Lee,” said my companion. “We have touched on three English counties in our short drive, starting in Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent. See that light among the trees? That is The Cedars, and beside that lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt, caught the clink of our horse’s feet.” “But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?” I asked. “Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here. Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and you may rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend and colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have no news of her husband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!” We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its own grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse’s head, and springing down, I followed Holmes up the small, winding gravel-drive which led to the house. As we approached, the door flew open, and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, clad in some sort of light mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She stood with her figure outlined against the flood of light, one hand upon the door, one half-raised in her eagerness, her body slightly bent, her head and face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing question. “Well?” she cried, “well?” And then, seeing that there were two of us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she saw that my companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “No good news?” “None.” “No bad?” “No.” “Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for you have had a long day.” “This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to me in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for me to bring him out and associate him with this investigation.” “I am delighted to see you,” said she, pressing my hand warmly. “You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our arrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly upon us.” “My dear madam,” said I, “I am an old campaigner, and if I were not I can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be of any assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeed happy.” “Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said the lady as we entered a well-lit dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had been laid out, “I should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions, to which I beg that you will give a plain answer.” “Certainly, madam.” “Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor given to fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion.” “Upon what point?” “In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?” Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question. “Frankly, now!” she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket-chair. “Frankly, then, madam, I do not.” “You think that he is dead?” “I do.” “Murdered?” “I don’t say that. Perhaps.” “And on what day did he meet his death?” “On Monday.” “Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it is that I have received a letter from him to-day.” Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanised. “What!” he roared. “Yes, to-day.” She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper in the air. “May I see it?” “Certainly.” He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon the table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The envelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark and with the date of that very day, or rather of the day before, for it was considerably after midnight. “Coarse writing,” murmured Holmes. “Surely this is not your husband’s writing, madam.” “No, but the enclosure is.” “I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and inquire as to the address.” “How can you tell that?” “The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried itself. The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that blotting-paper has been used. If it had been written straight off, and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This man has written the name, and there has then been a pause before he wrote the address, which can only mean that he was not familiar with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles. Let us now see the letter. Ha! there has been an enclosure here!” “Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring.” “And you are sure that this is your husband’s hand?” “One of his hands.” “One?” “His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual writing, and yet I know it well.” “ ’Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in patience. — NEVILLE.’ Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very much in error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And you have no doubt that it is your husband’s hand, madam?” “None. Neville wrote those words.” “And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is over.” “But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes.” “Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. The ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him.” “No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!” “Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only posted to-day.” “That is possible.” “If so, much may have happened between.” “Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I should know if evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him last he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty that something had happened. Do you think that I would respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant of his death?” “I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And in this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to corroborate your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write letters, why should he remain away from you?” “I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable.” “And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?” “No.” “And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?” “Very much so.” “Was the window open?” “Yes.” “Then he might have called to you?” “He might.” “He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?” “Yes.” “A call for help, you thought?” “Yes. He waved his hands.” “But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?” “It is possible.” “And you thought he was pulled back?” “He disappeared so suddenly.” “He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the room?” “No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the Lascar was at the foot of the stairs.” “Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary clothes on?” “But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat.” “Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?” “Never.” “Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?” “Never.” “Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about which I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day to-morrow.” A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days, and even for a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed it or convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon evident to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort of Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, with an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found the summer sun shining into the apartment. The pipe was still between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the room was full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag which I had seen upon the previous night. “Awake, Watson?” he asked. “Yes.” “Game for a morning drive?” “Certainly.” “Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out.” He chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the sombre thinker of the previous night. As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the horse. “I want to test a little theory of mine,” said he, pulling on his boots. “I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now.” “And where is it?” I asked, smiling. “In the bathroom,” he answered. “Oh, yes, I am not joking,” he continued, seeing my look of incredulity. “I have just been there, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag. Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock.” We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and away we dashed down the London Road. A few country carts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream. “It has been in some points a singular case,” said Holmes, flicking the horse on into a gallop. “I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.” In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side. Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force, and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the horse’s head while the other led us in. “Who is on duty?” asked Holmes. “Inspector Bradstreet, sir.” “Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?” A tall, stout official had come down the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. “I wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet.” “Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here.” It was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table, and a telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk. “What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?” “I called about that beggarman, Boone — the one who was charged with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee.” “Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries.” “So I heard. You have him here?” “In the cells.” “Is he quiet?” “Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel.” “Dirty?” “Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is as black as a tinker’s. Well, when once his case has been settled, he will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you would agree with me that he needed it.” “I should like to see him very much.” “Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your bag.” “No, I think that I’ll take it.” “Very good. Come this way, if you please.” He led us down a passage, opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side. “The third on the right is his,” said the inspector. “Here it is!” He quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced through. “He is asleep,” said he. “You can see him very well.” We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his face towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his calling, with a coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat. He was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad wheal from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and by its contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead. “He’s a beauty, isn’t he?” said the inspector. “He certainly needs a wash,” remarked Holmes. “I had an idea that he might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me.” He opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my astonishment, a very large bath-sponge. “He! he! You are a funny one,” chuckled the inspector. “Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure.” “Well, I don’t know why not,” said the inspector. “He doesn’t look a credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?” He slipped his key into the lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper half turned, and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it twice vigorously across and down the prisoner’s face. “Let me introduce you,” he shouted, “to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee, in the county of Kent.” Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man’s face peeled off under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse brown tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it across, and the twisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face! A twitch brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in his bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy bewilderment. Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a scream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow. “Great heavens!” cried the inspector, “it is, indeed, the missing man. I know him from the photograph.” The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons himself to his destiny. “Be it so,” said he. “And pray what am I charged with?” “With making away with Mr. Neville St. — Oh, come, you can’t be charged with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of it,” said the inspector with a grin. “Well, I have been twenty-seven years in the force, but this really takes the cake.” “If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained.” “No crime, but a very great error has been committed,” said Holmes. “You would have done better to have trusted your wife.” “It was not the wife; it was the children,” groaned the prisoner. “God help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My God! What an exposure! What can I do?” Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him kindly on the shoulder. “If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up,” said he, “of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you convince the police authorities that there is no possible case against you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details should find their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which you might tell us and submit it to the proper authorities. The case would then never go into court at all.” “God bless you!” cried the prisoner passionately. “I would have endured imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left my miserable secret as a family blot to my children. “You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent education. I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and finally became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis, and I volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which all my adventures started. It was only by trying begging as an amateur that I could get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an actor I had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had been famous in the green-room for my skill. I took advantage now of my attainments. I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as possible I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by the aid of a small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the business part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a beggar. For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home in the evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less than 26s. 4d. “I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until, some time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served upon me for £25. I was at my wit’s end where to get the money, but a sudden idea came to me. I begged a fortnight’s grace from the creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers, and spent the time in begging in the City under my disguise. In ten days I had the money and had paid the debt. “Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work at £2 a week when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground, and sitting still. It was a long fight between my pride and the money, but the dollars won at last, and I threw up reporting and sat day after day in the corner which I had first chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my pockets with coppers. Only one man knew my secret. He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to lodge in Swandam Lane, where I could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the evenings transform myself into a well-dressed man about town. This fellow, a Lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew that my secret was safe in his possession. “Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of money. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could earn £700 a year — which is less than my average takings — but I had exceptional advantages in my power of making up, and also in a facility of repartee, which improved by practice and made me quite a recognised character in the City. All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver, poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in which I failed to take £2. “As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country, and eventually married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my real occupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in the City. She little knew what. “Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw, to my horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street, with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the Lascar, entreated him to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and wig. Even a wife’s eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But then it occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and that the clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopening by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed, but at that moment there was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my relief, that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his murderer. “I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar at a moment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear.” “That note only reached her yesterday,” said Holmes. “Good God! What a week she must have spent!” “The police have watched this Lascar,” said Inspector Bradstreet, “and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his, who forgot all about it for some days.” “That was it,” said Holmes, nodding approvingly; “I have no doubt of it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?” “Many times; but what was a fine to me?” “It must stop here, however,” said Bradstreet. “If the police are to hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone.” “I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take.” “In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may be taken. But if you are found again, then all must come out. I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results.” “I reached this one,” said my friend, “by sitting upon five pillows and consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker Street we shall just be in time for breakfast.”

Le avventure di Sherlock Holmes – l’uomo dal labbro contorto

L’UOMO CON LE LABBRA STORTE
Isa Whitney, fratello del defunto Elias Whitney, preside del Collegio Teologico di St. George’s, era profondamente dipendente dall’oppio. Questa abitudine gli si era insinuata durante i suoi anni di università; avendo letto la descrizione dei sogni e delle sensazioni fornita da De Quincey, aveva iniziato a impregnare il tabacco con laudano al fine di provare gli stessi effetti. Come molti altri, scoprì che abbandonare questa pratica era molto più difficile che iniziarla, e per molti anni rimase schiavo della droga, oggetto di orrore e compassione da parte dei suoi amici e parenti. Ora riesco a immaginarlo: con il viso giallastro e pallido, le palpebre pendule e le pupille ridotte a puntini, seduto in una sedia, l’ombra di un uomo un tempo nobile. Una notte – era giugno del 1889 – qualcuno bussò alla mia porta, proprio all’ora in cui si ha il primo sbadiglio e si guarda l’orologio. Mi alzai dalla sedia e mia moglie posò il lavoro a maglia sulle ginocchia, con un’espressione di delusione.
“Un paziente! Dovrai andare,” disse.
Gemetti: avevo appena trascorso una giornata estenuante. Sentimmo la porta aprirsi, alcune parole affrettate, poi passi veloci sul linoleum. La nostra porta si spalancò e una signora, vestita di un abito scuro e con un velo nero, entrò nella stanza.
“Perdonatemi per essere venuta così tardi,” esordì, ma poi, perdendo il controllo, corse verso mia moglie, le gettò le braccia al collo e scoppiò in lacrime. “Oh, sono nei guai. Ho davvero bisogno di aiuto.”
“Ma, sei Kate Whitney!” esclamò mia moglie, sollevando il velo. “Mi hai spaventata! Non avevo idea che fossi tu, ”
“Non sapevo cosa fare, quindi sono venuta direttamente da te,” rispose lei. Come sempre. Le persone in difficoltà si rivolgevano a mia moglie come gli uccelli alla luce di un faro.
“È molto gentile da parte tua essere venuta. Ora devi bere qualcosa e raccontarci tutto con calma. Oppure preferisci che mandi James a letto?”
“No, no! Ho bisogno anche del parere e dell’aiuto del dottore. Si tratta di Isa. Non è tornato a casa da due giorni. Sono così preoccupata per lui, ”
Non era la prima volta che ci parlava dei problemi di suo marito: io come medico, mia moglie come vecchia amica e compagna di scuola. Cercammo di consolarla con le parole che riuscimmo a trovare. Sapeva dove si trovava suo marito? Era possibile riportarlo da lei? Sembra proprio che fosse così. Lei disponeva delle informazioni più certe: di recente, ogni volta che gli prendeva quella crisi, lui si recava in una casa da oppio situata nella parte più orientale della città. Fino ad allora, le sue follie duravano sempre un solo giorno e lui tornava a casa la sera, tremante e distrutto. Ma questa volta la crisi era durata ottantaquattro ore; probabilmente giaceva lì, tra i rifiuti dei moli, inalando quel veleno o dormendo per superare gli effetti della droga. Lei ne era certa: lo avrebbe trovato al “Bar of Gold”, in Upper Swandam Lane. Ma cosa poteva fare? Come avrebbe potuto, lei una giovane donna timida, entrare in un posto del genere e salvare suo marito dai teppisti che lo circondavano? C’era quel caso, e naturalmente c’era solo un modo per uscirne. Non potrei accompagnarla in questo posto? E poi, riflettendoci meglio, perché dovrebbe venire affatto? Ero il consigliere medico di Isa Whitney, e quindi avevo influenza su di lui. Avrei potuto gestire la situazione meglio da sola. Le promisi solennemente che lo avrei riportato a casa in taxi entro due ore, se davvero si trovava all’indirizzo che mi aveva dato. E così, dieci minuti dopo, lasciai il mio divano e il mio salotto allegramente arredato, e partii verso est su una vettura a noleggio, per un compito strano, almeno così sembrava in quel momento; solo il futuro avrebbe potuto rivelare quanto fosse davvero insolito. Ma non ci furono grandi difficoltà nella prima fase della mia avventura. Upper Swandam Lane è un misero vicolo nascosto dietro i lunghi moli che si estendono lungo il lato nord del fiume, a est del London Bridge. Tra un negozio di roba usata e una taverna, raggiungibile attraverso una ripida scala che conduceva in un buco nero simile all’ingresso di una grotta, trovai il rifugio che cercavo. Dopo aver fatto aspettare la mia carrozza, scesi quei gradini, consumati nel mezzo dal continuo passaggio di piedi ubriachi; e alla luce di una lampada a olio tremolante sopra la porta, trovai il chiavistello ed entrai in una stanza lunga e bassa, densamente avvolta dal fumo marrone dell’oppio, con letti di legno disposti uno sopra l’altro, come nella parte anteriore di una nave per emigranti. Nella penombra si potevano intravedere vagamente corpi distesi in pose strane e fantastiche: spalle curve, ginocchia piegate, teste gettate all’indietro, menti rivolte verso l’alto; qua e là, occhi scuri e spenti fissavano il nuovo arrivato. Dalle ombre nere brillavano piccoli cerchi rossi di luce, ora intensi, ora deboli, a seconda che il veleno ardente aumentasse o diminuisse nelle ciotole dei tubi metallici. La maggior parte rimaneva in silenzio; alcuni mormoravano tra sé, altri conversavano a bassa voce, in modo monotono e strano; i loro discorsi iniziavano all’improvviso per poi interrompersi bruscamente nel silenzio, ognuno assorto nei propri pensieri e senza prestare attenzione alle parole del vicino. All’estremità della stanza c’era un piccolo braciere con carbone ardente; accanto ad esso, su uno sgabello di legno a tre gambe, sedeva un vecchio alto e magro: aveva il mento appoggiato sulle due pugni e i gomiti sulle ginocchia, fissando il fuoco. Appena entrai, un attendente malese dall’aspetto pallido mi venne incontro di corsa con una pipa e della droga, invitandomi in una cuccetta vuota.
“Grazie,” dissi. “Non sono qui per restare. C’è un mio amico qui, il signor Isa Whitney, e vorrei parlare con lui.”
A destra di me ci fu un movimento e un’esclamazione; guardando nella semioscurità, vidi Whitney: pallido, emaciato, trasandato, che mi fissava.
“Mio Dio! È Watson,” disse. Era in uno stato pietoso, tutti i suoi nervi erano tesi al massimo. “Watson, che ora è?”
“Quasi le undici.”
“Di quale giorno?”
“Di venerdì 19 giugno.”
“Mio Dio! Pensavo fosse mercoledì. Ma va bene, Watson. Perché spaventarmi così?” Si nascose il viso tra le mani e iniziò a singhiozzare.
“Te lo dico io: è venerdì. Tua moglie ti aspetta da due giorni. Dovresti vergognartene!”
“Lo so. Ma devi esserti sbagliato, Watson. Sono qui solo da poche ore, ” Gli presi la mano e gli dissi che avevo una carrozza ad aspettare. Lui accettò subito di andarci con me.
Mentre camminavamo lungo il corridoio stretto tra le cuccette, cercavo il direttore dell’albergo per chiedere informazioni su Whitney. Mentre passavo accanto all’uomo alto seduto vicino al braciere, qualcuno mi tirò la gonna e sussurrò: “Passa davanti a me e poi guarda indietro.” Le parole risuonarono chiaramente nelle mie orecchie. Guardai giù. Quella voce poteva provenire solo dall’uomo accanto a me. Ma lui sembrava assorto come sempre, magro, rugoso, curvo per l’età. Una pipa da oppio gli pendeva tra le ginocchia. Avanzai di due passi e guardai indietro. Fu necessario tutto il mio autocontrollo per non gridare di sorpresa: era Sherlock Holmes! Mi fece segno di avvicinarmi. E in un attimo, mentre tornava a rivolgersi agli altri ospiti, ricadde nella sua solita condizione di vecchiaia tremante e balbettante.
“Holmes!” sussurrai. “Che cosa ci fai in questo posto?”
“Devo restare il più possibile nell’ombra. Ho un udito eccellente. Se potessi far sparire quel tuo stupido amico, sarei molto felice di parlarti, ”
“C’è una carrozza ad aspettarmi fuori.” “Allora pregate di farlo tornare a casa con quella. Potete fidarvi ciecamente di lui: sembra troppo debole per combinare qualche guaio. Vi consiglierei anche di far consegnare una nota tramite il cocchiere a vostra moglie, dicendole che vi siete unito a me. Se aspettate fuori, sarò da voi in cinque minuti.”
Era difficile rifiutare qualsiasi richiesta di Sherlock Holmes, poiché erano sempre estremamente precise e formulate con un tono tranquillo e autoritario. Tuttavia, sentivo che una volta Whitney chiuso nella vettura la mia missione fosse praticamente compiuta; inoltre, non avrei potuto desiderare nulla di meglio che partecipare insieme al mio amico a uno di quegli straordinari avventuri che costituivano la norma della sua esistenza. In pochi minuti scrissi la nota, pagai il conto di Whitney, lo accompagnai alla vettura e lo vidi allontanarsi nella notte. Poco dopo, una figura anziana emerse dal bordello d’oppio, e io mi incamminai per strada insieme a Sherlock Holmes. Per due isolati camminò curvo in avanti, con passi incerti; poi, guardandosi intorno rapidamente, si raddrizzò e scoppiò in una risata sonora. “Suppongo, Watson,” disse lui, “che tu pensi che io abbia aggiunto il fumo d’oppio alle iniezioni di cocaina, insieme a tutte le altre piccole debolezze di cui mi hai fatto conoscere attraverso le tue opinioni mediche, ”
“Sono certamente rimasto sorpreso di trovarti lì, ”
“Ma non più di quanto lo sia stato io nel trovarvi, ”
“Sono venuto a cercare un amico, ”
“E io, un nemico, ”
“Un nemico?”
“Sì, uno dei miei naturali nemici, o meglio, una delle mie naturali prede. In breve, Watson, sono immerso in un’indagine molto importante, e speravo di trovare qualche indizio nelle parole incoerenti di questi individui disperati, proprio come avevo fatto in precedenza. Se fossi stato riconosciuto in quel luogo, la mia vita non sarebbe valsa nemmeno un’ora; infatti l’ho già utilizzato per i miei scopi in passato, e quel furfante di Lascar che lo gestisce ha giurato di vendicarsi su di me. C’è una botola sul retro di quell’edificio, vicino all’angolo di Paul’s Wharf. Quella botola potrebbe raccontare storie molto strane su ciò che vi è passato nelle notti senza luna, ”
“Cosa! Non intendi dire corpi umani, ” “Ah, corpi. Watson. Saremmo ricchi se avessimo 1000 sterline per ogni povero diavolo che è stato ucciso in quella tana. È la trappola per omicidi più spregevole lungo tutto il fiume. Temo che Neville St. Clair ci sia entrato e non ne uscirà mai più. Ma la nostra trappola dovrebbe essere qui.” Infilò due dita tra i denti e fischiò acutamente; un fischio simile risuonò in lontananza, seguito poco dopo dal rumore delle ruote e dal tintinnio degli zoccoli dei cavalli.
“Ora, Watson,” disse Holmes mentre una carrozza a cavallo si avvicinava nella semioscurità, emettendo due fasci di luce gialla dalle lanterne laterali. “Verrai con me, vero?”
“Se posso esserti d’aiuto, ”
“Oh, un compagno fedele è sempre utile, e uno che si occupa di documentare gli eventi ancora di più. La mia stanza all’Albergo The Cedars è dotata di un letto matrimoniale.”
“The Cedars?” “Sì; quella è la casa del signor St. Clair. Sto lì mentre conduco le indagini.”
“Dove si trova esattamente?”
“Vicino a Lee, nel Kent. Dobbiamo percorrere sette miglia in macchina.”
“Ma io non so assolutamente nulla, ”
“Certo che no. Lo scoprirai presto. Salta qui sopra. Bene, John; non avremo bisogno di te. Ecco mezza corona. Tieni d’occhio la situazione domani, verso le undici. Addio!”
Schiaffeggiò il cavallo con la frusta e partimmo a tutta velocità attraverso una serie interminabile di strade oscure e deserte; gradualmente, queste strade si allargarono fino a quando non attraversammo un ampio ponte, con il fiume torbido che scorreva lentamente sotto di noi. Davanti a noi si estendeva un’altra monotona distesa di edifici in mattoni; il silenzio veniva interrotto soltanto dal passo pesante e regolare del poliziotto, o dai canti e dalle grida di qualche gruppo di festaioli ritardatari. Un pezzo di carta straccia galleggiava lentamente nel cielo; una o due stelle brillavano debolmente tra le fessure delle nuvole. Holmes guidò in silenzio, con la testa china sul petto, come se fosse immerso nei suoi pensieri; io sedevo accanto a lui, curioso di scoprire quale nuova indagine lo stesse impegnando così tanto, ma timoroso di interrompere il corso dei suoi pensieri. Dopo aver percorso diverse miglia, iniziammo ad avvicinarci ai sobborghi; allora si scosse, alzò le spalle e accese la pipa, con l’aria di chi fosse certo di agire nel modo migliore possibile.
“Hai davvero un dono straordinario per il silenzio, Watson. È proprio questo che ti rende così prezioso come compagno di viaggio. ‘Devo ammetterlo: è davvero una fortuna avere qualcuno con cui parlare. I miei pensieri, infatti, non sono affatto piacevoli. Stavo cercando di capire cosa dire a quella cara signora stasera, quando mi incontrerà alla porta.’”
“Ma tu dimentichi che io non so nulla, ”
“Avrò il tempo di raccontarti tutti i dettagli della situazione prima di arrivare a Lee. Sembra incredibilmente semplice. Eppure non riesco proprio a capire dove possa nascondersi la verità. C’è sicuramente molto da scoprire. Ma non riesco ancora a individuare il filo conduttore. Ora ti spiegherò tutto chiaramente, Watson. Forse tu riuscirai a vedere qualcosa che a me sfugge, ”
“Procedi pure.” “Alcuni anni fa – per essere precisi, nel maggio 1884 – arrivò da Lee un signore di nome Neville St. Clair, che sembrava avere parecchi soldi. Si comprò una grande villa, curò con grande impegno il giardino circostante e visse in modo piuttosto agiato. Gradualmente fece amicizia con le persone del quartiere e nel 1887 sposò la figlia di un birraio locale; da questo matrimonio hanno ora due bambini. Non aveva una professione specifica, ma era interessato a diverse società commerciali e di solito andava in città al mattino, tornando ogni sera alle 5:14 da Cannon Street. Il signor St. Clair ha ora trentasette anni; è un uomo con abitudini moderate, un buon marito, un padre molto affettuoso e molto apprezzato da tutti coloro che lo conoscono. Posso aggiungere che, per quanto ne sappiamo, i suoi debiti attuali ammontano a 88 sterline e 10 scellini, mentre possiede 220 sterline in conto presso la Capital and Counties Bank. Pertanto, non c’è motivo di ritenere che abbia problemi finanziari. “Lunedì scorso il signor Neville St. Clair andò in città un po’ prima del solito, dicendo prima di partire che aveva due commissioni importanti da svolgere e che avrebbe portato a casa loro il suo bambino con una scatola di mattoni. Proprio quel lunedì, poco dopo la sua partenza, sua moglie ricevette un telegramma che le comunicava che un pacco di notevole valore che stava aspettando era arrivato presso gli uffici della Aberdeen Shipping Company. Se conoscete bene Londra, saprete che gli uffici di questa compagnia si trovano in Fresno Street, una via che si dirama da Upper Swandam Lane, dove mi avete trovato stasera. La signora St. Clair pranzò, poi andò in città, fece qualche acquisto e si recò negli uffici della compagnia; lì ritirò il suo pacco e alle 4:35 precise si trovava a camminare lungo Swandam Lane sulla strada del ritorno alla stazione. Mi avete seguito fin qui?” “Certo.” “Se ricordate, lunedì era una giornata estremamente calda; la signora St. Clair camminava lentamente, guardandosi intorno nella speranza di trovare un taxi, poiché non le piaceva il quartiere in cui si trovava. Mentre camminava lungo Swandam Lane, all’improvviso sentì un grido o un’esclamazione e rimase sbalordita nel vedere suo marito che la guardava dal secondo piano di una finestra e sembrava chiamarla. La finestra era aperta e lei vide chiaramente il suo viso, che le parve estremamente agitato. Lui le fece segno freneticamente con le mani, poi scomparve dalla finestra così rapidamente che le sembrò come se fosse stato trascinato indietro da qualche forza irresistibile. Un particolare che attirò l’attenzione della signora St. Clair fu che, nonostante indossasse il solito cappotto scuro con cui era partito, non aveva né colletto né cravatta.” “Convinta che qualcosa non andasse in lui, corse giù per le scale, quella casa non era altro che il luogo dove mi avete trovato stasera. Correndo attraverso l’ingresso, cercò di salire le scale che conducevano al primo piano. Ma in fondo alle scale incontrò quel furfante del Lascar di cui ho parlato: lui la spintonò indietro e, con l’aiuto di un danese che lavorava lì come assistente, la costrinse a uscire in strada. Invasa da dubbi e paura, corse lungo il vicolo. E per fortuna, in Fresno Street incontrò alcuni poliziotti insieme all’ispettore, che stavano proprio andando nel loro distretto. L’ispettore e due agenti la accompagnarono indietro. Nonostante le continue resistenze del proprietario della casa, riuscirono a raggiungere la stanza dove il signor St. Clair era stato visto l’ultima volta. Ma di lui non c’era traccia. In tutto quel piano non si trovava nessuno, tranne un essere deforme e orribile che sembrava abitare lì. Sia lui che il Lascar giurarono con fermezza che nessun altro fosse stato nell’ingresso quel pomeriggio. La loro negazione era così convincente che l’ispettore iniziò a dubitare. Ma poi, con un grido, lei si gettò su una piccola scatola posata sul tavolo e ne strappò il coperchio. Ne uscirono a cascata dei mattoncini per bambini. Era il giocattolo che lui aveva promesso di portare a casa. Questa scoperta, insieme all’evidente confusione mostrata da quell’essere deforme, fece capire all’ispettore che la situazione era grave. Le stanze furono esaminate attentamente. E tutti i indizi puntavano verso un crimine orribile. L’ingresso era arredato come un salotto e conduceva a una piccola camera da letto che dava sul retro di uno dei moli. Tra il molo e la finestra della camera c’era una stretta striscia di terra. Asciutta durante la bassa marea, ma coperta da almeno quattro piedi e mezzo d’acqua durante l’alta marea. La finestra era larga e si apriva dall’interno. Sulle sue sponde furono trovate tracce di sangue. E diverse gocce sparse sul pavimento di legno. Dietro una tenda nell’ingresso erano nascosti tutti i vestiti del signor Neville St. Clair, tranne il suo cappotto. I suoi stivali, le sue calze, il suo cappello, e il suo orologio. Non c’erano segni di violenza su quegli indumenti. E nessuna altra traccia del signor Neville St. Clair. Doveva essere uscito dalla finestra. Non esisteva alcun’altra via d’uscita. E quelle macchie di sangue sugli stipiti non lasciavano speranze che fosse riuscito a salvarsi nuotando. La marea era al suo livello più alto nel momento del tragico evento, ” “E ora veniamo ai malviventi che sembravano essere immediatamente coinvolti in questa faccenda. Il Lascar era noto per essere un uomo di loschi precedenti, ma poiché, secondo quanto raccontato dalla signora St. Clair, si trovava alle scale pochi secondi dopo l’apparizione di suo marito alla finestra, è improbabile che potesse essere altro che un complice del crimine. La sua difesa si basava sull’assoluta ignoranza degli eventi; protestava di non sapere nulla riguardo alle attività di Hugh Boone, il suo inquilino, e di non riuscire in alcun modo a spiegare la presenza dei vestiti del gentiluomo scomparso.
“Ora veniamo al sinistro individuo che vive al secondo piano di quella casa dove si vende l’oppio. Lui è sicuramente l’ultima persona che ha visto Neville St. Clair. Si chiama Hugh Boone; il suo volto orribile è noto a tutti coloro che frequentano spesso il quartiere dei mercati. È un mendicante professionista, ma per evitare le normative della polizia finge di svolgere una piccola attività commerciale con delle vestaglie di cera. Più avanti in Threadneedle Street, sul lato sinistro, c’è un angolo del muro. Lì si siede ogni giorno questo individuo, con le gambe incrociate e una scatola di fiammiferi in grembo; poiché è uno spettacolo davvero penoso, la gente gli lancia qualche moneta nella sua berretta di cuoio unta. L’ho osservato più volte prima ancora di decidere di avvicinarmi a lui. E sono rimasto sorpreso dal fatto che abbia raccolto così tante offerte in così poco tempo. Il suo aspetto, infatti, è così straordinario che nessuno può passargli accanto senza notarlo: capelli arancioni, un viso pallido deturpato da una terribile cicatrice che ha sollevato il bordo superiore delle sue labbra, un mento robusto come quello di un bulldog. E occhi scuri e penetranti, in netto contrasto con il colore dei suoi capelli. Inoltre, è molto astuto: è sempre pronto a rispondere prontamente a qualsiasi battuta gli venga rivolta dai passanti. Quest’uomo, dunque, era l’inquilino di quella casa. E l’ultima persona ad aver visto il gentiluomo che stiamo cercando.”
“Ma è un paralitico!” dissi. “Come avrebbe potuto agire da solo contro un uomo nel fiore degli anni?”
“È paralitico, sì, ma in altri aspetti sembra essere un uomo forte e ben nutrito. La vostra esperienza medica vi dirà certamente che una debolezza in un arto può spesso essere compensata da una forza eccezionale negli altri.”
“Proseguite, per favore.” “La signora St. Clair era svenuta alla vista del sangue sulla finestra, e fu accompagnata a casa in taxi dalla polizia, poiché la sua presenza non poteva essere di alcun aiuto nelle indagini. L’ispettore Barton, incaricato del caso, esaminò con molta attenzione l’edificio, ma senza trovare nulla che potesse gettare luce sulla situazione. Era stato commesso un errore: Boone non era stato arrestato immediatamente, e gli erano stati concessi alcuni minuti durante i quali avrebbe potuto comunicare con il suo amico Lascar; tuttavia questo errore fu presto corretto, e Boone fu arrestato e perquisito, ma non fu trovato nulla che lo incriminasse. Certo, c’erano alcune macchie di sangue sul suo gomito destro, ma lui indicò il proprio dito anulare, ferito vicino alla unghia, spiegando che il sangue proveniva da lì; aggiunse inoltre di essere stato vicino alla finestra poco prima e che le macchie osservate lì provenivano senza dubbio dalla stessa fonte. Negò con forza di aver mai visto il signor Neville St. Clair e giurò che la presenza di quei vestiti nella sua stanza era altrettanto misteriosa per lui quanto per la polizia. Per quanto riguarda l’affermazione della signora St. Clair di aver effettivamente visto suo marito alla finestra, dichiarò che doveva essere stata pazza o stava sognando. Fu portato via, protestando ad alta voce, alla stazione di polizia, mentre l’ispettore rimase sul posto nella speranza che l’abbassarsi della marea potesse fornire qualche nuovo indizio. E infatti così fu: trovarono il cappotto di Neville St. Clair sulla riva fangosa, ma non lui stesso; nelle tasche del cappotto c’erano 421 penny e 270 mezzi penny. Non c’è da meravigliarsi che il cappotto non fosse stato portato via dalla marea. Ma un corpo umano è un’altra cosa. C’è una corrente forte tra il molo e la casa. È molto probabile che il cappotto, essendo pesante, sia rimasto lì mentre il corpo veniva trascinato via dal fiume, ” “Il signore ha ragione, ma i fatti potrebbero essere interpretati in modo ingannevole. Supponiamo che quest’uomo, Boone, abbia spinto Neville St. Clair fuori dalla finestra: non esiste occhio umano in grado di aver visto quell’atto. Cosa avrebbe fatto allora? Gli sarebbe subito venuto in mente di liberarsi di quegli indumenti che potevano tradirlo. Avrebbe afferrato il cappotto e, mentre stava per gettarlo via, si sarebbe reso conto che galleggiava sull’acqua e non affondava. Non aveva molto tempo: aveva sentito i rumori al piano di sotto, quando la moglie di Neville aveva cercato di salire. Forse aveva già ricevuto notizie dal suo complice che la polizia stava arrivando. Non c’era un attimo da perdere. Si sarebbe recato in qualche nascondiglio segreto, dove aveva accumulato i frutti della sua mendicità, e avrebbe messo tutte le monete che gli erano riuscite a portare con sé nelle tasche del cappotto, per assicurarsi che affondasse. Poi lo avrebbe gettato via. E avrebbe fatto lo stesso con gli altri indumenti, se non fosse stato per quei passi al piano di sotto. Appena in tempo aveva chiuso la finestra, quando la polizia era arrivata.”
“Sembra davvero plausibile, ”
“Bene, consideriamola un’ipotesi lavorativa, finché non ne avremo una migliore. Come vi ho detto, Boone è stato arrestato e portato alla stazione di polizia, ma non è stato possibile dimostrare che in precedenza ci fossero accuse contro di lui. Era conosciuto da anni come un mendicante professionista. Ma la sua vita sembrava davvero tranquilla e innocente. Ecco dove si trova la situazione attuale. Le domande che dobbiamo risolvere – cosa faceva Neville St. Clair in quella casa di opium, cosa gli è successo lì, dove si trova ora, e quale ruolo ha avuto Hugh Boone nella sua scomparsa – sono tutte ancora senza risposta. Devo ammettere che non ricordo nessun caso nella mia esperienza che, a prima vista, sembrasse così semplice e invece presentasse tante difficoltà, ”
Mentre Sherlock Holmes raccontava questi eventi, noi ci eravamo allontanati dai margini della grande città; ormai avevamo lasciato alle nostre spalle gli ultimi edifici. Proprio mentre finiva di parlare, attraversammo due piccoli villaggi, dove alcune luci ancora brillavano nelle finestre.
“Siamo ai confini di Lee,” disse il mio compagno. “Nel nostro breve viaggio abbiamo attraversato tre contee inglesi: Middlesex, Surrey e Kent. Vedete quella luce tra gli alberi? Quella è The Cedars. E accanto a quella lampada c’è una donna la cui attenzione, ne sono sicuro, ha già notato il rumore dei nostri cavalli, ”
“Ma perché non conducete le indagini da Baker Street?” chiesi.
“Perché ci sono molte informazioni che devo raccogliere qui. La signora St. Clair mi ha gentilmente messo a disposizione due stanze. E potete stare certi che il mio amico e collega saranno ben accetti da lei. Detesto incontrarla quando non ho notizie di suo marito. Ecco, siamo arrivati.” Eravamo arrivati davanti a una grande villa situata all’interno di un proprio terreno recintato. Un ragazzo di stalla era corso verso il cavallo; dopo essere sceso da esso, seguii Holmes lungo il piccolo sentiero di ghiaia che conduceva alla casa. Mentre ci avvicinavamo, la porta si aprì di scatto e una giovane donna bionda apparve sulla soglia, vestita con un abito leggero di seta bianca, con alcuni dettagli in chiffon rosa sul collo e sui polsi. La sua figura si stagliava contro la luce intensa; teneva una mano sulla porta e l’altra sollevata per l’ansia, il corpo leggermente curvo, la testa e il viso protesi in avanti, con occhi pieni di attesa e le labbra socchiuse, come se stesse ponendo una domanda.
“Ebbene?” esclamò. “Ebbene?” Poi, vedendo che eravamo in due, emise un grido di speranza che si trasformò in un gemito quando vide che il mio compagno scosse la testa e alzò le spalle.
“Nessuna buona notizia?”
“Nessuna.”
“Nessuna cattiva?”
“Nessuna.”
“Grazie a Dio. Ma entrate, per favore. Devete essere stanchi, dopo una lunga giornata.”
“Questo è il mio amico, il dottor Watson. È stato di grande aiuto in diversi casi miei, e per fortuna ho potuto portarlo con me in questa indagine.”
“Sono molto felice di conoscervi,” disse lei stringendomi calorosamente la mano. “Spero che mi perdonerete eventuali imperfezioni nelle nostre preparazioni, considerando il colpo improvviso che abbiamo subito.”
“Mia cara signora,” risposi, “sono un uomo abituato alle avversità. E se non lo fossi, capirei benissimo che nessuna scusa è necessaria. Se posso essere d’aiuto a voi o al mio amico, ne sarò davvero felice.”
“Ora, signor Sherlock Holmes,” disse la donna mentre entravamo in una sala da pranzo ben illuminata, dove era già stato preparato un pasto freddo, “vorrei porvi una o due domande semplici. E vi prego di rispondere sinceramente.”
“Certamente, signora.”
“Non badate ai miei sentimenti. Non sono isterica né incline a svenire. Voglio solo conoscere la vostra opinione sincera.”
“Su quale punto?”
“Nel profondo del vostro cuore, credete che Neville sia ancora vivo?”
Sherlock Holmes sembrò imbarazzato dalla domanda. “Francamente, ” ripeté lei, alzandosi in piedi e guardandolo attentamente mentre lui si appoggiava allo schienale della sedia.
“Francamente, no.”
“Pensate che sia morto?”
“Sì.”
“Ucciso?”
“Non lo dico. Forse.”
“E in quale giorno è morto?”
“Lunedì.”
“Allora forse, signor Holmes, potrete spiegarmi come mai oggi ho ricevuto una sua lettera, ”
Sherlock Holmes balzò in piedi, come se fosse stato colpito da un fulmine.
“Cosa!” esclamò.
“Sì. Oggi stesso.” Lei sorrise, tenendo in alto un piccolo foglietto di carta.
“Posso vederlo?”
“Certamente.” Glielo strappò di mano con impazienza, lo stese sul tavolo vicino alla lampada e lo esaminò attentamente. Io mi ero alzata dalla sedia e lo guardavo da sopra la sua spalla. L’indirizzo era scritto su un foglio molto ruvido, timbrato con il marchio postale di Gravesend e con la data proprio di quel giorno, o meglio del giorno prima, poiché l’invio era avvenuto molto dopo mezzanotte.
“Scrittura grossolana,” mormorò Holmes. “Di certo non è la calligrafia di vostro marito, signora.”
“No, ma il contenuto sì.”
“Noto anche che chi ha scritto l’indirizzo deve essersi informato prima su dove trovarlo.”
“Come lo capite?”
“Il nome è scritto in inchiostro nero intenso, ormai asciutto; il resto del testo è di colore grigiastro, il che indica che è stato usato carta assorbente. Se fosse stato scritto tutto d’un fiato e poi cancellato, l’inchiostro non sarebbe risultato così scuro. Questa persona ha prima scritto il nome e poi ha fatto una pausa prima di scrivere l’indirizzo, il che significa sicuramente che non lo conosceva bene. È certo una cosa insignificante, ma non esistono cose insignificanti quando si tratta di indizi importanti. Ora vediamo la lettera. Ah! C’è qualcosa qui dentro!”
“Sì, c’era un anello: il suo anello con sigillo.” “E siate sicura che questa sia la mano di vostro marito?”
“Una delle sue mani.”
“Una sola?”
“La sua mano quando scriveva in fretta. È molto diversa dal suo solito stile di scrittura, eppure la riconosco bene.”
“‘Carissima, non avere paura. Tutto andrà bene. C’è un grosso errore che potrebbe richiedere del tempo per essere corretto. Aspetta con pazienza. — NEVILLE.’ Scritto a matita sulla pagina di guardia di un libro, formato ottavo, senza segni lasciati dall’umidità. Hmm! Inviato oggi a Gravesend da un uomo con il pollice sporco. Ah! E la copertina del libro è stata incollata, se non mi sbaglio, da qualcuno che aveva masticato tabacco. E non avete dubbi che si tratti della mano di vostro marito, signora?”
“Nessun dubbio. Sono state scritte da Neville.”
“E sono state inviate oggi a Gravesend. Bene, signora St. Clair, le nuvole si diradano, anche se non oserei dire che il pericolo sia passato.”
“Ma deve essere vivo, signor Holmes, ”
“A meno che questa non sia una falsificazione abile, destinata a farci prendere una strada sbagliata. Quell’anello, dopotutto, non prova nulla; potrebbe essere stato preso a lui, ”
“No, no. È davvero la sua calligrafia!”
“Molto bene. Tuttavia, potrebbe essere stata scritta lunedì e inviata solo oggi, ”
“È possibile, ”
“In tal caso, molte cose possono essere accadute nel frattempo, ” “Oh, non deve scoraggiarmi, signor Holmes. So che stia bene. C’è un legame così profondo tra noi che io dovrei percepire immediatamente se gli fosse accaduto qualcosa di male. Lo stesso giorno in cui l’ho visto l’ultima volta si è tagliato in camera da letto, eppure io, che ero in sala da pranzo, sono corsa subito al piano di sopra con la certezza assoluta che fosse successo qualcosa. Crede davvero che reagirei a una cosa del genere senza sapere nulla della sua morte?” “Ho visto troppo per non sapere che l’impressione lasciata da una donna può essere più preziosa della conclusione raggiunta da un ragionatore analitico. E in questa lettera sicuramente possedete una prova molto convincente a sostegno della vostra opinione. Ma se vostro marito è vivo e in grado di scrivere, perché dovrebbe rimanere lontano da voi?”
“Non riesco nemmeno a immaginarlo. È impossibile.”
“E lunedì, prima di lasciarvi, non ha detto nulla?”
“No.”
“E siete stata sorpresa di vederlo in Swandam Lane?”
“Molto sorpresa.”
“La finestra era aperta?”
“Sì.”
“Allora avrebbe potuto chiamarvi, ”
“Forse, ”
“Secondo quanto ho capito, ha emesso solo un grido inarticolato, ”
“Sì.”
“Un grido d’aiuto, pensate voi?”
“Sì. Ha agitato le mani.”
“Ma potrebbe essere stato anche un grido di sorpresa. L’esservi vista all’improvviso potrebbe averlo spinto a alzare le mani, ”
“È possibile, ”
“E pensate che sia stato tirato indietro?”
“È scomparso così all’improvviso, ”
“Potrebbe essere saltato indietro. Non avete visto nessun altro nella stanza, vero?”
“No. Ma quell’uomo orribile ha ammesso di esserci stato, e il Lascar si trovava ai piedi delle scale, ”
“Esatto. Vostro marito, per quanto poteste vedere, indossava i suoi abiti normali, ”
“Ma senza colletto né cravatta. Ho visto chiaramente la sua gola nuda, ”
“Aveva mai parlato di Swandam Lane?”
“Mai.”
“Aveva mai mostrato segni di aver assunto oppio?”
“Mai.”
“Grazie, signora St. Clair. Questi sono i punti principali su cui volevo essere assolutamente chiaro. Ora mangeremo qualcosa e andremo a dormire. Domani potrebbe esserci una giornata molto impegnativa, ” Ci fu messa a disposizione una grande e comoda camera da letto con due letti; io mi coricai subito, stanco dopo quella notte di avventure. Sherlock Holmes, però, quando aveva un problema irrisolto in mente, poteva passare giorni, persino settimane, senza riposare, analizzandolo continuamente, riorganizzando i fatti e considerandoli da ogni angolazione, fino a quando non riusciva a comprenderlo o si convinceva che le informazioni a sua disposizione fossero insufficienti. Fu subito evidente che stavolta intendeva passare l’intera notte a lavorarci sopra. Si tolse cappotto e gilet, indossò una grande vestaglia blu e iniziò a raccogliere cuscini dal letto e dalla poltrona per creare una sorta di divano orientale su cui si sedette a gambe incrociate, davanti a sé aveva un po’ di tabacco da fiuto e una scatola di fiammiferi. Alla luce tenue della lampada, lo vidi seduto lì, con la vecchia pipa tra le labbra, gli occhi fissi nel vuoto sul angolo del soffitto; il fumo blu si alzava lentamente intorno a lui. Silenzioso, immobile, mentre la luce illuminava i suoi tratti forti e aquilini. Rimase così seduto mentre mi addormentavo, e così rimase quando improvvisamente mi svegliai per via di un rumore: il sole estivo splendeva già nell’appartamento. La pipa era ancora tra le sue labbra, il fumo continuava a salire. Ma della pila di tabacco che avevo visto la sera prima non c’era più traccia.
“Svegliati, Watson,” disse.
“Sì.”
“Andiamo a fare una gita mattutina?”
“Certo.”
“Allora vestiti. Nessuno si è ancora alzato, ma so dove dorme il ragazzo delle stalle; tra poco avremo la carrozza pronta.” Ridacchiò tra sé mentre parlava, i suoi occhi brillavano. Sembrava un uomo completamente diverso rispetto al pensatore cupo di quella sera.
Mentre mi vestivo, guardai l’orologio: non c’era da meravigliarsi che nessuno si fosse ancora alzato. Erano già le quattro e venticinque. Appena finito, Holmes tornò dicendo che il ragazzo stava preparando il cavallo.
“Voglio verificare una mia teoria,” disse infilando gli stivali. “Credo, Watson, che tu ti trovi di fronte a uno degli idioti più assoluti d’Europa. Merito davvero di essere cacciato da qui fino a Charing Cross. Ma credo di aver finalmente trovato la soluzione.”
“E dove si trova?” chiesi sorridendo.
“In bagno,” rispose. “Oh, no, non scherzo, ” aggiunse vedendo la mia espressione incredula. “Sono appena stato lì. L’ho presa e l’ho messa in questa borsa di Gladstone. Vieni, andiamo a vedere se si adatta alla serratura.” Scendemmo le scale il più silenziosamente possibile e uscimmo sotto la luminosa luce del mattino. In strada c’era il nostro cavallo con la carrozza; il ragazzo di stalla, seminudo, ci aspettava davanti. Entrammo entrambi e partimmo a tutta velocità lungo la London Road. Alcune carri agricole si stavano muovendo, portando verdure in città, ma le file di ville su entrambi i lati erano silenziose e deserte, come se fossero in un sogno.
“È stato davvero un caso insolito,” disse Holmes, spronando il cavallo ad accelerare. “Confesso di essere stato completamente all’oscuro, ma è meglio imparare la saggezza tardi che non impararla affatto.”
In città, i primi svegli stavano appena iniziando a guardare fuori dalle finestre quando attraversammo le strade del quartiere di Surrey. Proseguendo lungo la Waterloo Bridge Road attraversammo il fiume e, svoltando bruscamente a destra su Wellington Street, ci trovammo in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes era ben conosciuto dalle autorità locali; i due poliziotti all’ingresso lo salutarono. Uno tenne fermo il cavallo mentre l’altro ci fece entrare.
“Chi è di servizio?” chiese Holmes.
“L’ispettore Bradstreet, signore.”
“Ah, Bradstreet, come va?” Un ufficiale alto e robusto ci venne incontro lungo il corridoio lastricato di pietra, indossando un cappello a punta e una giacca con le maniche a sbuffi. “Vorrei parlarti in privato, Bradstreet.”
“Certamente, signor Holmes. Venga nel mio ufficio.” Era una stanza piccola, simile a un ufficio, con un grande registro sul tavolo e un telefono appeso al muro. L’ispettore si sedette alla sua scrivania.
“In cosa posso esservi utile, signor Holmes?”
“Volevo parlare di quel mendicante, Boone, quello accusato di essere coinvolto nella scomparsa di Mr. Neville St. Clair.”
“Sì. È stato portato qui e trattenuto per ulteriori indagini.”
“L’ho sentito. È ancora qui?”
“Nelle celle.”
“È tranquillo?”
“Oh, non dà problemi, ma è davvero un individuo spregevole.”
“Spregevole?”
“Sì, facciamo del nostro meglio per farlo lavare le mani; il suo viso è nero come quello di uno stivaleio. Una volta risolto il suo caso, gli faranno fare un bagno in prigione. E credo che, se lo vedeste, sareste d’accordo con me.”
“Mi piacerebbe molto vederlo.”
“Davvero? Non è difficile. Venite qui. Potete lasciare la borsa.”
“No, preferisco tenerla con me.”
“Molto bene. Vi prego, seguitemi.” Ci guidò lungo un corridoio, aprì una porta sbarrata, scese per una scala tortuosa e ci portò in un corridoio bianco, con porte su entrambi i lati.
“La terza a destra è la sua,” disse l’ispettore. “Eccola!” Silenziosamente aprì una sezione della porta e guardò all’interno.
“Dorme. Potete vederlo benissimo.” Entrambi fissammo attraverso la grata. Il prigioniero giaceva con il viso rivolto verso di noi, profondamente addormentato, respirando lentamente e pesantemente. Era un uomo di media statura, vestito in modo rozzo, come ci si aspettava da una persona del suo mestiere; una camicia colorata spuntava attraverso la fessura del suo logoro cappotto. Era, come aveva detto l’ispettore, estremamente sporco, ma lo sporco che copriva il suo viso non riusciva a nascondere la sua orribile bruttezza. Una larga cicatrice vecchia gli attraversava il viso da un occhio alla mascella; a causa di essa, un lato del labbro superiore si sollevava, facendo emergere tre denti in una smorfia permanente. I suoi capelli, di un rosso molto brillante, gli ricadevano bassi sugli occhi e sulla fronte.
“Che bell’aspetto, vero?” disse l’ispettore.
“Certo che ha bisogno di farsi lavare,” osservò Holmes. “Avevo il sospetto che fosse così, e mi sono preso la libertà di portare con me gli strumenti necessari.” Mentre parlava, aprì la borsa Gladstone e ne tirò fuori, una spugna da bagno molto grande, per mia grande sorpresa.
“Ehi! Ehi! Sei davvero buffo,” ridacchiò l’ispettore.
“Ora, se vi degnerete di aprire quella porta molto silenziosamente, presto lo renderemo un po’ più presentabile.” “Beh, non so perché no,” disse l’ispettore. “Non sembra proprio un rappresentante degno delle prigioni di Bow Street, vero?” Inserì la chiave nella serratura e tutti entrammo molto silenziosamente nella cella. L’uomo addormentato si girò a metà, poi ripiombò in un sonno profondo. Holmes si avvicinò al secchio d’acqua, umidificò la spugna e la passò due volte con forza sul viso del prigioniero.
“Lasciate che vi presenti,” gridò, “il signor Neville St. Clair, di Lee, nella contea di Kent.”
Nella mia vita non avevo mai visto una scena del genere: la pelle dell’uomo si staccava dalla spugna come la corteccia di un albero. Scomparso il colore marrone ruvido, scomparsa anche quella orribile cicatrice che gli attraversava il viso, così come il labbro distorto che gli conferiva quell’espressione disgustosa. Un movimento improvviso fece cadere i capelli rossi arruffati. Lì, seduto sul letto, c’era un uomo pallido, dall’aspetto triste e raffinato, con i capelli neri e la pelle liscia; si strofinava gli occhi e guardava intorno con aria assonnata e confusa. Poi, improvvisamente rendendosi conto di ciò che era accaduto, lanciò un urlo e si gettò a faccia in giù sul cuscino.
“Mio Dio!” esclamò l’ispettore. “È davvero l’uomo scomparso. Lo riconosco dalla fotografia.” Il prigioniero si girò con quell’aria spensierata di chi si abbandona al proprio destino. “Che sia così,” disse. “E ora, per favore, ditemi di cosa sono accusato?”
“Di aver scomparso insieme a Mr. Neville St. Oh, andiamo, non potete essere accusato di questo, a meno che non si possa dimostrare che si tratti di un tentativo di suicidio,” rispose l’ispettore con un sorriso. “Beh, sono nel corpo di polizia da ventisette anni, ma questa è davvero la cosa più strana che abbia mai visto.”
“Se io fossi davvero Mr. Neville St. Clair, allora è ovvio che nessun crimine è stato commesso, e quindi sono trattenuto illegalmente.”
“Nessun crimine, ma si è commesso un errore molto grave,” disse Holmes. “Avreste fatto meglio a fidarvi di vostra moglie.” “Non era la moglie, erano i bambini,” gemette il prigioniero. “Dio mi aiuti, non avrei mai voluto che i miei figli si vergognassero di loro padre. Mio Dio, che scandalo! Cosa posso fare?”
Sherlock Holmes si sedette accanto a lui sul divano e gli diede una pacca affettuosa sulla spalla.
“Se lasciate che sia un tribunale a chiarire la questione,” disse, “è inevitabile che la notizia venga resa pubblica. D’altra parte, se riuscite a convincere le autorità di polizia che non esistono prove contro di voi, non vedo alcun motivo per cui i dettagli possano finire sui giornali. L’ispettore Bradstreet, ne sono sicuro, prenderà appunti di tutto ciò che vi direte e li presenterà alle autorità competenti. In quel caso, la questione non arriverà mai in tribunale.”
“Dio vi benedica!” esclamò il prigioniero con passione. “Avrei sopportato l’ergastolo, anzi, persino la morte, piuttosto che lasciare che questo terribile segreto macchiasse la reputazione dei miei figli.”
“Siete la prima persona che ascolti la mia storia. Mio padre era un insegnante a Chesterfield; lì ho ricevuto un’ottima educazione. Da giovane ho viaggiato, sono entrato nel mondo del teatro e infine sono diventato giornalista per un quotidiano serale di Londra. Un giorno il mio editore desiderava che scrivessi una serie di articoli sulle attività dei mendicanti in città. Ed è così che sono iniziati tutti i miei guai. Solo provando personalmente a chiedere l’elemosina come dilettante ho potuto raccogliere le informazioni necessarie per scrivere quegli articoli. Naturalmente, io stesso conoscevo tutti i trucchi utilizzati dagli attori. Mi sono truccato, mi sono fatto fare una brutta cicatrice e ho fissato un lato delle labbra con del cerotto color carne. Con i capelli rossi e abiti appropriati, ho iniziato a “lavorare” nel centro della città, apparentemente come venditore di fiammiferi, ma in realtà come mendicante. Per sette ore al giorno facevo il mio lavoro. E alla sera, con mia sorpresa, avevo raccolto ben 26 sterline e 4 penny!”
“Ho scritto gli articoli e non ci ho più pensato. Fino a quando, qualche tempo dopo, ho garantito un debito per un amico, e mi è stata notificata l’esecuzione del mandato per 25 sterline. Non sapevo proprio da dove tirare fuori quei soldi. Ma poi mi è venuta un’idea: ho chiesto due settimane di tempo al creditore, ho preso una pausa dal lavoro e ho passato quel periodo a chiedere l’elemosina sotto il mio travestimento. In dieci giorni avevo raccolto abbastanza soldi per pagare il debito.” “Beh, potete immaginare quanto fosse difficile dedicarsi a un lavoro duro per soli 2 sterline a settimana, quando sapevo di poter guadagnare lo stesso in un solo giorno semplicemente truccandomi leggermente, mettendo il mio cappello a terra e rimanendo fermo immobile. Fu una lunga lotta tra il mio orgoglio e i soldi. Alla fine vinsero i soldi, e abbandonai del tutto quel lavoro per passare giorni interi in un angolo che avevo scelto io stesso, suscitando compassione con il mio aspetto orribile e riempiendo le mie tasche di monete. Solo una persona conosceva il mio segreto. Era il proprietario di una squallida stanzetta in Swandam Lane, dove soggiornavo; ogni mattina potevo uscire come un mendicante sporco e puzzolente, per poi trasformarmi la sera in un uomo ben vestito che girova per la città. Quel tizio, un indiano, riceveva da me una buona paga per l’affitto della stanza. Così sapevo che il mio segreto era al sicuro nelle sue mani.
“Ben presto iniziai a risparmiare somme considerevoli di denaro. Non intendo dire che un mendicante per le strade di Londra possa guadagnare 700 sterline all’anno, il che è meno delle mie entrate medie. Ma avevo dei vantaggi particolari: ero abile a inventare storie e sapevo come conversare. Questo mi permise di diventare una figura riconosciuta nella City. Per tutto il giorno, monete di ogni tipo affluivano verso di me. Era davvero un brutto giorno se non riuscivo a guadagnare almeno 2 sterline. “Man mano che diventavo più ricco, diventavo anche più ambizioso. Acquistai una casa in campagna e alla fine mi sposai. Nessuno sospettava della mia vera occupazione. Mia moglie sapeva solo che avevo degli affari nella City. Ma non aveva idea di quali. “Lunedì scorso, dopo aver finito il lavoro, stavo vestendomi nella stanza sopra la casa dove si vendeva l’oppio quando, guardando fuori dalla finestra, vidi mia moglie in strada, con lo sguardo fisso su di me. Gridai per lo stupore, alzai le braccia per coprirmi il viso e corsi dal mio complice, quell’indiano. Gli chiesi di impedire a qualcuno di salire da me. Sentii la sua voce al piano di sotto. Ma sapevo che non avrebbe potuto entrare. In fretta mi tolsi i vestiti, indossai quelli di un mendicante e mi truccai con il mio solito trucco. Nemmeno gli occhi di una moglie avrebbero potuto scoprire un travestimento così completo. Ma poi mi resi conto che qualcuno poteva perquisire la stanza. I vestiti avrebbero potuto tradirmi. Aprii la finestra, riaprendo così una piccola ferita che mi ero fatto quella mattina in camera da letto. Presi il mio cappotto, pesante per le monete che avevo appena messo dentro. Lo gettai fuori dalla finestra. Scomparve nel Tamigi. Gli altri vestiti avrebbero dovuto seguirlo. Ma in quel momento arrivarono dei poliziotti. E pochi minuti dopo, beh, devo ammettere che fui sollevato nello scoprire che, invece di essere identificato come il signor Neville St. Clair, fui arrestato come suo assassino, ” “Non so proprio cosa altro ci sia da spiegare. Ero determinato a mantenere il mio travestimento il più a lungo possibile, ed ecco perché preferivo avere il viso sporco. Sapendo che mia moglie sarebbe stata terribilmente ansiosa, ho tolto il mio anello e l’ho affidato al Lascar in un momento in cui nessun poliziotto mi stava osservando, insieme a una breve nota in cui le dicevo di non avere motivo di temere.” “Quella nota è arrivata solo ieri,” disse Holmes. “Dio mio! Che settimana deve aver trascorso, ” “Il polizia tiene d’occhio questo Lascar,” disse l’ispettore Bradstreet. “Capisco benissimo che possa trovare difficile inviare una lettera senza essere visto. Probabilmente l’ha data a qualche cliente marittimo, il quale se n’è completamente dimenticato per diversi giorni.” “Ecco come è andata,” disse Holmes annuendo approvativamente. “Non ne ho dubbi. Ma non siete mai stato processato per mendicità?” “Molte volte. Ma che significato aveva una multa per me?” “Tuttavia, questa volta deve finire qui,” disse Bradstreet. “Se la polizia vuole insabbiare tutta questa faccenda, non può più esserci traccia di Hugh Boone.” “L’ho giurato con i giuramenti più solenni che un uomo possa pronunciare, ” “In tal caso, credo che non si possano prendere ulteriori misure. Ma se vi ritrovassero di nuovo, tutto verrebbe alla luce. Sono sicuro, signor Holmes, che le siamo molto grati per aver risolto questa questione. Vorrei proprio sapere come riuscite a ottenere questi risultati, ” “Questo risultato,” disse il mio amico, “l’ho ottenuto sedendomi su cinque cuscini e consumando un’oncia di tabacco. Watson, credo che se andiamo subito in Baker Street arriveremo giusto in tempo per colazione.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the couch was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very seedy and disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked in several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the purpose of examination. “You are engaged,” said I; “perhaps I interrupt you.” “Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one” — he jerked his thumb in the direction of the old hat—”but there are points in connection with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of instruction.” I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were thick with the ice crystals. “I suppose,” I remarked, “that, homely as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it — that it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery and the punishment of some crime.” “No, no. No crime,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “Only one of those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four million human beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to take place, and many a little problem will be presented which may be striking and bizarre without being criminal. We have already had experience of such.” “So much so,” I remarked, “that of the last six cases which I have added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime.” “Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that this small matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know Peterson, the commissionaire?” “Yes.” “It is to him that this trophy belongs.” “It is his hat.” “No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem. And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, roasting at this moment in front of Peterson’s fire. The facts are these: about four o’clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man’s hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose.” “Which surely he restored to their owner?” “My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that ‘For Mrs. Henry Baker’ was printed upon a small card which was tied to the bird’s left leg, and it is also true that the initials ‘H. B.’ are legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them.” “What, then, did Peterson do?” “He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning, knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner.” “Did he not advertise?” “No.” “Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?” “Only as much as we can deduce.” “From his hat?” “Precisely.” “But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered felt?” “Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself as to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?” I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape, hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk, but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker’s name; but, as Holmes had remarked, the initials “H. B.” were scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic was missing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several places, although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the discoloured patches by smearing them with ink. “I can see nothing,” said I, handing it back to my friend. “On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your inferences.” “Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?” He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion which was characteristic of him. “It is perhaps less suggestive than it might have been,” he remarked, “and yet there are a few inferences which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink, at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact that his wife has ceased to love him.” “My dear Holmes!” “He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect,” he continued, disregarding my remonstrance. “He is a man who leads a sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream. These are the more patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way, that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his house.” “You are certainly joking, Holmes.” “Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you these results, you are unable to see how they are attained?” “I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man was intellectual?” For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. “It is a question of cubic capacity,” said he; “a man with so large a brain must have something in it.” “The decline of his fortunes, then?” “This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he has assuredly gone down in the world.” “Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight and the moral retrogression?” Sherlock Holmes laughed. “Here is the foresight,” said he putting his finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer. “They are never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take this precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken the elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he has less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign that he has not entirely lost his self-respect.” “Your reasoning is certainly plausible.” “The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime-cream, are all to be gathered from a close examination of the lower part of the lining. The lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut by the scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and there is a distinct odour of lime-cream. This dust, you will observe, is not the gritty, grey dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust of the house, showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the time, while the marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive that the wearer perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be in the best of training.” “But his wife — you said that she had ceased to love him.” “This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear Watson, with a week’s accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife’s affection.” “But he might be a bachelor.” “Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife. Remember the card upon the bird’s leg.” “You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce that the gas is not laid on in his house?” “One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning tallow — walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains from a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?” “Well, it is very ingenious,” said I, laughing; “but since, as you said just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm done save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of energy.” Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with astonishment. “The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!” he gasped. “Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off through the kitchen window?” Holmes twisted himself round upon the sofa to get a fairer view of the man’s excited face. “See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!” He held out his hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in the dark hollow of his hand. Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. “By Jove, Peterson!” said he, “this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have got?” “A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it were putty.” “It’s more than a precious stone. It is the precious stone.” “Not the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle!” I ejaculated. “Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have read the advertisement about it in The Times every day lately. It is absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the reward offered of £1000 is certainly not within a twentieth part of the market price.” “A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!” The commissionaire plumped down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us. “That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover the gem.” “It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan,” I remarked. “Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner, a plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady’s jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here, I believe.” He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates, until at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the following paragraph: “Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd inst., abstracted from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the valuable gem known as the blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel, gave his evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the dressing-room of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery in order that he might solder the second bar of the grate, which was loose. He had remained with Horner some little time, but had finally been called away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared, that the bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco casket in which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was accustomed to keep her jewel, was lying empty upon the dressing-table. Ryder instantly gave the alarm, and Horner was arrested the same evening; but the stone could not be found either upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to the Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder’s cry of dismay on discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room, where she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who struggled frantically, and protested his innocence in the strongest terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having been given against the prisoner, the magistrate refused to deal summarily with the offence, but referred it to the Assizes. Horner, who had shown signs of intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion and was carried out of court.” “Hum! So much for the police-court,” said Holmes thoughtfully, tossing aside the paper. “The question for us now to solve is the sequence of events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to the crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see, Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much more important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with which I have bored you. So now we must set ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and ascertaining what part he has played in this little mystery. To do this, we must try the simplest means first, and these lie undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the evening papers. If this fail, I shall have recourse to other methods.” “What will you say?” “Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then: ‘Found at the corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker can have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening at 221B, Baker Street.’ That is clear and concise.” “Very. But will he see it?” “Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor man, the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance in breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson that he thought of nothing but flight, but since then he must have bitterly regretted the impulse which caused him to drop his bird. Then, again, the introduction of his name will cause him to see it, for everyone who knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you are, Peterson, run down to the advertising agency and have this put in the evening papers.” “In which, sir?” “Oh, in the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James’s, Evening News, Standard, Echo, and any others that occur to you.” “Very well, sir. And this stone?” “Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson, just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me, for we must have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which your family is now devouring.” When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held it against the light. “It’s a bonny thing,” said he. “Just see how it glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil’s pet baits. In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River in southern China and is remarkable in having every characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has already a sinister history. There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallised charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison? I’ll lock it up in my strong box now and drop a line to the Countess to say that we have it.” “Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?” “I cannot tell.” “Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had anything to do with the matter?” “It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was of considerably more value than if it were made of solid gold. That, however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we have an answer to our advertisement.” “And you can do nothing until then?” “Nothing.” “In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall come back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I should like to see the solution of so tangled a business.” “Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I believe. By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop.” I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past six when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I approached the house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the bright semicircle which was thrown from the fanlight. Just as I arrived the door was opened, and we were shown up together to Holmes’ room. “Mr. Henry Baker, I believe,” said he, rising from his armchair and greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could so readily assume. “Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?” “Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat.” He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a broad, intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of his extended hand, recalled Holmes’ surmise as to his habits. His rusty black frock-coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar turned up, and his lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing his words with care, and gave the impression generally of a man of learning and letters who had had ill-usage at the hands of fortune. “We have retained these things for some days,” said Holmes, “because we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I am at a loss to know now why you did not advertise.” Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. “Shillings have not been so plentiful with me as they once were,” he remarked. “I had no doubt that the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off both my hat and the bird. I did not care to spend more money in a hopeless attempt at recovering them.” “Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat it.” “To eat it!” Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement. “Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so. But I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about the same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally well?” “Oh, certainly, certainly,” answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of relief. “Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your own bird, so if you wish—” The man burst into a hearty laugh. “They might be useful to me as relics of my adventure,” said he, “but beyond that I can hardly see what use the disjecta membra of my late acquaintance are going to be to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine my attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive upon the sideboard.” Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “There is your hat, then, and there your bird,” said he. “By the way, would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown goose.” “Certainly, sir,” said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly gained property under his arm. “There are a few of us who frequent the Alpha Inn, near the Museum — we are to be found in the Museum itself during the day, you understand. This year our good host, Windigate by name, instituted a goose club, by which, on consideration of some few pence every week, we were each to receive a bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the rest is familiar to you. I am much indebted to you, sir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my years nor my gravity.” With a comical pomposity of manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and strode off upon his way. “So much for Mr. Henry Baker,” said Holmes when he had closed the door behind him. “It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?” “Not particularly.” “Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow up this clue while it is still hot.” “By all means.” It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly as we swung through the doctors’ quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a small public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar and ordered two glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord. “Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese,” said he. “My geese!” The man seemed surprised. “Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who was a member of your goose club.” “Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them’s not our geese.” “Indeed! Whose, then?” “Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden.” “Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?” “Breckinridge is his name.” “Ah! I don’t know him. Well, here’s your good health landlord, and prosperity to your house. Good-night.” “Now for Mr. Breckinridge,” he continued, buttoning up his coat as we came out into the frosty air. “Remember, Watson that though we have so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the other a man who will certainly get seven years’ penal servitude unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry may but confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line of investigation which has been missed by the police, and which a singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and quick march!” We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor a horsey-looking man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was helping a boy to put up the shutters. “Good-evening. It’s a cold night,” said Holmes. The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion. “Sold out of geese, I see,” continued Holmes, pointing at the bare slabs of marble. “Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning.” “That’s no good.” “Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare.” “Ah, but I was recommended to you.” “Who by?” “The landlord of the Alpha.” “Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen.” “Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?” To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the salesman. “Now, then, mister,” said he, with his head cocked and his arms akimbo, “what are you driving at? Let’s have it straight, now.” “It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese which you supplied to the Alpha.” “Well then, I shan’t tell you. So now!” “Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don’t know why you should be so warm over such a trifle.” “Warm! You’d be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When I pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the business; but it’s ‘Where are the geese?’ and ‘Who did you sell the geese to?’ and ‘What will you take for the geese?’ One would think they were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made over them.” “Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been making inquiries,” said Holmes carelessly. “If you won’t tell us the bet is off, that is all. But I’m always ready to back my opinion on a matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is country bred.” “Well, then, you’ve lost your fiver, for it’s town bred,” snapped the salesman. “It’s nothing of the kind.” “I say it is.” “I don’t believe it.” “D’you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled them ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to the Alpha were town bred.” “You’ll never persuade me to believe that.” “Will you bet, then?” “It’s merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I’ll have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate.” The salesman chuckled grimly. “Bring me the books, Bill,” said he. The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp. “Now then, Mr. Cocksure,” said the salesman, “I thought that I was out of geese, but before I finish you’ll find that there is still one left in my shop. You see this little book?” “Well?” “That’s the list of the folk from whom I buy. D’you see? Well, then, here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their names are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me.” “Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road — 249,” read Holmes. “Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger.” Holmes turned to the page indicated. “Here you are, ‘Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.’ ” “Now, then, what’s the last entry?” “ ’December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.’ ” “Quite so. There you are. And underneath?” “ ’Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12s.’ ” “What have you to say now?” Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which was peculiar to him. “When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the ‘Pink ‘un’ protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet,” said he. “I daresay that if I had put £100 down in front of him, that man would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from him by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we are, I fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which remains to be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott to-night, or whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It is clear from what that surly fellow said that there are others besides ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should—” His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of yellow light which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge, the salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists fiercely at the cringing figure. “I’ve had enough of you and your geese,” he shouted. “I wish you were all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more with your silly talk I’ll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here and I’ll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the geese off you?” “No; but one of them was mine all the same,” whined the little man. “Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it.” “She told me to ask you.” “Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I’ve had enough of it. Get out of this!” He rushed fiercely forward, and the inquirer flitted away into the darkness. “Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road,” whispered Holmes. “Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow.” Striding through the scattered knots of people who lounged round the flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and touched him upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in the gas-light that every vestige of colour had been driven from his face. “Who are you, then? What do you want?” he asked in a quavering voice. “You will excuse me,” said Holmes blandly, “but I could not help overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I think that I could be of assistance to you.” “You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?” “My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people don’t know.” “But you can know nothing of this?” “Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member.” “Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet,” cried the little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. “I can hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter.” Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. “In that case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this wind-swept market-place,” said he. “But pray tell me, before we go farther, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting.” The man hesitated for an instant. “My name is John Robinson,” he answered with a sidelong glance. “No, no; the real name,” said Holmes sweetly. “It is always awkward doing business with an alias.” A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. “Well then,” said he, “my real name is James Ryder.” “Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which you would wish to know.” The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at Baker Street. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high, thin breathing of our new companion, and the claspings and unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous tension within him. “Here we are!” said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room. “The fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder. Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers before we settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what became of those geese?” “Yes, sir.” “Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine in which you were interested — white, with a black bar across the tail.” Ryder quivered with emotion. “Oh, sir,” he cried, “can you tell me where it went to?” “It came here.” “Here?” “Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don’t wonder that you should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead — the bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it here in my museum.” Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece with his right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up the blue carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant, many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face, uncertain whether to claim or to disown it. “The game’s up, Ryder,” said Holmes quietly. “Hold up, man, or you’ll be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He’s not got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity. Give him a dash of brandy. So! Now he looks a little more human. What a shrimp it is, to be sure!” For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy brought a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring with frightened eyes at his accuser. “I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I could possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me. Still, that little may as well be cleared up to make the case complete. You had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of Morcar’s?” “It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it,” said he in a crackling voice. “I see — her ladyship’s waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of sudden wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous in the means you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber, had been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion would rest the more readily upon him. What did you do, then? You made some small job in my lady’s room — you and your confederate Cusack — and you managed that he should be the man sent for. Then, when he had left, you rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man arrested. You then—” Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my companion’s knees. “For God’s sake, have mercy!” he shrieked. “Think of my father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never went wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I’ll swear it on a Bible. Oh, don’t bring it into court! For Christ’s sake, don’t!” “Get back into your chair!” said Holmes sternly. “It is very well to cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing.” “I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the charge against him will break down.” “Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the goose into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your only hope of safety.” Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. “I will tell you it just as it happened, sir,” said he. “When Horner had been arrested, it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get away with the stone at once, for I did not know at what moment the police might not take it into their heads to search me and my room. There was no place about the hotel where it would be safe. I went out, as if on some commission, and I made for my sister’s house. She had married a man named Oakshott, and lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls for the market. All the way there every man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or a detective; and, for all that it was a cold night, the sweat was pouring down my face before I came to the Brixton Road. My sister asked me what was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I told her that I had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel. Then I went into the back yard and smoked a pipe and wondered what it would be best to do. “I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me, and fell into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they could get rid of what they stole. I knew that he would be true to me, for I knew one or two things about him; so I made up my mind to go right on to Kilburn, where he lived, and take him into my confidence. He would show me how to turn the stone into money. But how to get to him in safety? I thought of the agonies I had gone through in coming from the hotel. I might at any moment be seized and searched, and there would be the stone in my waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the wall at the time and looking at the geese which were waddling about round my feet, and suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me how I could beat the best detective that ever lived. “My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick of her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was always as good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in it I would carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the yard, and behind this I drove one of the birds — a fine big one, white, with a barred tail. I caught it, and prying its bill open, I thrust the stone down its throat as far as my finger could reach. The bird gave a gulp, and I felt the stone pass along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature flapped and struggled, and out came my sister to know what was the matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute broke loose and fluttered off among the others. “ ’Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?’ says she. “ ’Well,’ said I, ‘you said you’d give me one for Christmas, and I was feeling which was the fattest.’ “ ’Oh,’ says she, ‘we’ve set yours aside for you — Jem’s bird, we call it. It’s the big white one over yonder. There’s twenty-six of them, which makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the market.’ “ ’Thank you, Maggie,’ says I; ‘but if it is all the same to you, I’d rather have that one I was handling just now.’ “ ’The other is a good three pound heavier,’ said she, ‘and we fattened it expressly for you.’ “ ’Never mind. I’ll have the other, and I’ll take it now,’ said I. “ ’Oh, just as you like,’ said she, a little huffed. ‘Which is it you want, then?’ “ ’That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the flock.’ “ ’Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.’ “Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all the way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man that it was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my sister’s, and hurried into the back yard. There was not a bird to be seen there. “ ’Where are they all, Maggie?’ I cried. “ ’Gone to the dealer’s, Jem.’ “ ’Which dealer’s?’ “ ’Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.’ “ ’But was there another with a barred tail?’ I asked, ‘the same as the one I chose?’ “ ’Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell them apart.’ “Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they had gone. You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always answered me like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think that I am myself. And now — and now I am myself a branded thief, without ever having touched the wealth for which I sold my character. God help me! God help me!” He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in his hands. There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and by the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes’ finger-tips upon the edge of the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door. “Get out!” said he. “What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!” “No more words. Get out!” And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls from the street. “After all, Watson,” said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay pipe, “I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose that I am commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened. Send him to gaol now, and you make him a gaol-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If you will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief feature.”

L’AVVENTURA DEL CARBUNCLO BLU
Il secondo mattino dopo Natale andai a trovare il mio amico Sherlock Holmes con l’intenzione di fargli i miei auguri stagionali. Era sdraiato sul divano, avvolto in una vestaglia viola; aveva a portata di mano un portasigari e, vicino a lui, un mucchio di giornali del mattino, chiaramente appena letti. Accanto al divano c’era una sedia di legno, e sullo schienale di questa era appeso un cappello di feltro logoro e malandato, in più punti rotto. Una lente e delle pinze posate sul sedile della sedia indicavano chiaramente che il cappello fosse stato appeso lì allo scopo di essere esaminato.
“Sei impegnato,” dissi; “forse ti interrompo.”
“Nient affatto. Sono felice di avere un amico con cui poter discutere dei miei risultati. Si tratta di una questione del tutto banale, ” fece cenno con il pollice verso il vecchio cappello “, ma ci sono alcuni aspetti che non mancano di interesse, anzi, possono persino essere istruttivi.”
Mi sedetti nella sua poltrona e mi riscaldai le mani davanti al fuoco scoppiettante; era sceso un freddo pungente e i vetri erano coperti di cristalli di ghiaccio. “Suppongo,” osservai, “che, per quanto possa sembrare banale, questo cappello nasconda qualche storia interessante, che sia la chiave per risolvere un mistero o punire un crimine.”
“No, no. Nessun crimine,” rispose Sherlock Holmes ridendo. “Solo uno di quei piccoli incidenti strani che possono accadere quando quattro milioni di persone si affollano in pochi chilometri quadrati. In mezzo a tutta questa agitazione, è possibile che si verifichino ogni tipo di combinazione di eventi; molti problemi apparentemente bizzarri, ma non criminali. Ne abbiamo già avuto esperienza.”
“Esatto,” dissi. “Dei sei casi che ho aggiunto alle mie note negli ultimi tempi, tre non riguardavano affatto crimini legali.”
“Proprio così. Intendi il caso dei documenti di Irene Adler, quello della signorina Mary Sutherland e l’avventura di quell’uomo con il labbro storto. Beh, non dubito che anche questo piccolo caso rientri nella stessa categoria di situazioni innocue. Conosci Peterson, il commissario?”
“Sì.”
“A lui appartiene questo ‘trofeo’, ”
“È il suo cappello.” “No, no, lui l’ha trovato. Il suo proprietario è sconosciuto. Vi supplico di considerarlo non come un cappello vecchio e malandato, ma come un problema intellettuale. Prima di tutto, bisogna capire come sia arrivato qui. È arrivato la mattina di Natale, insieme a una grossa oca grassa, che senza dubbio in questo momento è in forno davanti al fuoco di Peterson. Ecco i fatti: verso le quattro del mattino di Natale, Peterson, che come sapete è un uomo molto onesto, stava tornando a casa lungo Tottenham Court Road dopo aver partecipato a una piccola festa. Davanti a lui, sotto la luce dei lampioni a gas, vide un uomo alto che camminava barcollando leggermente, con un’oca bianca sulle spalle. Quando arrivò all’angolo di Goodge Street, scoppiò una rissa tra quell’uomo e un gruppo di teppisti; uno di loro gli colpì il cappello, e l’uomo, per difendersi, lo usò per rompere la vetrina di un negozio alle sue spalle. Peterson si precipitò ad aiutare quell’uomo contro gli aggressori. Ma l’uomo, spaventato per aver rotto la vetrina e vedendo avvicinarsi una persona in uniforme, lasciò cadere l’oca e fuggì nel labirinto di stradine dietro Tottenham Court Road. Anche i teppisti se la svignarono non appena apparve Peterson. Così lui rimase in possesso sia del “campo di battaglia” che dei “premi della vittoria”: quel cappello vecchio e malandato, e quell’oca, ” “Ma sicuramente l’ha restituito al suo proprietario, ” “Mio caro amico, ecco il problema. Certo, su un cartellino legato alla zampa sinistra dell’oca c’era scritto “Per la signora Henry Baker”, e anche sul bordo interno di questo cappello si leggono le iniziali “H. B.”. Ma in questa città ci sono migliaia di persone di nome Baker, e centinaia di persone di nome Henry Baker. Non è facile restituire oggetti smarriti a uno di loro, ” “E allora cosa ha fatto Peterson?” “Mi ha portato sia il cappello che l’oca la mattina di Natale, sapendo che anche i problemi più piccoli mi interessano. Abbiamo tenuto l’oca fino stamattina. Quando abbiamo visto che, nonostante il freddo, era meglio mangiarla subito. Il suo trovatore se l’è portata via. Per far sì che l’oca raggiungesse il suo destino finale. Mentre io continuo a tenere il cappello di quell’uomo sconosciuto che ha perso la sua cena di Natale, ” “Non ha pubblicizzato nulla per cercare il proprietario?” “No, ” “Allora, quale indizio potete avere sulla sua identità?” “Solo quello che possiamo dedurre, ” “Dal suo cappello?” “Esatto, ” “Ma state scherzando. Cosa si può capire da un vecchio cappello di feltro malandato?” “Ecco la mia lente. Conoscete i miei metodi. Cosa riuscite voi a dedurre riguardo all’identità dell’uomo che ha indossato questo cappello?” Presi quell’oggetto logoro tra le mani e lo esaminai con un certo rammarico. Era un cappello nero molto ordinario, di forma rotonda, rigido e estremamente consumato. L’interno era foderato di seta rossa, ma ormai molto sbiadita. Non c’era alcun nome del produttore; tuttavia, come aveva osservato Holmes, su un lato erano scarabocchiate le iniziali “H. B.” Il bordo del cappello presentava un foro per il fermaglio, ma la elastica era scomparsa. Per il resto, era crepato, coperto di polvere e macchiato in diversi punti; sembrava che qualcuno avesse cercato di nascondere le macchie spalmando sopra dell’inchiostro.
“Non riesco a capire nulla,” dissi, restituendoglielo.
“Al contrario, Watson, tu puoi capire tutto. Tuttavia non riesci a trarre conclusioni da ciò che vedi. Sei troppo timido nel formulare ipotesi.”
“Allora, dimmi tu cosa puoi dedurre da questo cappello, ” Lo prese in mano e lo osservò con quel suo particolare modo riflessivo tipico di lui. “Forse non è così suggestivo come avrebbe potuto essere,” commentò, “eppure ci sono alcune deduzioni piuttosto chiare, e altre che rappresentano almeno una forte probabilità. È ovvio che quell’uomo fosse molto intellettualmente dotato; inoltre, negli ultimi tre anni doveva essere abbastanza benestante, anche se ora si trova in difficoltà finanziarie. Aveva presagio del futuro, ma ora ne è privo, il che indica un declino morale. Il tutto, unito al peggioramento delle sue condizioni economiche, sembra suggerire l’azione di qualche cattiva influenza, probabilmente l’alcol. Questo potrebbe anche spiegare il fatto che sua moglie abbia smesso di amarlo.”
“Mio caro Holmes, ” “Ebbene, ha comunque conservato un certo grado di rispetto per se stesso,” continuò, ignorando le mie obiezioni. “È un uomo che conduce una vita sedentaria, esce raramente, non fa più alcuna attività fisica, è di mezza età, ha i capelli ingrigiti che si è fatto tagliare negli ultimi giorni e sui quali applica della crema al lime. Questi sono i fatti più evidenti che si possono dedurre dal suo cappello. E, tra l’altro, è estremamente improbabile che abbia il gas in casa.”
“Sta sicuramente scherzando, Holmes, ”
“Nient’affatto. È possibile che anche ora, mentre le sto fornendo questi elementi, lei non riesca a capire come li abbia dedotti?”
“Non ho dubbi di essere molto stupido, ma devo ammettere di non riuscire a seguirla. Ad esempio, come ha fatto a dedurre che quest’uomo fosse intellettualmente dotato?”
In risposta, Holmes si mise il cappello in testa. Questo gli calzò perfettamente sulla fronte e si posizionò sopra il naso. “È una questione di capacità cerebrale. Un uomo con un cervello così grande deve sicuramente possedere qualcosa di notevole,” disse.
“E allora, che ne pensa del declino delle sue fortune?” “Il cappello ha tre anni. Queste falde piatte si arricciavano ai bordi quando è stato comprato. È un cappello di ottima qualità: guardate la striscia di seta rigata e il rivestimento eccellente. Se quest’uomo poteva permettersi di comprare un cappello così costoso tre anni fa e da allora non ne ha più acquistato nessuno, allora sicuramente la sua situazione economica è peggiorata.”
“Beh, questo è abbastanza evidente. Ma che dire della previdenza, e del declino morale di quest’uomo?”
Sherlock Holmes rise. “Ecco la prova della sua previdenza,” disse, indicando il piccolo disco e il laccio utilizzati per fissare il cappello. “Questi accessori non vengono mai venduti insieme ai cappelli. Se quest’uomo li ha ordinati appositamente, significa che aveva già previsto la necessità di proteggersi dal vento. Ma poiché ha rotto l’elastico e non si è nemmeno preso la briga di sostituirlo, è evidente che ora è meno previdente di prima. Il fatto che abbia cercato di nascondere alcune macchie sul feltro usando inchiostro dimostra che non ha completamente perso il proprio rispetto per se stesso.”
“Il vostro ragionamento è davvero plausibile, ”
“Altri indizi – come l’età media, i capelli grigi, il taglio di recente e l’uso della crema al lime – si possono dedurre esaminando attentamente la parte inferiore del rivestimento interno. Il disco in vetro mostra numerosi peli tagliati dalle forbici del barbiere. Sembra che questi peli siano ancora attaccati al cappello, e c’è chiaramente l’odore della crema al lime. Questa polvere non è quella grigiastra tipica delle strade, ma quella marrone morbida tipica degli ambienti interni. Ciò dimostra che il cappello viene indossato soprattutto in casa. Inoltre, le tracce di umidità indicano che chi lo porta sudava molto. Il che probabilmente significa che non è nella migliore forma fisica, ”
“Ma sua moglie, avete detto che aveva smesso di amarlo, ”
“Questo cappello non è stato spazzolato da settimane. Quando vi vedo, caro Watson, con una settimana di polvere addosso, e quando vostra moglie vi permette di uscire in queste condizioni, temo che anche voi abbiate perso l’affetto di vostra moglie, ”
“Ma potrebbe essere un scapolo, ”
“No, stava portando a casa quella oca come segno di riconciliazione con sua moglie. Ricordate la carta attaccata alla zampa dell’oca, ”
“Avevate una risposta per tutto. Ma come diavolo avete dedotto che in casa sua non c’è il gas?”
“Una o due macchie di sego potrebbero esserci per caso. Ma quando ne vedo almeno cinque, penso che sia impossibile dubitare del fatto che quest’uomo entri spesso in contatto con il sego ardente. Probabilmente sale le scale di notte, tenendo il cappello in una mano e una candela nell’altra. Comunque, non ha mai avuto macchie di sego causate dai tubi del gas. Siete soddisfatto?”
“Beh, è davvero ingegnoso, ” dissi ridendo, “Ma poiché, come avete detto voi stesso, non è stato commesso alcun crimine, e non è stata fatta alcuna dannagione se non la perdita di un’oca, tutto questo sembra proprio uno spreco di energie, ” Sherlock Holmes stava per rispondere quando la porta si aprì di scatto e Peterson, il commissario, irruppe nell’appartamento con le guance arrossate e l’espressione di chi fosse sopraffatto dall’orrore.
“La gallina, signor Holmes! La gallina!” esclamò ansimando.
“Eh? E allora? Si è rialzata in piedi e se n’è volata via dalla finestra della cucina?” Holmes si girò sul divano per poter vedere meglio il viso eccitato dell’uomo.
“Guardi qui, signore! Veda cosa mia moglie ha trovato nel suo stomaco, ” Tese la mano e mostrò nel palmo di essa una pietra blu scintillante: piccola quanto un fagiolo, ma così pura e luminosa da brillare come una stella nell’oscurità della sua mano.
Sherlock Holmes si alzò di scatto, emettendo un fischio. “Per Giove, Peterson!” esclamò. “Questo è davvero un tesoro inestimabile. Immagino che sappia cosa ha tra le mani, ”
“Un diamante, signore. Una pietra preziosa. Taglia il vetro come se fosse creta, ”
“È molto di più di una semplice pietra preziosa. È proprio quella gemma.”
“Non è forse il famoso carbuncolo blu della Contessa di Morcar?” esclamai.
“Esattamente. Conosco bene le sue dimensioni e la sua forma, visto che ho letto ogni giorno l’annuncio pubblicato sul ‘The Times’. È davvero unica. Il premio offerto di mille sterline è certamente meno del ventesimo del suo valore reale, ”
“Mille sterline. Misericordia!” Peterson si lasciò cadere su una sedia, fissandoci uno dopo l’altro.
“Quello è il premio offerto. E ho motivo di credere che ci siano motivi sentimentali alla base di questa ricerca. La Contessa sarebbe disposta a sacrificare metà della sua fortuna pur di riavere quella gemma, ”
“Se ricordo bene, è stata persa all’Hotel Cosmopolitan. Il 22 dicembre, appena cinque giorni fa. John Horner, un idraulico, fu accusato di averla rubata dal cassetto dei gioielli della signora. Le prove contro di lui erano così schiaccianti che il caso è stato portato davanti ai tribunali. Credo di avere qualche informazione al riguardo qui, ” Frugò tra i suoi giornali, controllando le date, fino a quando non trovò quello che cercava e lesse il seguente paragrafo: “Rapina alla gioielleria dell’Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel”. John Horner, 26 anni, idraulico, fu accusato di aver sottratto, il 22 del mese, la preziosa gemma conosciuta come “carbuncolo blu” dalla cassaforte della Contessa di Morcar. James Ryder, addetto alle stanze dell’hotel, testimoniò di aver accompagnato Horner nella stanza da bagno della contessa il giorno della rapina, affinché potesse riparare la sbarra del cancello che si era allentata. Rimase con Horner per un po’, ma poi fu chiamato via; al suo ritorno scoprì che Horner era scomparso, che la cassaforte era stata forzata e che il piccolo cassetto di marocchino in cui la contessa teneva i suoi gioielli giaceva vuoto sul comodino. Ryder allertò immediatamente le autorità e Horner fu arrestato quella stessa sera; tuttavia, la gemma non fu trovata né addosso a lui né nelle sue stanze. Catherine Cusack, cameriera della contessa, dichiarò di aver sentito il grido di terrore di Ryder al momento della scoperta della rapina e di essere entrata nella stanza, dove aveva trovato la situazione descritta dal testimone precedente. L’ispettore Bradstreet, della divisione B, fornì prove riguardo all’arresto di Horner, il quale si dibatté disperatamente e protestò con forza la propria innocenza. Poiché furono presentate prove di una precedente condanna per rapina contro il prigioniero, il magistrato rifiutò di trattare il caso in modo sommario e lo deferì alle Assise. Horner, che aveva mostrato segni di intensa emozione durante il processo, svenne alla fine della seduta e fu portato fuori dall’aula. “Hmm! Ecco come finisce la faccenda con la polizia, ”, disse Holmes pensieroso, gettando da parte il foglio di carta. “Ora dobbiamo risolvere l’enigma che collega una scatola da gioielli all’uccisione di un’anatra in Tottenham Court Road. Vedi, Watson: le nostre deduzioni hanno improvvisamente assunto un aspetto molto più importante, e meno innocente. Ecco la pietra; proviene dall’anatra, e l’anatra appartiene a Mr. Henry Baker, quel signore con il cappello nero e tutte le altre caratteristiche di cui ti ho già parlato. Ora dobbiamo concentrarci seriamente per trovarlo e scoprire quale ruolo abbia avuto in questo mistero. Per farlo, proveremo prima i metodi più semplici, e questi sono senza dubbio gli annunci pubblicitari su tutti i giornali serali. Se anche questo fallirà, ricorrerò ad altri mezzi.”
“E tu cosa suggerisci?”
“Dammi una penna e quel foglio di carta. Ecco l’annuncio: ‘Trovata all’angolo di Goodge Street un’anatra e un cappello nero in feltro. Mr. Henry Baker può ritirarli presentandosi stasera alle 18:30 al numero 221B di Baker Street.’ È chiaro e conciso.”
“Molto bene. Ma lui lo leggerà davvero?” Dopo che il commissario se ne fu andato, Holmes prese la pietra e la esaminò alla luce. “È davvero una bella cosa,” disse. “Guardate come scintilla. Ovviamente è il nucleo di un crimine. Tutte le pietre preziose lo sono. Sono esche per il diavolo. Nei gioielli più grandi e antichi, ogni faccia può rappresentare un atto criminale. Questa pietra non ha ancora vent’anni. È stata trovata sulle rive del fiume Amoy, nel sud della Cina. È straordinaria: possiede tutte le caratteristiche dei carbuncoli, tranne che è di colore blu invece che rosso rubino. Nonostante la sua giovane età, ha già una storia sinistra. Per causa sua sono stati commessi due omicidi, un attacco con acido vitriolico, un suicidio e diversi furti. Chi avrebbe mai pensato che un giocattolo così bello potesse portare alla forca e alla prigione? Ora la chiuderò nella mia cassaforte e manderò un messaggio alla Contessa per dirle che l’abbiamo, ”
“Pensa davvero che quest’uomo, Horner, sia innocente?”
“Non posso dirlo, ”
“Allora, ritiene che anche Henry Baker abbia qualcosa a che fare con questa faccenda?”
“Credo molto di più che Henry Baker sia un uomo assolutamente innocente. Non aveva idea che il uccello che portava avesse un valore molto maggiore di quanto potesse sembrare. Comunque, lo scoprirò con un semplice test, ”
“E fino ad allora non può fare nulla?”
“Niente, ”
“In tal caso continuerò il mio giro professionale. Ma tornerò stasera, all’ora che ha detto. Vorrei vedere come si risolverà questa intricata faccenda, ”
“Mi fa molto piacere rivederla. Cena alle sette. Credo ci sarà una pernice. A proposito, considerando gli eventi recenti, forse dovrei chiedere a Mrs. Hudson di controllare il suo becco, ” Ero rimasto trattenuto per un caso, e erano già passate le sei e mezza quando mi ritrovai di nuovo in Baker Street. Mentre mi avvicinavo alla casa, vidi un uomo alto con un cappello scozzese e un cappotto abbottonato fino al mento che aspettava fuori, nell’alone di luce proiettato dalla lampada a braccio. Appena arrivai, la porta si aprì e fummo accompagnati insieme nella stanza di Holmes.
“Immagino sia il signor Henry Baker,” disse Holmes alzandosi dal suo divano e salutando l’ospite con quell’aria disinvolta e cordiale che gli era tipica. “Si sieda pure vicino al fuoco, signor Baker. È una notte fredda, e noto che la sua circolazione è più adatta all’estate che all’inverno. Ah, Watson, è arrivato proprio al momento giusto. Quello è il suo cappello, vero, signor Baker?”
“Sì, senza dubbio.”
L’uomo era alto, con spalle rotonde, una testa massiccia e un viso largo e intelligente; la barba grigiastra gli arrivava fino al mento. Un leggero rossore sul naso e sulle guance, insieme a un lieve tremore della mano che tendeva verso di noi, confermavano le supposizioni di Holmes riguardo alle sue abitudini. Il suo cappotto nero, logoro, era abbottonato fino al collo; i polsi magri spuntavano dalle maniche senza alcun segno di polsino o camicia. Parlava in modo lento e misurato, scegliendo con cura le parole. Dava l’impressione di essere un uomo colto e istruito, ma che la fortuna non gli aveva mai sorriso.
“Abbiamo tenuto queste cose per alcuni giorni,” disse Holmes, “perché ci aspettavamo che lei pubblicasse un annuncio con il suo indirizzo. Non capisco proprio perché non l’abbia fatto.”
L’ospite rise imbarazzato. “Gli scellini non sono più così abbondanti come una volta,” disse. “Ero sicuro che quei teppisti che mi avevano assalito avessero portato via sia il mio cappello che l’uccello. Non volevo spendere altro denaro in un tentativo disperato di recuperarli.”
“Capisco perfettamente. A proposito dell’uccello, abbiamo dovuto mangiarlo, ”
“Mangiarlo!” esclamò l’uomo, alzandosi a metà dalla sedia per l’eccitazione.
“Sì. Altrimenti non sarebbe servito a nessuno. Ma suppongo che quell’altra oca sul comodino, che ha più o meno lo stesso peso e è perfettamente fresca, possa soddisfare le sue esigenze altrettanto bene, ”
“Oh, certamente, ” rispose il signor Baker, sollevato.
“Naturalmente abbiamo ancora le piume, le zampe, il becco, di quell’uccello. Se desidera, ”
L’uomo scoppiò a ridere. “Potrebbero essere utili come ricordi della mia avventura,” disse, “ma oltre a questo, non vedo davvero quale altro uso possano avere i resti di quel povero uccello. No, signore. Penso che, con il suo permesso, mi limiterò ad apprezzare l’ottima oca che vedo sul comodino, ”
Sherlock Holmes mi lanciò un’occhiata rapida e scrollò leggermente le spalle. “Ecco il tuo cappello, e ecco anche il tuo uccello,” disse lui. “A proposito, ti dispiacerebbe dirmi da dove hai preso l’altro? Sono un appassionato di pollame, e raramente ho visto una oca così ben cresciuta.”
“Certamente, signore,” rispose Baker, che si era alzato e aveva messo sotto il braccio i suoi nuovi acquisti. “Ci sono alcuni di noi che frequentano l’Alpha Inn, vicino al Museo. Di giorno ci troviamo direttamente nel Museo stesso, capite. Quest’anno il nostro gentile ospite, di nome Windigate, ha istituito un club delle oche: pagando qualche penny a settimana, ogni membro riceveva un uccello a Natale. Ho pagato regolarmente la mia quota. Il resto lo sapete già. Sono molto grato a voi, signore: un cappello scozzese non si addice né alla mia età né al mio modo di essere.” Con una comica solennità fece un inchino e se ne andò.
“Ecco tutto riguardo a Mr. Henry Baker,” disse Holmes dopo aver chiuso la porta alle sue spalle. “È certo che non sa assolutamente nulla su questa faccenda. Hai fame, Watson?”
“Non particolarmente.”
“Allora propongo di trasformare la cena in una cena tardiva e seguire questa pista finché è ancora fresca.”
“Certamente.”
Era una notte fredda; indossammo i nostri cappotti e avvolgemmo i colletti con le cravatte. Fuori, le stelle brillavano gelidamente in un cielo senza nuvole; il respiro delle persone che passavano si trasformava in vapore nell’aria fredda. I nostri passi risuonavano chiaramente mentre percorrevamo i quartieri dei medici, Wimpole Street, Harley Street, e poi Wigmore Street fino ad Oxford Street. In un quarto d’ora arrivammo all’Alpha Inn, un piccolo pub all’angolo di una strada che conduce a Holborn. Holmes spinse la porta del bar privato e ordinò due bicchieri di birra al proprietario, dal viso rosso e dall’uniforme bianca.
“La tua birra dovrebbe essere ottima, se è buona come le tue oche, ” disse lui.
“Le mie oche?” L’uomo sembrò sorpreso.
“Sì. Solo mezz’ora fa ho parlato con Mr. Henry Baker, che faceva parte del vostro club delle oche.”
“Oh. Ah, capisco. Ma, signore, quelle non sono le nostre oche, ”
“Davvero? Allora di chi sono?”
“Beh. Le ho comprate da un venditore a Covent Garden, ”
“Ah. Conosco alcuni di quei venditori. Di chi si tratta?”
“Si chiama Breckinridge.”
“Oh. Non lo conosco. Bene, buona notte, ”
“Ora tocca a Mr. Breckinridge,” continuò Holmes mentre ci avviavamo verso l’aria gelida della notte. “Ricorda, Watson: anche se all’estremità di questa catena c’è qualcosa di così semplice come un’oca, all’altra estremità c’è un uomo che rischia sicuramente sette anni di prigione. A meno che non riusciamo a dimostrare la sua innocenza. È possibile che le nostre indagini confermino la sua colpevolezza. Ma in ogni caso, abbiamo una pista che la polizia ha trascurato. Una pista che, per un caso fortunato, ci è stata offerta. Seguiamola fino in fondo. Andiamo!” Passammo attraverso Holborn, lungo Endell Street, e poi attraverso una serie di baraccopoli fino al mercato di Covent Garden. Uno dei banchi più grandi portava il nome di Breckinridge; il proprietario, un uomo dall’aspetto cavallino, con un viso affilato e baffetti curatissimi, stava aiutando un ragazzo a mettere su le persiane.
“Buonasera,” disse Holmes. “È una notte fredda.”
Il venditore annuì e lanciò uno sguardo interrogativo al mio compagno.
“Immagino che non abbiate più oche in vendita, vero?” continuò Holmes, indicando le lastre di marmo vuote sul banco.
“Potete averne cinquecento domani mattina.”
“Non va bene, ”
“Beh, ne ho alcune anche nel banco vicino al fornello a gas, ”
“Oh, ma mi è stato consigliato di venire da voi, ”
“Da chi?”
“Dal proprietario dell’Alpha, ”
“Oh, sì. Gli ne ho inviati un paio di dozzine, ”
“Erano anche ottimi uccelli. Da dove li avete presi?”
A mia sorpresa, questa domanda scatenò una rabbia improvvisa nel venditore.
“Allora, signore,” disse lui, inclinando la testa e incrociando le braccia, “di cosa si tratta esattamente? Ditemelo chiaramente.”
“È molto semplice: vorrei sapere chi vi ha venduto le oche che avete fornito all’Alpha, ”
“Allora non ve lo dirò. E basta!”
“Oh. Non è una questione importante. Ma non capisco perché si debba prendersela così tanto per una cosa del genere, ”
“Prendermela? Forse vi prendreste la stessa briga se foste costantemente importunati come lo sono io. Quando pago bene per un prodotto di qualità, vorrei che la faccenda finisse lì. Invece mi chiedono sempre ‘Dove sono le oche?’ ‘A chi le avete vendute?’ ‘Quanto volete per le oche?’ Si direbbe che siano le uniche oche al mondo, ”
“Beh. Non ho nulla a che fare con altre persone che hanno fatto domande, ” disse Holmes, in modo noncurante. “Se non volete dircelo, va bene. Ma sono sempre disposto a difendere la mia opinione riguardo ai polli. E ho cinque sterline scommesse sul fatto che l’uccello che ho mangiato sia stato allevato in campagna, ”
“Beh, allora avete perso le vostre cinque sterline. Perché quell’uccello è stato allevato in città, ” ribatté seccamente il venditore.
“Non è affatto vero, ”
“Lo dico io, ”
“Non ci credo, ”
“Pensate di sapere più cose sui polli di me, che me ne occupo da quando ero piccolo? Vi assicuro: tutti quegli uccelli che sono andati all’Alpha sono stati allevati in città, ”
“Non riuscirete mai a convincermi, ”
“Allora scommettete?”
“È solo sprecare il vostro denaro. So di avere ragione. Ma vi offro una sterlina in più, solo per insegnarvi a non essere testardi, ”
Il venditore ridacchiò cupamente. “Portami i registri, Bill,” disse.
Il ragazzo portò un piccolo libro sottile e uno molto grosso e unto; li posero entrambi sotto la lampada appesa al soffitto.
“Allora, signor Presuntuoso, ” disse il venditore, “pensavo di non avere più oche in vendita. Ma prima che finisca questa discussione, scoprirete che ne ho ancora una. Vedete questo piccolo libro?”
“Sì, ” “Il seguente è l’elenco delle persone da cui compro. Vedi? In questa pagina ci sono i contadini del posto, e i numeri dopo i loro nomi indicano dove si trovano i loro conti nel grande libro contabile. Ora, guarda questa altra pagina scritta in inchiostro rosso: è l’elenco dei miei fornitori della città. Guarda quel terzo nome. Leggimelo ad alta voce.”
“Signora Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road – 249,” lesse Holmes.
“Esatto. Ora cerca questo dato nel libro contabile.”
Holmes trovò la pagina indicata e lesse: “Ecco qui: ‘Signora Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road, fornitrice di uova e pollame.’”
“Allora, qual è l’ultima voce?”
“‘22 dicembre. Ventiquattro oche al prezzo di 7 scellini e 6 pence.’”
“Esatto. E sotto c’è scritto: ‘Vendute a Mr. Windigate dell’Alpha, al prezzo di 12 scellini.’”
“Cosa ne pensi ora?”
Sherlock Holmes sembrava profondamente disgustato. Estrasse una sovrana dal taschino e la gettò a terra, poi si allontanò con l’espressione di chi provava un disgusto troppo profondo per poterlo esprimere a parole. Dopo qualche metro si fermò sotto un lampione e rise in quel suo modo silenzioso ma sonoro, tipico di lui.
“Quando vedi un uomo con quei baffi e quella ‘cose rosa’ che spuntano dal taschino, puoi essere sicuro che è disposto a dirti qualsiasi cosa, anche se solo per vincere una scommessa,” disse. “Scommetto che se gli avessi offerto 100 sterline, non mi avrebbe fornito informazioni così dettagliate. Solo perché pensava di dovermi qualcosa in cambio della scommessa. Bene, Watson, credo che stiamo per arrivare alla fine delle nostre ricerche. L’unica cosa da decidere ora è se andare da questa signora Oakshott stasera o aspettare domani. È evidente che ci sono altre persone interessate a questa faccenda. E io, ”
Le sue parole furono interrotte improvvisamente da un gran trambusto proveniente dal negozio che avevamo appena lasciato. Ci girammo e vedemmo un ometto con il viso lungo e magro in piedi al centro del cerchio di luce creato dalla lampada, mentre Breckinridge, il venditore, lo minacciava furiosamente dalla soglia del suo negozio.
“Ne ho abbastanza di te e delle tue oche!” gridò Breckinridge. “Vorrei che foste tutti all’inferno! Se continui a disturbarmi con le tue sciocchezze, manderò il cane contro di te. Porta qui la signora Oakshott, e io risponderò a tutte le sue domande. Ma cosa c’entri tu in tutto questo? Le ho comprate davvero da te quelle oche?”
“No, ma una di esse era comunque mia,” piagnucolò l’ometto.
“Allora chiedilo direttamente alla signora Oakshott.”
“Mi ha detto di chiederlo a te, ”
“Beh, puoi anche chiederlo al Re di Proosia. Non m’interessa affatto! Vattene!” Breckinridge si avvicinò minacciosamente, e l’ometto fuggì nella oscurità. “Il giusto! Questo potrebbe risparmiarci una visita in Brixton Road,” sussurrò Holmes. “Venga con me, e vedremo cosa si può fare con questo individuo.” Attraversando rapidamente la folla che si aggirava intorno ai banchi illuminati dai lumi a gas, il mio compagno raggiunse presto il piccolo uomo e gli toccò una spalla. L’uomo si girò di scatto, e sotto la luce dei lumi a gas si poteva vedere che ogni traccia di colore era scomparsa dal suo viso.
“Chi è lei, allora? Cosa vuole?” chiese con voce tremante.
“Mi perdoni,” disse Holmes in tono tranquillo, “ma non ho potuto fare a meno di sentire le domande che ha posto poco fa al venditore. Penso di poterle essere d’aiuto.”
“Lei? Chi è lei? Come potrebbe sapere qualcosa su questa faccenda?”
“Mi chiamo Sherlock Holmes. Il mio lavoro consiste nel scoprire ciò che gli altri non sanno.”
“Ma lei non può sapere nulla al riguardo, ”
“Mi perdoni, so tutto. Sta cercando di rintracciare alcune oche vendute dalla signora Oakshott di Brixton Road a un venditore di nome Breckinridge, che a sua volta le ha vendute a Mr. Windigate dell’Alpha, il quale le ha poi cedute al suo club, del quale fa parte anche il signor Henry Baker.”
“Oh, signore, lei è proprio l’uomo che desideravo incontrare da tempo!” esclamò il piccolo uomo, tendendo le mani. “Non so nemmeno come spiegarle quanto sia importante per me questa faccenda, ”
Sherlock Holmes chiamò un veicolo a quattro ruote che passava di lì. “In tal caso, sarebbe meglio discuterne in un ambiente confortevole, piuttosto che in questo mercato esposto al vento,” disse. “Ma prima di andare oltre, mi dica: a chi ho il piacere di essere d’aiuto?”
L’uomo esitò per un istante. “Mi chiamo John Robinson,” rispose, lanciando uno sguardo obliquo.
“No, no. Il vero nome,” disse Holmes dolcemente. “È sempre imbarazzante fare affari usando un falso nome.”
Un rossore apparve sulle guance pallide dello straniero. “Bene allora, il mio vero nome è James Ryder.”
“Esatto. Cameriere capo dell’Hotel Cosmopolitan. Venga dentro la vettura, e in poco tempo le dirò tutto ciò che desidera sapere.”
Il piccolo uomo rimase fermo, guardandoci alternativamente con occhi mezzi spaventati, mezzi speranzosi, come se non fosse sicuro di essere sull’orlo di una fortuna o di un disastro. Poi salì nella vettura, e mezz’ora dopo eravamo di nuovo nel soggiorno di Baker Street. Durante il tragitto nessuno parlò; solo il respiro affannoso del nostro nuovo compagno e i suoi gesti nervosi rivelavano la sua tensione interiore.
“Eccoci qui!” disse Holmes allegramente entrando nella stanza. “Il fuoco è davvero piacevole in questo clima. Sembra che abbia freddo, signor Ryder. Si sieda pure. Mi cambio le pantofole e poi risolveremo questa sua piccola questione.”
“Allora, vuole sapere cosa ne è stato di quelle oche?”
“Sì, signore.”
“O meglio, credo che si tratti di un’unica oca. Immagino che sia quella che le interessa: bianca, con una striscia nera sulla coda, ” Ryder tremava per l’emozione. “Oh, signore,” gridò, “può dirmi dove è finita?”
“È rimasta qui.”
“Qui?”
“Sì, ed è risultata un uccello davvero straordinario. Non mi meraviglio che vi interessi tanto. Ha deposto un uovo dopo essere morto, il più bello, il più luminoso uovo blu che si sia mai visto. L’ho qui nel mio museo.”
Il nostro visitatore barcollò in piedi e si aggrappò al caminetto con la mano destra. Holmes aprì la sua cassaforte e mostrò quel gioiello blu, che brillava come una stella, con un bagliore freddo e intenso. Ryder rimase a fissarlo, con il viso pallido, incerto se dovesse ammetterlo o negarlo.
“La partita è finita, Ryder,” disse Holmes in tono calmo. “Stai attento, altrimenti finirai nei guai! Aiutalo a risedersi sulla sedia, Watson. Non ha abbastanza sangue freddo per commettere un reato così grave e uscirne indenne. Dagli un po’ di brandy. Ecco. Ora sembra un po’ più umano. Che piccolo verme, davvero!”
Per un momento aveva barcollato e rischiato di cadere, ma il brandy gli restituì un po’ di colore sulle guance. Sedette, fissando con occhi spaventati il suo accusatore.
“Ho quasi tutti gli elementi necessari in mano, e tutte le prove che potessi desiderare. Quindi non c’è molto che tu debba dirmi. Tuttavia, sarebbe meglio chiarire anche quel dettaglio per rendere il caso completo. Avevi sentito parlare di questo gioiello blu della Contessa di Morcar, vero?”
“È stata Catherine Cusack a parlamene,” rispose lui con voce tremante.
“Capisco, la cameriera personale della contessa. Beh, la tentazione di arricchirsi così facilmente è stata troppo forte per te, come lo è stata per molti altri prima di te. Ma i mezzi che hai usato non erano certo onesti. A mio parere, Ryder, ciò che in te c’è potrebbe far di te un vero e proprio cattivo. Sapevi che quel Horner, il idraulico, era già stato coinvolto in simili affari in passato. E quindi la sospetta sarebbe ricaduta facilmente su di lui. Così hai fatto. Hai commesso qualche piccolo furto nella stanza della contessa, tu e la tua complice Cusack, e avete fatto in modo che fosse lui ad essere chiamato. Poi, quando se n’è andato, hai saccheggiato la cassaforte, hai dato l’allarme e fatto arrestare quell’infortunato. E poi, ”
Ryder si gettò improvvisamente a terra, afferrando le ginocchia del mio compagno. “Per l’amor di Dio, abbia pietà!” gridò. “Pensi a mio padre, a mia madre. Li distruggerebbe. Non ho mai fatto nulla di male prima. Non lo farò più. Lo giuro. Lo giuro sulla Bibbia. Oh, non porti il caso in tribunale. Per l’amor di Cristo, ”
“Rimettiti a sedere!” disse Holmes con severità. “Ora è facile tremare e supplicare. Ma tu hai pensato molto poco a quel povero Horner, accusato di un crimine di cui non sapeva nulla, ”
“Scapperò, signor Holmes. Lascierò il paese. Allora le accuse contro di lui cadranno, ” “Hmm! Ne parleremo più tardi. Ora ascoltiamo invece la vera storia di ciò che è successo dopo. Come è finita la pietra nella oca, e come l’oca è finita sul mercato aperto? Diteci la verità: è l’unica speranza per la vostra sicurezza.”
Ryder passò la lingua sulle sue labbra secche. “Vi racconterò tutto esattamente come è accaduto, signore,” disse. “Quando Horner fu arrestato, pensai che fosse meglio per me portare via subito quella pietra. Non sapevo infatti quando la polizia avrebbe potuto decidere di perquisirmi e la mia stanza. Non c’era nessun posto nell’hotel dove fosse al sicuro. Uscii, come se avessi un incarico da svolgere, e mi diressi verso la casa di mia sorella. Lei si era sposata con un uomo di nome Oakshott e viveva in Brixton Road, dove allevava polli per il mercato. Lungo il cammino, ogni persona che incontravo sembrava essere una poliziotto o un detective. E, nonostante fosse una notte fredda, il sudore mi scorreva lungo il viso quando arrivai a Brixton Road. Mia sorella mi chiese cosa fosse successo e perché fossi così pallido; le dissi che ero sconvolto per la rapina alla gioielleria dell’hotel. Poi andai nel cortile posteriore, fumai una pipa e pensai a cosa fare. “Un tempo avevo un amico di nome Maudsley. Era diventato cattivo e stava appena scontando la sua pena a Pentonville. Un giorno ci incontrammo e iniziammo a parlare dei modi in cui i ladri riescono a liberarsi di ciò che rubano. Sapevo che mi avrebbe detto la verità. Così decisi di andare direttamente da lui, a Kilburn, e confidargli tutto. Lui mi avrebbe mostrato come trasformare quella pietra in denaro. Ma come raggiungerlo in sicurezza? Ripensai alle difficoltà che avevo incontrato per tornare dall’hotel. Qualsiasi momento potevo essere arrestato e perquisito, e la pietra sarebbe stata nel mio gilet. Mi appoggiai al muro e guardai le oche che si muovevano intorno a me. All’improvviso mi venne un’idea. Un’idea che avrebbe potuto far vincere anche il miglior detective del mondo. “Qualche settimana prima, mia sorella mi aveva detto che potevo scegliere una delle sue oche come regalo di Natale. E sapevo che manteneva sempre la sua parola. Avrei preso un’oca e nascosto la pietra dentro di essa. C’era un piccolo capanno nel cortile. Lì ho portato una delle oche. Una bella oca bianca, con la coda a strisce. L’ho afferrata, le ho aperto il becco e ho infilato la pietra nella sua gola. L’oca ha deglutito. Ho sentito la pietra scendere lungo la sua trachea. Ma l’animale ha iniziato a dibattersi. Mia sorella è uscita per vedere cosa stesse succedendo. Mentre mi giravo per parlarle, l’oca è scappata via tra le altre, ” “‘Oh,’ disse lei, ‘abbiamo riservato quella che volevi per te. La chiamiamo l’uccello di Jem. È quella bianca grande laggiù. Ne abbiamo ventisei in totale: una per te, una per noi, e ventiquattro da vendere al mercato.’
‘Grazie, Maggie,’ risposi io; ‘ma se per voi fa lo stesso, preferirei prendere quella che stavo guardando poco fa.’
‘L’altra pesa ben tre libbre in più,’ disse lei, ‘e l’abbiamo ingrassata apposta per te.’
‘Nessun problema. Prenderò quell’altra, e la prenderò subito,’ dissi.
‘Oh, come vuoi tu,’ rispose lei, un po’ seccata. ‘Allora, quale vuoi?’
‘Quella bianca con la coda a strisce, proprio nel mezzo del stormo.’
‘Ah, molto bene. Uccidila e portala via con te.’
Beh, feci come mi disse, signor Holmes. Portai l’uccello fino a Kilburn. Raccontai tutto al mio amico, perché era un tipo a cui si poteva facilmente dire una cosa del genere. Rise fino a soffocarsi, e poi prendemmo un coltello per aprire l’oca. Ma non c’era traccia della pietra. Capii che era successo un terribile errore. Lasciai l’uccello e corsi subito da mia sorella. Nell’orto dietro casa, non c’era nessun uccello. ‘Dove sono finite tutte?’ gridai.
‘Le hanno portate dal commerciante, Jem.’
‘Quale commerciante?’
‘Breckinridge, di Covent Garden.’
‘Ma c’era un’altra oca con la coda a strisce? Quella che avevo scelto io?’
‘Sì. Ce n’erano due. E non riuscivo mai a distinguerle, ’
Beh. Allora capii tutto. Corsi subito da quel Breckinridge. Ma aveva già venduto tutte le oche. Non volle dirmi dove fossero finite. L’avete sentito anche voi stasera. Sempre risponde così. Mia sorella pensa che io stia impazzendo. A volte penso anch’io di essere pazzo. E ora. Ora sono diventato un ladro. Senza mai aver toccato il denaro per cui ho venduto la mia onestà. Dio mi aiuti! Dio mi aiuti, ” Scoppiò in singhiozzi convulsi, con il viso nascosto tra le mani.
Ci fu un lungo silenzio. Solo il suo respiro affannoso e il ticchettio delle dita di Sherlock Holmes sul bordo del tavolo rompevano il silenzio. Poi mio amico si alzò e aprì la porta. “Vattene!” disse.
“Cosa? Signore. Oh, che Dio vi benedica, ”
“Nient’altro. Vattene.”
E non servirono altre parole. Ci fu un fuggi affannoso, il rumore di passi sulle scale, lo sbattere di una porta. E poi il suono dei passi che si allontanavano per strada. “Dopotutto, Watson,” disse Holmes, alzando la mano per prendere la sua pipa di terracotta, “la polizia non mi ha assunto per colmare le loro lacune. Se Horner fosse in pericolo, sarebbe un’altra questione; ma questo individuo non comparirà mai in tribunale contro di lui, e quindi il caso dovrà essere archiviato. Suppongo di stia commettendo un reato grave, ma è anche possibile che stia salvando una vita. Questo uomo non commetterà più errori: ha paura troppo grande. Mandatelo in prigione ora, e lo trasformerete in un detenuto a vita. Inoltre, questa è la stagione del perdono. Il caso ci ha presentato un problema straordinario e bizzarro; la sua soluzione rappresenta già una ricompensa sufficiente. Se vuole essere così gentile da suonare il campanello, dottore, inizieremo un’altra indagine. In questa nuova indagine, anch’essa, un uccello sarà il protagonista principale.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend Sherlock Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely strange, but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the love of his art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to associate himself with any investigation which did not tend towards the unusual, and even the fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any which presented more singular features than that which was associated with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The events in question occurred in the early days of my association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in Baker Street. It is possible that I might have placed them upon record before, but a promise of secrecy was made at the time, from which I have only been freed during the last month by the untimely death of the lady to whom the pledge was given. It is perhaps as well that the facts should now come to light, for I have reasons to know that there are widespread rumours as to the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the matter even more terrible than the truth. It was early in April in the year ‘83 that I woke one morning to find Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him in some surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was myself regular in my habits. “Very sorry to knock you up, Watson,” said he, “but it’s the common lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon me, and I on you.” “What is it, then — a fire?” “No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a considerable state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up out of their beds, I presume that it is something very pressing which they have to communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I should call you and give you the chance.” “My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything.” I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis with which he unravelled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw on my clothes and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend down to the sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who had been sitting in the window, rose as we entered. “Good-morning, madam,” said Holmes cheerily. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw up to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe that you are shivering.” “It is not cold which makes me shiver,” said the woman in a low voice, changing her seat as requested. “What, then?” “It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror.” She raised her veil as she spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of agitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless frightened eyes, like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature grey, and her expression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of his quick, all-comprehensive glances. “You must not fear,” said he soothingly, bending forward and patting her forearm. “We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You have come in by train this morning, I see.” “You know me, then?” “No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the station.” The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my companion. “There is no mystery, my dear madam,” said he, smiling. “The left arm of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand side of the driver.” “Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,” said she. “I started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this strain no longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to — none, save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could help me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be married, with the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not find me ungrateful.” Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small case-book, which he consulted. “Farintosh,” said he. “Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as I did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own reward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put to, at the time which suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the matter.” “Alas!” replied our visitor, “the very horror of my situation lies in the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his soothing answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me.” “I am all attention, madam.” “My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey.” Holmes nodded his head. “The name is familiar to me,” said he. “The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family ruin was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions, obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a medical degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional skill and his force of character, he established a large practice. In a fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death and narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term of imprisonment and afterwards returned to England a morose and disappointed man. “When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the time of my mother’s re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of money — not less than £1000 a year — and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely while we resided with him, with a provision that a certain annual sum should be allowed to each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly after our return to England my mother died — she was killed eight years ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his attempts to establish himself in practice in London and took us to live with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money which my mother had left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness. “But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time. Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours, who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back in the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom came out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might cross his path. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been hereditary in the men of the family, and in my stepfather’s case it had, I believe, been intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police-court, until at last he became the terror of the village, and the folks would fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense strength, and absolutely uncontrollable in his anger. “Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a stream, and it was only by paying over all the money which I could gather together that I was able to avert another public exposure. He had no friends at all save the wandering gipsies, and he would give these vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered land which represent the family estate, and would accept in return the hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes for weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah and a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds and are feared by the villagers almost as much as their master. “You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had no great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and for a long time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty at the time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to whiten, even as mine has.” “Your sister is dead, then?” “She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I have described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother’s maiden sister, Miss Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally allowed to pay short visits at this lady’s house. Julia went there at Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines, to whom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement when my sister returned and offered no objection to the marriage; but within a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only companion.” Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids now and glanced across at his visitor. “Pray be precise as to details,” said he. “It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said, very old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central block of the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott’s, the second my sister’s, and the third my own. There is no communication between them, but they all open out into the same corridor. Do I make myself plain?” “Perfectly so.” “The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left her room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time, chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o’clock she rose to leave me, but she paused at the door and looked back. “ ’Tell me, Helen,’ said she, ‘have you ever heard anyone whistle in the dead of the night?’ “ ’Never,’ said I. “ ’I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in your sleep?’ “ ’Certainly not. But why?’ “ ’Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from — perhaps from the next room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you whether you had heard it.’ “ ’No, I have not. It must be those wretched gipsies in the plantation.’ “ ’Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did not hear it also.’ “ ’Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.’ “ ’Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.’ She smiled back at me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn in the lock.” “Indeed,” said Holmes. “Was it your custom always to lock yourselves in at night?” “Always.” “And why?” “I think that I mentioned to you that the doctor kept a cheetah and a baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were locked.” “Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement.” “I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending misfortune impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were twins, and you know how subtle are the links which bind two souls which are so closely allied. It was a wild night. The wind was howling outside, and the rain was beating and splashing against the windows. Suddenly, amid all the hubbub of the gale, there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified woman. I knew that it was my sister’s voice. I sprang from my bed, wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor. As I opened my door I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my sister described, and a few moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen. As I ran down the passage, my sister’s door was unlocked, and revolved slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing what was about to issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I saw my sister appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her hands groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that of a drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground. She writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully convulsed. At first I thought that she had not recognised me, but as I bent over her she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I shall never forget, ‘Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled band!’ There was something else which she would fain have said, and she stabbed with her finger into the air in the direction of the doctor’s room, but a fresh convulsion seized her and choked her words. I rushed out, calling loudly for my stepfather, and I met him hastening from his room in his dressing-gown. When he reached my sister’s side she was unconscious, and though he poured brandy down her throat and sent for medical aid from the village, all efforts were in vain, for she slowly sank and died without having recovered her consciousness. Such was the dreadful end of my beloved sister.” “One moment,” said Holmes, “are you sure about this whistle and metallic sound? Could you swear to it?” “That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the gale and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have been deceived.” “Was your sister dressed?” “No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the charred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box.” “Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the coroner come to?” “He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott’s conduct had long been notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had been fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were secured every night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite solid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with the same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone when she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence upon her.” “How about poison?” “The doctors examined her for it, but without success.” “What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?” “It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine.” “Were there gipsies in the plantation at the time?” “Yes, there are nearly always some there.” “Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band — a speckled band?” “Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of delirium, sometimes that it may have referred to some band of people, perhaps to these very gipsies in the plantation. I do not know whether the spotted handkerchiefs which so many of them wear over their heads might have suggested the strange adjective which she used.” Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied. “These are very deep waters,” said he; “pray go on with your narrative.” “Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have known for many years, has done me the honour to ask my hand in marriage. His name is Armitage — Percy Armitage — the second son of Mr. Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My stepfather has offered no opposition to the match, and we are to be married in the course of the spring. Two days ago some repairs were started in the west wing of the building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have had to move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in the very bed in which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror when last night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I suddenly heard in the silence of the night the low whistle which had been the herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was to be seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed again, however, so I dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I slipped down, got a dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead, from whence I have come on this morning with the one object of seeing you and asking your advice.” “You have done wisely,” said my friend. “But have you told me all?” “Yes, all.” “Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather.” “Why, what do you mean?” For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed the hand that lay upon our visitor’s knee. Five little livid spots, the marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the white wrist. “You have been cruelly used,” said Holmes. The lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured wrist. “He is a hard man,” she said, “and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength.” There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon his hands and stared into the crackling fire. “This is a very deep business,” he said at last. “There are a thousand details which I should desire to know before I decide upon our course of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to come to Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to see over these rooms without the knowledge of your stepfather?” “As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some most important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a housekeeper now, but she is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out of the way.” “Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?” “By no means.” “Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?” “I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in town. But I shall return by the twelve o’clock train, so as to be there in time for your coming.” “And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some small business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and breakfast?” “No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided my trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this afternoon.” She dropped her thick black veil over her face and glided from the room. “And what do you think of it all, Watson?” asked Sherlock Holmes, leaning back in his chair. “It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business.” “Dark enough and sinister enough.” “Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then her sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her mysterious end.” “What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the very peculiar words of the dying woman?” “I cannot think.” “When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a band of gipsies who are on intimate terms with this old doctor, the fact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has an interest in preventing his stepdaughter’s marriage, the dying allusion to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner heard a metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those metal bars that secured the shutters falling back into its place, I think that there is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along those lines.” “But what, then, did the gipsies do?” “I cannot imagine.” “I see many objections to any such theory.” “And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal, or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of the devil!” The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the professional and of the agricultural, having a black top-hat, a long frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross bar of the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from side to side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to the other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high, thin, fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old bird of prey. “Which of you is Holmes?” asked this apparition. “My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me,” said my companion quietly. “I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran.” “Indeed, Doctor,” said Holmes blandly. “Pray take a seat.” “I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have traced her. What has she been saying to you?” “It is a little cold for the time of the year,” said Holmes. “What has she been saying to you?” screamed the old man furiously. “But I have heard that the crocuses promise well,” continued my companion imperturbably. “Ha! You put me off, do you?” said our new visitor, taking a step forward and shaking his hunting-crop. “I know you, you scoundrel! I have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler.” My friend smiled. “Holmes, the busybody!” His smile broadened. “Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!” Holmes chuckled heartily. “Your conversation is most entertaining,” said he. “When you go out close the door, for there is a decided draught.” “I will go when I have said my say. Don’t you dare to meddle with my affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her! I am a dangerous man to fall foul of! See here.” He stepped swiftly forward, seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands. “See that you keep yourself out of my grip,” he snarled, and hurling the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the room. “He seems a very amiable person,” said Holmes, laughing. “I am not quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my grip was not much more feeble than his own.” As he spoke he picked up the steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again. “Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation, however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson, we shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to Doctors’ Commons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in this matter.” It was nearly one o’clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over with notes and figures. “I have seen the will of the deceased wife,” said he. “To determine its exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the present prices of the investments with which it is concerned. The total income, which at the time of the wife’s death was little short of £1100, is now, through the fall in agricultural prices, not more than £750. Each daughter can claim an income of £250, in case of marriage. It is evident, therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would have had a mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to a very serious extent. My morning’s work has not been wasted, since it has proved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in the way of anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious for dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are interesting ourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, we shall call a cab and drive to Waterloo. I should be very much obliged if you would slip your revolver into your pocket. An Eley’s No. 2 is an excellent argument with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a tooth-brush are, I think, all that we need.” At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead, where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove for four or five miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and wayside hedges were just throwing out their first green shoots, and the air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me at least there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the spring and this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My companion sat in the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over his eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the deepest thought. Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed over the meadows. “Look there!” said he. A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening into a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches there jutted out the grey gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion. “Stoke Moran?” said he. “Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott,” remarked the driver. “There is some building going on there,” said Holmes; “that is where we are going.” “There’s the village,” said the driver, pointing to a cluster of roofs some distance to the left; “but if you want to get to the house, you’ll find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the foot-path over the fields. There it is, where the lady is walking.” “And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner,” observed Holmes, shading his eyes. “Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest.” We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to Leatherhead. “I thought it as well,” said Holmes as we climbed the stile, “that this fellow should think we had come here as architects, or on some definite business. It may stop his gossip. Good-afternoon, Miss Stoner. You see that we have been as good as our word.” Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a face which spoke her joy. “I have been waiting so eagerly for you,” she cried, shaking hands with us warmly. “All has turned out splendidly. Dr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he will be back before evening.” “We have had the pleasure of making the doctor’s acquaintance,” said Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had occurred. Miss Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened. “Good heavens!” she cried, “he has followed me, then.” “So it appears.” “He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What will he say when he returns?” “He must guard himself, for he may find that there is someone more cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from him to-night. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt’s at Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our time, so kindly take us at once to the rooms which we are to examine.” The building was of grey, lichen-blotched stone, with a high central portion and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab, thrown out on each side. In one of these wings the windows were broken and blocked with wooden boards, while the roof was partly caved in, a picture of ruin. The central portion was in little better repair, but the right-hand block was comparatively modern, and the blinds in the windows, with the blue smoke curling up from the chimneys, showed that this was where the family resided. Some scaffolding had been erected against the end wall, and the stone-work had been broken into, but there were no signs of any workmen at the moment of our visit. Holmes walked slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn and examined with deep attention the outsides of the windows. “This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep, the centre one to your sister’s, and the one next to the main building to Dr. Roylott’s chamber?” “Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one.” “Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there does not seem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that end wall.” “There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me from my room.” “Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing runs the corridor from which these three rooms open. There are windows in it, of course?” “Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone to pass through.” “As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were unapproachable from that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go into your room and bar your shutters?” Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination through the open window, endeavoured in every way to force the shutter open, but without success. There was no slit through which a knife could be passed to raise the bar. Then with his lens he tested the hinges, but they were of solid iron, built firmly into the massive masonry. “Hum!” said he, scratching his chin in some perplexity, “my theory certainly presents some difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if they were bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws any light upon the matter.” A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor from which the three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third chamber, so we passed at once to the second, that in which Miss Stoner was now sleeping, and in which her sister had met with her fate. It was a homely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after the fashion of old country-houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in one corner, a narrow white-counterpaned bed in another, and a dressing-table on the left-hand side of the window. These articles, with two small wicker-work chairs, made up all the furniture in the room save for a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards round and the panelling of the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak, so old and discoloured that it may have dated from the original building of the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner and sat silent, while his eyes travelled round and round and up and down, taking in every detail of the apartment. “Where does that bell communicate with?” he asked at last pointing to a thick bell-rope which hung down beside the bed, the tassel actually lying upon the pillow. “It goes to the housekeeper’s room.” “It looks newer than the other things?” “Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago.” “Your sister asked for it, I suppose?” “No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get what we wanted for ourselves.” “Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull there. You will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this floor.” He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in his hand and crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining minutely the cracks between the boards. Then he did the same with the wood-work with which the chamber was panelled. Finally he walked over to the bed and spent some time in staring at it and in running his eye up and down the wall. Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave it a brisk tug. “Why, it’s a dummy,” said he. “Won’t it ring?” “No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting. You can see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where the little opening for the ventilator is.” “How very absurd! I never noticed that before.” “Very strange!” muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. “There are one or two very singular points about this room. For example, what a fool a builder must be to open a ventilator into another room, when, with the same trouble, he might have communicated with the outside air!” “That is also quite modern,” said the lady. “Done about the same time as the bell-rope?” remarked Holmes. “Yes, there were several little changes carried out about that time.” “They seem to have been of a most interesting character — dummy bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into the inner apartment.” Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s chamber was larger than that of his step-daughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small wooden shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character, an armchair beside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall, a round table, and a large iron safe were the principal things which met the eye. Holmes walked slowly round and examined each and all of them with the keenest interest. “What’s in here?” he asked, tapping the safe. “My stepfather’s business papers.” “Oh! you have seen inside, then?” “Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers.” “There isn’t a cat in it, for example?” “No. What a strange idea!” “Well, look at this!” He took up a small saucer of milk which stood on the top of it. “No; we don’t keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a baboon.” “Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet a saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I daresay. There is one point which I should wish to determine.” He squatted down in front of the wooden chair and examined the seat of it with the greatest attention. “Thank you. That is quite settled,” said he, rising and putting his lens in his pocket. “Hullo! Here is something interesting!” The object which had caught his eye was a small dog lash hung on one corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself and tied so as to make a loop of whipcord. “What do you make of that, Watson?” “It’s a common enough lash. But I don’t know why it should be tied.” “That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it’s a wicked world, and when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst of all. I think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your permission we shall walk out upon the lawn.” I had never seen my friend’s face so grim or his brow so dark as it was when we turned from the scene of this investigation. We had walked several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor myself liking to break in upon his thoughts before he roused himself from his reverie. “It is very essential, Miss Stoner,” said he, “that you should absolutely follow my advice in every respect.” “I shall most certainly do so.” “The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend upon your compliance.” “I assure you that I am in your hands.” “In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in your room.” Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment. “Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the village inn over there?” “Yes, that is the Crown.” “Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?” “Certainly.” “You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a headache, when your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him retire for the night, you must open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp, put your lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw quietly with everything which you are likely to want into the room which you used to occupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could manage there for one night.” “Oh, yes, easily.” “The rest you will leave in our hands.” “But what will you do?” “We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate the cause of this noise which has disturbed you.” “I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind,” said Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion’s sleeve. “Perhaps I have.” “Then, for pity’s sake, tell me what was the cause of my sister’s death.” “I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak.” “You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and if she died from some sudden fright.” “No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you for if Dr. Roylott returned and saw us our journey would be in vain. Good-bye, and be brave, for if you will do what I have told you, you may rest assured that we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you.” Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and from our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and of the inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw Dr. Grimesby Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside the little figure of the lad who drove him. The boy had some slight difficulty in undoing the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse roar of the doctor’s voice and saw the fury with which he shook his clinched fists at him. The trap drove on, and a few minutes later we saw a sudden light spring up among the trees as the lamp was lit in one of the sitting-rooms. “Do you know, Watson,” said Holmes as we sat together in the gathering darkness, “I have really some scruples as to taking you to-night. There is a distinct element of danger.” “Can I be of assistance?” “Your presence might be invaluable.” “Then I shall certainly come.” “It is very kind of you.” “You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these rooms than was visible to me.” “No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine that you saw all that I did.” “I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose that could answer I confess is more than I can imagine.” “You saw the ventilator, too?” “Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have a small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a rat could hardly pass through.” “I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came to Stoke Moran.” “My dear Holmes!” “Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that her sister could smell Dr. Roylott’s cigar. Now, of course that suggested at once that there must be a communication between the two rooms. It could only be a small one, or it would have been remarked upon at the coroner’s inquiry. I deduced a ventilator.” “But what harm can there be in that?” “Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does not that strike you?” “I cannot as yet see any connection.” “Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?” “No.” “It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like that before?” “I cannot say that I have.” “The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same relative position to the ventilator and to the rope — or so we may call it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull.” “Holmes,” I cried, “I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We are only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime.” “Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and Pritchard were among the heads of their profession. This man strikes even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough before the night is over; for goodness’ sake let us have a quiet pipe and turn our minds for a few hours to something more cheerful.” About nine o’clock the light among the trees was extinguished, and all was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours passed slowly away, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a single bright light shone out right in front of us. “That is our signal,” said Holmes, springing to his feet; “it comes from the middle window.” As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the landlord, explaining that we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance, and that it was possible that we might spend the night there. A moment later we were out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our faces, and one yellow light twinkling in front of us through the gloom to guide us on our sombre errand. There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for unrepaired breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way among the trees, we reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the window when out from a clump of laurel bushes there darted what seemed to be a hideous and distorted child, who threw itself upon the grass with writhing limbs and then ran swiftly across the lawn into the darkness. “My God!” I whispered; “did you see it?” Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed like a vice upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low laugh and put his lips to my ear. “It is a nice household,” he murmured. “That is the baboon.” I had forgotten the strange pets which the doctor affected. There was a cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders at any moment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after following Holmes’ example and slipping off my shoes, I found myself inside the bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp onto the table, and cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had seen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet of his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all that I could do to distinguish the words: “The least sound would be fatal to our plans.” I nodded to show that I had heard. “We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator.” I nodded again. “Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your pistol ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the bed, and you in that chair.” I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table. Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon the bed beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and the stump of a candle. Then he turned down the lamp, and we were left in darkness. How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a sound, not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my companion sat open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same state of nervous tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut off the least ray of light, and we waited in absolute darkness. From outside came the occasional cry of a night-bird, and once at our very window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us that the cheetah was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the deep tones of the parish clock, which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How long they seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and one and two and three, and still we sat waiting silently for whatever might befall. Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the direction of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a strong smell of burning oil and heated metal. Someone in the next room had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement, and then all was silent once more, though the smell grew stronger. For half an hour I sat with straining ears. Then suddenly another sound became audible — a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small jet of steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that we heard it, Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed furiously with his cane at the bell-pull. “You see it, Watson?” he yelled. “You see it?” But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I heard a low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary eyes made it impossible for me to tell what it was at which my friend lashed so savagely. I could, however, see that his face was deadly pale and filled with horror and loathing. He had ceased to strike and was gazing up at the ventilator when suddenly there broke from the silence of the night the most horrible cry to which I have ever listened. It swelled up louder and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and fear and anger all mingled in the one dreadful shriek. They say that away down in the village, and even in the distant parsonage, that cry raised the sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts, and I stood gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of it had died away into the silence from which it rose. “What can it mean?” I gasped. “It means that it is all over,” Holmes answered. “And perhaps, after all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr. Roylott’s room.” With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor. Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply from within. Then he turned the handle and entered, I at his heels, with the cocked pistol in my hand. It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a dark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant beam of light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside this table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott clad in a long grey dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and his feet thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the short stock with the long lash which we had noticed during the day. His chin was cocked upward and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid stare at the corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a peculiar yellow band, with brownish speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly round his head. As we entered he made neither sound nor motion. “The band! the speckled band!” whispered Holmes. I took a step forward. In an instant his strange headgear began to move, and there reared itself from among his hair the squat diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent. “It is a swamp adder!” cried Holmes; “the deadliest snake in India. He has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its den, and we can then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and let the county police know what has happened.” As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man’s lap, and throwing the noose round the reptile’s neck he drew it from its horrid perch and, carrying it at arm’s length, threw it into the iron safe, which he closed upon it. Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative which has already run to too great a length by telling how we broke the sad news to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the morning train to the care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow process of official inquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor met his fate while indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet to learn of the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled back next day. “I had,” said he, “come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from insufficient data. The presence of the gipsies, and the use of the word ‘band,’ which was used by the poor girl, no doubt, to explain the appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of by the light of her match, were sufficient to put me upon an entirely wrong scent. I can only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my position when, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened an occupant of the room could not come either from the window or the door. My attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to you, to this ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the bed. The discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped to the floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the rope was there as a bridge for something passing through the hole and coming to the bed. The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and when I coupled it with my knowledge that the doctor was furnished with a supply of creatures from India, I felt that I was probably on the right track. The idea of using a form of poison which could not possibly be discovered by any chemical test was just such a one as would occur to a clever and ruthless man who had had an Eastern training. The rapidity with which such a poison would take effect would also, from his point of view, be an advantage. It would be a sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who could distinguish the two little dark punctures which would show where the poison fangs had done their work. Then I thought of the whistle. Of course he must recall the snake before the morning light revealed it to the victim. He had trained it, probably by the use of the milk which we saw, to return to him when summoned. He would put it through this ventilator at the hour that he thought best, with the certainty that it would crawl down the rope and land on the bed. It might or might not bite the occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but sooner or later she must fall a victim. “I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his room. An inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in the habit of standing on it, which of course would be necessary in order that he should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the saucer of milk, and the loop of whipcord were enough to finally dispel any doubts which may have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss Stoner was obviously caused by her stepfather hastily closing the door of his safe upon its terrible occupant. Having once made up my mind, you know the steps which I took in order to put the matter to the proof. I heard the creature hiss as I have no doubt that you did also, and I instantly lit the light and attacked it.” “With the result of driving it through the ventilator.” “And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master at the other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and roused its snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s death, and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon my conscience.”

All’inizio di aprile dell’anno ‘83, una mattina mi svegliai e trovai Sherlock Holmes già completamente vestito accanto al mio letto. Di solito si alzava tardi; il orologio sul caminetto indicava appena le sette e un quarto, quindi lo guardai con sorpresa, e forse anche con un po’ di fastidio, visto che anch’io avevo abitudini regolari.
“Mi dispiace molto averti svegliato, Watson,” disse lui, “ma questa mattina sembra essere la giornata delle distrazioni. La signora Hudson è stata svegliata da me, e ora tocca a te.”
“Che succede? C’è un incendio?”
“No. Un cliente. Sembra che una giovane donna sia arrivata in uno stato di notevole agitazione e insista per vedermi. Sta aspettando in salotto. Ora, quando le giovani donne vanno in giro per la città a quest’ora del mattino e svegliano le persone addormentate, immagino che ci debba essere una ragione molto importante per cui lo fanno. Se si tratta di un caso interessante, sono sicuro che vorrai seguirlo fin dall’inizio. Ho pensato quindi di chiamarti per darti l’opportunità.”
“Mio caro amico, non me la perderei per nulla al mondo.”
Non c’era niente di più piacevole per me che accompagnare Holmes nelle sue indagini professionali e ammirare le sue rapide deduzioni, sempre basate su una logica solida. Mi vestii in fretta e in pochi minuti fui pronto ad accompagnarlo in salotto. Una signora vestita di nero e con un velo fitto, che stava seduta vicino alla finestra, si alzò non appena entrammo. “Buongiorno, signora,” disse Holmes in tono allegro. “Mi chiamo Sherlock Holmes. Questo è il mio caro amico e collaboratore, il dottor Watson; potete parlare con lui liberamente, come se foste con me. Ah! Sono felice che la signora Hudson abbia avuto la saggezza di accendere il fuoco. Vi prego, avvicinatevi al camino: vi ordinerò una tazza di caffè caldo, visto che tremate.”
“Non è il freddo a farmi tremare,” rispose la donna in un sussurro, spostandosi come le era stato chiesto.
“Allora, di cosa si tratta?”
“È paura, signor Holmes, terrore.” Alzò il velo mentre parlava; era davvero in uno stato di agitazione estrema: il viso pallido e teso, gli occhi pieni di panico, come quelli di un animale braccato. Aveva l’aspetto di una donna di trent’anni, ma i capelli erano già ingrigiti precocemente; l’espressione del suo volto era stanca e segnata dalla sofferenza. Sherlock Holmes la osservò attentamente con uno dei suoi sguardi rapidi e penetranti.
“Non dovete temere,” le disse in tono rassicurante, chinandosi e accarezzandole il braccio. “Troveremo presto una soluzione. Siete arrivata in treno questa mattina, vero?”
“Allora mi conoscete, ”
“No, ma noto che nella palma del vostro guanto sinistro c’è la metà di un biglietto di andata e ritorno. Avrete dovuto partire molto presto. Eppure avete percorso una lunga strada in carrozza, su strade accidentate, prima di arrivare alla stazione.”
La donna trasalì, guardando Holmes con aria confusa.
“Non c’è alcun mistero, mia cara signora,” le disse lui sorridendo. “Il braccio sinistro della vostra giacca è coperto di fango in almeno sette punti. Le macchie sono ancora fresche. Solo una carrozza può lasciare tracce del genere, e solo se si siede sul lato destro del conducente.”
“Qualunque siano le vostre intenzioni, avete ragione,” disse lei. “Sono partita di casa prima delle sei, sono arrivata a Leatherhead alle venti. E sono entrata in città con il primo treno per Waterloo. Signore, non ce la faccio più. Diventerò pazza se questa situazione continua. Non ho nessuno su cui contare, tranne uno solo che mi vuole bene, ma lui, poveretto, non può aiutarmi molto. Ho sentito parlare di voi, signor Holmes. La signora Farintosh vi ha raccontato di come l’abbiate aiutata in un momento difficile. È stata lei a darmi il vostro indirizzo. Oh, signore, non potreste aiutarmi anche voi? Almeno potreste far luce su questa oscurità che mi circonda. Per ora non posso ricompensarvi per i vostri sforzi, ma tra un mese o sei settimane mi sposerò e avrò il controllo dei miei soldi. Allora, almeno, non vi troverete ingrato, ”
Holmes si avvicinò alla scrivania, aprì il cassetto e tirò fuori un piccolo quaderno su cui consultò alcune informazioni. “Farintosh,” disse lui. “Ah sì, ricordo quel caso; riguardava una tiara di opale. Penso che sia avvenuto prima del vostro tempo, Watson. Posso solo dire, signora, che sarò felice di dedicare lo stesso impegno al vostro caso come ho fatto per quello della vostra amica. Per quanto riguarda la ricompensa, la mia professione è in sé stessa una ricompensa; ma siete libera di coprire tutte le spese che dovesse sostenere, nel momento che vi sembra più opportuno. Ora vi prego di raccontarci tutto ciò che possa aiutarci a formare un’opinione su questa questione.”
“Ahimè!” rispose la nostra visitatrice, “l’orrore della mia situazione sta proprio nel fatto che le mie paure sono così vaghe e i miei sospetti dipendono interamente da dettagli insignificanti, che potrebbero sembrare banali a chiunque altro; tanto che persino la persona verso cui ho più diritto di cercare aiuto e consigli considera tutto ciò che gli dico come le fantasie di una donna nervosa. Non lo dice apertamente, ma posso leggerlo dalle sue risposte rassicuranti e dai suoi sguardi evasivi. Tuttavia, ho sentito dire, signor Holmes, che voi siete in grado di vedere profondamente nella malvagità umana. Potete consigliarmi come comportarmi di fronte ai pericoli che mi circondano?”
“Sono tutto orecchie, signora.”
“Il mio nome è Helen Stoner; vivo con mio patrigno, l’ultimo sopravvissuto di una delle più antiche famiglie sassoni d’Inghilterra: i Roylotts di Stoke Moran, situati al confine occidentale del Surrey.”
Holmes annuì. “Il nome mi è familiare,” disse.
“In passato, la famiglia era tra le più ricche d’Inghilterra; le loro proprietà si estendevano fino a Berkshire a nord e Hampshire a ovest. Tuttavia, nel corso del secolo scorso, quattro eredi consecutivi ebbero un carattere dissoluto e dissipatore, e la rovina della famiglia fu completata da un giocatore d’azzardo ai tempi della Reggenza. Non rimase nulla se non alcune acri di terreno e la casa secolare, schiacciata sotto un pesante mutuo. L’ultimo signore della famiglia visse lì una vita miserabile, simile a quella di un aristocratico povero; ma suo figlio, mio patrigno, riuscì ad ottenere un prestito da un parente, che gli permise di conseguire la laurea in medicina e di recarsi a Calcutta, dove, grazie alla sua abilità professionale e al suo carattere forte, si affermò come medico. Tuttavia, in un accesso di rabbia causato da alcuni furti commessi nella casa, uccise il proprio maggiordomo e per poco non fu condannato a morte. Dopo aver scontato una lunga pena detentiva, tornò in Inghilterra come uomo cupo e deluso.” “Quando il dottor Roylott si trovava in India, sposò mia madre, la signora Stoner, la giovane vedova del maggiore generale Stoner dell’Artiglieria del Bengala. Mia sorella Julia ed io eravamo gemelle e avevamo solo due anni al momento del secondo matrimonio di nostra madre. Lei possedeva una somma considerevole di denaro – non meno di 1000 sterline all’anno – e lo lasciò interamente al dottor Roylott mentre vivevamo con lui, stabilendo però che a ciascuna di noi venisse versata un’importo annuale in caso di matrimonio. Poco dopo il nostro ritorno in Inghilterra mia madre morì: fu uccisa otto anni fa in un incidente ferroviario vicino a Crewe. Il dottor Roylott allora abbandonò ogni tentativo di stabilirsi a Londra e ci portò a vivere nella vecchia casa di famiglia a Stoke Moran. I soldi lasciati da mia madre erano sufficienti per tutte le nostre esigenze, e sembrava non esserci alcun ostacolo al nostro felicità. “Ma in quel periodo il nostro patrigno subì un terribile cambiamento. Invece di fare amicizia con i vicini, che all’inizio erano molto felici di rivedere un membro della famiglia Roylott a Stoke Moran, si chiuse in casa e usciva solo per litigare violentemente con chiunque gli capitasse davanti. L’irascibilità, quasi una mania, è una caratteristica ereditaria nella nostra famiglia; nel caso di mio patrigno, credo sia stata ulteriormente intensificata dal suo lungo soggiorno nei tropici. Si verificarono una serie di liti vergognosi, due dei quali finirono addirittura in tribunale. Alla fine divenne il terrore del villaggio: la gente fuggiva al suo passaggio, perché era un uomo di enorme forza e completamente incontrollabile quando si arrabbiava.
“La scorsa settimana gettò il fabbro locale oltre una balaustra nel ruscello; solo pagando tutta la somma che riuscii a racimolare riuscii a evitare un’altra umiliazione pubblica. Non aveva alcun amico, tranne quei vagabondi gipsy. Lasciava che questi nomadi si accampassero sulle poche acri di terreno ricoperto di rovi che rappresentavano la nostra proprietà familiare, e in cambio accettava la loro ospitalità nelle loro tende, spesso allontanandosi con loro per settimane intere. Aveva anche una grande passione per gli animali indiani: ne riceveva alcuni da un corrispondente. Al momento possiede una gheparda e un babbuino che vagano liberamente nella sua proprietà, e i villaggi temono questi animali quasi quanto temono lui stesso.
“Potete immaginare quanto fosse difficile la nostra vita. Mia povera sorella Julia ed io non avevamo alcuna gioia nella nostra esistenza: nessun domestico voleva restare con noi, e per molto tempo fummo noi stesse a svolgere tutti i lavori di casa. Aveva solo trent’anni quando morì. Eppure i suoi capelli già iniziavano a imbiancarsi, proprio come i miei.”
“Quindi tua sorella è morta, ” “Morì soltanto due anni fa, ed è proprio di sua morte che desidero parlarti. Puoi capire che, vivendo la vita che ho descritto, era molto improbabile che incontrassimo persone della nostra stessa età e condizione sociale. Tuttavia avevamo un’anziana zia, la sorella minore di mia madre, la signorina Honoria Westphail, che viveva vicino a Harrow; occasionalmente ci era permesso fare brevi visite a casa sua. Julia vi andò a Natale due anni fa e lì conobbe un maggiore dei marine in congedo, con il quale si fidanzò. Mio patrigno venne a sapere del fidanzamento quando mia sorella tornò a casa e non ebbe obiezioni al matrimonio; ma nel giro di quindici giorni dalla data fissata per le nozze accadde l’orribile evento che mi ha privato dell’unica persona con cui condividevo la mia vita.”
Sherlock Holmes era stato appoggiato allo schienale della sedia, con gli occhi chiusi e la testa reclinata contro il cuscino; ora però aprì leggermente le palpebre e lanciò uno sguardo alla sua visita.
“Per favore, sii preciso nei dettagli,” disse. “A me è facile ricordare tutto ciò, perché ogni evento di quel terribile periodo è impresso a fuoco nella mia memoria. La dimora, come ho già detto, è molto vecchia, e ora è abitata solo in un lato. Le camere da letto si trovano al piano terra; i salotti sono nell’edificio centrale. La prima di queste camere appartiene al dottor Roylott, la seconda a mia sorella, e la terza a me. Non ci sono collegamenti tra di esse, ma tutte danno sullo stesso corridoio. Ho spiegato chiaramente?”
“Perfettamente.”
“Le finestre delle tre stanze si affacciano sul prato. Quella notte fatale il dottor Roylott era andato a letto presto, anche se sapevamo che non si era addormentato, perché mia sorella era infastidita dall’odore dei forti sigari indiani che lui aveva l’abitudine di fumare. Così uscì dalla sua stanza e venne nella mia; rimase lì per un po’, chiacchierando del suo imminente matrimonio. Alle undici in punto si alzò per andarsene, ma si fermò sulla porta e si girò indietro.
“‘Dimmi, Helen,’ disse, ‘hai mai sentito qualcuno fischiare nel cuore della notte?’
“‘Mai,’ risposi.
“‘Immagino che nemmeno tu potresti fischiare mentre dormi, ’
“‘Certo che no. Ma perché?’” “Perché nelle ultime notti ho sempre sentito, verso le tre del mattino, un fischio basso e chiaro. Dormo poco profondamente e quel suono mi ha svegliato. Non riesco a capire da dove venga: forse dalla stanza accanto, o forse dal prato. Ho pensato di chiederti se l’avevi sentito anche tu.” “No, non l’ho sentito. Devono essere quei maledetti zingari della piantagione.” “Molto probabile. Eppure, se provenisse dal prato, mi chiedo perché tu non lo avresti sentito anch’io.” “Ah, ma io dormo molto più profondamente di te.” “Beh, in ogni caso non ha molta importanza, ” Lei sorrise e chiuse la mia porta; poco dopo sentii la sua chiave girare nella serratura. “Davvero,” disse Holmes. “Era tua abitudine chiuderti a chiave di notte?” “Sempre.” “E perché?” “Credo di avervi detto che il dottore teneva una gheparda e un babbuino. Non ci sentivamo al sicuro se le porte non erano chiuse a chiave.”
“Esatto. Proseguite pure con il vostro racconto.” “Quella notte non riuscivo a dormire. Una vaga sensazione di sventura imminente mi opprimeva. Mia sorella ed io eravamo gemelle, e voi ricorderete quanto sottili siano i legami che uniscono due anime così strettamente connesse. Era una notte terribile: il vento ululava all’esterno, la pioggia batteva contro le finestre. All’improvviso, tra tutto quel frastuono, si levò il grido disperato di una donna terrorizzata. Era la voce di mia sorella. Saltai giù dal letto, mi avvolsi in un scialle e corsi nel corridoio. Aprii la porta e sembrò che sentissi un fischio sommesso, proprio come mia sorella l’aveva descritto; poco dopo si udì un rumore metallico, come se qualcosa di pesante fosse caduto a terra. Correndo lungo il corridoio, vidi la porta di mia sorella aperta. Lei apparve sulla soglia, il viso pallido per il terrore, le mani tese in cerca di aiuto; tutto il suo corpo oscillava avanti e indietro, come se fosse ubriaca. Corsi da lei e l’abbracciai, ma in quel momento le sue gambe cedettero e lei cadde a terra.” Si contorceva come chi soffre terribilmente; le sue membra erano prese da convulsioni spaventose. All’inizio pensai che non mi avesse riconosciuto, ma quando mi chinai su di lei, improvvisamente gridò con una voce che non dimenticherò mai: “Oh, mio Dio! Helen. È stata quella fascia. Quella fascia a strisce!” C’era qualcos’altro che avrebbe voluto dire; puntò il dito verso la stanza del medico, ma un’altra convulsione le impedì di parlare. Corsi fuori chiamando ad alta voce mio patrigno e lo incontrai mentre usciva dalla sua stanza in vestaglia. Quando arrivò accanto a mia sorella, lei era già priva di sensi; nonostante lui le versasse brandy in gola e chiamasse aiuto dal villaggio, tutti i tentativi furono vani. Morì lentamente, senza mai riprendere conoscenza. Così terminò la vita terribile della mia adorata sorella. “Un momento,” disse Holmes, “siate sicuro di quel fischio e di quel suono metallico? Potreste giurarlo?”
“È stato proprio ciò che mi ha chiesto il medico legale durante l’inchiesta. Ho la forte impressione di averli sentiti, ma, tra il fragore della tempesta e lo scricchiolio di una vecchia casa, forse mi sono sbagliato.”
“Tua sorella era vestita?”
“No, indossava la camicia da notte. Nella sua mano destra fu trovata la punta bruciata di un fiammifero, e nella sinistra una scatola di fiammiferi.”
“Questo significa che aveva acceso una luce e si era guardata intorno quando è scoppiato l’allarme. È molto importante. E a quali conclusioni è arrivato il medico legale?” “Esaminò il caso con grande attenzione, poiché il comportamento del dottor Roylott era da tempo noto in tutta la contea come scandaloso; tuttavia non riuscì a trovare alcuna causa di morte plausibile. Le mie prove dimostravano che la porta era stata chiusa dall’interno, e le finestre erano bloccate da persiane vecchio stile con ampie sbarre di ferro, che venivano chiuse ogni sera. Le pareti furono attentamente ispezionate e risultarono completamente solide; anche il pavimento fu esaminato a fondo, senza ottenere risultati diversi. La canna fumaria è larga, ma chiusa da quattro grandi barre di ferro. È quindi certo che mia sorella fosse completamente sola quando morì. Inoltre, non c’erano tracce di violenza su di lei.”
“E per quanto riguarda il veleno?”
“I medici la esaminarono in merito, ma senza successo.”
“Allora, secondo voi, di cosa è morta questa sfortunata donna?”
“Credo che sia morta per puro terrore e shock nervoso, anche se non riesco a immaginare cosa l’abbia spaventata così tanto.”
“A quel tempo c’erano zingari nella tenuta?”
“Sì, ce ne sono quasi sempre.”
“Ah. E cosa avete dedotto da quella menzione a una ‘banda’, una banda dai capelli maculati?” “A volte ho pensato che si trattasse semplicemente di deliranti vaneggiamenti, altre volte che potesse riferirsi a un certo gruppo di persone, forse proprio a questi zingari presenti nella piantagione. Non so se i fazzoletti a strisce che molti di loro indossano in testa possano aver suggerito quell’aggettivo strano che lei ha usato.”
Holmes scosse la testa, come un uomo tutt’altro che soddisfatto.
“Queste sono questioni molto complesse,” disse; “per favore, continui con il tuo racconto.” “Sono passati due anni da allora, e la mia vita è stata, fino a poco tempo fa, più solitaria che mai. Tuttavia, un mese fa, un caro amico che conosco da molti anni mi ha fatto l’onore di chiedermi in sposa. Si chiama Armitage – Percy Armitage – il secondo figlio del signor Armitage, di Crane Water, vicino a Reading. Mio patrigno non ha opposto alcuna obiezione al matrimonio, e ci sposeremo nella primavera. Due giorni fa sono iniziati alcuni lavori di riparazione nel lato ovest dell’edificio; il muro della mia camera da letto è stato perforato, quindi ho dovuto trasferirmi nella stanza in cui è morta mia sorella e dormire nello stesso letto in cui lei aveva dormito. Immaginate dunque quale terrore abbia provato ieri notte, mentre ero sveglia a riflettere sul suo terribile destino, quando all’improvviso ho sentito nel silenzio della notte quel fischio sommesso che era stato l’annuncio della sua morte. Sono balzata in piedi e ho acceso la lampada, ma nella stanza non c’era nulla.” Ero troppo scosso per poter andare a letto di nuovo, quindi mi vestii e, non appena fece giorno, presi una carrozza da cavallo presso la Crown Inn, che si trova di fronte, e mi diressi verso Leatherhead; da lì sono venuto questa mattina con l’unico scopo di vederti e chiederti il tuo consiglio. “Hai agito saggiamente,” disse il mio amico. “Ma mi hai raccontato tutto?”
“Sì, tutto.”
“Miss Roylott, non è vero. State nascondendo qualcosa riguardo a vostro patrigno.”
“Come, cosa intendete?” In risposta, Holmes scostò il bordo di pizzo nero che orlava la mano posata sul ginocchio del nostro ospite. Sul polso bianco erano visibili cinque piccole macchie livide, le impronte di quattro dita e un pollice.
“Avete subito un trattamento crudele,” disse Holmes.
La signora arrossì profondamente e si coprì il polso ferito. “È un uomo spietato,” disse, “e forse nemmeno lui conosce la propria forza.”
Calò un lungo silenzio; Holmes appoggiò il mento sulle mani e fissò il fuoco che scoppiettava nel camino.
“Si tratta di una questione molto complessa,” disse infine. “Ci sono mille dettagli che vorrei conoscere prima di decidere quale sia la nostra prossima mossa. Eppure non abbiamo un attimo da perdere. Se andassimo a Stoke Moran oggi, sarebbe possibile ispezionare queste stanze senza che vostro patrigno se ne accorgesse?”
“Per coincidenza, ha detto di dover venire in città oggi per affari molto importanti. Probabilmente sarà via tutto il giorno, quindi non ci sarebbero ostacoli. Ora abbiamo una domestica, ma è vecchia e un po’ sciocca. Potrei facilmente allontanarla.”
“Eccellente. Non avete obiezioni a questo viaggio, Watson?”
“Assolutamente no.” “Allora verremo entrambi. Cosa farai tu personalmente?”
“Ho uno o due impegni che vorrei portare a termine ora che sono in città. Ma tornerò con il treno delle dodici, così da arrivare in tempo per la tua venuta.”
“E possiamo aspettarvi all’inizio pomeriggio. Anch’io ho alcune faccende da sbrigare. Non vuoi restare a pranzo?”
“No, devo andare. Il mio cuore si è già sollevato dopo aver condiviso il mio problema con te. Non vedo l’ora di rivederti questo pomeriggio.” Si calò il pesante velo nero sul viso e uscì dalla stanza.
“E tu, Watson, che ne pensi di tutta questa faccenda?” chiese Sherlock Holmes appoggiandosi allo schienale della sedia.
“A me sembra un affare molto oscuro e sinistro.”
“Abbastanza oscuro e sinistro, infatti.”
“Tuttavia, se la signora ha ragione nel dire che pavimenti e pareti sono intatti, e che porta, finestra e camino sono inaccessibili, allora sua sorella deve essere morta da sola, ”
“Allora, cosa spiega quei fischiettii notturni, e quelle parole così strane della donna morente?”
“Non riesco a capirlo.” “Quando si combinano le idee dei fischietti di notte, la presenza di un gruppo di zingari che hanno rapporti stretti con questo vecchio dottore, il fatto che abbiamo tutte le ragioni per credere che il dottore abbia interesse a impedire il matrimonio della sua figliastra, l’allusione alla presenza di un gruppo musicale, e infine il fatto che la signorina Helen Stoner abbia sentito un suono metallico che potrebbe essere stato causato da uno di quei barre metalliche utilizzate per fissare le persiane, penso che ci siano buone ragioni per ritenere che il mistero possa essere risolto in questa direzione.”
“Ma allora, cosa hanno fatto i zingari?”
“Non riesco a immaginarlo.”
“Vedo molte obiezioni contro una teoria del genere.” “Anch’io lo stesso. È proprio per questo motivo che oggi andremo a Stoke Moran. Voglio vedere se queste obiezioni sono fatali, o se possono essere giustificate. Ma, per l’amor del cielo, ”
Quella esclamazione fu pronunciata dal mio compagno perché la nostra porta era stata improvvisamente spalancata e un uomo enorme si era affacciato nell’apertura. Il suo abbigliamento rappresentava una strana miscela tra quello di un professionista e di un agricoltore: indossava un cappello nero, un lungo abito da sera e un paio di stivali alti; in mano teneva un bastone da caccia. Era così alto che il suo cappello quasi toccava la trave del soffitto, e la sua corporatura sembrava occupare l’intera larghezza dell’uscita. Un viso grande, segnato da mille rughe, bruciato dal sole e contrassegnato da ogni sorta di passione malvagia, si girò alternativamente verso di noi; i suoi occhi scuri e profondi, il suo naso alto, sottile e privo di carne gli conferivano un aspetto simile a quello di un feroce uccello rapace anziano.
“Chi di voi è Holmes?” chiese quell’apparizione.
“Sono io, signore. Ma lei ha il vantaggio su di me,” rispose tranquillamente il mio compagno.
“Sono il dottor Grimesby Roylott, di Stoke Moran.”
“Davvero, dottore, ” disse Holmes con indifferenza. “Prego, si sieda.”
“Non ho intenzione di sedermi. Mia nipote è stata qui. L’ho rintracciata! Cosa vi ha detto?”
“Fa un po’ freddo per questa stagione,” osservò Holmes.
“Cosa vi ha detto?” urlò l’uomo furiosamente.
“Ha detto che i crocus stanno crescendo bene, ” continuò il mio compagno, imperturbabile.
“Ah! Cerchi di distrarmi, vero?” esclamò il nuovo arrivato, facendo un passo avanti e scuotendo il suo bastone da caccia. “So chi sei. Sei Holmes, quel ficcanaso!”
Mio amico sorrise.
“Holmes, l’impicciatore, ”
Il suo sorriso si allargò ancora di più.
“Holmes, il ‘Jack-in-office’ di Scotland Yard, ”
Holmes rise di cuore. “La sua conversazione è davvero divertente. Quando esce, chiuda la porta: fa un vento terribile.”
“Me ne andrò quando avrò detto ciò che voglio dire. Non osare immischiarti nelle mie faccende! So che Miss Stoner è stata qui. L’ho rintracciata! Sono un uomo pericoloso da contrariare. Guardi, ” Si avvicinò rapidamente, afferrò il bastone e lo piegò con le sue mani enormi.
“Stia attento a non finire nelle mie mani, ” ringhiò, poi gettò il bastone nel caminetto e uscì dalla stanza.
“Sembra davvero una persona molto amichevole, ”, disse Holmes ridendo. “Anch’io non sono così robusto, ma se fosse rimasto, gli avrei dimostrato che la mia presa non è affatto più debole della sua, ” Mentre parlava, raccolse il bastone di acciaio e, con un movimento improvviso, lo raddrizzò. “Pensa un po’. Che audacia da parte sua confondermi con le forze ufficiali di indagine! Comunque, questo incidente dà nuovo slancio alle nostre ricerche. Spero solo che la nostra piccola amica non debba subire conseguenze per la sua imprudenza nel permettere a quel bruto di seguirla. Ora, Watson, ordineremo la colazione e poi andrò al Doctors’ Commons; spero di raccogliere qualche informazione utile in questa faccenda.”
Erano quasi le una quando Sherlock Holmes tornò dal suo giro. Teneva in mano un foglio di carta blu, pieno di appunti e calcoli. “Ho esaminato il testamento della defunta moglie,” disse. “Per comprendere appieno il suo significato, ho dovuto calcolare i prezzi attuali degli investimenti menzionati nel testamento stesso. Il reddito totale, che al momento della morte della moglie ammontava a poco meno di 1100 sterline, è ora, a causa della caduta dei prezzi agricoli, ridotto a non più di 750 sterline. Ogni figlia potrebbe richiedere un reddito di 250 sterline in caso di matrimonio. È evidente quindi che, se entrambe le ragazze si fossero sposate, questa donna avrebbe ricevuto una somma insignificante; inoltre, anche il matrimonio di una sola di loro avrebbe causato gravi problemi finanziari a quel signore. Il mio lavoro di stamattina non è stato vano: ho dimostrato che ha motivi più che validi per impedire qualsiasi tipo di accordo del genere. Ora, Watson, questa situazione è troppo seria per perdere tempo; inoltre, l’uomo sa che ci stiamo interessando ai suoi affari. Quindi, se sei pronto, chiameremo un taxi e andremo a Waterloo. Ti sarei molto grato se mettessi il tuo revolver in tasca. Un Eley’s No. 2 è un’ottima arma per affrontare gentiluomini capaci di piegare aghi d’acciaio. Quello, insieme a uno spazzolino da denti, credo siano tutto ciò di cui abbiamo bisogno.” A Waterloo fummo fortunati ad imbarcarci su un treno diretto a Leatherhead, dove noleggiammo una carrozza alla locanda della stazione e percorremmo quattro o cinque miglia lungo le incantevoli strade del Surrey. Era una giornata perfetta: il sole splendeva e nel cielo si vedevano alcune nuvole leggere. Gli alberi e i cespugli ai bordi della strada avevano appena iniziato a germogliare, e l’aria era pervasa dal piacevole profumo della terra umida. Per me, almeno, c’era un curioso contrasto tra la dolce promessa della primavera e questa sinistra missione a cui eravamo impegnati. Il mio compagno sedeva davanti alla carrozza, con le braccia incrociate, il cappello calato sugli occhi e il mento appoggiato al petto, immerso in profonde riflessioni. All’improvviso, però, si svegliò, mi diede una pacca sulla spalla e indicò le praterie davanti a noi.
“Guarda lì!” disse.
Un parco densamente alberato si estendeva su un pendio dolce, approfondendosi in un boschetto sul punto più alto. Tra i rami spuntavano gli spioventi grigi e il tetto alto di una vecchia dimora.
“Stoke Moran?” chiese.
“Sì, signore, quella è la casa del dottor Grimesby Roylott,” rispose il conducente.
“C’è qualcuno che sta lavorando lì dentro,” osservò Holmes. “È proprio lì che stiamo andando.” “Il villaggio è laggiù,” disse il conducente, indicando un gruppo di tetti a qualche distanza a sinistra; “ma se volete raggiungere la casa, sarà più breve attraversare questo cancello e poi seguire il sentiero che attraversa i campi. Ecco lì, dove quella signora sta camminando.”
“E quella signora, immagino, sia la signorina Stoner,” osservò Holmes, schermendosi gli occhi con la mano. “Sì, credo che sia meglio fare come suggerite voi.”
Scendemmo dalla vettura, pagammo e il calesse ripartì verso Leatherhead.
“Anch’io l’avevo pensato,” disse Holmes mentre salivamo sul cancello; “è meglio che quest’uomo creda che siamo venuti qui come architetti o per qualche affare specifico. Questo potrebbe impedirgli di spettegolare. Buon pomeriggio, signorina Stoner. Vedete che abbiamo mantenuto la nostra parola.”
La nostra cliente del mattino ci venne incontro con un viso pieno di gioia. “Vi aspettavo con tanta ansia,” esclamò, stringendoci calorosamente la mano. “Tutto è andato meravigliosamente. Il dottor Roylott è andato in città e probabilmente non tornerà prima della sera.”
“Abbiamo avuto il piacere di conoscere il dottore,” disse Holmes, riassumendo brevemente quanto era accaduto. La signorina Stoner impallidì mentre ascoltava.
“Mio Dio, allora mi ha seguita!” esclamò.
“Sembra proprio di sì.”
“È così astuto che non so mai quando sono al sicuro da lui. Cosa dirà quando tornerà?”
“Dovrà stare attento, perché potrebbe scoprire che c’è qualcuno ancora più astuto di lui alle sue calcagna. Stasera dovete chiudervi a chiave in casa. Se dovesse comportarsi violentemente, vi porteremo via da vostra zia ad Harrow. Ora, dobbiamo sfruttare al meglio il nostro tempo. Per favore, portateci subito nelle stanze che dobbiamo esaminare.”
L’edificio era fatto di pietra grigia, macchiata di licheni; aveva una parte centrale alta e due ali curve, simili alle chele di un granchio. In una di queste ali le finestre erano rotte e bloccate da assi di legno, mentre il tetto era parzialmente crollato. Un vero spettacolo di rovina. La parte centrale era in condizioni leggermente migliori, ma l’ala destra sembrava piuttosto moderna; le tende alle finestre e il fumo blu che usciva dai comignoli indicavano che lì risiedeva la famiglia. Era stata eretta una impalcatura contro il muro posteriore, e alcune parti della struttura in pietra erano state danneggiate. Ma al momento del nostro arrivo non c’erano operai nei paraggi. Holmes camminò lentamente su e giù per il prato mal curato, esaminando con attenzione le finestre esterne.
“Questa, immagino, sia la stanza in cui dormivate voi. Quella al centro appartiene a vostra sorella. E quella accanto all’edificio principale è la camera del dottor Roylott, giusto?”
“Esatto. Ma ora io dormo nella stanza centrale.”
“Per il momento delle modifiche, immagino. A proposito, non sembra che ci sia alcun bisogno urgente di riparare quel muro posteriore, ”
“Non ce n’era affatto. Credo che fosse solo una scusa per spostarmi dalla mia stanza.” “Ah! Questo è davvero interessante. Ora, dall’altra parte di questo stretto corridoio si aprono queste tre stanze; ci sono finestre, naturalmente?”
“Sì, ma molto piccole. Troppo strette perché qualcuno possa passare attraverso.”
“Poiché entrambi chiudevate a chiave le vostre porte di notte, le vostre stanze erano inaccessibili da quel lato. Ora, potreste avere la gentilezza di entrare nella vostra stanza e chiudere le persiane?”
La signorina Stoner lo fece, e Holmes, dopo un’attenta ispezione dalla finestra aperta, provò in tutti i modi a forzare le persiane, ma senza successo. Non c’era alcuna fessura attraverso cui poter inserire un coltello per sollevare la sbarra. Poi, con il suo microscopio, esaminò le serrature: erano fatte di ferro massiccio, saldamente fissate nella muratura. “Hmm, ” disse, grattandosi il mento perplesso. “La mia teoria presenta sicuramente alcuni problemi. Nessuno potrebbe aprire queste persiane se fossero chiuse a chiave. Beh, vedremo se l’interno possa fornirci qualche indizio.”
Una piccola porta laterale conduceva al corridoio intonacato da cui si aprivano le tre camere da letto. Holmes rifiutò di esaminare la terza stanza; così passammo subito alla seconda, quella in cui ora dormiva la signorina Stoner e dove sua sorella aveva trovato la morte. Era una stanza semplice, con soffitto basso e un camino ampio, tipico delle vecchie case di campagna. In un angolo c’era un comò marrone, in un altro un letto stretto con baldacchino bianco, e sul lato sinistro della finestra un tavolino da trucco. Questi oggetti, insieme a due piccole sedie di vimini, costituivano tutto l’arredamento della stanza, fatta eccezione per un tappeto quadrato di stoffa Wilton al centro. Le assi del pavimento e le panche delle pareti erano fatte di quercia marrone, consumata dagli insetti; sembravano così vecchie e ingiallite da risalire all’epoca della costruzione originale della casa. Holmes tirò una sedia in un angolo e rimase seduto in silenzio, osservando attentamente ogni dettaglio dell’appartamento.
“Dove conduce quel campanello?” chiese infine, indicando una corda spessa appesa accanto al letto, la cui frangia giaceva proprio sul cuscino.
“Conduce nella stanza della domestica.”
“Sembra più nuova delle altre cose, ”
“Sì. È stata messa lì solo un paio di anni fa.”
“Immagino che sia stata sua sorella a chiederla, ”
“No. Non ho mai sentito dire che la usasse. Noi prendevamo sempre ciò che volevamo da sole, ”
“Effettivamente. Sembrava inutile mettere una corda del genere lì. Mi scuserà se mi occupo per qualche minuto di questo pavimento, ” Si sdraiò a pancia in giù, tenendo il microscopio in mano, e esaminò attentamente le fessure tra le assi del pavimento. Poi fece lo stesso con la struttura in legno delle pareti. Infine si avvicinò al letto e lo studiò a lungo, osservando attentamente ogni dettaglio della parete. Alla fine prese la corda del campanello e la tirò con forza. “Ma è una corda finta, ” disse.
“Non suonerà?” “No, non è nemmeno collegato a nessun cavo. È molto interessante. Ora si può vedere che è fissato a un gancio proprio sopra quella piccola apertura per il ventilatore.”
“Che assurdità! Non me ne ero mai accorto prima.”
“Molto strano, ” mormorò Holmes, tirando la corda. “Ci sono uno o due aspetti davvero insoliti in questa stanza. Ad esempio, che sciocco deve essere stato l’architetto a creare quella apertura per il ventilatore, quando avrebbe potuto facilmente far comunicare l’interno con l’esterno, ”
“Anche questo è piuttosto moderno, ” disse la signora.
“Realizzato più o meno nello stesso periodo della corda del campanello?” osservò Holmes.
“Sì. In quel periodo furono apportati alcuni piccoli cambiamenti.”
“Sembrano essere di carattere davvero interessante. Corde del campanello finte, ventilatori che in realtà non servono a ventilare. Con il vostro permesso, signorina Stoner, proseguiremo le nostre indagini nell’appartamento interno.” La stanza del dottor Grimesby Roylott era più grande di quella di sua figliastra, ma arredata altrettanto semplicemente. Un letto da campeggio, una piccola mensola di legno piena di libri, per lo più di carattere tecnico, un divano accanto al letto, una sedia di legno semplice appoggiata al muro, un tavolo rotondo e un grande armadio di ferro erano le principali cose che si vedevano. Holmes camminò lentamente intorno alla stanza esaminando ogni singola cosa con estrema attenzione.
“Cosa c’è qui dentro?” chiese, battendo sullo sportello dell’armadio.
“I documenti di affari di mio patrigno.”
“Oh! Allora li hai già visti, ”
“Solo una volta, alcuni anni fa. Ricordo che erano pieni di carte.”
“Non c’è per caso un gatto dentro?”
“No. Che idea strana!”
“Beh, guarda questo!” Prese un piccolo piattino di latte posato sopra lo sportello dell’armadio.
“No. Non abbiamo un gatto. Ma ci sono una gheparda e un babbuino, ”
“Ah, capisco. Beh, una gheparda è comunque un grosso gatto. Eppure un piattino di latte probabilmente non basta a soddisfare le sue esigenze. C’è una cosa che vorrei verificare.” Si accovacciò davanti alla sedia di legno e esaminò attentamente il suo sedile. “Grazie. Ora tutto è sistemato,” disse alzandosi e mettendosi la lente in tasca. “Ehi! Ecco qualcosa di interessante!” L’oggetto che aveva attirato la sua attenzione era un piccolo guinzaglio per cani appeso in un angolo del letto. Tuttavia, il guinzaglio era arrotolato su se stesso e legato a formare un anello di corda. “Cosa ne pensi, Watson?” “È un guinzaglio piuttosto comune. Ma non capisco perché sia stato legato in quel modo.” “Non è poi così comune, vero? Ah. Il mondo è davvero malvagio, e quando un uomo intelligente utilizza la sua intelligenza per commettere crimini, diventa il peggiore di tutti. Penso che ora abbia visto abbastanza, signorina Stoner. Con il suo permesso, usciremo nel giardino.”
Non avevo mai visto il volto del mio amico così cupo, né la sua fronte così corrugata come in quel momento, quando lasciammo il luogo dell’indagine. Camminammo avanti e indietro per il giardino più volte; né la signorina Stoner né io osammo interrompere i suoi pensieri finché non si riscosse dalla sua meditazione. “È molto importante, signorina Stoner,” disse lui, “che lei segua assolutamente i miei consigli in ogni senso.”
“Lo farò certamente.”
“La questione è troppo grave per esitare. La sua vita potrebbe dipendere dal suo attaccamento alle mie istruzioni.”
“Le assicuro che mi affido completamente a lei.”
“Prima di tutto, sia io che il mio amico dobbiamo trascorrere la notte nella sua stanza.”
Sia la signorina Stoner che io lo guardammo con stupore.
“Sì, deve essere così. Lasci che le spieghi. Credo che quella sia l’osteria del villaggio laggiù, vero?”
“Sì, è proprio la Crown Inn.”
“Molto bene. Le sue finestre sono visibili da lì?”
“Certo.”
“Quando suo patrigno tornerà, dovrà fingere di avere mal di testa e rimanere in camera sua. Non appena lo sentirà andare a letto, apra le persiane, sollevi la sbarra di sicurezza, metta la sua lampada fuori come segnale per noi, e poi si ritiri silenziosamente nella stanza che utilizzava prima. Sono certo che, nonostante i lavori di riparazione, riuscirà a stare lì per una notte.”
“Oh, sì, senza problemi.”
“Per il resto, lasci che ci occupiamo noi.”
“Ma cosa faranno voi?”
“Trascorreremo la notte nella sua stanza e indagheremo sulla causa di quel rumore che l’ha disturbata.”
“Credo, signor Holmes, che lei abbia già preso una decisione,” disse la signorina Stoner, posando la mano sul braccio del mio compagno.
“Forse sì.”
“Allora, per pietà, mi dica quale sia stata la causa della morte di mia sorella.”
“Preferirei avere prove più concrete prima di parlare.”
“Almeno può dirmi se la mia ipotesi è corretta. Se è morta a causa di un improvviso spavento.”
“No, non credo. Penso che ci fosse una causa più concreta. Ora, signorina Stoner, dobbiamo lasciarla: se il dottor Roylott tornasse e ci vedesse, tutto sarebbe inutile. Addio. E abbia coraggio: se seguirà le mie istruzioni, può stare certa che elimineremo presto i pericoli che la minacciano.”
Sherlock Holmes ed io riuscimmo facilmente a prenotare una camera da letto e un salotto presso la Crown Inn. Si trovavano al piano di sopra, e dalla nostra finestra potevamo vedere il cancello d’ingresso del villaggio e l’ala abitata della residenza Stoke Moran Manor House. Al tramonto vedemmo il dottor Grimesby Roylott passare in macchina; la sua imponente figura risaltava accanto a quella del ragazzo che lo guidava. Il ragazzo ebbe qualche difficoltà ad aprire i pesanti cancelli di ferro, e sentimmo la voce roca del dottore e lo vidi agitare furiosamente i pugni contro di lui. La macchina proseguì il suo cammino. Pochi minuti dopo, una luce si accese tra gli alberi: qualcuno aveva acceso la lampada in uno dei salotti.
“Sa, Watson?” disse Holmes mentre eravamo seduti nella semioscurità che calava, “Ho davvero qualche esitazione ad accompagnarla stasera. C’è un certo rischio, ”
“Posso essere d’aiuto?”
“La sua presenza potrebbe rivelarsi di inestimabile valore.”
“Allora verrò sicuramente.”
“Grazie mille per la sua disponibilità.” “Parli di pericoli. Ovviamente hai visto nelle stanze cose che a me sono sfuggite.”
“No, ma credo di aver dedotto qualcosa in più. Immagino che tu abbia visto tutto ciò che ho fatto io.”
“Non ho notato nulla di particolare, tranne la corda del campanello. E non riesco proprio a immaginare a quale scopo potesse servire.”
“Hai anche visto il ventilatore?”
“Sì. Ma non credo che sia così insolito avere una piccola apertura tra due stanze. Era così stretta che a malapena un topo avrebbe potuto passarci attraverso.”
“Sapevo già che avremmo trovato un ventilatore prima ancora di arrivare a Stoke Moran, ”
“Mio caro Holmes, ”
“Oh, sì. Ricordi? Nella sua dichiarazione lei aveva detto che sua sorella riusciva a sentire l’odore del sigaro del dottor Roylott. Questo suggeriva immediatamente l’esistenza di un collegamento tra le due stanze. Poteva trattarsi solo di una piccola apertura. Altrimenti sarebbe stata notata durante l’inchiesta del coroner. Ho dedotto che si trattasse di un ventilatore.”
“Ma quale male potrebbe esserci in questo?”
“Beh. C’è almeno una strana coincidenza di date. Il ventilatore viene costruito, la corda viene appesa. E poi una donna che dorme in quella stanza muore. Non ti sembra significativo?”
“Non riesco ancora a vedere alcun collegamento, ” “Hai notato qualcosa di molto strano in quel letto?”
“No.”
“Era fissato al pavimento. Hai mai visto un letto fissato in quel modo prima d’ora?”
“Non posso dire di sì.”
“La signora non riusciva a muovere il suo letto; doveva sempre trovarsi nella stessa posizione rispetto al ventilatore e alla corda, o meglio, a quella che sembrava una corda, visto che chiaramente non era stata progettata per essere utilizzata come maniglia.”
“Holmes,” esclamai, “comincio a capire cosa intendi. Siamo appena in tempo per impedire un crimine subdolo e orribile.”
“Sì, abbastanza subdolo e orribile. Quando un medico commette un errore, diventa il primo dei criminali: ha l’audacia e la conoscenza necessarie. Palmer e Pritchard erano tra i migliori del loro campo. Quest’uomo, invece, colpisce ancora più in profondità. Ma credo, Watson, che riusciremo a colpire ancora più in profondità. Tuttavia, avremo abbastanza orrori prima che la notte finisca. Per l’amor del cielo, prendiamoci un po’ di tempo per rilassarci e pensare a qualcosa di più allegro.” Intorno alle nove, la luce tra gli alberi si spense e tutto divenne buio nella direzione della Casa Padronale. Due ore trascorsero lentamente, poi, all’improvviso, esattamente alle undici, una luce intensa brillò proprio davanti a noi.
“È il nostro segnale,” disse Holmes alzandosi in piedi; “proviene dalla finestra centrale.”
Mentre uscivamo, scambiò alcune parole con il padrone di casa, spiegando che stavamo facendo una visita tardiva a un conoscente e che era possibile che trascorressimo la notte lì. Un attimo dopo ci trovammo sulla strada buia, con un vento freddo che soffiava sul nostro viso; una luce gialla lampeggiava davanti a noi nella penombra, guidandoci nel nostro compito tenebroso. Non fu affatto difficile entrare nel giardino, poiché le vecchie mura del parco presentavano varie aperture non riparate. In mezzo agli alberi raggiungemmo il prato, lo attraversammo e stavamo per entrare dalla finestra quando, da un cespuglio di allori, spuntò qualcosa che sembrava un bambino orribile e deforme; si gettò a terra contorcendo le membra e poi corse rapidamente verso l’oscurità.
“Mio Dio!” sussurrai. “L’hai visto?”
Holmes era altrettanto sbalordito di me; nella sua agitazione mi afferrò il polso con forza. Poi scoppiò a ridere e mi sussurrò all’orecchio:
“Che strana famiglia. Quello è il babbuino.”
Avevo dimenticato gli strani animali domestici di quel medico. C’era anche una gheparda; forse da un momento all’altro ci sarebbe saltata addosso. Devo ammettere che mi sentii più tranquillo quando, seguendo l’esempio di Holmes, mi tolsi le scarpe e entrai nella camera da letto. Il mio compagno chiuse silenziosamente le persiane, posizionò la lampada sul tavolo e osservò attentamente la stanza. Tutto era esattamente come lo avevamo visto durante il giorno. Poi si avvicinò a me e, facendo con la mano un suono simile a quello di una tromba, mi sussurrò di nuovo all’orecchio:
“Qualsiasi rumore potrebbe rovinare i nostri piani.”
Annuii per indicare che avevo capito.
“Dobbiamo restare al buio. Lui potrebbe vederci attraverso la ventilazione.”
Annuii di nuovo.
“Non addormentarti. La tua vita potrebbe dipendere da questo. Tieni pronta la pistola, nel caso ne avessimo bisogno. Io mi siederò sul bordo del letto e tu su quella sedia.”
Presi il mio revolver e lo posai nell’angolo del tavolo. Holmes aveva portato con sé un lungo bastone sottile; lo mise accanto a sé sul letto, insieme alla scatola di fiammiferi e al mozzicone di candela. Poi spense la lampada e ci lasciò nell’oscurità. Come potrò mai dimenticare quella terribile veglia? Non sentivo alcun suono, nemmeno il respiro di Holmes. Eppure sapevo che era seduto lì, con gli occhi aperti, a pochi metri da me, nella stessa tensione nervosa in cui mi trovavo anch’io. Le persiane bloccavano ogni raggio di luce; aspettavamo nell’oscurità totale. Dall’esterno provenivano di tanto in tanto i richiami degli uccelli notturni. Una volta, proprio davanti alla nostra finestra, si udì un lungo miagolio simile a quello di un gatto. Il che significava che la gheparda era libera. Lontano, si sentivano i rintocchi profondi dell’orologio della chiesa. Quei quarti d’ora sembravano durare un’eternità. Mancavano dodici ore. Poi una, due, tre. E continuavamo ad aspettare in silenzio, senza sapere cosa sarebbe accaduto. All’improvviso apparve un debole bagliore nella direzione del ventilatore, che scomparve immediatamente; subentrò però un forte odore di olio bruciato e metallo surriscaldato. Qualcuno nella stanza accanto aveva acceso una lanterna a luce fioca. Sentii dei movimenti delicati, poi tutto tornò silenzio, anche se l’odore diventava sempre più intenso. Per mezz’ora rimasi in ascolto con attenzione estrema. Poi, all’improvviso, si udì un altro suono: molto dolce e rilassante, simile al sibilo di una piccola nuvola di vapore che usciva continuamente da una pentola. Non appena lo sentimmo, Holmes saltò giù dal letto, accese un fiammifero e iniziò a colpire con violenza la corda del campanello con il suo bastone.
“Vedi, Watson?” gridò. “Vedi?” Ma non vidi nulla. Nel momento in cui Holmes accese la luce, sentii un fischio basso e chiaro; tuttavia, il bagliore improvviso che investì i miei occhi stanchi mi impedì di capire contro cosa mio amico stesse colpendo con tanta violenza. Riuscivo comunque a vedere che il suo viso era pallidissimo, pieno di orrore e disgusto. Aveva smesso di colpire e fissava il soffitto quando, all’improvviso, dalla quiete della notte si levò il grido più terribile che avessi mai sentito: un urlo rauco di dolore, paura e rabbia mescolati insieme in un unico, spaventoso strillo. Si diceva che, giù nel villaggio, persino nella lontana canonica, quel grido avesse svegliato tutti i dormienti. Un brivido ci attraversò il corpo; rimanemmo immobili a fissarci fino a quando gli ultimi echi non si dissolsero nel silenzio da cui era emerso.
“Cosa significa?” esclamai.
“Significa che è finita,” rispose Holmes. “E forse, dopotutto, è meglio così. Prendi la tua pistola; entriamo nella stanza del dottor Roylott.” Con un viso grave accese la lampada e ci guidò lungo il corridoio. Due volte bussò alla porta della stanza senza ricevere alcuna risposta dall’interno. Poi girò la maniglia ed entrò; io lo seguivo, con la pistola pronta in mano.
La scena che ci si presentò davanti agli occhi era straordinaria. Sul tavolo c’era una lanterna dal colore scuro, con la persiana semiaperta; il raggio di luce che ne usciva illuminava intensamente la cassaforte di ferro, la cui porta era socchiusa. Accanto al tavolo, sulla sedia di legno, sedeva il dottor Grimesby Roylott, avvolto in un lungo abito da camera grigio; i suoi piedi nudi spuntavano fuori e calzava pantofole turche rosse senza tacco. Sulle sue ginocchia giaceva la frusta corta con le lunghe corde che avevamo notato durante il giorno. Il suo mento era sollevato verso l’alto e i suoi occhi fissavano in modo terribile l’angolo del soffitto. Intorno alla fronte portava una strana fascia gialla, con macchie marroni, che sembrava essere stretta saldamente intorno alla testa. Quando entrammo, non emise alcun suono né fece alcun movimento.
“La fascia, quella fascia maculata!” sussurrò Holmes. Feci un passo avanti. In un istante, il suo strano copricapo iniziò a muoversi; tra i suoi capelli emerse la testa tozza a forma di diamante e il collo rigonfio di un serpente orribile. “È un’anguilla palustre! – gridò Holmes – il serpente più velenoso dell’India. È morto entro dieci secondi dopo essere stato morso. La violenza, in realtà, si ribalta contro chi la pratica: l’uomo che tende trappole finisce per cadere nella stessa in cui ha cercato di intrappolare gli altri. Mettiamo questa creatura al suo posto e poi possiamo portare Miss Stoner in un luogo sicuro e avvisare la polizia di ciò che è accaduto.”
Mentre parlava, estrasse rapidamente il frustino dal grembo del morto, avvolse il collo del rettile con la corda e, tenendolo a distanza di braccio, lo gettò nell’armadietto di ferro, chiudendone poi lo sportello.
Questi sono i veri fatti riguardanti la morte del dottor Grimesby Roylott di Stoke Moran. Non è necessario che prolunghi una narrazione già troppo lunga raccontando come abbiamo comunicato la triste notizia alla ragazza terrorizzata, come l’abbiamo accompagnata il giorno seguente con il treno mattutino sotto la protezione della sua gentile zia ad Harrow, e come le indagini ufficiali abbiano concluso che il dottore aveva trovato la morte giocando in modo imprudente con un animale pericoloso. Quello che ancora non sapevo riguardo al caso me lo raccontò Sherlock Holmes durante il viaggio di ritorno del giorno dopo. “Ero giunto,” disse, “a una conclusione completamente errata, il che dimostra, caro Watson, quanto sia pericoloso ragionare sempre sulla base di informazioni insufficienti. La presenza dei zingari e l’uso della parola ‘banda’, utilizzata dalla povera ragazza senza dubbio per descrivere ciò che aveva intravisto in fretta alla luce della sua candela, furono sufficienti a portarmi su una falsa pista. Posso soltanto dire di aver immediatamente ripensato la mia ipotesi quando mi resi conto che qualsiasi pericolo minacciasse chi si trovava nella stanza non poteva provenire né dalla finestra né dalla porta. La mia attenzione fu subito attratta, come vi ho già detto, da questo ventilatore e dal cordone del campanello che pendeva fino al letto. Scoprire che si trattava di una finzione e che il letto era fissato al pavimento mi fece immediatamente sospettare che quel cordone fosse utilizzato come ponte per qualcosa che passava attraverso il foro e raggiungeva il letto. Mi venne subito in mente l’idea di un serpente, e quando collegai questa ipotesi al fatto che il dottore disponeva di esemplari di creature provenienti dall’India, ebbi la certezza di essere sulla strada giusta.” L’idea di utilizzare un veleno che non potesse essere scoperto con alcun test chimico era proprio il tipo di cosa che poteva venire in mente a un uomo astuto e spietato, con una formazione orientale. Anche la rapidità con cui tale veleno avrebbe fatto effetto rappresentava, dal suo punto di vista, un vantaggio. Solo un medico legale attento avrebbe potuto notare le due piccole punture scure lasciate dalle zanne del veleno. Poi pensai al fischietto. Ovviamente doveva ricordarsi di richiamare il serpente prima che la luce dell’alba lo rivelasse alla vittima. Probabilmente lo aveva addestrato, utilizzando il latte che avevamo visto, affinché tornasse da lui quando chiamato. Lo avrebbe fatto passare attraverso questo condotto all’ora che riteneva più opportuna, con la certezza che sarebbe sceso lungo la corda e atterrato sul letto. La vittima poteva essere morsa o no; forse avrebbe potuto sfuggire per una settimana ogni notte, ma prima o poi sarebbe sicuramente caduta vittima. “Avevo già raggiunto queste conclusioni prima ancora di entrare nella sua stanza. Un’ispezione alla sua sedia mi rivelò che aveva l’abitudine di salirci sopra, il che ovviamente era necessario per poter raggiungere il ventilatore. La vista della cassaforte, del piattino con il latte e del laccio di corda bastarono a dissipare definitivamente qualsiasi dubbio potesse ancora esserci. Il rumore metallico sentito da Miss Stoner era chiaramente causato dal suo patrigno che chiudeva in fretta la porta della cassaforte davanti al suo terribile “inquilino”. Una volta presa la mia decisione, sapete quali furono i passi che intrapresi per verificare le mie ipotesi. Sentii quella creatura sibilare, e sicuramente anche voi lo sentiste. Allora accesi immediatamente la luce e mi avvicinai a essa.” “Il risultato? La spinsi attraverso il ventilatore.” “E inoltre, il risultato di questo comportamento fu che l’animale si rivolse contro il suo padrone dall’altra parte. Alcuni dei colpi della mia canna raggiunsero il loro obiettivo, scatenando la sua natura velenosa; così l’animale attaccò la prima persona che vide. In questo modo, senza dubbio, sono indirettamente responsabile della morte del dottor Grimesby Roylott. E non posso dire che questo fatto pesi molto sulla mia coscienza.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER’S THUMB Of all the problems which have been submitted to my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for solution during the years of our intimacy, there were only two which I was the means of introducing to his notice — that of Mr. Hatherley’s thumb, and that of Colonel Warburton’s madness. Of these the latter may have afforded a finer field for an acute and original observer, but the other was so strange in its inception and so dramatic in its details that it may be the more worthy of being placed upon record, even if it gave my friend fewer openings for those deductive methods of reasoning by which he achieved such remarkable results. The story has, I believe, been told more than once in the newspapers, but, like all such narratives, its effect is much less striking when set forth en bloc in a single half-column of print than when the facts slowly evolve before your own eyes, and the mystery clears gradually away as each new discovery furnishes a step which leads on to the complete truth. At the time the circumstances made a deep impression upon me, and the lapse of two years has hardly served to weaken the effect. It was in the summer of ‘89, not long after my marriage, that the events occurred which I am now about to summarise. I had returned to civil practice and had finally abandoned Holmes in his Baker Street rooms, although I continually visited him and occasionally even persuaded him to forgo his Bohemian habits so far as to come and visit us. My practice had steadily increased, and as I happened to live at no very great distance from Paddington Station, I got a few patients from among the officials. One of these, whom I had cured of a painful and lingering disease, was never weary of advertising my virtues and of endeavouring to send me on every sufferer over whom he might have any influence. One morning, at a little before seven o’clock, I was awakened by the maid tapping at the door to announce that two men had come from Paddington and were waiting in the consulting-room. I dressed hurriedly, for I knew by experience that railway cases were seldom trivial, and hastened downstairs. As I descended, my old ally, the guard, came out of the room and closed the door tightly behind him. “I’ve got him here,” he whispered, jerking his thumb over his shoulder; “he’s all right.” “What is it, then?” I asked, for his manner suggested that it was some strange creature which he had caged up in my room. “It’s a new patient,” he whispered. “I thought I’d bring him round myself; then he couldn’t slip away. There he is, all safe and sound. I must go now, Doctor; I have my dooties, just the same as you.” And off he went, this trusty tout, without even giving me time to thank him. I entered my consulting-room and found a gentleman seated by the table. He was quietly dressed in a suit of heather tweed with a soft cloth cap which he had laid down upon my books. Round one of his hands he had a handkerchief wrapped, which was mottled all over with bloodstains. He was young, not more than five-and-twenty, I should say, with a strong, masculine face; but he was exceedingly pale and gave me the impression of a man who was suffering from some strong agitation, which it took all his strength of mind to control. “I am sorry to knock you up so early, Doctor,” said he, “but I have had a very serious accident during the night. I came in by train this morning, and on inquiring at Paddington as to where I might find a doctor, a worthy fellow very kindly escorted me here. I gave the maid a card, but I see that she has left it upon the side-table.” I took it up and glanced at it. “Mr. Victor Hatherley, hydraulic engineer, 16A, Victoria Street (3rd floor).” That was the name, style, and abode of my morning visitor. “I regret that I have kept you waiting,” said I, sitting down in my library-chair. “You are fresh from a night journey, I understand, which is in itself a monotonous occupation.” “Oh, my night could not be called monotonous,” said he, and laughed. He laughed very heartily, with a high, ringing note, leaning back in his chair and shaking his sides. All my medical instincts rose up against that laugh. “Stop it!” I cried; “pull yourself together!” and I poured out some water from a caraffe. It was useless, however. He was off in one of those hysterical outbursts which come upon a strong nature when some great crisis is over and gone. Presently he came to himself once more, very weary and pale-looking. “I have been making a fool of myself,” he gasped. “Not at all. Drink this.” I dashed some brandy into the water, and the colour began to come back to his bloodless cheeks. “That’s better!” said he. “And now, Doctor, perhaps you would kindly attend to my thumb, or rather to the place where my thumb used to be.” He unwound the handkerchief and held out his hand. It gave even my hardened nerves a shudder to look at it. There were four protruding fingers and a horrid red, spongy surface where the thumb should have been. It had been hacked or torn right out from the roots. “Good heavens!” I cried, “this is a terrible injury. It must have bled considerably.” “Yes, it did. I fainted when it was done, and I think that I must have been senseless for a long time. When I came to I found that it was still bleeding, so I tied one end of my handkerchief very tightly round the wrist and braced it up with a twig.” “Excellent! You should have been a surgeon.” “It is a question of hydraulics, you see, and came within my own province.” “This has been done,” said I, examining the wound, “by a very heavy and sharp instrument.” “A thing like a cleaver,” said he. “An accident, I presume?” “By no means.” “What! a murderous attack?” “Very murderous indeed.” “You horrify me.” I sponged the wound, cleaned it, dressed it, and finally covered it over with cotton wadding and carbolised bandages. He lay back without wincing, though he bit his lip from time to time. “How is that?” I asked when I had finished. “Capital! Between your brandy and your bandage, I feel a new man. I was very weak, but I have had a good deal to go through.” “Perhaps you had better not speak of the matter. It is evidently trying to your nerves.” “Oh, no, not now. I shall have to tell my tale to the police; but, between ourselves, if it were not for the convincing evidence of this wound of mine, I should be surprised if they believed my statement, for it is a very extraordinary one, and I have not much in the way of proof with which to back it up; and, even if they believe me, the clues which I can give them are so vague that it is a question whether justice will be done.” “Ha!” cried I, “if it is anything in the nature of a problem which you desire to see solved, I should strongly recommend you to come to my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, before you go to the official police.” “Oh, I have heard of that fellow,” answered my visitor, “and I should be very glad if he would take the matter up, though of course I must use the official police as well. Would you give me an introduction to him?” “I’ll do better. I’ll take you round to him myself.” “I should be immensely obliged to you.” “We’ll call a cab and go together. We shall just be in time to have a little breakfast with him. Do you feel equal to it?” “Yes; I shall not feel easy until I have told my story.” “Then my servant will call a cab, and I shall be with you in an instant.” I rushed upstairs, explained the matter shortly to my wife, and in five minutes was inside a hansom, driving with my new acquaintance to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes was, as I expected, lounging about his sitting-room in his dressing-gown, reading the agony column of The Times and smoking his before-breakfast pipe, which was composed of all the plugs and dottles left from his smokes of the day before, all carefully dried and collected on the corner of the mantelpiece. He received us in his quietly genial fashion, ordered fresh rashers and eggs, and joined us in a hearty meal. When it was concluded he settled our new acquaintance upon the sofa, placed a pillow beneath his head, and laid a glass of brandy and water within his reach. “It is easy to see that your experience has been no common one, Mr. Hatherley,” said he. “Pray, lie down there and make yourself absolutely at home. Tell us what you can, but stop when you are tired and keep up your strength with a little stimulant.” “Thank you,” said my patient. “but I have felt another man since the doctor bandaged me, and I think that your breakfast has completed the cure. I shall take up as little of your valuable time as possible, so I shall start at once upon my peculiar experiences.” Holmes sat in his big armchair with the weary, heavy-lidded expression which veiled his keen and eager nature, while I sat opposite to him, and we listened in silence to the strange story which our visitor detailed to us. “You must know,” said he, “that I am an orphan and a bachelor, residing alone in lodgings in London. By profession I am a hydraulic engineer, and I have had considerable experience of my work during the seven years that I was apprenticed to Venner & Matheson, the well-known firm, of Greenwich. Two years ago, having served my time, and having also come into a fair sum of money through my poor father’s death, I determined to start in business for myself and took professional chambers in Victoria Street. “I suppose that everyone finds his first independent start in business a dreary experience. To me it has been exceptionally so. During two years I have had three consultations and one small job, and that is absolutely all that my profession has brought me. My gross takings amount to £27 10s. Every day, from nine in the morning until four in the afternoon, I waited in my little den, until at last my heart began to sink, and I came to believe that I should never have any practice at all. “Yesterday, however, just as I was thinking of leaving the office, my clerk entered to say there was a gentleman waiting who wished to see me upon business. He brought up a card, too, with the name of ‘Colonel Lysander Stark’ engraved upon it. Close at his heels came the colonel himself, a man rather over the middle size, but of an exceeding thinness. I do not think that I have ever seen so thin a man. His whole face sharpened away into nose and chin, and the skin of his cheeks was drawn quite tense over his outstanding bones. Yet this emaciation seemed to be his natural habit, and due to no disease, for his eye was bright, his step brisk, and his bearing assured. He was plainly but neatly dressed, and his age, I should judge, would be nearer forty than thirty. “ ’Mr. Hatherley?’ said he, with something of a German accent. ‘You have been recommended to me, Mr. Hatherley, as being a man who is not only proficient in his profession but is also discreet and capable of preserving a secret.’ “I bowed, feeling as flattered as any young man would at such an address. ‘May I ask who it was who gave me so good a character?’ “ ’Well, perhaps it is better that I should not tell you that just at this moment. I have it from the same source that you are both an orphan and a bachelor and are residing alone in London.’ “ ’That is quite correct,’ I answered; ‘but you will excuse me if I say that I cannot see how all this bears upon my professional qualifications. I understand that it was on a professional matter that you wished to speak to me?’ “ ’Undoubtedly so. But you will find that all I say is really to the point. I have a professional commission for you, but absolute secrecy is quite essential — absolute secrecy, you understand, and of course we may expect that more from a man who is alone than from one who lives in the bosom of his family.’ “ ’If I promise to keep a secret,’ said I, ‘you may absolutely depend upon my doing so.’ “He looked very hard at me as I spoke, and it seemed to me that I had never seen so suspicious and questioning an eye. “ ’Do you promise, then?’ said he at last. “ ’Yes, I promise.’ “ ’Absolute and complete silence before, during, and after? No reference to the matter at all, either in word or writing?’ “ ’I have already given you my word.’ “ ’Very good.’ He suddenly sprang up, and darting like lightning across the room he flung open the door. The passage outside was empty. “ ’That’s all right,’ said he, coming back. ‘I know that clerks are sometimes curious as to their master’s affairs. Now we can talk in safety.’ He drew up his chair very close to mine and began to stare at me again with the same questioning and thoughtful look. “A feeling of repulsion, and of something akin to fear had begun to rise within me at the strange antics of this fleshless man. Even my dread of losing a client could not restrain me from showing my impatience. “ ’I beg that you will state your business, sir,’ said I; ‘my time is of value.’ Heaven forgive me for that last sentence, but the words came to my lips. “ ’How would fifty guineas for a night’s work suit you?’ he asked. “ ’Most admirably.’ “ ’I say a night’s work, but an hour’s would be nearer the mark. I simply want your opinion about a hydraulic stamping machine which has got out of gear. If you show us what is wrong we shall soon set it right ourselves. What do you think of such a commission as that?’ “ ’The work appears to be light and the pay munificent.’ “ ’Precisely so. We shall want you to come to-night by the last train.’ “ ’Where to?’ “ ’To Eyford, in Berkshire. It is a little place near the borders of Oxfordshire, and within seven miles of Reading. There is a train from Paddington which would bring you there at about 11:15.’ “ ’Very good.’ “ ’I shall come down in a carriage to meet you.’ “ ’There is a drive, then?’ “ ’Yes, our little place is quite out in the country. It is a good seven miles from Eyford Station.’ “ ’Then we can hardly get there before midnight. I suppose there would be no chance of a train back. I should be compelled to stop the night.’ “ ’Yes, we could easily give you a shake-down.’ “ ’That is very awkward. Could I not come at some more convenient hour?’ “ ’We have judged it best that you should come late. It is to recompense you for any inconvenience that we are paying to you, a young and unknown man, a fee which would buy an opinion from the very heads of your profession. Still, of course, if you would like to draw out of the business, there is plenty of time to do so.’ “I thought of the fifty guineas, and of how very useful they would be to me. ‘Not at all,’ said I, ‘I shall be very happy to accommodate myself to your wishes. I should like, however, to understand a little more clearly what it is that you wish me to do.’ “ ’Quite so. It is very natural that the pledge of secrecy which we have exacted from you should have aroused your curiosity. I have no wish to commit you to anything without your having it all laid before you. I suppose that we are absolutely safe from eavesdroppers?’ “ ’Entirely.’ “ ’Then the matter stands thus. You are probably aware that fuller’s-earth is a valuable product, and that it is only found in one or two places in England?’ “ ’I have heard so.’ “ ’Some little time ago I bought a small place — a very small place — within ten miles of Reading. I was fortunate enough to discover that there was a deposit of fuller’s-earth in one of my fields. On examining it, however, I found that this deposit was a comparatively small one, and that it formed a link between two very much larger ones upon the right and left — both of them, however, in the grounds of my neighbours. These good people were absolutely ignorant that their land contained that which was quite as valuable as a gold-mine. Naturally, it was to my interest to buy their land before they discovered its true value, but unfortunately I had no capital by which I could do this. I took a few of my friends into the secret, however, and they suggested that we should quietly and secretly work our own little deposit and that in this way we should earn the money which would enable us to buy the neighbouring fields. This we have now been doing for some time, and in order to help us in our operations we erected a hydraulic press. This press, as I have already explained, has got out of order, and we wish your advice upon the subject. We guard our secret very jealously, however, and if it once became known that we had hydraulic engineers coming to our little house, it would soon rouse inquiry, and then, if the facts came out, it would be good-bye to any chance of getting these fields and carrying out our plans. That is why I have made you promise me that you will not tell a human being that you are going to Eyford to-night. I hope that I make it all plain?’ “ ’I quite follow you,’ said I. ‘The only point which I could not quite understand was what use you could make of a hydraulic press in excavating fuller’s-earth, which, as I understand, is dug out like gravel from a pit.’ “ ’Ah!’ said he carelessly, ‘we have our own process. We compress the earth into bricks, so as to remove them without revealing what they are. But that is a mere detail. I have taken you fully into my confidence now, Mr. Hatherley, and I have shown you how I trust you.’ He rose as he spoke. ‘I shall expect you, then, at Eyford at 11:15.’ “ ’I shall certainly be there.’ “ ’And not a word to a soul.’ He looked at me with a last long, questioning gaze, and then, pressing my hand in a cold, dank grasp, he hurried from the room. “Well, when I came to think it all over in cool blood I was very much astonished, as you may both think, at this sudden commission which had been intrusted to me. On the one hand, of course, I was glad, for the fee was at least tenfold what I should have asked had I set a price upon my own services, and it was possible that this order might lead to other ones. On the other hand, the face and manner of my patron had made an unpleasant impression upon me, and I could not think that his explanation of the fuller’s-earth was sufficient to explain the necessity for my coming at midnight, and his extreme anxiety lest I should tell anyone of my errand. However, I threw all fears to the winds, ate a hearty supper, drove to Paddington, and started off, having obeyed to the letter the injunction as to holding my tongue. “At Reading I had to change not only my carriage but my station. However, I was in time for the last train to Eyford, and I reached the little dim-lit station after eleven o’clock. I was the only passenger who got out there, and there was no one upon the platform save a single sleepy porter with a lantern. As I passed out through the wicket gate, however, I found my acquaintance of the morning waiting in the shadow upon the other side. Without a word he grasped my arm and hurried me into a carriage, the door of which was standing open. He drew up the windows on either side, tapped on the wood-work, and away we went as fast as the horse could go.” “One horse?” interjected Holmes. “Yes, only one.” “Did you observe the colour?” “Yes, I saw it by the side-lights when I was stepping into the carriage. It was a chestnut.” “Tired-looking or fresh?” “Oh, fresh and glossy.” “Thank you. I am sorry to have interrupted you. Pray continue your most interesting statement.” “Away we went then, and we drove for at least an hour. Colonel Lysander Stark had said that it was only seven miles, but I should think, from the rate that we seemed to go, and from the time that we took, that it must have been nearer twelve. He sat at my side in silence all the time, and I was aware, more than once when I glanced in his direction, that he was looking at me with great intensity. The country roads seem to be not very good in that part of the world, for we lurched and jolted terribly. I tried to look out of the windows to see something of where we were, but they were made of frosted glass, and I could make out nothing save the occasional bright blur of a passing light. Now and then I hazarded some remark to break the monotony of the journey, but the colonel answered only in monosyllables, and the conversation soon flagged. At last, however, the bumping of the road was exchanged for the crisp smoothness of a gravel-drive, and the carriage came to a stand. Colonel Lysander Stark sprang out, and, as I followed after him, pulled me swiftly into a porch which gaped in front of us. We stepped, as it were, right out of the carriage and into the hall, so that I failed to catch the most fleeting glance of the front of the house. The instant that I had crossed the threshold the door slammed heavily behind us, and I heard faintly the rattle of the wheels as the carriage drove away. “It was pitch dark inside the house, and the colonel fumbled about looking for matches and muttering under his breath. Suddenly a door opened at the other end of the passage, and a long, golden bar of light shot out in our direction. It grew broader, and a woman appeared with a lamp in her hand, which she held above her head, pushing her face forward and peering at us. I could see that she was pretty, and from the gloss with which the light shone upon her dark dress I knew that it was a rich material. She spoke a few words in a foreign tongue in a tone as though asking a question, and when my companion answered in a gruff monosyllable she gave such a start that the lamp nearly fell from her hand. Colonel Stark went up to her, whispered something in her ear, and then, pushing her back into the room from whence she had come, he walked towards me again with the lamp in his hand. “ ’Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in this room for a few minutes,’ said he, throwing open another door. It was a quiet, little, plainly furnished room, with a round table in the centre, on which several German books were scattered. Colonel Stark laid down the lamp on the top of a harmonium beside the door. ‘I shall not keep you waiting an instant,’ said he, and vanished into the darkness. “I glanced at the books upon the table, and in spite of my ignorance of German I could see that two of them were treatises on science, the others being volumes of poetry. Then I walked across to the window, hoping that I might catch some glimpse of the country-side, but an oak shutter, heavily barred, was folded across it. It was a wonderfully silent house. There was an old clock ticking loudly somewhere in the passage, but otherwise everything was deadly still. A vague feeling of uneasiness began to steal over me. Who were these German people, and what were they doing living in this strange, out-of-the-way place? And where was the place? I was ten miles or so from Eyford, that was all I knew, but whether north, south, east, or west I had no idea. For that matter, Reading, and possibly other large towns, were within that radius, so the place might not be so secluded, after all. Yet it was quite certain, from the absolute stillness, that we were in the country. I paced up and down the room, humming a tune under my breath to keep up my spirits and feeling that I was thoroughly earning my fifty-guinea fee. “Suddenly, without any preliminary sound in the midst of the utter stillness, the door of my room swung slowly open. The woman was standing in the aperture, the darkness of the hall behind her, the yellow light from my lamp beating upon her eager and beautiful face. I could see at a glance that she was sick with fear, and the sight sent a chill to my own heart. She held up one shaking finger to warn me to be silent, and she shot a few whispered words of broken English at me, her eyes glancing back, like those of a frightened horse, into the gloom behind her. “ ’I would go,’ said she, trying hard, as it seemed to me, to speak calmly; ‘I would go. I should not stay here. There is no good for you to do.’ “ ’But, madam,’ said I, ‘I have not yet done what I came for. I cannot possibly leave until I have seen the machine.’ “ ’It is not worth your while to wait,’ she went on. ‘You can pass through the door; no one hinders.’ And then, seeing that I smiled and shook my head, she suddenly threw aside her constraint and made a step forward, with her hands wrung together. ‘For the love of Heaven!’ she whispered, ‘get away from here before it is too late!’ “But I am somewhat headstrong by nature, and the more ready to engage in an affair when there is some obstacle in the way. I thought of my fifty-guinea fee, of my wearisome journey, and of the unpleasant night which seemed to be before me. Was it all to go for nothing? Why should I slink away without having carried out my commission, and without the payment which was my due? This woman might, for all I knew, be a monomaniac. With a stout bearing, therefore, though her manner had shaken me more than I cared to confess, I still shook my head and declared my intention of remaining where I was. She was about to renew her entreaties when a door slammed overhead, and the sound of several footsteps was heard upon the stairs. She listened for an instant, threw up her hands with a despairing gesture, and vanished as suddenly and as noiselessly as she had come. “The newcomers were Colonel Lysander Stark and a short thick man with a chinchilla beard growing out of the creases of his double chin, who was introduced to me as Mr. Ferguson. “ ’This is my secretary and manager,’ said the colonel. ‘By the way, I was under the impression that I left this door shut just now. I fear that you have felt the draught.’ “ ’On the contrary,’ said I, ‘I opened the door myself because I felt the room to be a little close.’ “He shot one of his suspicious looks at me. ‘Perhaps we had better proceed to business, then,’ said he. ‘Mr. Ferguson and I will take you up to see the machine.’ “ ’I had better put my hat on, I suppose.’ “ ’Oh, no, it is in the house.’ “ ’What, you dig fuller’s-earth in the house?’ “ ’No, no. This is only where we compress it. But never mind that. All we wish you to do is to examine the machine and to let us know what is wrong with it.’ “We went upstairs together, the colonel first with the lamp, the fat manager and I behind him. It was a labyrinth of an old house, with corridors, passages, narrow winding staircases, and little low doors, the thresholds of which were hollowed out by the generations who had crossed them. There were no carpets and no signs of any furniture above the ground floor, while the plaster was peeling off the walls, and the damp was breaking through in green, unhealthy blotches. I tried to put on as unconcerned an air as possible, but I had not forgotten the warnings of the lady, even though I disregarded them, and I kept a keen eye upon my two companions. Ferguson appeared to be a morose and silent man, but I could see from the little that he said that he was at least a fellow-countryman. “Colonel Lysander Stark stopped at last before a low door, which he unlocked. Within was a small, square room, in which the three of us could hardly get at one time. Ferguson remained outside, and the colonel ushered me in. “ ’We are now,’ said he, ‘actually within the hydraulic press, and it would be a particularly unpleasant thing for us if anyone were to turn it on. The ceiling of this small chamber is really the end of the descending piston, and it comes down with the force of many tons upon this metal floor. There are small lateral columns of water outside which receive the force, and which transmit and multiply it in the manner which is familiar to you. The machine goes readily enough, but there is some stiffness in the working of it, and it has lost a little of its force. Perhaps you will have the goodness to look it over and to show us how we can set it right.’ “I took the lamp from him, and I examined the machine very thoroughly. It was indeed a gigantic one, and capable of exercising enormous pressure. When I passed outside, however, and pressed down the levers which controlled it, I knew at once by the whishing sound that there was a slight leakage, which allowed a regurgitation of water through one of the side cylinders. An examination showed that one of the india-rubber bands which was round the head of a driving-rod had shrunk so as not quite to fill the socket along which it worked. This was clearly the cause of the loss of power, and I pointed it out to my companions, who followed my remarks very carefully and asked several practical questions as to how they should proceed to set it right. When I had made it clear to them, I returned to the main chamber of the machine and took a good look at it to satisfy my own curiosity. It was obvious at a glance that the story of the fuller’s-earth was the merest fabrication, for it would be absurd to suppose that so powerful an engine could be designed for so inadequate a purpose. The walls were of wood, but the floor consisted of a large iron trough, and when I came to examine it I could see a crust of metallic deposit all over it. I had stooped and was scraping at this to see exactly what it was when I heard a muttered exclamation in German and saw the cadaverous face of the colonel looking down at me. “ ’What are you doing there?’ he asked. “I felt angry at having been tricked by so elaborate a story as that which he had told me. ‘I was admiring your fuller’s-earth,’ said I; ‘I think that I should be better able to advise you as to your machine if I knew what the exact purpose was for which it was used.’ “The instant that I uttered the words I regretted the rashness of my speech. His face set hard, and a baleful light sprang up in his grey eyes. “ ’Very well,’ said he, ‘you shall know all about the machine.’ He took a step backward, slammed the little door, and turned the key in the lock. I rushed towards it and pulled at the handle, but it was quite secure, and did not give in the least to my kicks and shoves. ‘Hullo!’ I yelled. ‘Hullo! Colonel! Let me out!’ “And then suddenly in the silence I heard a sound which sent my heart into my mouth. It was the clank of the levers and the swish of the leaking cylinder. He had set the engine at work. The lamp still stood upon the floor where I had placed it when examining the trough. By its light I saw that the black ceiling was coming down upon me, slowly, jerkily, but, as none knew better than myself, with a force which must within a minute grind me to a shapeless pulp. I threw myself, screaming, against the door, and dragged with my nails at the lock. I implored the colonel to let me out, but the remorseless clanking of the levers drowned my cries. The ceiling was only a foot or two above my head, and with my hand upraised I could feel its hard, rough surface. Then it flashed through my mind that the pain of my death would depend very much upon the position in which I met it. If I lay on my face the weight would come upon my spine, and I shuddered to think of that dreadful snap. Easier the other way, perhaps; and yet, had I the nerve to lie and look up at that deadly black shadow wavering down upon me? Already I was unable to stand erect, when my eye caught something which brought a gush of hope back to my heart. “I have said that though the floor and ceiling were of iron, the walls were of wood. As I gave a last hurried glance around, I saw a thin line of yellow light between two of the boards, which broadened and broadened as a small panel was pushed backward. For an instant I could hardly believe that here was indeed a door which led away from death. The next instant I threw myself through, and lay half-fainting upon the other side. The panel had closed again behind me, but the crash of the lamp, and a few moments afterwards the clang of the two slabs of metal, told me how narrow had been my escape. “I was recalled to myself by a frantic plucking at my wrist, and I found myself lying upon the stone floor of a narrow corridor, while a woman bent over me and tugged at me with her left hand, while she held a candle in her right. It was the same good friend whose warning I had so foolishly rejected. “ ’Come! come!’ she cried breathlessly. ‘They will be here in a moment. They will see that you are not there. Oh, do not waste the so-precious time, but come!’ “This time, at least, I did not scorn her advice. I staggered to my feet and ran with her along the corridor and down a winding stair. The latter led to another broad passage, and just as we reached it we heard the sound of running feet and the shouting of two voices, one answering the other from the floor on which we were and from the one beneath. My guide stopped and looked about her like one who is at her wit’s end. Then she threw open a door which led into a bedroom, through the window of which the moon was shining brightly. “ ’It is your only chance,’ said she. ‘It is high, but it may be that you can jump it.’ “As she spoke a light sprang into view at the further end of the passage, and I saw the lean figure of Colonel Lysander Stark rushing forward with a lantern in one hand and a weapon like a butcher’s cleaver in the other. I rushed across the bedroom, flung open the window, and looked out. How quiet and sweet and wholesome the garden looked in the moonlight, and it could not be more than thirty feet down. I clambered out upon the sill, but I hesitated to jump until I should have heard what passed between my saviour and the ruffian who pursued me. If she were ill-used, then at any risks I was determined to go back to her assistance. The thought had hardly flashed through my mind before he was at the door, pushing his way past her; but she threw her arms round him and tried to hold him back. “ ’Fritz! Fritz!’ she cried in English, ‘remember your promise after the last time. You said it should not be again. He will be silent! Oh, he will be silent!’ “ ’You are mad, Elise!’ he shouted, struggling to break away from her. ‘You will be the ruin of us. He has seen too much. Let me pass, I say!’ He dashed her to one side, and, rushing to the window, cut at me with his heavy weapon. I had let myself go, and was hanging by the hands to the sill, when his blow fell. I was conscious of a dull pain, my grip loosened, and I fell into the garden below. “I was shaken but not hurt by the fall; so I picked myself up and rushed off among the bushes as hard as I could run, for I understood that I was far from being out of danger yet. Suddenly, however, as I ran, a deadly dizziness and sickness came over me. I glanced down at my hand, which was throbbing painfully, and then, for the first time, saw that my thumb had been cut off and that the blood was pouring from my wound. I endeavoured to tie my handkerchief round it, but there came a sudden buzzing in my ears, and next moment I fell in a dead faint among the rose-bushes. “How long I remained unconscious I cannot tell. It must have been a very long time, for the moon had sunk, and a bright morning was breaking when I came to myself. My clothes were all sodden with dew, and my coat-sleeve was drenched with blood from my wounded thumb. The smarting of it recalled in an instant all the particulars of my night’s adventure, and I sprang to my feet with the feeling that I might hardly yet be safe from my pursuers. But to my astonishment, when I came to look round me, neither house nor garden were to be seen. I had been lying in an angle of the hedge close by the highroad, and just a little lower down was a long building, which proved, upon my approaching it, to be the very station at which I had arrived upon the previous night. Were it not for the ugly wound upon my hand, all that had passed during those dreadful hours might have been an evil dream. “Half dazed, I went into the station and asked about the morning train. There would be one to Reading in less than an hour. The same porter was on duty, I found, as had been there when I arrived. I inquired of him whether he had ever heard of Colonel Lysander Stark. The name was strange to him. Had he observed a carriage the night before waiting for me? No, he had not. Was there a police-station anywhere near? There was one about three miles off. “It was too far for me to go, weak and ill as I was. I determined to wait until I got back to town before telling my story to the police. It was a little past six when I arrived, so I went first to have my wound dressed, and then the doctor was kind enough to bring me along here. I put the case into your hands and shall do exactly what you advise.” We both sat in silence for some little time after listening to this extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock Holmes pulled down from the shelf one of the ponderous commonplace books in which he placed his cuttings. “Here is an advertisement which will interest you,” said he. “It appeared in all the papers about a year ago. Listen to this: ‘Lost, on the 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged twenty-six, a hydraulic engineer. Left his lodgings at ten o’clock at night, and has not been heard of since. Was dressed in,’ etc., etc. Ha! That represents the last time that the colonel needed to have his machine overhauled, I fancy.” “Good heavens!” cried my patient. “Then that explains what the girl said.” “Undoubtedly. It is quite clear that the colonel was a cool and desperate man, who was absolutely determined that nothing should stand in the way of his little game, like those out-and-out pirates who will leave no survivor from a captured ship. Well, every moment now is precious, so if you feel equal to it we shall go down to Scotland Yard at once as a preliminary to starting for Eyford.” Some three hours or so afterwards we were all in the train together, bound from Reading to the little Berkshire village. There were Sherlock Holmes, the hydraulic engineer, Inspector Bradstreet, of Scotland Yard, a plain-clothes man, and myself. Bradstreet had spread an ordnance map of the county out upon the seat and was busy with his compasses drawing a circle with Eyford for its centre. “There you are,” said he. “That circle is drawn at a radius of ten miles from the village. The place we want must be somewhere near that line. You said ten miles, I think, sir.” “It was an hour’s good drive.” “And you think that they brought you back all that way when you were unconscious?” “They must have done so. I have a confused memory, too, of having been lifted and conveyed somewhere.” “What I cannot understand,” said I, “is why they should have spared you when they found you lying fainting in the garden. Perhaps the villain was softened by the woman’s entreaties.” “I hardly think that likely. I never saw a more inexorable face in my life.” “Oh, we shall soon clear up all that,” said Bradstreet. “Well, I have drawn my circle, and I only wish I knew at what point upon it the folk that we are in search of are to be found.” “I think I could lay my finger on it,” said Holmes quietly. “Really, now!” cried the inspector, “you have formed your opinion! Come, now, we shall see who agrees with you. I say it is south, for the country is more deserted there.” “And I say east,” said my patient. “I am for west,” remarked the plain-clothes man. “There are several quiet little villages up there.” “And I am for north,” said I, “because there are no hills there, and our friend says that he did not notice the carriage go up any.” “Come,” cried the inspector, laughing; “it’s a very pretty diversity of opinion. We have boxed the compass among us. Who do you give your casting vote to?” “You are all wrong.” “But we can’t all be.” “Oh, yes, you can. This is my point.” He placed his finger in the centre of the circle. “This is where we shall find them.” “But the twelve-mile drive?” gasped Hatherley. “Six out and six back. Nothing simpler. You say yourself that the horse was fresh and glossy when you got in. How could it be that if it had gone twelve miles over heavy roads?” “Indeed, it is a likely ruse enough,” observed Bradstreet thoughtfully. “Of course there can be no doubt as to the nature of this gang.” “None at all,” said Holmes. “They are coiners on a large scale, and have used the machine to form the amalgam which has taken the place of silver.” “We have known for some time that a clever gang was at work,” said the inspector. “They have been turning out half-crowns by the thousand. We even traced them as far as Reading, but could get no farther, for they had covered their traces in a way that showed that they were very old hands. But now, thanks to this lucky chance, I think that we have got them right enough.” But the inspector was mistaken, for those criminals were not destined to fall into the hands of justice. As we rolled into Eyford Station we saw a gigantic column of smoke which streamed up from behind a small clump of trees in the neighbourhood and hung like an immense ostrich feather over the landscape. “A house on fire?” asked Bradstreet as the train steamed off again on its way. “Yes, sir!” said the station-master. “When did it break out?” “I hear that it was during the night, sir, but it has got worse, and the whole place is in a blaze.” “Whose house is it?” “Dr. Becher’s.” “Tell me,” broke in the engineer, “is Dr. Becher a German, very thin, with a long, sharp nose?” The station-master laughed heartily. “No, sir, Dr. Becher is an Englishman, and there isn’t a man in the parish who has a better-lined waistcoat. But he has a gentleman staying with him, a patient, as I understand, who is a foreigner, and he looks as if a little good Berkshire beef would do him no harm.” The station-master had not finished his speech before we were all hastening in the direction of the fire. The road topped a low hill, and there was a great widespread whitewashed building in front of us, spouting fire at every chink and window, while in the garden in front three fire-engines were vainly striving to keep the flames under. “That’s it!” cried Hatherley, in intense excitement. “There is the gravel-drive, and there are the rose-bushes where I lay. That second window is the one that I jumped from.” “Well, at least,” said Holmes, “you have had your revenge upon them. There can be no question that it was your oil-lamp which, when it was crushed in the press, set fire to the wooden walls, though no doubt they were too excited in the chase after you to observe it at the time. Now keep your eyes open in this crowd for your friends of last night, though I very much fear that they are a good hundred miles off by now.” And Holmes’ fears came to be realised, for from that day to this no word has ever been heard either of the beautiful woman, the sinister German, or the morose Englishman. Early that morning a peasant had met a cart containing several people and some very bulky boxes driving rapidly in the direction of Reading, but there all traces of the fugitives disappeared, and even Holmes’ ingenuity failed ever to discover the least clue as to their whereabouts. The firemen had been much perturbed at the strange arrangements which they had found within, and still more so by discovering a newly severed human thumb upon a window-sill of the second floor. About sunset, however, their efforts were at last successful, and they subdued the flames, but not before the roof had fallen in, and the whole place been reduced to such absolute ruin that, save some twisted cylinders and iron piping, not a trace remained of the machinery which had cost our unfortunate acquaintance so dearly. Large masses of nickel and of tin were discovered stored in an out-house, but no coins were to be found, which may have explained the presence of those bulky boxes which have been already referred to. How our hydraulic engineer had been conveyed from the garden to the spot where he recovered his senses might have remained forever a mystery were it not for the soft mould, which told us a very plain tale. He had evidently been carried down by two persons, one of whom had remarkably small feet and the other unusually large ones. On the whole, it was most probable that the silent Englishman, being less bold or less murderous than his companion, had assisted the woman to bear the unconscious man out of the way of danger. “Well,” said our engineer ruefully as we took our seats to return once more to London, “it has been a pretty business for me! I have lost my thumb and I have lost a fifty-guinea fee, and what have I gained?” “Experience,” said Holmes, laughing. “Indirectly it may be of value, you know; you have only to put it into words to gain the reputation of being excellent company for the remainder of your existence.”

L’AVVENTURA DEL DITO POLlice DEL INGEGNERE
Tra tutti i problemi che sono stati sottoposti al mio amico, il signor Sherlock Holmes, per essere risolti negli anni della nostra amicizia, ce ne furono soltanto due di cui fui io a fargli conoscere i dettagli: quello relativo al dito pollice del signor Hatherley e quello riguardante la follia del colonnello Warburton. Di questi ultimi, forse il secondo avrebbe offerto un terreno più adatto per un osservatore acuto e originale; ma il primo, per la sua stranezza all’inizio e per i dettagli drammatici che lo caratterizzavano, meritava certamente di essere raccontato, anche se offriva al mio amico meno opportunità per quelle metodologie deduttive grazie alle quali raggiungeva risultati così notevoli. Credo che questa storia sia già stata raccontata più volte sui giornali; tuttavia, come avviene per tutti questi resoconti, il loro effetto è molto meno impressionante quando vengono presentati in blocco su una sola colonna di stampa, rispetto a quando i fatti si svolgono lentamente davanti ai nostri occhi e il mistero si chiarisce gradualmente, man mano che ogni nuova scoperta ci avvicina alla verità completa. All’epoca, quelle circostanze mi lasciarono un profondo impatto; e il passare di due anni non ha quasi affatto attenuato tale effetto. Fu nell’estate del ’89, poco dopo il mio matrimonio, che ebbero luogo gli eventi di cui sto per parlare. Ero tornato a praticare la medicina privata e avevo finalmente lasciato Holmes nelle sue stanze di Baker Street, anche se continuavo a visitarlo e talvolta lo convincevo persino ad abbandonare le sue abitudini bohémien per venire a trovarci. La mia attività professionale aumentava costantemente; e poiché abitavo non lontano dalla stazione di Paddington, ricevevo alcuni pazienti tra gli impiegati della stazione stessa. Uno di questi, che avevo curato da una malattia dolorosa e cronica, non si stancava mai di lodare le mie capacità e di cercare di mandarmi tutti i pazienti su cui poteva esercitare qualche influenza. Una mattina, poco prima delle sette, la cameriera bussò alla porta per dirmi che due uomini erano arrivati da Paddington e stavano aspettando nell’ambulatorio. Mi vestii in fretta, perché sapevo bene che i casi legati ai treni di solito non erano banali, e scesi rapidamente al piano di sotto. Mentre stavo scendendo le scale, il mio vecchio alleato, il guardiano della stazione, uscì dall’ambulatorio e chiuse la porta dietro di sé. “L’ho portato qui,” sussurrò, indicando con il dito pollice sopra la spalla; “è tutto a posto.”
“Allora, di cosa si tratta?” chiesi, perché il suo tono suggeriva che avesse catturato qualche strana creatura e l’avesse rinchiusa nella mia stanza.
“È un nuovo paziente,” sussurrò. “Ho pensato di portarlo io stesso; così non sarebbe potuto scappare. Ecco qui, tutto al sicuro. Ora devo andare, dottore, anch’io ho le mie faccende da sbrigare.” E se ne andò, quel fedele intermediario, senza nemmeno darmi il tempo di ringraziarlo. Entrai nel mio studio e vidi un signore seduto vicino al tavolo. Era vestito in modo semplice, con un abito di tweed e un berretto di stoffa morbida che aveva posato sui miei libri. Intorno a una delle sue mani c’era un fazzoletto avvolto, tutto macchiato di sangue. Era giovane, non più di venticinque anni, con un viso forte e mascolino; ma era estremamente pallido e dava l’impressione di essere in preda a una forte agitazione, che riusciva a controllare solo con grande sforzo mentale. “Mi dispiace disturbarla così presto, dottore,” disse, “ma ho avuto un incidente molto grave durante la notte. Sono arrivato in treno stamattina e, dopo aver chiesto a Paddington dove potessi trovare un medico, un gentiluomo mi ha accompagnato qui con grande cortesia. Ho lasciato un biglietto alla cameriera, ma vedo che l’ha dimenticato sul comodino.” Lo presi in mano e lo guardai. “Signor Victor Hatherley, ingegnere idraulico, 16A, Victoria Street (terzo piano)”. Quel nome, quel modo di esprimersi e quella residenza, erano quelli del mio visitatore mattutino. “Mi dispiace di averla fatta aspettare”, dissi, sedendomi nella mia poltrona in biblioteca. “Capisco che sia appena rientrato da un viaggio notturno, il quale di per sé è un’attività piuttosto monotona, ”
“Oh, no, la mia notte non può certo essere definita monotona”, rispose lui, ridendo. Rideva molto forte, con una risata alta e sonora; si appoggiò allo schienale della sedia e iniziò a scuotersi. Tutti i miei istinti medici si ribellarono contro quella risata. “Smetta! Si calmi!”, gridai, versandogli dell’acqua da una caraffa.
Ma era inutile: ebbe un altro di quegli attacchi isterici che colpiscono le persone forti quando una grande crisi è finalmente passata. Dopo un po’, tornò in sé, molto stanco e pallido. “Mi sono comportato come uno sciocco”, disse, con voce affannosa.
“Assolutamente no. Beva questo.” Versai del brandy nell’acqua; il colore cominciò a tornare sulle sue guance pallide. “Meglio così! Ora, dottore, forse potrebbe curarmi il pollice, o meglio, il posto dove un tempo c’era il mio pollice, ” Sciolse il fazzoletto e tese la mano. Anche i miei nervi induriti rabbrividirono al vederla: c’erano quattro dita sporgenti, e sul posto dove avrebbe dovuto esserci il pollice c’era una superficie rossa, molle e orribile; era stato tagliato via completamente, dalle radici.
“Mio Dio!” esclamai, “è un ferimento terribile. Dev’essere sanguinato molto.”
“Sì, sì. Sono svenuto quando me lo hanno fatto, e penso di essere rimasto privo di sensi per molto tempo. Quando mi sono ripreso, ho visto che continuava a sanguinare, così ho legato stretto un capo del fazzoletto intorno al polso e l’ho sorretto con un rametto.”
“Eccellente! Avresti dovuto fare il chirurgo, ”
“Si tratta semplicemente di principi di idraulica. Appartengono alla mia area di competenza, in fondo.”
“Questo ferimento è stato causato da uno strumento molto pesante e affilato, ”
“Qualcosa del genere. Una lama tagliente,” disse lui.
“Un incidente, presumo, ”
“Assolutamente no.”
“Cosa? Un attacco omicida?”
“Senza dubbio.” “Mi spaventi davvero.”
Pulii la ferita, la curai e infine la coprii con ovatta e bende antisettiche. Lui rimase sdraiato senza emettere un lamento, anche se di tanto in tanto mordeva il labbro.
“Come ti senti ora?” chiesi quando ebbi finito.
“Magnificamente! Grazie al brandy e alle bende, mi sento come nuovo. Prima ero molto debole, ma ho passato momenti davvero difficili.”
“Forse sarebbe meglio che non ne parlassi più. Chiaramente questa esperienza sta mettendo a dura prova i tuoi nervi.”
“Oh, no, almeno per ora. Dovrò comunque raccontare tutto alla polizia; ma tra noi, se non fosse per questa ferita, dubito che crederebbero alle mie parole. È una storia davvero straordinaria, e non ho molte prove a sostegno delle mie affermazioni. Anche se mi credessero, le indagini che posso fornire sono così vaghe che è difficile dire se verrà fatta giustizia.”
“Ah!” esclamai. “Se si tratta di un problema che desideri risolvere, ti consiglierei vivamente di rivolgerti a mio amico, il signor Sherlock Holmes, prima di andare dalla polizia ufficiale.”
“Oh, ho sentito parlare di lui. Sarei molto contento se si occupasse della questione, anche se ovviamente dovrò ricorrere anche alla polizia ufficiale. Potresti presentarmelo?”
“Farò di meglio: ti porterò io stesso da lui.”
“Te ne sarei immensamente grato.”
“Chiameremo un taxi e andremo insieme. Arriveremo giusto in tempo per fare colazione con lui. Ti senti in grado?”
“Sì. Non mi sentirò tranquillo finché non avrò raccontato tutta la mia storia.”
“Allora il mio servitore chiamerà un taxi, e sarò subito da te.” Corsi di sopra, spiegai brevemente la situazione a mia moglie, e in cinque minuti ero già in una vettura, diretto con il mio nuovo conoscente verso Baker Street.
Sherlock Holmes era, come mi aspettavo, sdraiato nel suo salotto in vestaglia, intento a leggere la sezione dei giornali dedicata ai casi strani e a fumare la sua pipa mattutina, composta da tutti i tappi e le punte di sigaretta rimasti dopo la sera precedente. Tutti accuratamente asciugati e raccolti nell’angolo del caminetto. Ci accolse con il suo solito modo cordiale, ordinò caffè fresco e uova, e partecipò con noi a una colazione sostanziosa. Dopo aver finito, fece sedere il nostro nuovo ospite sul divano, gli mise un cuscino sotto la testa e gli mise accanto un bicchiere di brandy e acqua.
“È evidente che la tua esperienza non sia stata affatto ordinaria, signor Hatherley. Per favore, sdraiati pure comodamente e raccontaci tutto ciò che puoi. Ma fermati quando sei stanco, e bevi un po’ di questo brandy per riacquistare le forze.”
“Grazie,” disse il mio paziente. “Da quando il dottore mi ha curato, mi sento davvero meglio. Cercherò di non occupare troppo del tuo tempo prezioso, quindi inizierò subito a raccontarti le mie straordinarie avventure.” Holmes era seduto nella sua grande poltrona, con quell’espressione stanca e con gli occhi semichiusi che nascondevano la sua natura acuta ed entusiasta; io sedevo di fronte a lui, e ascoltavamo in silenzio la strana storia che il nostro visitatore ci stava raccontando.
“Dovete sapere,” disse, “che sono orfano e scapolo, e vivo da solo in una stanza affittata a Londra. Per professione sono ingegnere idraulico, e ho acquisito notevole esperienza durante i sette anni in cui sono stato apprendista presso la famosa ditta Venner & Matheson di Greenwich. Due anni fa, dopo aver completato il mio periodo di apprendistato e avendo ricevuto anche una discreta somma di denaro in seguito alla morte di mio padre, ho deciso di avviare la mia attività professionale e ho aperto uno studio in Victoria Street.
“Immagino che per tutti sia un’esperienza noiosa il primo tentativo di avviare un’attività indipendente. Per me è stato particolarmente difficile. In due anni ho ricevuto soltanto tre clienti e ho ottenuto un piccolo incarico; questo è praticamente tutto ciò che la mia professione mi ha portato. Il mio reddito totale ammonta a 27 sterline e 10 scellini. Ogni giorno, dalle nove del mattino alle quattro del pomeriggio, aspettavo nel mio piccolo studio, finché non ho iniziato a credere che non avrei mai ottenuto alcun lavoro.
“Ieri, però, proprio mentre stavo pensando di lasciare lo studio, il mio impiegato entrò e mi annunciò che c’era un signore che desiderava parlarmi per affari. Mi mostrò anche una carta su cui era scritto il nome ‘Colonnello Lysander Stark’. Poco dopo arrivò lui stesso: un uomo di statura media, ma estremamente magro. Non credo di aver mai visto nessuno così magro. Il suo viso sembrava ridotto soltanto a naso e mento; la pelle delle guance era tesa sulle ossa sporgenti. Tuttavia, quell’emaciazione sembrava essere una caratteristica naturale sua, non dovuta a malattie. Il suo sguardo era luminoso, i suoi passi decisi e il suo portamento sicuro. Era vestito in modo semplice ma pulito; doveva avere circa quarant’anni, più che trenta.
“‘Signor Hatherley?’ disse, con un leggero accento tedesco. ‘Mi è stato detto che lei non solo è molto competente nella sua professione, ma anche discreto e in grado di mantenere i segreti.’
“Mi inchinai, sentendomi lusingato da queste parole, ‘Posso chiedere chi mi ha fornito queste informazioni?’
“‘Beh, forse è meglio che non ve lo dica per ora. Mi è stato detto anche che lei è orfano e scapolo, e vive da solo a Londra.’
“‘È esatto,’ risposi; ‘ma non capisco come tutto questo possa riguardare le mie qualifiche professionali. Immagino che volesse parlarmi di un affare lavorativo, giusto?’” “Certamente. Ma scoprirete che tutto ciò che dico è davvero pertinente all’argomento. Ho un incarico professionale per voi, ma la massima segretezza è assolutamente essenziale, assoluta segretezza, capite? E naturalmente possiamo aspettarcelo da una persona che vive da sola, piuttosto che da qualcuno che vive nel grembo della propria famiglia.”
“Se prometto di mantenere il segreto,” dissi, “potete essere assolutamente certi che lo farò.”
Mentre parlavo, mi guardò attentamente; mi sembrò di non aver mai visto uno sguardo così sospettoso e indagatore.
“Allora promettete?” chiese infine.
“Sì, prometto.”
“Silenzio assoluto prima, durante e dopo. Nessuna menzione dell’argomento, né a parole né per iscritto?”
“Vi ho già dato la mia parola.”
“Molto bene.” All’improvviso si alzò, attraversò la stanza come un lampo e aprì la porta. Il corridoio fuori era deserto.
“Allora va bene,” disse tornando indietro. “So che a volte i dipendenti sono curiosi riguardo agli affari del loro padrone. Ora possiamo parlare in sicurezza.” Si avvicinò molto alla mia sedia e iniziò di nuovo a fissarmi con lo stesso sguardo indagatore.
Un senso di repulsione, e qualcosa di simile al terrore, iniziò a crescere in me di fronte alle strane azioni di quell’uomo enigmatico. Nemmeno la paura di perdere un cliente riuscì a trattenermi dal mostrare impazienza.
“Vi prego, esponete il vostro incarico, signore,” dissi; “il mio tempo è prezioso.” Che Dio mi perdoni per quelle parole. Ma semplicemente mi uscirono dalle labbra.
“Cinquanta ghinee per un lavoro di una notte vi sembrano accettabili?” chiese.
“Assolutamente sì.”
“Dico ‘un lavoro di una notte’, ma in realtà basterebbe anche un’ora. Voglio semplicemente il vostro parere su una macchina per la stampa idraulica che si è guastata. Se ci mostrate cosa c’è che non va, possiamo ripararla subito. Che ne pensate di questo incarico?”
“Il lavoro sembra semplice e il compenso generoso.”
“Esattamente. Vi aspettiamo stasera con l’ultimo treno.”
“Dove?”
“A Eyford, nel Berkshire. Un piccolo paese vicino ai confini dell’Oxfordshire, a meno di sette miglia da Reading. C’è un treno da Paddington che vi porterà lì alle 11:15 circa.”
“Molto bene.”
“Verrò a prendervi in carrozza.”
“Allora c’è una strada per arrivarci?”
“Sì. Il nostro paese è piuttosto isolato. Ci vogliono circa sette miglia da Eyford Station.”
“In quel caso difficilmente arriveremmo prima di mezzanotte. Non ci sarebbe modo di tornare con il treno. Dovrei pernottare lì.”
“Certo. Potremmo facilmente offrirvi ospitalità.”
“Ma questo è molto scomodo. Non potrei venire in un orario più conveniente?”
“Abbiamo ritenuto meglio che veniste tardi. È una forma di compensazione per eventuali disagi. Per un giovane e sconosciuto come voi, si tratta di una cifra sufficiente a ottenere il parere dei migliori esperti della vostra professione. Comunque, se preferite rinunciare all’incarico, c’è ancora molto tempo.” “I pensavo a quelle cinquanta ghinee, e a quanto sarebbero state utili per me. ‘Assolutamente no,’ dissi, ‘sarò molto felice di accontentare i vostri desideri. Tuttavia, vorrei capire più chiaramente cosa esattamente vi aspettate che faccia.’
‘Certo. È del tutto naturale che la promessa di riservatezza che vi abbiamo chiesto abbia suscitato la vostra curiosità. Non voglio costringervi a fare nulla senza che comprendiate appieno le circostanze. Immagino che siamo completamente al sicuro da orecchie indiscrete, vero?’
‘Assolutamente.’
‘Allora ecco come stanno le cose: probabilmente sapete già che la fuller’s-earth è un prodotto molto prezioso, e che in Inghilterra si trova solo in uno o due luoghi.’
‘L’ho sentito dire.’
‘Un po’ di tempo fa ho acquistato una piccola proprietà, a meno di dieci miglia da Reading. Sono stato fortunato nel scoprire che uno dei miei campi conteneva giacimenti di fuller’s-earth. Tuttavia, dopo un’ispezione, ho constatato che si trattava di giacimenti piuttosto piccoli, collegati a due giacimenti molto più grandi situati a destra e a sinistra, entrambi appartenenti ai miei vicini. Queste persone ignoravano completamente che il loro terreno contenesse qualcosa di altrettanto prezioso di una miniera d’oro. Naturalmente, era nel mio interesse acquistare quei terreni prima che scoprissero il loro vero valore, ma purtroppo non avevo i fondi necessari. Così ho coinvolto alcuni amici in questo progetto; hanno suggerito di estrarre silenziosamente quel piccolo giacimento da soli, in modo da guadagnare abbastanza denaro per acquistare anche i campi adiacenti. È da un po’ che stiamo lavorando a questo piano, e per facilitare le operazioni abbiamo costruito una pressa idraulica. Purtroppo, questa pressa si è rotta, e vorremmo il vostro parere al riguardo. Tuttavia custodiamo questo segreto con molta attenzione, se qualcuno scoprisse che degli ingegneri idraulici vengono nella nostra casa, susciterebbe sicuramente delle domande, e se le cose venissero a galla, perderemmo ogni possibilità di ottenere quei terreni e realizzare i nostri piani. Ecco perché vi ho chiesto di promettermi che non direte a nessuno che stiate andando a Eyford stasera. Spero di essere stato chiaro?’
‘Capisco perfettamente,’ dissi. ‘L’unica cosa che non mi era del tutto chiara è, a cosa possa servire una pressa idraulica per estrarre la fuller’s-earth, visto che, da quanto ho capito, viene estratta come ghiaia da una fossa.’
‘Ah!’ rispose lui con noncuranza, ‘abbiamo il nostro metodo: comprimiamo la terra in mattoni, così da poterla trasportare senza rivelare cosa sia realmente. Ma questa è solo un dettaglio. Ora vi ho confidato tutto, signor Hatherley, e vedete quanto mi fido di voi.’ Si alzò mentre parlava. ‘Allora ci vediamo a Eyford alle 11:15.’
‘Ci sarò sicuramente.’ “‘E non una parola con nessuno.’ Mi guardò con uno sguardo lungo e interrogativo, poi, stringendomi la mano in modo freddo e umido, se ne andò di fretta dalla stanza.
Beh, quando ci pensai con calma, fui davvero sorpreso da questa improvvisa commissione che mi era stata affidata. Da un lato, naturalmente, ero felice: la ricompensa era almeno dieci volte superiore a quella che avrei chiesto se avessi fissato un prezzo per i miei servizi, e c’era la possibilità che questo incarico portasse ad altri. Dall’altro lato, l’espressione e il comportamento del mio cliente mi avevano lasciato una brutta impressione; non riuscivo a credere che la sua spiegazione riguardo all’utilizzo della terra di fuller potesse giustificare la necessità che io arrivassi a mezzanotte, né la sua estrema ansia nel timore che raccontassi a qualcuno lo scopo della mia missione. Comunque, scacciai tutti questi dubbi, mangiai una cena abbondante, andai a Paddington e partii, attenendomi rigorosamente all’ordine di mantenere il silenzio.
A Reading dovetti cambiare non solo vettura ma anche stazione. Tuttavia, arrivai in tempo per l’ultimo treno per Eyford, che giunse dopo le undici. Ero l’unico passeggero a scendere: sulla banchina non c’era nessuno, tranne un portiere assonnato con una lanterna. Quando uscii dal cancello della stazione, trovai il mio conoscente di quella mattina ad aspettarmi nell’ombra. Senza dire una parola, mi afferrò per il braccio e mi fece salire rapidamente in una vettura la cui porta era già aperta. Chiuse le finestre su entrambi i lati, bussò sul tetto della carrozza e partimmo il più velocemente possibile.”
“Un solo cavallo?” intervenne Holmes.
“Sì, solo uno.”
“Hai notato il colore?”
“Sì; l’ho visto attraverso i finestrini quando stavo salendo in vettura. Era di colore castano.”
“Sembrava stanco o fresco?”
“Oh, fresco e lucido.”
“Grazie. Mi dispiace averti interrotto. Per favore, continua con il tuo racconto molto interessante.” “Ci mettemmo in viaggio e guidammo per almeno un’ora. Il colonnello Lysander Stark aveva detto che la distanza era di soli sette miglia, ma a giudicare dalla velocità con cui procedevamo e dal tempo impiegato, doveva essere più vicina alle dodici miglia. Sedeva accanto a me in silenzio per tutto il tragitto; più volte, quando lo guardavo, mi resi conto che mi fissava con grande intensità. Le strade di campagna in quella parte del mondo non sembrano molto buone, perché sobbalzavamo terribilmente durante il viaggio. Cercai di guardare fuori dai finestrini per capire dove ci trovassimo, ma erano fatti di vetro opaco e riuscivo a vedere solo qualche lampo luminoso di un veicolo che passava. Di tanto in tanto provavo a fare qualche commento per rompere la monotonia del viaggio, ma il colonnello rispondeva soltanto con monosillabi, e la conversazione finiva presto per interrompersi. Alla fine, il rumore sconnesso della strada fu sostituito dal suono regolare di un vialetto in ghiaia, e la carrozza si fermò. Il colonnello Lysander Stark scese rapidamente e, mentre lo seguivo, mi trascinò dentro un portico che si apriva davanti a noi. Entrammo direttamente nell’atrio, senza nemmeno dare un’occhiata alla facciata della casa. Non appena superai la soglia, la porta si chiuse con forza alle nostre spalle; sentii poi il rumore delle ruote della carrozza che si allontanavano. “L’interno della casa era completamente buio; il colonnello cercava goffamente le candele, mormorando tra sé. All’improvviso una porta si aprì all’estremità del corridoio e un lungo raggio di luce dorata ci illuminò. La luce divenne più intensa e apparve una donna con una lampada in mano; la teneva alta sopra la testa, guardandoci attentamente. Sembrava bella, e dal modo in cui la luce risplendeva sul suo abito scuro capii che doveva essere fatto di un materiale costoso. Disse alcune parole in una lingua straniera, con tono interrogativo; quando il colonnello rispose con un monosillabo brusco, lei fece un balzo indietro, rischiando di far cadere la lampada. Il colonnello Stark le si avvicinò, le sussurrò qualcosa all’orecchio e poi la spinse di nuovo nella stanza da cui era venuta; dopo ciò tornò verso di me con la lampada in mano. “‘Forse potrebbe avere la gentilezza di aspettare qualche minuto in questa stanza’, mi disse, aprendo un’altra porta. Era una stanza piccola e tranquilla, arredata semplicemente; al centro c’era un tavolo rotondo su cui erano sparse alcune libri tedeschi. Il colonnello Stark posò la lampada su un harmonium accanto alla porta. ‘Non la farò aspettare nemmeno un attimo’, disse, e scomparve nel buio.” “Guardai i libri sul tavolo e, nonostante la mia ignoranza del tedesco, capii che due di essi erano trattati scientifici, mentre gli altri erano volumi di poesia. Poi mi avvicinai alla finestra nella speranza di intravedere il paesaggio circostante, ma una persiana di quercia, pesantemente chiusa con sbarre, la bloccava completamente. Era una casa stranamente silenziosa. C’era un vecchio orologio che ticchettava rumorosamente da qualche parte nel corridoio, ma per il resto tutto era immobile. Un vago senso di inquietudine iniziò a invadermi. Chi erano queste persone tedesche, e perché vivevano in un posto così remoto e strano? E dove si trovava esattamente questo luogo? Eravamo a circa dieci miglia da Eyford, ma non avevo idea se ci trovassimo a nord, sud, est o ovest. Anzi, anche Reading e altre città grandi potevano trovarsi in quella zona. Quindi forse quel posto non era così isolato. Tuttavia, dalla totale quiete che regnava lì dentro, era evidente che ci trovavamo in campagna. Camminavo avanti e indietro nella stanza, mormorando una canzone per mantenere il mio spirito alto. E pensai che stessi davvero meritando quella ricompensa di cinquanta ghinee. “Improvvisamente, senza alcun preavviso, la porta della mia stanza si aprì lentamente. La donna era lì, nell’apertura; alle sue spalle c’era l’oscurità del corridoio, mentre la luce gialla della mia lampada illuminava il suo viso ansioso e bellissimo. Vidi subito che era terrorizzata. Le feci segno di stare zitta e lei mi sussurrò alcune parole in inglese stentato, guardando continuamente indietro, come un cavallo spaventato. “‘Me ne andrò,’ disse, cercando di parlare con calma; ‘non dovrei restare qui. Non è sicuro per te, ’ “‘Ma signora,’ risposi, ‘non ho ancora fatto ciò per cui sono venuto. Non posso andarmene finché non avrò visto quella macchina, ’ “‘Non vale la pena aspettare,’ insistette. ‘Puoi passare dalla porta. Nessuno ti ostacolerà, ’ Quando vidi che sorridevo e scuotevo la testa, improvvisamente abbandonò ogni riserva e fece un passo avanti, con le mani giunte. ‘Per l’amor del cielo!’ sussurrò, ‘vattene da qui prima che sia troppo tardi, ’” “Ma io sono per natura piuttosto testardo, e anzi più propenso ad affrontare le difficoltà quando queste si presentano. Pensai alla mia ricompensa di cinquanta ghinee, al viaggio faticoso che avevo intrapreso e a quella notte sgradevole che mi aspettava. Tutto questo per niente? Perché dovrei andarmene senza aver portato a termine il mio compito e senza ricevere la ricompensa che mi spettava? Quella donna, chissà, poteva essere una maniaca. Così, nonostante il suo comportamento mi avesse scosso più di quanto volessi ammettere, decisi comunque di rimanere lì dove ero. Stava per riprendere le sue suppliche quando, sopra la mia testa, si chiuse con violenza una porta e si sentirono dei passi sulle scale. Ascoltò per un istante, alzò le mani in un gesto di disperazione e scomparve altrettanto rapidamente e silenziosamente come era apparsa. “I nuovi arrivati erano il colonnello Lysander Stark e un uomo basso e robusto con una barba di chinchilla che gli spuntava dalle pieghe del mento; quest’ultimo mi fu presentato come il signor Ferguson. ‘Questo è il mio segretario e manager,’ disse il colonnello. ‘A proposito, credevo di aver chiuso questa porta poco fa. Temo che abbiate sentito freddo.’ ‘Al contrario,’ risposi, ‘io stesso l’ho aperta perché la stanza mi sembrava un po’ troppo afosa.’ Lui mi lanciò uno sguardo sospettoso. ‘Forse è meglio cominciare subito con il lavoro,’ disse. ‘Il signor Ferguson e io vi porteremo a vedere la macchina.’ ‘Probabilmente dovrei mettermi il cappello, ’ ‘Oh, no, ce l’avete già in casa.’ ‘Cosa? Voi producete terra di Fuller in casa?’ ‘No, no. Qui solo la comprimiamo. Ma non importa. Quello che vogliamo è che esaminiate la macchina e ci dite cosa c’è che non va.’” Salimmo insieme le scale: il colonnello davanti con la lampada, il grasso manager e io dietro di lui. Era un labirinto di vecchie stanze, corridoi, passaggi stretti e tortuosi, piccole porte basse i cui battenti erano consumati dal tempo. Non c’erano tappeti né traccia di mobili al di sopra del piano terra; la vernice si staccava dalle pareti e l’umidità aveva lasciato macchie verdi e malsane sulle superfici. Cercai di apparire il più indifferente possibile, ma non avevo dimenticato le avvertenze di quella donna. E tenni d’occhio attentamente i miei due compagni. Ferguson sembrava un uomo cupo e silenzioso, ma dal poco che diceva si capiva che almeno era un connazionale. Alla fine il colonnello Lysander Stark si fermò davanti a una porta bassa; la aprì e dentro c’era una piccola stanza quadrata in cui a malapena ci stavamo tutti e tre insieme. Ferguson rimase fuori, mentre il colonnello mi fece entrare.” “Ora siamo davvero all’interno della pressa idraulica,” disse, “e sarebbe particolarmente spiacevole per noi se qualcuno la avviasse. Il soffitto di questa piccola camera corrisponde infatti alla parte finale del pistone che scende, e quest’ultimo esercita una forza enorme su questo pavimento metallico. All’esterno ci sono dei piccoli cilindri pieni d’acqua che assorbono tale forza e la trasmettono in modo che possa essere utilizzata. La macchina funziona abbastanza bene, ma c’è una certa rigidità nel suo movimento, e ha perso un po’ della sua potenza. Forse potreste gentilmente esaminarla e dirci come ripararla.”
Presi la lampada da lui e ispezionai attentamente la macchina. Era davvero gigantesca e in grado di esercitare una pressione enorme. Tuttavia, quando provai ad azionare i levelli di controllo, sentii un sibilo: c’era una piccola perdita d’acqua che causava il reflusso del liquido attraverso uno dei cilindri laterali. Dopo un’ispezione più approfondita, scoprii che uno degli anelli di gomma intorno al perno di movimento si era restringuto e non aderiva correttamente alla sede in cui ruotava. Questo era chiaramente la causa della perdita di potenza; ne parlai ai miei compagni, che ascoltarono attentamente le mie spiegazioni e mi fecero diverse domande pratiche su come riparare il guasto. Dopo averli chiariti su tutto, tornai nella camera principale della macchina per soddisfare anche la mia curiosità personale. Era evidente a prima vista che tutta quella storia riguardante l’uso della “terra di Fuller” era pura invenzione: sarebbe assurdo pensare che un motore così potente potesse essere progettato per uno scopo del genere. Le pareti erano di legno, ma il pavimento era costituito da una grande vasca di ferro; su di esso si era formata una crosta di depositi metallici. Mentre mi chinavo per esaminarla più da vicino, sentii qualcuno mormorare in tedesco e vidi il volto cadaverico del colonnello che mi fissava dall’alto. “Cosa state facendo lì?” mi chiese.
Ero arrabbiato per essere stato ingannato da una storia così elaborata. “Stavo ammirando la vostra ‘terra di Fuller’,” risposi, “penso che potrei consigliarvi meglio su come utilizzare questa macchina se conoscessi esattamente lo scopo per cui è stata progettata.”
Non appena pronunciai queste parole, mi pentii della mia impulsività. Il suo viso si indurì e nei suoi occhi grigi apparve uno sguardo minaccioso.
“Bene,” disse, “allora saprete tutto riguardo a questa macchina.” Fece un passo indietro, chiuse la porta a chiave e girò la maniglia. Corsi verso di essa per provare ad aprirla, ma era completamente chiusa; non cedette nemmeno sotto i miei calci e spinte. “Ehi!” gridai. “Colonnello! Lasciatemi uscire!” “E poi, all’improvviso, nel silenzio sentii un suono che mi fece balzare il cuore in gola. Era il rumore delle leve che si muovevano e lo scorrere dell’olio dal cilindro che perdeva. Aveva messo in funzione il motore. La lampada era ancora sul pavimento, dove l’avevo lasciata dopo aver esaminato la tubazione. Alla sua luce vidi che il soffitto nero stava cadendo su di me, lentamente, a scatti. Ma, come nessuno sapeva meglio di me, con una forza tale da ridurmi in poltiglia in un minuto. Mi gettai urlando contro la porta e graffiavo con le unghie la serratura. Pregai il colonnello di lasciarmi uscire, ma il rumore incessante delle leve soffocò i miei gridi. Il soffitto era a soli venti o trenta centimetri dalla mia testa; alzando la mano potevo sentire la sua superficie dura e ruvida. Allora mi venne in mente che il dolore della mia morte dipendeva molto dalla posizione in cui l’avrei incontrata. Se fossi rimasto a faccia in giù, il peso del soffitto si sarebbe abbattuto sulla mia spina dorsale. Rabbrividivo al solo pensiero di quel terribile schianto. Forse era più facile se fossi rimasto sdraiato sul dorso. Ma avrei avuto il coraggio di restare fermo e guardare in su, verso quell’oscura ombra mortale che si avvicinava sempre di più a me?” Già non riuscivo più a stare in piedi dritto, quando i miei occhi notarono qualcosa che riportò un fiotto di speranza nel mio cuore. “Ho detto che, sebbene il pavimento e il soffitto fossero di ferro, le pareti erano di legno. Mentre gettavo un ultimo sguardo intorno, vidi una sottile linea di luce gialla tra due assi; quella linea si allargò sempre di più man mano che un piccolo pannello veniva spinto indietro. Per un istante faticai a credere che lì ci fosse davvero una porta che conduceva lontano dalla morte. Il momento dopo mi gettai attraverso di essa e caddi quasi svenuto dall’altra parte.” Il pannello si era richiuso dietro di me, ma il rumore della lampada che cadeva, e poco dopo lo stridio delle due lastre di metallo, mi fecero capire quanto fosse stato stretto il mio “scampo”. “Fui riportato alla realtà da un frenetico tirare al mio polso; mi ritrovai disteso sul pavimento di pietra di un corridoio stretto. Una donna si chinava su di me, tirandomi con la mano sinistra mentre teneva una candela nella destra. Era la stessa cara amica le cui avvertenze avevo così stupidamente rifiutato. “‘Vieni! vieni!’ gridò ansimando. ‘Arriveranno da un momento all’altro. Vedranno che non sei qui. Oh, non sprecare questo tempo così prezioso. Vieni!’” “Questa volta, almeno, non ho disprezzato il suo consiglio. Mi sono rialzata barcollando e l’ho seguita lungo il corridoio, poi giù per una scala tortuosa. Quest’ultima conduceva a un altro ampio passaggio; appena lo abbiamo raggiunto, abbiamo sentito il rumore di piedi che correvano e le voci di due persone che si chiamavano a vicenda, una dal piano in cui ci trovavamo e l’altra da quello sottostante. La mia guida si è fermata e ha guardato intorno, come se non sapesse più cosa fare. Poi ha spalancato una porta che conduceva in una camera da letto; dalla finestra vi era la luce intensa della luna. “‘È la tua unica possibilità,’ mi disse. ‘È alta, ma forse riesci a saltarla.’” “Mentre parlava, una luce apparve all’estremità del corridoio; vidi la figura snella del Colonnello Lysander Stark correre verso di me, con una lanterna in una mano e un’arma simile a un coltello da macellaio nell’altra. Corsi attraverso la camera da letto, spalancai la finestra e guardai fuori. Il giardino, illuminato dalla luna, sembrava così tranquillo, dolce e sereno. La distanza dal suolo non superava i trenta piedi. Mi arrampicai sul davanzale della finestra, ma esitavo a saltare finché non avessi sentito cosa stesse succedendo tra la mia salvatrice e il furfante che mi inseguiva. Se lei fosse stata maltrattata, ero decisa a tornare ad aiutarla, a qualunque costo. Ma prima che potessi prendere una decisione, lui era già arrivato alla porta, cercando di spingerla da parte. Lei però gli gettò le braccia intorno al collo e cercò di trattenerlo. “‘Fritz! Fritz!’ gridò in inglese. ‘Ricorda la tua promessa. Hai detto che non sarebbe mai più successo. Lui starà zitto. Oh, starà zitto!’
“‘Sei pazza, Elise!’ urlò lui, cercando di liberarsi. ‘Mi distruggerai. Ha visto troppo. Lasciami andare!’ La spostò da parte e corse verso la finestra, brandendo il suo coltello. Io mi tenevo ancora aggrappata al davanzale quando lo colpì. Sentii un dolore intenso. La presa mi si allentò. E caddi nel giardino sottostante. “Ero scossa, ma non ferita. Mi rialzai e corsi tra i cespugli. Ma all’improvviso provai una forte vertigine. Guardai la mia mano: il pollice era stato tagliato. Il sangue scorreva a fiotti. Cercai di legarmelo con un fazzoletto. Ma poi tutto divenne buio, ” “Confuso e stordito, entrai nella stazione e chiesi informazioni sul treno del mattino. C’era uno che partiva per Reading in meno di un’ora. Scoprii che era lo stesso bigliettaio di quando ero arrivato. Gli chiesi se avesse mai sentito parlare del Colonnello Lysander Stark. Il nome non gli diceva nulla. Aveva notato qualche carrozza la sera prima mentre mi aspettava? No, non ne aveva viste. C’era una stazione di polizia nelle vicinanze? Ce n’era una a circa tre miglia di distanza. “Era troppo lontana per me, debole e malato com’ero. Decisi di aspettare di tornare in città prima di raccontare tutto alla polizia. Erano appena passate le sei quando arrivai; andai prima a far curare la mia ferita, e poi il dottore fu così gentile da portarmi qui. Ho affidato tutta la faccenda alle tue mani. Farò esattamente ciò che mi consiglierai.”
Dopo aver ascoltato questa straordinaria storia, rimanemmo entrambi in silenzio per un po’. Poi Sherlock Holmes prese dallo scaffale uno di quei pesanti libri ordinari in cui conservava i suoi appunti. “Ecco un annuncio che sicuramente vi interesserà,” disse lui. “È apparso su tutti i giornali circa un anno fa. Ascoltate: ‘Perduto il 9 di questo mese, il signor Jeremiah Hayling, ventisei anni, ingegnere idraulico. Ha lasciato il suo alloggio alle dieci di sera e da allora non si ha più notizie di lui. Indossava, ’, eccetera. Ah! Quello deve essere stato l’ultimo momento in cui il colonnello ha avuto bisogno che la sua macchina venisse revisionata.”
“Mio Dio!” esclamò il mio paziente. “Allora questo spiega ciò che ha detto quella ragazza, ”
“Senza dubbio. È evidente che il colonnello fosse un uomo freddo e disperato, deciso a non lasciare che nulla ostacolasse i suoi piani, proprio come quei pirati spietati che non lasciano sopravvivere nessuno su una nave catturata. Bene, ora ogni minuto è prezioso; quindi, se vi sentite in grado, andremo subito a Scotland Yard come primo passo verso Eyford.” Circa tre ore dopo, eravamo tutti insieme sul treno, diretti da Reading verso quel piccolo villaggio nel Berkshire. C’erano Sherlock Holmes, l’ingegnere idraulico, l’ispettore Bradstreet di Scotland Yard, un uomo in abiti civili e io stesso. Bradstreet aveva steso sulla poltrona una mappa militare della contea e si occupava di tracciare un cerchio con Eyford al suo centro, utilizzando le sue bussole.
“Ecco,” disse. “Questo cerchio è disegnato con un raggio di dieci miglia dal villaggio. Il luogo che cerchiamo deve trovarsi da qualche parte lungo questa linea. Avete detto dieci miglia, giusto, signore?”
“È una distanza di circa un’ora di macchina.”
“E pensate davvero che vi abbiano riportato indietro per tutta quella strada mentre eravate privi di sensi?”
“Deve essere così. Ho anche ricordi confusi di essere stato sollevato e trasportato da qualche parte, ”
“Quello che non riesco a capire,” dissi, “è perché vi abbiano risparmiato la vita dopo avervi trovato svenuto nel giardino. Forse il criminale si è commosso per le suppliche di quella donna, ”
“Non credo affatto che sia possibile. Non ho mai visto un volto più spietato in tutta la mia vita.” “Io credo di poter indicare con precisione dove si trovano,” disse Holmes in tono tranquillo.
“Davvero? Allora parliamo! Vediamo chi è d’accordo con te. Io direi che sia verso sud, perché la zona è più desolata da quella parte.”
“E io dico che sia a est,” rispose il mio paziente.
“Per me è a ovest,” osservò l’uomo in abiti civili. “Lassù ci sono alcune piccole villaggi tranquilli.”
“E io dico che sia a nord,” dissi io, “perché non ci sono colline da quella parte, e il nostro amico ha detto di non aver visto la carrozza dirigersi in quella direzione.”
“Che varietà di opinioni, ”, esclamò l’ispettore ridendo. “Allora, chi voterà secondo voi?”
“Voi tutti vi sbagliate.”
“Ma è impossibile che ci sbagliamo tutti, ”
“Oh, invece sì. Ed è proprio questo il punto. Ecco dove li troveremo,” disse posando il dito al centro del cerchio che aveva disegnato.
“Ma i dodici miglia di strada, ” esclamò Hatherley.
“Sei miglia andata e sei miglia ritorno. Niente di più semplice. Voi stesso avete detto che il cavallo era fresco e lucido quando siete partiti. Come potrebbe essere stanco dopo aver percorso dodici miglia su strade accidentate?”
“Effettivamente, sembra un’ottima strategia,” osservò Bradstreet pensieroso. “Non c’è dubbio sulla natura di questa banda, ”
“Assolutamente no,” disse Holmes. “Sono falsificatori su larga scala che hanno utilizzato macchinari speciali per produrre metalli che assomigliano all’argento.”
“Da tempo sappiamo che c’è una banda molto abile all’opera,” continuò l’ispettore. “Stanno producendo migliaia di mezzo penny falsi. Abbiamo persino rintracciato le loro attività fino a Reading, ma non siamo riusciti ad andare oltre. Hanno cancellato tutte le tracce in modo davvero abile. Ma ora, grazie a questa fortunata scoperta, credo che li abbiamo finalmente individuati, ”
Ma l’ispettore si sbagliava. Quei criminali non sarebbero mai caduti nelle mani della giustizia. Mentre arrivavamo alla stazione di Eyford, vedemmo una colonna gigantesca di fumo che si alzava da dietro un piccolo gruppo di alberi. “Una casa in fiamme?” chiese Bradstreet mentre il treno ripartiva.
“Sì, signore,” rispose il capostazione.
“Quando è scoppiato l’incendio?”
“Si dice che sia avvenuto durante la notte. Ma ora le fiamme sono diventate ancora più intense. Tutto il posto è in fiamme, ”
“A chi appartiene quella casa?”
“A Dr. Becher.”
“Ditemi, ”, intervenne l’ingegnere, “Dr. Becher è un tedesco, molto magro, con un naso lungo e affilato?”
Il capostazione rise di cuore. “No, signore. Dr. Becher è inglese. E non c’è nessuno nella parrocchia che abbia una giacca più ben fatta. Ma ha con sé un ospite straniero. Un paziente, a quanto pare. E sembra proprio che un po’ di buona carne del Berkshire gli farebbe bene, ” I vigili del fuoco erano molto perplessi di fronte alle strane disposizioni che avevano trovato all’interno dell’edificio, e ancora di più quando scoprirono un pollice umano appena mozzato sul davanzale di una finestra al secondo piano. Verso il tramonto, finalmente riuscirono a domare le fiamme, ma non prima che il tetto crollasse e l’intero edificio venisse ridotto in rovina totale; a parte alcuni cilindri contorti e tubazioni di ferro, non rimase traccia delle macchine che avevano causato tali danni. Nell’edificio esterno furono trovate grandi quantità di nichel e stagno, ma nessuna moneta, il che avrebbe potuto spiegare la presenza di quelle scatole ingombranti menzionate in precedenza.
Come il nostro ingegnere idraulico fosse stato trasportato dal giardino al luogo dove aveva ripreso i sensi sarebbe rimasto per sempre un mistero, se non fosse stato per l’impronta lasciata sul terreno: chiaramente era stato portato via da due persone, una delle quali aveva piedi particolarmente piccoli e l’altra di dimensioni insolitamente grandi. Era molto probabile che quell’inglese silenzioso, essendo meno audace o meno spietato del suo compagno, avesse aiutato la donna a portare via l’uomo svenuto, lontano dal pericolo.
“Beh,” disse il nostro ingegnere con rammarico mentre ci preparavamo a tornare a Londra, “è stata davvero una brutta esperienza. Ho perso un pollice e cinquanta ghinee in compenso. E cosa ho guadagnato?” “Esperienza”, disse Holmes ridendo. “In modo indiretto, può essere molto utile. Basta solo esprimerla a parole per guadagnarsi la reputazione di essere una compagnia eccellente per il resto della propria vita.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR The Lord St. Simon marriage, and its curious termination, have long ceased to be a subject of interest in those exalted circles in which the unfortunate bridegroom moves. Fresh scandals have eclipsed it, and their more piquant details have drawn the gossips away from this four-year-old drama. As I have reason to believe, however, that the full facts have never been revealed to the general public, and as my friend Sherlock Holmes had a considerable share in clearing the matter up, I feel that no memoir of him would be complete without some little sketch of this remarkable episode. It was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the days when I was still sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker Street, that he came home from an afternoon stroll to find a letter on the table waiting for him. I had remained indoors all day, for the weather had taken a sudden turn to rain, with high autumnal winds, and the Jezail bullet which I had brought back in one of my limbs as a relic of my Afghan campaign throbbed with dull persistence. With my body in one easy-chair and my legs upon another, I had surrounded myself with a cloud of newspapers until at last, saturated with the news of the day, I tossed them all aside and lay listless, watching the huge crest and monogram upon the envelope upon the table and wondering lazily who my friend’s noble correspondent could be. “Here is a very fashionable epistle,” I remarked as he entered. “Your morning letters, if I remember right, were from a fish-monger and a tide-waiter.” “Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of variety,” he answered, smiling, “and the humbler are usually the more interesting. This looks like one of those unwelcome social summonses which call upon a man either to be bored or to lie.” He broke the seal and glanced over the contents. “Oh, come, it may prove to be something of interest, after all.” “Not social, then?” “No, distinctly professional.” “And from a noble client?” “One of the highest in England.” “My dear fellow, I congratulate you.” “I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that the status of my client is a matter of less moment to me than the interest of his case. It is just possible, however, that that also may not be wanting in this new investigation. You have been reading the papers diligently of late, have you not?” “It looks like it,” said I ruefully, pointing to a huge bundle in the corner. “I have had nothing else to do.” “It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able to post me up. I read nothing except the criminal news and the agony column. The latter is always instructive. But if you have followed recent events so closely you must have read about Lord St. Simon and his wedding?” “Oh, yes, with the deepest interest.” “That is well. The letter which I hold in my hand is from Lord St. Simon. I will read it to you, and in return you must turn over these papers and let me have whatever bears upon the matter. This is what he says: “ ’MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES: — Lord Backwater tells me that I may place implicit reliance upon your judgment and discretion. I have determined, therefore, to call upon you and to consult you in reference to the very painful event which has occurred in connection with my wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, is acting already in the matter, but he assures me that he sees no objection to your co-operation, and that he even thinks that it might be of some assistance. I will call at four o’clock in the afternoon, and, should you have any other engagement at that time, I hope that you will postpone it, as this matter is of paramount importance. Yours faithfully, “ ’ST. SIMON.’ “It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written with a quill pen, and the noble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of ink upon the outer side of his right little finger,” remarked Holmes as he folded up the epistle. “He says four o’clock. It is three now. He will be here in an hour.” “Then I have just time, with your assistance, to get clear upon the subject. Turn over those papers and arrange the extracts in their order of time, while I take a glance as to who our client is.” He picked a red-covered volume from a line of books of reference beside the mantelpiece. “Here he is,” said he, sitting down and flattening it out upon his knee. “ ’Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral.’ Hum! ‘Arms: Azure, three caltrops in chief over a fess sable. Born in 1846.’ He’s forty-one years of age, which is mature for marriage. Was Under-Secretary for the colonies in a late administration. The Duke, his father, was at one time Secretary for Foreign Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet blood by direct descent, and Tudor on the distaff side. Ha! Well, there is nothing very instructive in all this. I think that I must turn to you Watson, for something more solid.” “I have very little difficulty in finding what I want,” said I, “for the facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as remarkable. I feared to refer them to you, however, as I knew that you had an inquiry on hand and that you disliked the intrusion of other matters.” “Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square furniture van. That is quite cleared up now — though, indeed, it was obvious from the first. Pray give me the results of your newspaper selections.” “Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal column of the Morning Post, and dates, as you see, some weeks back: ‘A marriage has been arranged,’ it says, ‘and will, if rumour is correct, very shortly take place, between Lord Robert St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty Doran, the only daughter of Aloysius Doran. Esq., of San Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.’ That is all.” “Terse and to the point,” remarked Holmes, stretching his long, thin legs towards the fire. “There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society papers of the same week. Ah, here it is: ‘There will soon be a call for protection in the marriage market, for the present free-trade principle appears to tell heavily against our home product. One by one the management of the noble houses of Great Britain is passing into the hands of our fair cousins from across the Atlantic. An important addition has been made during the last week to the list of the prizes which have been borne away by these charming invaders. Lord St. Simon, who has shown himself for over twenty years proof against the little god’s arrows, has now definitely announced his approaching marriage with Miss Hatty Doran, the fascinating daughter of a California millionaire. Miss Doran, whose graceful figure and striking face attracted much attention at the Westbury House festivities, is an only child, and it is currently reported that her dowry will run to considerably over the six figures, with expectancies for the future. As it is an open secret that the Duke of Balmoral has been compelled to sell his pictures within the last few years, and as Lord St. Simon has no property of his own save the small estate of Birchmoor, it is obvious that the Californian heiress is not the only gainer by an alliance which will enable her to make the easy and common transition from a Republican lady to a British peeress.’ ” “Anything else?” asked Holmes, yawning. “Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in the Morning Post to say that the marriage would be an absolutely quiet one, that it would be at St. George’s, Hanover Square, that only half a dozen intimate friends would be invited, and that the party would return to the furnished house at Lancaster Gate which has been taken by Mr. Aloysius Doran. Two days later — that is, on Wednesday last — there is a curt announcement that the wedding had taken place, and that the honeymoon would be passed at Lord Backwater’s place, near Petersfield. Those are all the notices which appeared before the disappearance of the bride.” “Before the what?” asked Holmes with a start. “The vanishing of the lady.” “When did she vanish, then?” “At the wedding breakfast.” “Indeed. This is more interesting than it promised to be; quite dramatic, in fact.” “Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the common.” “They often vanish before the ceremony, and occasionally during the honeymoon; but I cannot call to mind anything quite so prompt as this. Pray let me have the details.” “I warn you that they are very incomplete.” “Perhaps we may make them less so.” “Such as they are, they are set forth in a single article of a morning paper of yesterday, which I will read to you. It is headed, ‘Singular Occurrence at a Fashionable Wedding’: “ ’The family of Lord Robert St. Simon has been thrown into the greatest consternation by the strange and painful episodes which have taken place in connection with his wedding. The ceremony, as shortly announced in the papers of yesterday, occurred on the previous morning; but it is only now that it has been possible to confirm the strange rumours which have been so persistently floating about. In spite of the attempts of the friends to hush the matter up, so much public attention has now been drawn to it that no good purpose can be served by affecting to disregard what is a common subject for conversation. “ ’The ceremony, which was performed at St. George’s, Hanover Square, was a very quiet one, no one being present save the father of the bride, Mr. Aloysius Doran, the Duchess of Balmoral, Lord Backwater, Lord Eustace and Lady Clara St. Simon (the younger brother and sister of the bridegroom), and Lady Alicia Whittington. The whole party proceeded afterwards to the house of Mr. Aloysius Doran, at Lancaster Gate, where breakfast had been prepared. It appears that some little trouble was caused by a woman, whose name has not been ascertained, who endeavoured to force her way into the house after the bridal party, alleging that she had some claim upon Lord St. Simon. It was only after a painful and prolonged scene that she was ejected by the butler and the footman. The bride, who had fortunately entered the house before this unpleasant interruption, had sat down to breakfast with the rest, when she complained of a sudden indisposition and retired to her room. Her prolonged absence having caused some comment, her father followed her, but learned from her maid that she had only come up to her chamber for an instant, caught up an ulster and bonnet, and hurried down to the passage. One of the footmen declared that he had seen a lady leave the house thus apparelled, but had refused to credit that it was his mistress, believing her to be with the company. On ascertaining that his daughter had disappeared, Mr. Aloysius Doran, in conjunction with the bridegroom, instantly put themselves in communication with the police, and very energetic inquiries are being made, which will probably result in a speedy clearing up of this very singular business. Up to a late hour last night, however, nothing had transpired as to the whereabouts of the missing lady. There are rumours of foul play in the matter, and it is said that the police have caused the arrest of the woman who had caused the original disturbance, in the belief that, from jealousy or some other motive, she may have been concerned in the strange disappearance of the bride.’ ” “And is that all?” “Only one little item in another of the morning papers, but it is a suggestive one.” “And it is—” “That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused the disturbance, has actually been arrested. It appears that she was formerly a danseuse at the Allegro, and that she has known the bridegroom for some years. There are no further particulars, and the whole case is in your hands now — so far as it has been set forth in the public press.” “And an exceedingly interesting case it appears to be. I would not have missed it for worlds. But there is a ring at the bell, Watson, and as the clock makes it a few minutes after four, I have no doubt that this will prove to be our noble client. Do not dream of going, Watson, for I very much prefer having a witness, if only as a check to my own memory.” “Lord Robert St. Simon,” announced our page-boy, throwing open the door. A gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured face, high-nosed and pale, with something perhaps of petulance about the mouth, and with the steady, well-opened eye of a man whose pleasant lot it had ever been to command and to be obeyed. His manner was brisk, and yet his general appearance gave an undue impression of age, for he had a slight forward stoop and a little bend of the knees as he walked. His hair, too, as he swept off his very curly-brimmed hat, was grizzled round the edges and thin upon the top. As to his dress, it was careful to the verge of foppishness, with high collar, black frock-coat, white waistcoat, yellow gloves, patent-leather shoes, and light-coloured gaiters. He advanced slowly into the room, turning his head from left to right, and swinging in his right hand the cord which held his golden eyeglasses. “Good-day, Lord St. Simon,” said Holmes, rising and bowing. “Pray take the basket-chair. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. Draw up a little to the fire, and we will talk this matter over.” “A most painful matter to me, as you can most readily imagine, Mr. Holmes. I have been cut to the quick. I understand that you have already managed several delicate cases of this sort, sir, though I presume that they were hardly from the same class of society.” “No, I am descending.” “I beg pardon.” “My last client of the sort was a king.” “Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king?” “The King of Scandinavia.” “What! Had he lost his wife?” “You can understand,” said Holmes suavely, “that I extend to the affairs of my other clients the same secrecy which I promise to you in yours.” “Of course! Very right! very right! I’m sure I beg pardon. As to my own case, I am ready to give you any information which may assist you in forming an opinion.” “Thank you. I have already learned all that is in the public prints, nothing more. I presume that I may take it as correct — this article, for example, as to the disappearance of the bride.” Lord St. Simon glanced over it. “Yes, it is correct, as far as it goes.” “But it needs a great deal of supplementing before anyone could offer an opinion. I think that I may arrive at my facts most directly by questioning you.” “Pray do so.” “When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?” “In San Francisco, a year ago.” “You were travelling in the States?” “Yes.” “Did you become engaged then?” “No.” “But you were on a friendly footing?” “I was amused by her society, and she could see that I was amused.” “Her father is very rich?” “He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific slope.” “And how did he make his money?” “In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then he struck gold, invested it, and came up by leaps and bounds.” “Now, what is your own impression as to the young lady’s — your wife’s character?” The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and stared down into the fire. “You see, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “my wife was twenty before her father became a rich man. During that time she ran free in a mining camp and wandered through woods or mountains, so that her education has come from Nature rather than from the schoolmaster. She is what we call in England a tomboy, with a strong nature, wild and free, unfettered by any sort of traditions. She is impetuous — volcanic, I was about to say. She is swift in making up her mind and fearless in carrying out her resolutions. On the other hand, I would not have given her the name which I have the honour to bear” — he gave a little stately cough—”had I not thought her to be at bottom a noble woman. I believe that she is capable of heroic self-sacrifice and that anything dishonourable would be repugnant to her.” “Have you her photograph?” “I brought this with me.” He opened a locket and showed us the full face of a very lovely woman. It was not a photograph but an ivory miniature, and the artist had brought out the full effect of the lustrous black hair, the large dark eyes, and the exquisite mouth. Holmes gazed long and earnestly at it. Then he closed the locket and handed it back to Lord St. Simon. “The young lady came to London, then, and you renewed your acquaintance?” “Yes, her father brought her over for this last London season. I met her several times, became engaged to her, and have now married her.” “She brought, I understand, a considerable dowry?” “A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my family.” “And this, of course, remains to you, since the marriage is a fait accompli?” “I really have made no inquiries on the subject.” “Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran on the day before the wedding?” “Yes.” “Was she in good spirits?” “Never better. She kept talking of what we should do in our future lives.” “Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the morning of the wedding?” “She was as bright as possible — at least until after the ceremony.” “And did you observe any change in her then?” “Well, to tell the truth, I saw then the first signs that I had ever seen that her temper was just a little sharp. The incident however, was too trivial to relate and can have no possible bearing upon the case.” “Pray let us have it, for all that.” “Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet as we went towards the vestry. She was passing the front pew at the time, and it fell over into the pew. There was a moment’s delay, but the gentleman in the pew handed it up to her again, and it did not appear to be the worse for the fall. Yet when I spoke to her of the matter, she answered me abruptly; and in the carriage, on our way home, she seemed absurdly agitated over this trifling cause.” “Indeed! You say that there was a gentleman in the pew. Some of the general public were present, then?” “Oh, yes. It is impossible to exclude them when the church is open.” “This gentleman was not one of your wife’s friends?” “No, no; I call him a gentleman by courtesy, but he was quite a common-looking person. I hardly noticed his appearance. But really I think that we are wandering rather far from the point.” “Lady St. Simon, then, returned from the wedding in a less cheerful frame of mind than she had gone to it. What did she do on re-entering her father’s house?” “I saw her in conversation with her maid.” “And who is her maid?” “Alice is her name. She is an American and came from California with her.” “A confidential servant?” “A little too much so. It seemed to me that her mistress allowed her to take great liberties. Still, of course, in America they look upon these things in a different way.” “How long did she speak to this Alice?” “Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to think of.” “You did not overhear what they said?” “Lady St. Simon said something about ‘jumping a claim.’ She was accustomed to use slang of the kind. I have no idea what she meant.” “American slang is very expressive sometimes. And what did your wife do when she finished speaking to her maid?” “She walked into the breakfast-room.” “On your arm?” “No, alone. She was very independent in little matters like that. Then, after we had sat down for ten minutes or so, she rose hurriedly, muttered some words of apology, and left the room. She never came back.” “But this maid, Alice, as I understand, deposes that she went to her room, covered her bride’s dress with a long ulster, put on a bonnet, and went out.” “Quite so. And she was afterwards seen walking into Hyde Park in company with Flora Millar, a woman who is now in custody, and who had already made a disturbance at Mr. Doran’s house that morning.” “Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars as to this young lady, and your relations to her.” Lord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. “We have been on a friendly footing for some years — I may say on a very friendly footing. She used to be at the Allegro. I have not treated her ungenerously, and she had no just cause of complaint against me, but you know what women are, Mr. Holmes. Flora was a dear little thing, but exceedingly hot-headed and devotedly attached to me. She wrote me dreadful letters when she heard that I was about to be married, and, to tell the truth, the reason why I had the marriage celebrated so quietly was that I feared lest there might be a scandal in the church. She came to Mr. Doran’s door just after we returned, and she endeavoured to push her way in, uttering very abusive expressions towards my wife, and even threatening her, but I had foreseen the possibility of something of the sort, and I had two police fellows there in private clothes, who soon pushed her out again. She was quiet when she saw that there was no good in making a row.” “Did your wife hear all this?” “No, thank goodness, she did not.” “And she was seen walking with this very woman afterwards?” “Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, looks upon as so serious. It is thought that Flora decoyed my wife out and laid some terrible trap for her.” “Well, it is a possible supposition.” “You think so, too?” “I did not say a probable one. But you do not yourself look upon this as likely?” “I do not think Flora would hurt a fly.” “Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of characters. Pray what is your own theory as to what took place?” “Well, really, I came to seek a theory, not to propound one. I have given you all the facts. Since you ask me, however, I may say that it has occurred to me as possible that the excitement of this affair, the consciousness that she had made so immense a social stride, had the effect of causing some little nervous disturbance in my wife.” “In short, that she had become suddenly deranged?” “Well, really, when I consider that she has turned her back — I will not say upon me, but upon so much that many have aspired to without success — I can hardly explain it in any other fashion.” “Well, certainly that is also a conceivable hypothesis,” said Holmes, smiling. “And now, Lord St. Simon, I think that I have nearly all my data. May I ask whether you were seated at the breakfast-table so that you could see out of the window?” “We could see the other side of the road and the Park.” “Quite so. Then I do not think that I need to detain you longer. I shall communicate with you.” “Should you be fortunate enough to solve this problem,” said our client, rising. “I have solved it.” “Eh? What was that?” “I say that I have solved it.” “Where, then, is my wife?” “That is a detail which I shall speedily supply.” Lord St. Simon shook his head. “I am afraid that it will take wiser heads than yours or mine,” he remarked, and bowing in a stately, old-fashioned manner he departed. “It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honour my head by putting it on a level with his own,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “I think that I shall have a whisky and soda and a cigar after all this cross-questioning. I had formed my conclusions as to the case before our client came into the room.” “My dear Holmes!” “I have notes of several similar cases, though none, as I remarked before, which were quite as prompt. My whole examination served to turn my conjecture into a certainty. Circumstantial evidence is occasionally very convincing, as when you find a trout in the milk, to quote Thoreau’s example.” “But I have heard all that you have heard.” “Without, however, the knowledge of pre-existing cases which serves me so well. There was a parallel instance in Aberdeen some years back, and something on very much the same lines at Munich the year after the Franco-Prussian War. It is one of these cases — but, hullo, here is Lestrade! Good-afternoon, Lestrade! You will find an extra tumbler upon the sideboard, and there are cigars in the box.” The official detective was attired in a pea-jacket and cravat, which gave him a decidedly nautical appearance, and he carried a black canvas bag in his hand. With a short greeting he seated himself and lit the cigar which had been offered to him. “What’s up, then?” asked Holmes with a twinkle in his eye. “You look dissatisfied.” “And I feel dissatisfied. It is this infernal St. Simon marriage case. I can make neither head nor tail of the business.” “Really! You surprise me.” “Who ever heard of such a mixed affair? Every clue seems to slip through my fingers. I have been at work upon it all day.” “And very wet it seems to have made you,” said Holmes laying his hand upon the arm of the pea-jacket. “Yes, I have been dragging the Serpentine.” “In heaven’s name, what for?” “In search of the body of Lady St. Simon.” Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily. “Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar Square fountain?” he asked. “Why? What do you mean?” “Because you have just as good a chance of finding this lady in the one as in the other.” Lestrade shot an angry glance at my companion. “I suppose you know all about it,” he snarled. “Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my mind is made up.” “Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpentine plays no part in the matter?” “I think it very unlikely.” “Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we found this in it?” He opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto the floor a wedding-dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin shoes and a bride’s wreath and veil, all discoloured and soaked in water. “There,” said he, putting a new wedding-ring upon the top of the pile. “There is a little nut for you to crack, Master Holmes.” “Oh, indeed!” said my friend, blowing blue rings into the air. “You dragged them from the Serpentine?” “No. They were found floating near the margin by a park-keeper. They have been identified as her clothes, and it seemed to me that if the clothes were there the body would not be far off.” “By the same brilliant reasoning, every man’s body is to be found in the neighbourhood of his wardrobe. And pray what did you hope to arrive at through this?” “At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the disappearance.” “I am afraid that you will find it difficult.” “Are you, indeed, now?” cried Lestrade with some bitterness. “I am afraid, Holmes, that you are not very practical with your deductions and your inferences. You have made two blunders in as many minutes. This dress does implicate Miss Flora Millar.” “And how?” “In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket is a card-case. In the card-case is a note. And here is the very note.” He slapped it down upon the table in front of him. “Listen to this: ‘You will see me when all is ready. Come at once. F. H. M.’ Now my theory all along has been that Lady St. Simon was decoyed away by Flora Millar, and that she, with confederates, no doubt, was responsible for her disappearance. Here, signed with her initials, is the very note which was no doubt quietly slipped into her hand at the door and which lured her within their reach.” “Very good, Lestrade,” said Holmes, laughing. “You really are very fine indeed. Let me see it.” He took up the paper in a listless way, but his attention instantly became riveted, and he gave a little cry of satisfaction. “This is indeed important,” said he. “Ha! you find it so?” “Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly.” Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head to look. “Why,” he shrieked, “you’re looking at the wrong side!” “On the contrary, this is the right side.” “The right side? You’re mad! Here is the note written in pencil over here.” “And over here is what appears to be the fragment of a hotel bill, which interests me deeply.” “There’s nothing in it. I looked at it before,” said Lestrade. “ ’Oct. 4th, rooms 8s., breakfast 2s. 6d., cocktail 1s., lunch 2s. 6d., glass sherry, 8d.’ I see nothing in that.” “Very likely not. It is most important, all the same. As to the note, it is important also, or at least the initials are, so I congratulate you again.” “I’ve wasted time enough,” said Lestrade, rising. “I believe in hard work and not in sitting by the fire spinning fine theories. Good-day, Mr. Holmes, and we shall see which gets to the bottom of the matter first.” He gathered up the garments, thrust them into the bag, and made for the door. “Just one hint to you, Lestrade,” drawled Holmes before his rival vanished; “I will tell you the true solution of the matter. Lady St. Simon is a myth. There is not, and there never has been, any such person.” Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then he turned to me, tapped his forehead three times, shook his head solemnly, and hurried away. He had hardly shut the door behind him when Holmes rose to put on his overcoat. “There is something in what the fellow says about outdoor work,” he remarked, “so I think, Watson, that I must leave you to your papers for a little.” It was after five o’clock when Sherlock Holmes left me, but I had no time to be lonely, for within an hour there arrived a confectioner’s man with a very large flat box. This he unpacked with the help of a youth whom he had brought with him, and presently, to my very great astonishment, a quite epicurean little cold supper began to be laid out upon our humble lodging-house mahogany. There were a couple of brace of cold woodcock, a pheasant, a pâté de foie gras pie with a group of ancient and cobwebby bottles. Having laid out all these luxuries, my two visitors vanished away, like the genii of the Arabian Nights, with no explanation save that the things had been paid for and were ordered to this address. Just before nine o’clock Sherlock Holmes stepped briskly into the room. His features were gravely set, but there was a light in his eye which made me think that he had not been disappointed in his conclusions. “They have laid the supper, then,” he said, rubbing his hands. “You seem to expect company. They have laid for five.” “Yes, I fancy we may have some company dropping in,” said he. “I am surprised that Lord St. Simon has not already arrived. Ha! I fancy that I hear his step now upon the stairs.” It was indeed our visitor of the afternoon who came bustling in, dangling his glasses more vigorously than ever, and with a very perturbed expression upon his aristocratic features. “My messenger reached you, then?” asked Holmes. “Yes, and I confess that the contents startled me beyond measure. Have you good authority for what you say?” “The best possible.” Lord St. Simon sank into a chair and passed his hand over his forehead. “What will the Duke say,” he murmured, “when he hears that one of the family has been subjected to such humiliation?” “It is the purest accident. I cannot allow that there is any humiliation.” “Ah, you look on these things from another standpoint.” “I fail to see that anyone is to blame. I can hardly see how the lady could have acted otherwise, though her abrupt method of doing it was undoubtedly to be regretted. Having no mother, she had no one to advise her at such a crisis.” “It was a slight, sir, a public slight,” said Lord St. Simon, tapping his fingers upon the table. “You must make allowance for this poor girl, placed in so unprecedented a position.” “I will make no allowance. I am very angry indeed, and I have been shamefully used.” “I think that I heard a ring,” said Holmes. “Yes, there are steps on the landing. If I cannot persuade you to take a lenient view of the matter, Lord St. Simon, I have brought an advocate here who may be more successful.” He opened the door and ushered in a lady and gentleman. “Lord St. Simon,” said he “allow me to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Francis Hay Moulton. The lady, I think, you have already met.” At the sight of these newcomers our client had sprung from his seat and stood very erect, with his eyes cast down and his hand thrust into the breast of his frock-coat, a picture of offended dignity. The lady had taken a quick step forward and had held out her hand to him, but he still refused to raise his eyes. It was as well for his resolution, perhaps, for her pleading face was one which it was hard to resist. “You’re angry, Robert,” said she. “Well, I guess you have every cause to be.” “Pray make no apology to me,” said Lord St. Simon bitterly. “Oh, yes, I know that I have treated you real bad and that I should have spoken to you before I went; but I was kind of rattled, and from the time when I saw Frank here again I just didn’t know what I was doing or saying. I only wonder I didn’t fall down and do a faint right there before the altar.” “Perhaps, Mrs. Moulton, you would like my friend and me to leave the room while you explain this matter?” “If I may give an opinion,” remarked the strange gentleman, “we’ve had just a little too much secrecy over this business already. For my part, I should like all Europe and America to hear the rights of it.” He was a small, wiry, sunburnt man, clean-shaven, with a sharp face and alert manner. “Then I’ll tell our story right away,” said the lady. “Frank here and I met in ‘84, in McQuire’s camp, near the Rockies, where Pa was working a claim. We were engaged to each other, Frank and I; but then one day father struck a rich pocket and made a pile, while poor Frank here had a claim that petered out and came to nothing. The richer Pa grew the poorer was Frank; so at last Pa wouldn’t hear of our engagement lasting any longer, and he took me away to ‘Frisco. Frank wouldn’t throw up his hand, though; so he followed me there, and he saw me without Pa knowing anything about it. It would only have made him mad to know, so we just fixed it all up for ourselves. Frank said that he would go and make his pile, too, and never come back to claim me until he had as much as Pa. So then I promised to wait for him to the end of time and pledged myself not to marry anyone else while he lived. ‘Why shouldn’t we be married right away, then,’ said he, ‘and then I will feel sure of you; and I won’t claim to be your husband until I come back?’ Well, we talked it over, and he had fixed it all up so nicely, with a clergyman all ready in waiting, that we just did it right there; and then Frank went off to seek his fortune, and I went back to Pa. “The next I heard of Frank was that he was in Montana, and then he went prospecting in Arizona, and then I heard of him from New Mexico. After that came a long newspaper story about how a miners’ camp had been attacked by Apache Indians, and there was my Frank’s name among the killed. I fainted dead away, and I was very sick for months after. Pa thought I had a decline and took me to half the doctors in ‘Frisco. Not a word of news came for a year and more, so that I never doubted that Frank was really dead. Then Lord St. Simon came to ‘Frisco, and we came to London, and a marriage was arranged, and Pa was very pleased, but I felt all the time that no man on this earth would ever take the place in my heart that had been given to my poor Frank. “Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course I’d have done my duty by him. We can’t command our love, but we can our actions. I went to the altar with him with the intention to make him just as good a wife as it was in me to be. But you may imagine what I felt when, just as I came to the altar rails, I glanced back and saw Frank standing and looking at me out of the first pew. I thought it was his ghost at first; but when I looked again there he was still, with a kind of question in his eyes, as if to ask me whether I were glad or sorry to see him. I wonder I didn’t drop. I know that everything was turning round, and the words of the clergyman were just like the buzz of a bee in my ear. I didn’t know what to do. Should I stop the service and make a scene in the church? I glanced at him again, and he seemed to know what I was thinking, for he raised his finger to his lips to tell me to be still. Then I saw him scribble on a piece of paper, and I knew that he was writing me a note. As I passed his pew on the way out I dropped my bouquet over to him, and he slipped the note into my hand when he returned me the flowers. It was only a line asking me to join him when he made the sign to me to do so. Of course I never doubted for a moment that my first duty was now to him, and I determined to do just whatever he might direct. “When I got back I told my maid, who had known him in California, and had always been his friend. I ordered her to say nothing, but to get a few things packed and my ulster ready. I know I ought to have spoken to Lord St. Simon, but it was dreadful hard before his mother and all those great people. I just made up my mind to run away and explain afterwards. I hadn’t been at the table ten minutes before I saw Frank out of the window at the other side of the road. He beckoned to me and then began walking into the Park. I slipped out, put on my things, and followed him. Some woman came talking something or other about Lord St. Simon to me — seemed to me from the little I heard as if he had a little secret of his own before marriage also — but I managed to get away from her and soon overtook Frank. We got into a cab together, and away we drove to some lodgings he had taken in Gordon Square, and that was my true wedding after all those years of waiting. Frank had been a prisoner among the Apaches, had escaped, came on to ‘Frisco, found that I had given him up for dead and had gone to England, followed me there, and had come upon me at last on the very morning of my second wedding.” “I saw it in a paper,” explained the American. “It gave the name and the church but not where the lady lived.” “Then we had a talk as to what we should do, and Frank was all for openness, but I was so ashamed of it all that I felt as if I should like to vanish away and never see any of them again — just sending a line to Pa, perhaps, to show him that I was alive. It was awful to me to think of all those lords and ladies sitting round that breakfast-table and waiting for me to come back. So Frank took my wedding-clothes and things and made a bundle of them, so that I should not be traced, and dropped them away somewhere where no one could find them. It is likely that we should have gone on to Paris to-morrow, only that this good gentleman, Mr. Holmes, came round to us this evening, though how he found us is more than I can think, and he showed us very clearly and kindly that I was wrong and that Frank was right, and that we should be putting ourselves in the wrong if we were so secret. Then he offered to give us a chance of talking to Lord St. Simon alone, and so we came right away round to his rooms at once. Now, Robert, you have heard it all, and I am very sorry if I have given you pain, and I hope that you do not think very meanly of me.” Lord St. Simon had by no means relaxed his rigid attitude, but had listened with a frowning brow and a compressed lip to this long narrative. “Excuse me,” he said, “but it is not my custom to discuss my most intimate personal affairs in this public manner.” “Then you won’t forgive me? You won’t shake hands before I go?” “Oh, certainly, if it would give you any pleasure.” He put out his hand and coldly grasped that which she extended to him. “I had hoped,” suggested Holmes, “that you would have joined us in a friendly supper.” “I think that there you ask a little too much,” responded his Lordship. “I may be forced to acquiesce in these recent developments, but I can hardly be expected to make merry over them. I think that with your permission I will now wish you all a very good-night.” He included us all in a sweeping bow and stalked out of the room. “Then I trust that you at least will honour me with your company,” said Sherlock Holmes. “It is always a joy to meet an American, Mr. Moulton, for I am one of those who believe that the folly of a monarch and the blundering of a minister in far-gone years will not prevent our children from being some day citizens of the same world-wide country under a flag which shall be a quartering of the Union Jack with the Stars and Stripes.” “The case has been an interesting one,” remarked Holmes when our visitors had left us, “because it serves to show very clearly how simple the explanation may be of an affair which at first sight seems to be almost inexplicable. Nothing could be more natural than the sequence of events as narrated by this lady, and nothing stranger than the result when viewed, for instance, by Mr. Lestrade of Scotland Yard.” “You were not yourself at fault at all, then?” “From the first, two facts were very obvious to me, the one that the lady had been quite willing to undergo the wedding ceremony, the other that she had repented of it within a few minutes of returning home. Obviously something had occurred during the morning, then, to cause her to change her mind. What could that something be? She could not have spoken to anyone when she was out, for she had been in the company of the bridegroom. Had she seen someone, then? If she had, it must be someone from America because she had spent so short a time in this country that she could hardly have allowed anyone to acquire so deep an influence over her that the mere sight of him would induce her to change her plans so completely. You see we have already arrived, by a process of exclusion, at the idea that she might have seen an American. Then who could this American be, and why should he possess so much influence over her? It might be a lover; it might be a husband. Her young womanhood had, I knew, been spent in rough scenes and under strange conditions. So far I had got before I ever heard Lord St. Simon’s narrative. When he told us of a man in a pew, of the change in the bride’s manner, of so transparent a device for obtaining a note as the dropping of a bouquet, of her resort to her confidential maid, and of her very significant allusion to claim-jumping — which in miners’ parlance means taking possession of that which another person has a prior claim to — the whole situation became absolutely clear. She had gone off with a man, and the man was either a lover or was a previous husband — the chances being in favour of the latter.” “And how in the world did you find them?” “It might have been difficult, but friend Lestrade held information in his hands the value of which he did not himself know. The initials were, of course, of the highest importance, but more valuable still was it to know that within a week he had settled his bill at one of the most select London hotels.” “How did you deduce the select?” “By the select prices. Eight shillings for a bed and eightpence for a glass of sherry pointed to one of the most expensive hotels. There are not many in London which charge at that rate. In the second one which I visited in Northumberland Avenue, I learned by an inspection of the book that Francis H. Moulton, an American gentleman, had left only the day before, and on looking over the entries against him, I came upon the very items which I had seen in the duplicate bill. His letters were to be forwarded to 226 Gordon Square; so thither I travelled, and being fortunate enough to find the loving couple at home, I ventured to give them some paternal advice and to point out to them that it would be better in every way that they should make their position a little clearer both to the general public and to Lord St. Simon in particular. I invited them to meet him here, and, as you see, I made him keep the appointment.” “But with no very good result,” I remarked. “His conduct was certainly not very gracious.” “Ah, Watson,” said Holmes, smiling, “perhaps you would not be very gracious either, if, after all the trouble of wooing and wedding, you found yourself deprived in an instant of wife and of fortune. I think that we may judge Lord St. Simon very mercifully and thank our stars that we are never likely to find ourselves in the same position. Draw your chair up and hand me my violin, for the only problem we have still to solve is how to while away these bleak autumnal evenings.”

L’AVVENTURA DEL Nobile BACHELLOR
Il matrimonio di Lord St. Simon e la sua curiosa conclusione da tempo non sono più oggetto di interesse in quei circoli elevati dove si muove il sfortunato sposo. Nuovi scandali li hanno oscurati, e i loro dettagli più piccanti hanno distolto le chiacchiere da questa “dramma” ormai vecchio di quattro anni. Tuttavia, ho motivo di credere che i fatti veri non siano mai stati rivelati al grande pubblico, e poiché mio amico Sherlock Holmes ha avuto un ruolo fondamentale nel chiarire la questione, ritengo che nessun suo ricordo sarebbe completo senza una breve descrizione di questo episodio straordinario. Fu qualche settimana prima del mio matrimonio, in quei giorni in cui ancora condividevo l’appartamento con Holmes in Baker Street, che egli tornò a casa dopo una passeggiata pomeridiana e trovò una lettera ad aspettarlo sul tavolo. Io ero rimasto in casa tutto il giorno: il tempo era improvvisamente cambiato, era iniziata a piovere forte e soffiavano forti venti autunnali; inoltre, la pallottola di Jezail che avevo riportato con me dall’Afghanistan continuava a dolermi. Con il corpo appoggiato a una poltrona e le gambe su un’altra, ero immerso tra mucchi di giornali, finché, saturato delle notizie del giorno, li gettai tutti da parte e mi sdraiai, osservando con indifferenza il grande stemma e il monogramma sulla busta e chiedendomi chi potesse essere il nobile corrispondente di mio amico. “Ecco una lettera davvero elegante,” commentai quando entrò. “Le tue lettere del mattino, se ricordo bene, provenivano da un venditore di pesce e da un addetto alle maree, ”
“Sì, la mia corrispondenza ha davvero il fascino della varietà,” rispose lui sorridendo. “E spesso sono proprio le persone più umili ad essere le più interessanti. Questa sembra una di quelle sgradevoli inviti sociali che costringono un uomo a annoiarsi o a mentire, ” Ruppe il sigillo e diede un’occhiata al contenuto della lettera.
“Oh, forse alla fine si rivelerà interessante, ”
“Non è una convocazione sociale, allora?”
“No, decisamente professionale.”
“E proveniente da un cliente nobile?”
“Uno dei più importanti d’Inghilterra.”
“Mio caro amico, ti faccio i miei complimenti, ”
“Te lo assicuro, Watson, senza alcun fingimento: per me l’importanza del cliente è secondaria rispetto all’interesse della questione in esame. Tuttavia, forse anche in questo nuovo caso ci sarà qualcosa di interessante da scoprire. Ultimamente hai letto attentamente i giornali, vero?”
“Sembra proprio di sì,” dissi con rammarico, indicando un enorme mucchio di giornali nell’angolo della stanza. “Non ho avuto altro da fare, ”
“È una fortuna, forse potrai aiutarmi a leggerli. Io non leggo nulla se non le notizie criminali e la colonna delle lettere d’amore. Quest’ultima è sempre molto istruttiva. Ma se hai seguito così attentamente gli ultimi avvenimenti, devi aver letto di Lord St. Simon e del suo matrimonio, ”
“Oh sì, con grande interesse.”
“Bene, la lettera che ho in mano è proprio di Lord St. Simon. Te la leggerò, e in cambio dovrai darmi tutte le informazioni relative a questa questione. Ecco cosa dice, ” “Mio caro signor Sherlock Holmes: Lord Backwater mi ha detto di poter fare pieno affidamento sul vostro giudizio e sulla vostra discrezione. Pertanto, ho deciso di rivolgermi a voi per consultarvi riguardo all’evento molto doloroso che si è verificato in relazione al mio matrimonio. Il signor Lestrade, del Scotland Yard, sta già occupandosi della questione, ma mi assicura che non ha obiezioni alla vostra collaborazione e anzi ritiene che possa essere di qualche aiuto. Vi verrò a trovare alle quattro del pomeriggio; se in quel momento aveste altri impegni, spero che li rimandiate, poiché questa questione è di estrema importanza. Vostro affezionatamente,
‘St. Simon.’”
“La lettera è datata Grosvenor Mansions, scritta con una penna d’oca; il nobile signore ha avuto la sfortuna di sporcarsi di inchiostro sul lato esterno del mignolo destro,” osservò Holmes mentre ripiegava la missiva.
“Ha detto le quattro. Ora sono le tre. Arriverà tra un’ora.”
“Allora ho giusto il tempo, con il vostro aiuto, di chiarire la situazione. Mettete in ordine quei documenti secondo l’ordine temporale in cui sono stati scritti, mentre io controllo chi sia il nostro cliente.” Prese un volume rilegato in rosso da una fila di libri accanto al camino. “Eccolo qui,” disse, sedendosi e aprendolo sulle ginocchia. “‘Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon, secondo figlio del Duca di Balmoral.’ Hmm, ‘Armi: Azzurro, tre rovi in capo su uno scudo nero. Nato nel 1846.’ Ha quarantuno anni, quindi è giunto l’età adatta per sposarsi. È stato Sottosegretario alle colonie in un governo precedente; suo padre è stato un tempo Segretario degli Esteri. Discendono direttamente dai Plantageneti e, dal lato materno, dai Tudor. Beh, non c’è nulla di particolarmente interessante in tutto questo. Credo che dovrò rivolgermi a voi, Watson, per ottenere informazioni più concrete.”
“Non ho molte difficoltà a trovare ciò che cerco,” dissi, “poiché i fatti sono piuttosto recenti e la situazione mi è sembrata davvero insolita. Tuttavia, temevo di disturbarvi, dato che stavate già occupandovi di un’altra indagine.”
“Oh, vi riferite a quella piccola questione relativa al furgone con i mobili di Grosvenor Square. Ora è stata risolta completamente. Anche se, in realtà, era già evidente fin dall’inizio. Per favore, datemi i risultati delle vostre ricerche nei giornali.”
“Ecco la prima notizia che sono riuscito a trovare: si trova nella sezione personale del Morning Post e risale a qualche settimana fa: ‘È stata organizzata un’unione matrimoniale,’ dice, ‘e, se le voci sono vere, avverrà molto presto tra Lord Robert St. Simon, secondo figlio del Duca di Balmoral, e Miss Hatty Doran, unica figlia di Aloysius Doran di San Francisco, California.’ Questo è tutto.”
“Breve e diretta,” commentò Holmes, allungando le sue lunghe gambe verso il fuoco. “C’era un paragrafo che approfondiva l’argomento in uno dei giornali della stessa settimana. Ecco qui: ‘Entro breve si farà appello alla necessità di proteggere il mercato matrimoniale, poiché attualmente i principi del libero scambio sembrano essere decisamente svantaggiosi per i nostri prodotti nazionali. Uno dopo l’altro, i vertici delle nobili famiglie della Gran Bretagna passano nelle mani dei nostri affascinanti cugini dall’altra parte dell’Atlantico. Nella scorsa settimana è stata aggiunta un’importante notizia all’elenco delle ricchezze portate via da questi invasori attraenti: Lord St. Simon, che per oltre vent’anni è riuscito a sfuggire ai “dardi” del destino, ha appena annunciato il suo imminente matrimonio con Miss Hatty Doran, affascinante figlia di un milionario californiano. Miss Doran, la cui graziosa figura e il suo bel viso hanno attirato molta attenzione durante le feste alla Westbury House, è l’unica figlia della famiglia; si dice che la sua dote superi ampiamente i sei zeri, con prospettive future ancora più promettenti. Poiché è noto a tutti che il Duca di Balmoral è stato costretto a vendere le sue opere negli ultimi anni, e poiché Lord St. Simon non possiede alcuna proprietà personale se non la piccola tenuta di Birchmoor, è evidente che questa ereditiera californiana non è l’unica ad trarre vantaggio da questo matrimonio, che le permetterà di passare facilmente dal ruolo di signora repubblicana a quello di nobildonna britannica.’”
“C’è altro?” chiese Holmes, sbadigliando.
“Oh, sì; molto altro. C’è anche un articolo sul Morning Post che afferma che il matrimonio sarà assolutamente riservato, si svolgerà presso la chiesa di St. George’s, Hanover Square, e saranno invitati soltanto una mezza dozzina di amici intimi; in seguito, i festeggiamenti continueranno nella casa arredata di Lancaster Gate, acquistata dal signor Aloysius Doran. Due giorni dopo – cioè mercoledì scorso – fu pubblicato un breve annuncio che annunciava il completamento del matrimonio e che la luna di miele si sarebbe svolta nella tenuta di Lord Backwater, vicino a Petersfield. Questi sono tutti gli articoli apparsi prima della scomparsa della sposa, ”
“Prima di cosa?” chiese Holmes, sorpreso.
“Prima che lei scomparisse, ”
“Quando è scomparsa, allora?”
“Alla cerimonia del matrimonio.”
“Davvero. Questo è ancora più interessante di quanto sembrasse; addirittura drammatico.”
“Sì. Mi è parso davvero insolito.”
“Spesso le spose scompaiono prima della cerimonia, o a volte durante la luna di miele. Ma non ricordo nulla di così improvviso. Per favore, mi dia i dettagli, ”
“La avverto: sono molto incompleti, ”
“Forse possiamo renderli più completi, ”
“Tali come sono, sono riportati in un articolo di un giornale di ieri; glielo leggerò adesso. L’articolo è intitolato ‘Avvenimento insolito a un matrimonio alla moda’, ” “La famiglia di Lord Robert St. Simon è stata gettata nel più grande sconcerto a causa degli strani e dolorosi episodi che si sono verificati in relazione al suo matrimonio. La cerimonia, come annunciato ieri nei giornali, si è tenuta la mattina precedente; ma solo ora è stato possibile confermare le voci strane che da tempo circolavano. Nonostante gli sforzi degli amici di insabbiare l’incidente, tanta attenzione da parte del pubblico è stata ormai attratta su di esso, che non ha più senso fingere di ignorare un argomento così dibattuto.” “La cerimonia, svoltasi a St. George’s, Hanover Square, è stata molto tranquilla: erano presenti soltanto il padre della sposa, il signor Aloysius Doran, la Duchessa di Balmoral, Lord Backwater, Lord Eustace e Lady Clara St. Simon (fratello e sorella minore dello sposo), nonché Lady Alicia Whittington. Dopo la cerimonia, tutti si recarono a casa del signor Aloysius Doran, a Lancaster Gate, dove era stato preparato il breakfast. Pare che siano sorti alcuni problemi: una donna, il cui nome non è stato ancora accertato, tentò di entrare in casa dopo la comitiva nuziale, sostenendo di avere diritti su Lord St. Simon. Solo dopo un lungo e spiacevole episodio fu scacciata dal maggiordomo e dal valletto. La sposa, che fortunatamente era già entrata in casa prima dell’interruzione, stava pranzando con gli altri quando si sentì male e si ritirò nella sua stanza. Dopo un’assenza prolungata, suo padre andò a cercarla e la sua cameriera gli disse che lei aveva preso soltanto un cappotto e un cappello per poi scendere rapidamente. Uno dei valletti dichiarò di aver visto una donna uscire di casa in quel modo, ma non credeva fosse la sua padrona, pensando che fosse ancora con il gruppo. Quando si rese conto che sua figlia era scomparsa, il signor Aloysius Doran, insieme allo sposo, contattò immediatamente la polizia e sono in corso indagini approfondite che probabilmente porteranno a una rapida chiarificazione di questo strano caso. Tuttavia, fino a tarda notte non si sapeva ancora dove fosse finita la donna scomparsa. Ci sono voci su possibili atti illeciti e si dice che la polizia abbia arrestato la donna responsabile dell’interruzione iniziale, ritenendo che, per gelosia o altri motivi, possa essere coinvolta nella misteriosa scomparsa della sposa.”
“E questo è tutto?”
“Solo un altro piccolo articolo su un altro giornale del mattino, ma piuttosto significativo.”
“E cioè, ” “Il signorina Flora Millar, la donna che ha causato tutto questo trambusto, è stata effettivamente arrestata. Sembra che in passato fosse una ballerina all’Allegro e che conoscesse lo sposo da alcuni anni. Non ci sono ulteriori dettagli; l’intera faccenda ora è nelle vostre mani, almeno per quanto è stato riportato dalla stampa.”
“E sembra davvero un caso molto interessante. Non me lo sarei perso per nulla al mondo. Ma. Watson, c’è qualcosa che mi colpisce. Ora sono le quattro e qualche minuto; non ho dubbi che si tratti del nostro cliente ‘nobile’. Non pensare nemmeno di andartene, Watson. Preferisco avere un testimone, anche solo per verificare la mia memoria.”
“Lord Robert St. Simon,” annunciò il nostro paggio, aprendo la porta. Entrò un gentiluomo dal viso piacevole e raffinato, con il naso aquilino e il volto pallido; sulle labbra gli aleggiava un’ombra di petulanza, mentre i suoi occhi fissi e decisi tradivano chiaramente una persona abituata a comandare e ad essere obbedita. Il suo modo di fare era vivace, ma l’aspetto complessivo dava l’impressione che fosse più anziano del dovuto: camminava con un leggero inarcamento della schiena e delle ginocchia; i suoi capelli, ora che si tolse il cappello a tesa riccia, erano grigi ai bordi e radi sulla sommità. Il suo abbigliamento era estremamente curato, con colletto alto, redingote nera, gilet bianco, guanti gialli, scarpe di cuoio lucido e calzamaglie colorate. Entrò lentamente nella stanza, guardandosi intorno e dondolando nella mano destra la corda che teneva gli occhiali dorati.
“Buongiorno, Lord St. Simon,” disse Holmes alzandosi e inchinandosi. “Prego, si sieda. Questo è il mio amico e collega, il dottor Watson. Si avvicini un po’ al fuoco; parleremo insieme di questa faccenda.”
“È una questione molto dolorosa per me, come potete facilmente immaginare, signor Holmes. Sono profondamente turbato. So che avete già affrontato diversi casi del genere, anche se presumo che non appartenessero alla stessa classe sociale, ”
“Infatti, sto scendendo di rango.”
“Mi scusi, ”
“L’ultimo mio cliente in questo campo era un re, ”
“Oh, davvero? Non lo sapevo. E quale re?”
“Il Re di Scandinavia, ”
“Ah. Aveva perso sua moglie?”
“Come potete capire,” disse Holmes con calma, “riservo ai miei altri clienti la stessa riservatezza che prometto a voi in questo caso.”
“Certo! Assolutamente giusto. Mi scuso ancora una volta. Per quanto riguarda il mio caso, sono pronto a fornirvi qualsiasi informazione possa esservi utile per formarvi un’opinione, ”
“Grazie. Ho già appreso tutto ciò che è stato pubblicato dalla stampa; nulla di più. Presumo quindi che quanto riportato sia corretto. Ad esempio, quell’articolo riguardo alla scomparsa della sposa, ”
Lord St. Simon lo scorse rapidamente. “Sì, è corretto, per quel che riguarda i fatti principali.”
“Ma ci vorrà molto di più per poter formulare un’opinione completa. Penso che il modo migliore sia interrogarvi direttamente, ”
“Prego, fatelo pure.” “Quando avete conosciuto per la prima volta Miss Hatty Doran?”
“A San Francisco, un anno fa.”
“Vi trovavate negli Stati Uniti in viaggio?”
“Sì.”
“Allora vi siete fidanzati?”
“No.”
“Ma avevate un rapporto amichevole?”
“Mi divertiva la sua compagnia, e lei capiva che lo stesso valeva per me.”
“Suo padre è molto ricco?”
“Si dice sia l’uomo più ricco della costa del Pacifico.”
“E come ha fatto a arricchirsi?”
“In miniera. Qualche anno fa non aveva nulla; poi ha trovato dell’oro, l’ha investito e da allora il suo patrimonio è aumentato rapidamente.”
“Ora, qual è la vostra opinione riguardo al carattere di questa giovane donna, della vostra moglie?”
Il nobile fece scivolare gli occhiali più velocemente sul naso e fissò il fuoco. “Vede, signor Holmes,” disse, “mia moglie aveva vent’anni quando suo padre divenne ricco. In quel periodo visse in un campo minerario, vagabondando per foreste e montagne; quindi la sua educazione è stata fornita dalla Natura, piuttosto che da un insegnante. In Inghilterra la chiameremmo una ‘ragazza selvaggia’: ha un carattere forte, libero e indipendente, privo di qualsiasi tipo di tradizione. È impulsiva, potrei dire addirittura ‘volcanica’. Prende decisioni in fretta e le attua senza paura. D’altra parte, non l’avrei mai chiamata con il nome che ho l’onore di portare,” aggiunse dopo un leggero colpo di tosse, “se non pensassi che, nel profondo, sia una donna nobile. Credo che sia capace di sacrifici eroici e che qualsiasi comportamento disonorevole le sarebbe ripugnante.”
“Avevate la sua fotografia?”
“L’ho portata con me.” Aprì un medaglione e ci mostrò il ritratto di una donna molto bella. Non si trattava di una fotografia, ma di una miniatura in avorio; l’artista aveva riuscito a catturare perfettamente i lunghi capelli neri lucidi, gli occhi scuri e grandi e la bocca incantevole. Holmes la osservò a lungo con attenzione, poi chiuse il medaglione e lo restituì a Lord St. Simon.
“Allora la giovane donna è venuta a Londra e voi avete ripreso a frequentarla, ”
“Sì; suo padre l’ha portata qui per questa stagione londinese. L’ho incontrata diverse volte, ci siamo fidanzati e ora siamo sposati.”
“Capisco che abbia portato con sé una dote considerevole, ”
“Una dote discreta. Niente di più di quanto sia consueto nella mia famiglia.”
“E naturalmente, ora questa dote rimane a voi, visto che il matrimonio è ormai un fatto compiuto, ”
“In realtà non ho fatto domande al riguardo.”
“Naturalmente no. L’avevate vista il giorno prima del matrimonio?”
“Sì.”
“Era di buon umore?”
“Mai stato migliore. Continuava a parlare di ciò che avremmo dovuto fare nella nostra vita futura.”
“Interessante. E la mattina del matrimonio?”
“Era allegra, almeno fino alla fine della cerimonia.”
“Avete notato qualche cambiamento in lei in quel momento?”
“Beh, a dire il vero, ho visto per la prima volta segni che il suo temperamento fosse un po’ irritabile. Tuttavia l’episodio era troppo banale per essere rilevante, ”
“Per favore, raccontatecelo lo stesso.” “Oh, è davvero infantile. Ha perso il mazzo di fiori mentre ci dirigevamo verso la sacrestia; in quel momento stava passando accanto alla panca davanti alla quale sedeva un signore, e il mazzo è caduto lì sopra. Ci è stata una breve pausa, ma il signore gliel’ha restituito subito dopo. Comunque, quando ne ho parlato con lei, mi ha risposto in modo brusco; in carrozza, durante il ritorno a casa, sembrava davvero molto agitata per questa sciocchezza.”
“Davvero? C’era un signore nella panca. Allora c’erano anche altre persone presenti in chiesa?”
“Oh, sì. È impossibile escluderle quando la chiesa è aperta al pubblico.”
“Questo signore non era un amico di vostra moglie, ”
“No, no. Lo chiamo ‘signore’ per cortesia, ma in realtà era una persona dall’aspetto piuttosto comune. Non mi sono nemmeno accorto molto della sua presenza. Comunque, penso che stiamo divagando un po’ troppo dal tema principale, ”
“Quindi, Lady St. Simon è tornata dalla cerimonia nuziale in uno stato d’animo meno sereno di quando era partita. Cosa ha fatto una volta rientrata nella casa di suo padre?”
“L’ho vista parlare con la sua cameriera.”
“E chi è questa cameriera?”
“Si chiama Alice. È americana e è arrivata dalla California insieme a lei.”
“Una domestica molto intima, ”
“Un po’ troppo, direi. Mi sembrava che la sua padrona le permettesse di comportarsi con grande libertà. Comunque, in America queste cose vengono viste in modo diverso, ”
“Quanto tempo ha parlato con Alice?”
“Oh, qualche minuto. Avevo altre cose a cui pensare, ”
“Non avete sentito cosa si sono dette?”
“Lady St. Simon ha detto qualcosa riguardo a ‘superare delle barriere’. Era abituata ad usare questo genere di linguaggio informale. Non ho idea di cosa intendesse, ”
“Il gergo americano, a volte, è molto esplicito. E dopo aver parlato con Alice, vostra moglie cos’ha fatto?”
“È entrata nella sala da pranzo, ”
“Con voi al suo fianco?”
“No. Da sola. Era molto indipendente in queste cose. Poi, dopo essere rimasta seduta per circa dieci minuti, si è alzata di scatto, ha mormorato qualche scusa e se n’è andata. Non è mai tornata, ”
“Ma questa Alice, a quanto pare, ha detto che è andata nella sua stanza, ha coperto l’abito da sposa con un lungo mantello, si è messa un cappello e poi è uscita, ”
“Esatto. In seguito è stata vista entrare nel Hyde Park in compagnia di Flora Millar, una donna che ora si trova in custodia e che quella mattina aveva già causato dei problemi nella casa di Mr. Doran, ”
“Ah, sì. Vorrei sapere qualche dettaglio su questa giovane donna, nonché sulle vostre relazioni con lei, ” Il lord St. Simon alzò le spalle e sollevò le sopracciglia. “Da alcuni anni abbiamo mantenuto rapporti molto amichevoli. Posso dire addirittura estremamente amichevoli. Lei lavorava all’Allegro; non l’ho mai trattata in modo ingiusto, e non aveva alcun motivo legittimo per lamentarsi di me. Ma lei sa com’è fatto il genere femminile, signor Holmes. Flora era una ragazza carina, ma estremamente impulsiva e profondamente legata a me. Quando seppe che stavo per sposarmi, mi scrisse lettere terribili. Onestamente, il motivo per cui ho tenuto il matrimonio in segreto è stato proprio il timore di uno scandalo in chiesa. Appena tornati a casa, Flora venne alla porta del signor Doran e cercò di entrare, pronunciando insulti contro mia moglie e persino minacciandola. Ma avevo previsto una possibilità del genere, quindi avevo due poliziotti in abiti civili lì dentro; loro la cacciarono subito fuori. Quando capì che non avrebbe ottenuto nulla, si calmò.”
“Sua moglie ha sentito tutto questo?”
“No, per fortuna no.”
“E poi è stata vista camminare insieme a questa donna, ”
“Sì. È proprio questo che il signor Lestrade, di Scotland Yard, ritiene molto grave. Si pensa che Flora abbia attirato mia moglie fuori e le abbia teso un tranello terribile.”
“Beh, è una possibilità, ”
“Anche lei la ritiene così?”
“Non ho detto che sia probabile. Ma nemmeno lei la considera plausibile, vero?”
“Non credo che Flora sarebbe capace di fare del male anche a una mosca, ”
“Tuttavia, la gelosia può trasformare le persone in modi strani. Qual è la sua teoria su quanto è accaduto?”
“Beh, in realtà sono venuto qui per cercare una spiegazione, non per proporne una. Le ho fornito tutti i fatti. Se me lo chiede, posso dire che mi è sembrato possibile che l’emozione causata da tutta questa situazione, e la consapevolezza di aver compiuto un grande passo sociale, abbiano causato qualche disturbo nervoso in mia moglie, ”
“In altre parole, che sia improvvisamente impazzita?”
“Beh, quando penso a come abbia voltato le spalle a tutto ciò per cui tante persone hanno lottato senza successo, difficilmente posso spiegarlo in altro modo.”
“Beh, anche questa è senz’altro un’ipotesi plausibile,” disse Holmes sorridendo. “Ora, lord St. Simon, credo di avere quasi tutti i dati necessari. Posso chiederle se era seduto al tavolo della colazione in modo da poter guardare fuori dalla finestra?”
“Potevamo vedere l’altra parte della strada e il parco, ”
“Esatto. Allora non credo di doverla trattenere oltre. La contatterò presto.”
“Se avrà la fortuna di risolvere questo caso, ” disse il nostro cliente alzandosi, “le sarei molto grato.”
“L’ho già risolto.”
“Eh? Davvero?”
“Sì, l’ho risolto.”
“Allora, dove si trova mia moglie?”
“Quel dettaglio glielo fornirò presto.”
Il lord St. Simon scosse la testa. “Temo che servano menti più sagge delle sue o delle mie, ” disse, e con un inchino dignitoso e antiquato se ne andò. “Il fatto che Lord St. Simon voglia onorarmi mettendo la mia testa al suo livello è davvero molto gentile,” disse Sherlock Holmes ridendo. “Penso che, dopo tutte queste domande, mi meriti un whisky e soda e un sigaro. Avevo già tratto le mie conclusioni su questo caso prima ancora che il nostro cliente entrasse nella stanza.”
“Mio caro Holmes!”
“Ho delle note su diversi casi simili, anche se nessuno, come ho detto prima, è stato risolto con tanta rapidità. L’intera indagine ha trasformato le mie congetture in certezze. Le prove circostanziali a volte sono davvero convincenti, proprio come quando si trova una trota nel latte, per citare l’esempio di Thoreau.”
“Ma io ho sentito tutto ciò che hai detto, ”
“Tuttavia, senza la conoscenza di casi precedenti che mi aiutano molto. Ci sono stati casi simili ad Aberdeen alcuni anni fa, e qualcosa di molto simile a Monaco l’anno dopo la guerra franco-prussiana. Questo è uno di quei casi. Ehi, ecco Lestrade! Buon pomeriggio, Lestrade! Troverai un bicchiere in più sul comò, e ci sono i sigari nella scatola.”
L’ufficiale detective indossava una giacca a quadri e una cravatta che gli davano un aspetto decisamente marinaresco; teneva in mano una borsa di tela nera. Dopo aver salutato brevemente, si sedette e accese il sigaro che gli era stato offerto.
“Allora, cosa c’è?” chiese Holmes con un luccichio negli occhi. “Sembri insoddisfatto, ”
“Lo sono davvero. Questo maledetto caso del matrimonio di Lady St. Simon. Non riesco a capirci nulla.”
“Davvero? Mi sorprendi, ”
“Chi avrebbe mai sentito parlare di una storia così complicata? Ogni indizio sembra sfuggirmi. Ho lavorato su questo caso tutto il giorno, ”
“E a quanto pare non è stato molto produttivo, ” disse Holmes, posando la mano sul braccio dell’uomo in giacca a quadri.
“Sì. Ho cercato dappertutto, ”
“Per l’amor del cielo, perché?”
“Per trovare il corpo di Lady St. Simon, ”
Sherlock Holmes si appoggiò allo schienale della sedia e scoppiò a ridere.
“Hai cercato nel bacino della fontana di Trafalgar Square?” chiese.
“Perché? Cosa intendi?”
“Perché hai altrettante possibilità di trovarla lì che in qualsiasi altro posto, ”
Lestrade lanciò un’occhiata furiosa al mio amico. “Immagino che tu sappia già tutto, ” ringhiò.
“Beh, ho appena sentito i fatti. Ma ho già fatto una mia conclusione, ”
“Oh, davvero? Allora pensi che la Serpentine non abbia nulla a che fare con questa storia?”
“Penso sia molto improbabile, ”
“Allora forse potresti spiegarmi come mai abbiamo trovato queste cose lì dentro, ” Aprì la borsa e fece cadere sul pavimento un abito da sposa di seta, un paio di scarpe di raso bianco, una corona nuziale e un velo, tutti macchiati e bagnati d’acqua. “Ecco,” disse, mettendo un anello nuziale nuovo sopra il mucchio. “Ecco un piccolo enigma per te, signor Holmes, ”
“Oh, davvero, ” disse mio amico, soffiando anelli blu nell’aria. “Le hai trovate nella Serpentine?” “No. Sono state trovate galleggianti vicino al bordo del lago da un custode del parco. Sono state identificate come i suoi vestiti, e mi è sembrato che, se i vestiti erano lì, il corpo non potesse essere lontano.”
“Con lo stesso ragionamento brillante, si dovrebbe quindi pensare che il corpo di ogni uomo si trovi nei dintorni del suo armadio. E allora, a cosa speravi di arrivare con tutto questo?”
“A qualche prova che implicasse Flora Millar nella scomparsa.”
“Temo che ti troverai in difficoltà, ”
“Davvero?”, esclamò Lestrade con amarezza. “Temo, Holmes, che le tue deduzioni non siano molto pratiche. Hai commesso due errori in pochi minuti. Questo vestito effettivamente implica la signorina Flora Millar, ”
“E come?” “Nel vestito c’è una tasca. Nella tasca c’è un portafoglietto. Nel portafoglietto c’è un biglietto. E ecco proprio quel biglietto.” Lo posò con forza sul tavolo davanti a sé. “Ascoltate bene: ‘Mi vedrai quando tutto sarà pronto. Vieni subito. F. H. M.’ Da sempre ho sospettato che Lady St. Simon fosse stata attirata via da Flora Millar, e che lei, insieme ad altri complici, fosse responsabile della sua scomparsa. Ecco qui, firmato con le sue iniziali, proprio quel biglietto che sicuramente le è stato passato di nascosto alla porta, inducendola a entrare nel loro tranello.”
“Molto bene, Lestrade,” disse Holmes ridendo. “Sei davvero eccezionale. Dammelo da vedere.” Prese il foglio con noncuranza, ma la sua attenzione fu immediatamente catturata; emise un piccolo grido di soddisfazione. “Questo è davvero importante,” disse.
“Ah! Lo pensi davvero?”
“Estremamente. Ti congratulo caldamente.”
Lestrade, trionfante, si avvicinò per guardare il foglio, “Ma, stai guardando il lato sbagliato!” esclamò.
“Al contrario, questo è il lato giusto.”
“Il lato giusto? Sei pazzo! Il biglietto è scritto a matita qui, ” “E qui c’è quello che sembra essere un frammento di una ricevuta d’albergo, il quale mi interessa molto.”
“Non c’è nulla di significativo. L’ho già controllata,” disse Lestrade. “‘4 ottobre: stanze 8, colazione 2 shilling e 6 pence, cocktail 1 shilling, pranzo 2 shilling e 6 pence, sherry 8 pence.’ Non vedo nulla di interessante.”
“Probabilmente no. Ma è comunque molto importante. Per quanto riguarda quel biglietto, anche quello è significativo, o almeno le iniziali scritte sopra lo sono. Quindi ti congratulo ancora una volta.”
“Ho già perso abbastanza tempo,” disse Lestrade alzandosi. “Io credo nel lavoro duro, non nel sedermi accanto al camino a inventare teorie complicate. Buongiorno, signor Holmes. Vedremo chi riuscirà per primo a scoprire la verità.” Raccolse i suoi vestiti, li mise nella borsa e si diresse verso la porta.
“Solo un consiglio, Lestrade, ” disse Holmes prima che il suo rivale se ne andasse. “Ti dirò la vera soluzione di questo caso. Lady St. Simon è solo un mito. Non esiste, e non è mai esistita, nessuna persona del genere.”
Lestrade guardò tristemente il mio compagno, poi si rivolse a me, si batté tre volte la fronte, scosse la testa con solennità e se ne andò di fretta. Appena ebbe chiuso la porta alle sue spalle, Holmes si alzò per indossare il cappotto. “C’è del vero in quello che dice quell’uomo riguardo al lavoro all’aperto,” osservò, “quindi penso, Watson, che dovrò lasciarti ai tuoi documenti per un po’.” Era passata l’ora di cinque quando Sherlock Holmes mi lasciò, ma non ebbi il tempo di sentirmi solo: entro un’ora arrivò un commesso di pasticceria con una scatola molto grande e piatta. Con l’aiuto di un giovane che aveva portato con sé, iniziò ad aprire la scatola, e presto, a mia grande sorpresa, sul nostro umile tavolo di mogano iniziarono ad essere disposti cibi davvero raffinati: alcune coppie di fagiani freddi, un fagiano selvatico, una torta di foie gras accompagnata da vecchie bottiglie impolverate. Dopo aver sistemato tutti questi piatti prelibati, i miei due ospiti scomparvero come i geni dei “Mille e una notte”, senza dare alcuna spiegazione, se non che tutto era stato pagato e ordinato a quell’indirizzo. Poco prima delle nove, Sherlock Holmes entrò nella stanza con passo deciso. Il suo volto aveva un’espressione seria, ma nei suoi occhi c’era una luce che mi fece pensare che le sue conclusioni non fossero state deluse. “Allora hanno preparato la cena,” disse, strofinandosi le mani. “Sembra che aspettiate qualcuno. Hanno preparato per cinque persone.” “Sì, credo che possa arrivare qualche ospite,” rispose. “Mi sorprende che Lord St. Simon non sia ancora arrivato. Ah! Credo di sentire i suoi passi sulle scale.” Infatti, fu proprio il nostro visitatore del pomeriggio ad entrare di corsa, dondolando le sue lenti più energicamente che mai e con un’espressione molto preoccupata sul suo volto aristocratico. “Allora il mio messaggero è arrivato da voi?” chiese Holmes. “Sì. Devo ammettere che il contenuto del messaggio mi ha sorpreso moltissimo. Avete prove concrete di quanto dite?” “Le migliori possibili.” Lord St. Simon si lasciò cadere su una sedia e si prese la fronte con la mano. “Cosa dirà il Duca quando saprà che uno dei membri della famiglia è stato umiliato in questo modo?” mormorò. “È stata pura casualità. Non posso permettere che ci sia alcuna umiliazione.” “Oh, voi vedete queste cose da un altro punto di vista, ” “Non riesco a vedere chi possa essere considerato responsabile. È difficile capire come quella signora potesse comportarsi in quel modo, anche se il suo approccio brusco è senza dubbio deprecabile. Non avendo una madre, non aveva nessuno che potesse darle consigli in un momento del genere.” “È stato uno sgarbo. Un vero e proprio sgarbo pubblico,” disse Lord St. Simon, battendo le dita sul tavolo. “Dovete prendere in considerazione questa povera ragazza, messa in una situazione senza precedenti, ” “Non intendo farlo. Sono davvero arrabbiato. E sono stato trattato in modo vergognoso.” “I penso di aver sentito suonare il campanello,” disse Holmes. “Sì, ci sono persone che stanno salendo le scale. Se non riesco a convincervi ad essere clementi in questa faccenda, Lord St. Simon, ho portato con me un avvocato che forse avrà più successo.” Aprì la porta e fece entrare una signora e un signore. “Lord St. Simon,” disse, “permettetemi di presentarvi il signor e la signora Francis Hay Moulton. Penso che abbiate già incontrato la signora in precedenza.”
Alla vista di questi nuovi arrivati, il nostro cliente balzò in piedi, con lo sguardo basso e la mano infilata nel petto della sua giacca, un esempio di dignità offesa. La signora fece un passo avanti e gli tese la mano, ma lui continuò a rifiutarsi di alzare lo sguardo. Forse era meglio così, perché il suo viso supplicante era davvero difficile da resistere.
“Sei arrabbiato, Robert,” disse lei. “Beh, immagino che tu abbia tutte le ragioni per esserlo.”
“Per favore, non chiedermi scusa,” disse Lord St. Simon con amarezza.
“Oh, sì. So di avermi comportata molto male con te e che avrei dovuto parlarti prima di andarmene; ma ero un po’ sconvolta. Da quando ho rivisto Frank qui, non so più cosa faccio o cosa dico. Mi chiedo solo come non sia caduta a terra e svenuta proprio lì, davanti all’altare, ”
“Forse, signora Moulton, vorreste che io e il mio amico lasciassimo la stanza mentre spiegate questa situazione, ”
“Se posso dare un parere,” intervenne il signore strano, “abbiamo già mantenuto troppo segreti su questa faccenda. Personalmente, vorrei che tutta Europa e America venissero a conoscenza dei fatti.” Era un uomo piccolo, magro, abbronzato, con la barba rasata, il viso affilato e modi decisi.
“Allora vi racconterò tutto subito,” disse la signora. “Frank ed io ci siamo incontrati nel ’84, nel campo di McQuire, vicino ai Monti Rocciosi. Mio padre lavorava lì in una miniera. Eravamo fidanzati; ma poi mio padre trovò un giacimento ricco e fece fortuna, mentre povero Frank perse tutto. Più diventava ricco mio padre, più diventava povero Frank. Alla fine, mio padre non volle più che il nostro fidanzamento continuasse e mi portò a San Francisco. Ma Frank non si arrese; mi seguì lì e mi vide senza che mio padre lo sapesse. Saperlo lo avrebbe solo fatto impazzire. Quindi decidemmo di sistemare tutto da soli. Frank disse che avrebbe cercato anche lui la sua fortuna e che non sarebbe tornato a chiedermi in sposa finché non avesse guadagnato quanto mio padre. Allora gli promisi di aspettarlo per sempre e giurai di non sposare nessun altro mentre fosse vivo, ‘Perché non ci sposiamo subito?’ disse lui, ‘Così sarò sicuro che mi appartieni. E non dirò di essere tuo marito finché non tornerò, ’ Bene. Ne parlammo a lungo. Lui aveva già tutto organizzato. C’era persino un prete pronto ad assistere al matrimonio. Così ci sposammo lì stesso. Poi Frank andò a cercare la sua fortuna, e io tornai da mio padre, ” “L’ultima volta che ho avuto notizie di Frank è stato quando si trovava in Montana; poi è andato ad esplorare le miniere in Arizona, e successivamente ne ho sentito parlare dal New Mexico. Poi è apparsa una lunga notizia su un giornale riguardante l’attacco a un campo di minatori da parte degli Apache Indiani, e il nome di Frank era tra quelli dei morti. Sono svenuta e sono stata molto malata per mesi. Mio padre pensava che stessi peggiorando e mi ha portata da metà dei medici di ‘Frisco’. Per più di un anno non è arrivata nessuna notizia, quindi non ho mai dubitato che Frank fosse davvero morto. Poi Lord St. Simon è arrivato a ‘Frisco’, siamo andati a Londra e ci è stata organizzata un’unione; mio padre ne era molto felice, ma io sentivo sempre che nessun uomo al mondo avrebbe mai potuto prendere il posto di Frank nel mio cuore.
“Comunque, se avessi sposato Lord St. Simon, ovviamente avrei adempiuto ai miei doveri verso di lui. Non possiamo comandare i nostri sentimenti, ma possiamo controllare le nostre azioni. Sono andata all’altare con lui con l’intenzione di essere una moglie buona e devota. Ma potete immaginare cosa ho provato quando, proprio mentre stavo per raggiungere l’altare, ho girato lo sguardo e ho visto Frank in piedi, che mi guardava dalla prima panca. All’inizio ho pensato fosse il suo fantasma; ma quando ho guardato di nuovo, era ancora lì, con uno sguardo pieno di domande, come se volesse sapere se fossi felice o triste di vederlo. Non so come abbia fatto a non cadere. Tutto intorno a me sembrava girare vorticosamente, e le parole del prete mi suonavano come il ronzio delle api nelle orecchie. Non sapevo cosa fare. Dovevo interrompere la cerimonia e creare uno scandalo in chiesa? Ho guardato di nuovo Frank. Sembrava capire ciò che stavo pensando, perché ha portato un dito alle labbra per indicarmi di stare zitta. Poi l’ho visto scrivere qualcosa su un pezzo di carta. Era sicuramente una nota per me. Mentre uscivo dalla chiesa, ho lasciato cadere il mazzo di fiori vicino a lui. Lui ha infilato la nota nella mia mano mentre mi restituiva i fiori. C’era solo una riga che mi chiedeva di raggiungerlo quando me l’avrebbe fatto segno. Ovviamente non ho mai dubitato nemmeno per un momento che il mio dovere principale fosse ora lui. E ho deciso di fare esattamente ciò che mi avesse ordinato.” “Quando tornai, raccontai tutto alla mia cameriera, che lo conosceva in California e era sempre stata sua amica. Le ordinai di non dire nulla, ma di preparare alcune cose e di mettere a disposizione il mio mantello. So che avrei dovuto parlare con Lord St. Simon, ma davanti a sua madre e a tutte quelle persone importanti mi sembrava impossibile. Così decisi semplicemente di fuggire e di spiegargli tutto dopo. Non erano passati nemmeno dieci minuti dall’inizio del banchetto quando vidi Frank fuori dalla finestra, dall’altra parte della strada. Mi fece segno con la mano e poi iniziò a camminare verso il parco. Uscii di nascosto, presi le mie cose e lo seguii. Una donna cercò di parlarmi di Lord St. Simon. Da quello che riuscii a capire, sembrava che anche lui avesse dei segreti prima del matrimonio. Ma riuscii comunque a liberarmi di lei e presto raggiunsi Frank. Prendemmo un taxi insieme e ci dirigemmo verso un alloggio che aveva preso in Gordon Square. E così, dopo tanti anni d’attesa, ebbe finalmente luogo il mio vero matrimonio.” “L’ho letto su un giornale,” spiegò l’americano. “C’erano il nome e la chiesa, ma non dove abitava quella signora.” “Allora abbiamo discusso su cosa dovessimo fare, e Frank era totalmente a favore di essere onesti e aperti, ma io provavo tale vergogna per tutto ciò che era accaduto che avrei voluto scomparire per non rivederli mai più. Forse avrei potuto mandare solo un messaggio a mio padre per fargli sapere che ero viva. Era terribile pensare a tutti quei signori e signore seduti intorno al tavolo della colazione, in attesa del mio ritorno. Così Frank prese i miei vestiti da sposa e tutte le mie cose, le legò in un fagotto in modo che nessuno potesse rintracciarle, e le gettò in qualche posto dove nessuno le avrebbe trovate. Probabilmente il giorno dopo saremmo partiti per Parigi. Ma stasera questo gentile signore, il signor Holmes, ci ha trovati; non so proprio come abbia fatto. Ci ha spiegato molto chiaramente e con gentilezza che avevo torto io e ragione Frank, e che agire in segreto era sbagliato. Poi ci ha offerto l’opportunità di parlare da soli con Lord St. Simon, così siamo subito andati nei suoi uffici. Ora, Robert, hai sentito tutto. Mi dispiace molto se ti ho fatto soffrire, e spero che non pensi male di me.” Lord St. Simon non aveva affatto allentato la sua rigida posizione; ascoltò con le sopracciglia corrugate e le labbra strette questa lunga narrazione.
“Scusate,” disse, “ma non è mia abitudine discutere dei miei affari personali più intimi in modo così pubblico.”
“Allora non mi perdonerete? Non mi stringerete la mano prima che me ne vada?”
“Oh, certamente, se questo potesse darvi qualche piacere, ” Tese la mano e strinse freddamente quella che lei gli porgeva.
“Speravo,” suggerì Holmes, “che vi uniste a noi per una cena amichevole.” “Credo che in questo caso si stia chiedendo un po’ troppo,” rispose Sua Signoria. “Forse sarò costretto ad accettare questi recenti sviluppi, ma difficilmente si può aspettare che ne sia felice. Con il vostro permesso, vi auguro ora buonanotte a tutti.” Ci fece un inchino generale e uscì dalla stanza.
“Allora spero almeno che mi onorerete della vostra compagnia,” disse Sherlock Holmes. “È sempre un piacere incontrare un americano, signor Moulton. Io credo infatti che l’errore di un monarca o il errore di un ministro di tempi passati non impediranno ai nostri figli di diventare un giorno cittadini dello stesso paese mondiale, sotto una bandiera composta da quattro quarti della Union Jack e dalle Strisce e Stelle.”
“Questo caso è stato davvero interessante,” osservò Holmes dopo che i nostri ospiti se ne furono andati. “Perché dimostra chiaramente quanto possa essere semplice l’interpretazione di un evento che a prima vista sembra quasi inesplicabile. Niente potrebbe essere più naturale della sequenza degli eventi descritta da questa signora; al contrario, nulla potrebbe essere più strano se vista, ad esempio, dal punto di vista di Mr. Lestrade dello Scotland Yard.” “Quindi non è stata affatto colpa tua…” “Fin dall’inizio, due fatti mi sono sembrati molto evidenti: il primo era che la signora fosse stata assolutamente disposta a partecipare alla cerimonia nuziale; il secondo era che si fosse pentita di averlo fatto pochi minuti dopo essere tornata a casa. Ovviamente, durante la mattinata doveva essere accaduto qualcosa che l’aveva fatta cambiare idea. Ma cosa poteva essere? Non poteva aver parlato con nessuno mentre era fuori, visto che era in compagnia dello sposo. Allora, aveva forse incontrato qualcuno? Se sì, doveva trattarsi di una persona americana: aveva trascorso così poco tempo in questo paese che era improbabile che qualcuno avesse potuto esercitare su di lei un’influenza così profonda da farle cambiare completamente i piani al solo vederlo. Alla fine, attraverso un processo di esclusione, siamo giunti alla conclusione che potesse aver incontrato un americano. Ma chi sarebbe stato questo americano, e perché avrebbe dovuto avere su di lei un tale ascendente? Poteva trattarsi di un amante, o forse di un marito. Sapevo che la sua giovinezza era trascorsa in ambienti difficili e sotto condizioni strane. Prima di ascoltare il racconto di Lord St. Simon, avevo già raggiunto queste conclusioni.” Quando ci raccontò di un uomo seduto in una panca, del cambiamento nel comportamento della sposa, di un metodo così evidente per ottenere un biglietto come la caduta di un mazzo di fiori, del fatto che si fosse rivolta alla sua cameriera personale, e dell’allusione molto significativa che fece riguardo al concetto di “claim-jumping” – che nel gergo dei minatori significa prendere possesso di qualcosa a cui un’altra persona ha diritti precedenti – tutta la situazione divenne assolutamente chiara. Lei se n’era andata con un uomo, e quell’uomo era o un amante o un ex marito, le probabilità erano a favore di quest’ultimo. “E come diavolo sei riuscito a trovarli?” “Avrebbe potuto essere difficile, ma l’amico Lestrade aveva in mano informazioni del cui valore nemmeno lui era consapevole. Le iniziali, ovviamente, erano di estrema importanza, ma ancora più prezioso era il fatto che sapessimo che entro una settimana aveva pagato il conto in uno dei ristoranti più eleganti di Londra.”
“Come hai dedotto che si trattasse di un ristorante elegante?”
“Gli alti prezzi lo indicavano chiaramente: otto scellini per una camera e otto pence per un bicchiere di sherry. Non ce ne sono molti a Londra che addebitino simili tariffe. Nel secondo ristorante che ho visitato, in Northumberland Avenue, ho scoperto dalla contabilità che Francis H. Moulton, un gentiluomo americano, se n’era andato il giorno prima; esaminando gli appunti relativi a lui, sono trovato proprio le informazioni che cercavo. Le sue lettere dovevano essere inviate al 226 di Gordon Square. Così ci sono recato e, fortunatamente, ho trovato la coppia in casa. Ho osato dar loro alcuni consigli e suggerire che fosse meglio, sotto ogni aspetto, rendere la loro situazione più chiara sia al pubblico in generale che soprattutto a Lord St. Simon. Li ho invitati ad incontrarlo qui. E, come vedete, sono riuscito a fargli mantenere l’appuntamento.”
“Ma senza molto successo, a quanto pare,” osservai. “Il suo comportamento non è stato certo molto gentile, ”
“Ah, Watson,” disse Holmes sorridendo, “forse nemmeno tu saresti molto gentile se, dopo tutti gli sforzi fatti per corteggiare e sposare qualcuno, ti ritrovassi improvvisamente privo di moglie e fortuna. Penso che possiamo considerare Lord St. Simon molto misericordioso. E ringraziare il cielo per non trovarci mai nella stessa situazione. Avvicinati la sedia e dammi il violino: l’unico problema che ci resta da risolvere ora è come trascorrere queste tristi serate autunnali, ”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL CORONET “Holmes,” said I as I stood one morning in our bow-window looking down the street, “here is a madman coming along. It seems rather sad that his relatives should allow him to come out alone.” My friend rose lazily from his armchair and stood with his hands in the pockets of his dressing-gown, looking over my shoulder. It was a bright, crisp February morning, and the snow of the day before still lay deep upon the ground, shimmering brightly in the wintry sun. Down the centre of Baker Street it had been ploughed into a brown crumbly band by the traffic, but at either side and on the heaped-up edges of the foot-paths it still lay as white as when it fell. The grey pavement had been cleaned and scraped, but was still dangerously slippery, so that there were fewer passengers than usual. Indeed, from the direction of the Metropolitan Station no one was coming save the single gentleman whose eccentric conduct had drawn my attention. He was a man of about fifty, tall, portly, and imposing, with a massive, strongly marked face and a commanding figure. He was dressed in a sombre yet rich style, in black frock-coat, shining hat, neat brown gaiters, and well-cut pearl-grey trousers. Yet his actions were in absurd contrast to the dignity of his dress and features, for he was running hard, with occasional little springs, such as a weary man gives who is little accustomed to set any tax upon his legs. As he ran he jerked his hands up and down, waggled his head, and writhed his face into the most extraordinary contortions. “What on earth can be the matter with him?” I asked. “He is looking up at the numbers of the houses.” “I believe that he is coming here,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands. “Here?” “Yes; I rather think he is coming to consult me professionally. I think that I recognise the symptoms. Ha! did I not tell you?” As he spoke, the man, puffing and blowing, rushed at our door and pulled at our bell until the whole house resounded with the clanging. A few moments later he was in our room, still puffing, still gesticulating, but with so fixed a look of grief and despair in his eyes that our smiles were turned in an instant to horror and pity. For a while he could not get his words out, but swayed his body and plucked at his hair like one who has been driven to the extreme limits of his reason. Then, suddenly springing to his feet, he beat his head against the wall with such force that we both rushed upon him and tore him away to the centre of the room. Sherlock Holmes pushed him down into the easy-chair and, sitting beside him, patted his hand and chatted with him in the easy, soothing tones which he knew so well how to employ. “You have come to me to tell your story, have you not?” said he. “You are fatigued with your haste. Pray wait until you have recovered yourself, and then I shall be most happy to look into any little problem which you may submit to me.” The man sat for a minute or more with a heaving chest, fighting against his emotion. Then he passed his handkerchief over his brow, set his lips tight, and turned his face towards us. “No doubt you think me mad?” said he. “I see that you have had some great trouble,” responded Holmes. “God knows I have! — a trouble which is enough to unseat my reason, so sudden and so terrible is it. Public disgrace I might have faced, although I am a man whose character has never yet borne a stain. Private affliction also is the lot of every man; but the two coming together, and in so frightful a form, have been enough to shake my very soul. Besides, it is not I alone. The very noblest in the land may suffer unless some way be found out of this horrible affair.” “Pray compose yourself, sir,” said Holmes, “and let me have a clear account of who you are and what it is that has befallen you.” “My name,” answered our visitor, “is probably familiar to your ears. I am Alexander Holder, of the banking firm of Holder & Stevenson, of Threadneedle Street.” The name was indeed well known to us as belonging to the senior partner in the second largest private banking concern in the City of London. What could have happened, then, to bring one of the foremost citizens of London to this most pitiable pass? We waited, all curiosity, until with another effort he braced himself to tell his story. “I feel that time is of value,” said he; “that is why I hastened here when the police inspector suggested that I should secure your co-operation. I came to Baker Street by the Underground and hurried from there on foot, for the cabs go slowly through this snow. That is why I was so out of breath, for I am a man who takes very little exercise. I feel better now, and I will put the facts before you as shortly and yet as clearly as I can. “It is, of course, well known to you that in a successful banking business as much depends upon our being able to find remunerative investments for our funds as upon our increasing our connection and the number of our depositors. One of our most lucrative means of laying out money is in the shape of loans, where the security is unimpeachable. We have done a good deal in this direction during the last few years, and there are many noble families to whom we have advanced large sums upon the security of their pictures, libraries, or plate. “Yesterday morning I was seated in my office at the bank when a card was brought in to me by one of the clerks. I started when I saw the name, for it was that of none other than — well, perhaps even to you I had better say no more than that it was a name which is a household word all over the earth — one of the highest, noblest, most exalted names in England. I was overwhelmed by the honour and attempted, when he entered, to say so, but he plunged at once into business with the air of a man who wishes to hurry quickly through a disagreeable task. “ ’Mr. Holder,’ said he, ‘I have been informed that you are in the habit of advancing money.’ “ ’The firm does so when the security is good.’ I answered. “ ’It is absolutely essential to me,’ said he, ‘that I should have £50,000 at once. I could, of course, borrow so trifling a sum ten times over from my friends, but I much prefer to make it a matter of business and to carry out that business myself. In my position you can readily understand that it is unwise to place one’s self under obligations.’ “ ’For how long, may I ask, do you want this sum?’ I asked. “ ’Next Monday I have a large sum due to me, and I shall then most certainly repay what you advance, with whatever interest you think it right to charge. But it is very essential to me that the money should be paid at once.’ “ ’I should be happy to advance it without further parley from my own private purse,’ said I, ‘were it not that the strain would be rather more than it could bear. If, on the other hand, I am to do it in the name of the firm, then in justice to my partner I must insist that, even in your case, every businesslike precaution should be taken.’ “ ’I should much prefer to have it so,’ said he, raising up a square, black morocco case which he had laid beside his chair. ‘You have doubtless heard of the Beryl Coronet?’ “ ’One of the most precious public possessions of the empire,’ said I. “ ’Precisely.’ He opened the case, and there, imbedded in soft, flesh-coloured velvet, lay the magnificent piece of jewellery which he had named. ‘There are thirty-nine enormous beryls,’ said he, ‘and the price of the gold chasing is incalculable. The lowest estimate would put the worth of the coronet at double the sum which I have asked. I am prepared to leave it with you as my security.’ “I took the precious case into my hands and looked in some perplexity from it to my illustrious client. “ ’You doubt its value?’ he asked. “ ’Not at all. I only doubt—’ “ ’The propriety of my leaving it. You may set your mind at rest about that. I should not dream of doing so were it not absolutely certain that I should be able in four days to reclaim it. It is a pure matter of form. Is the security sufficient?’ “ ’Ample.’ “ ’You understand, Mr. Holder, that I am giving you a strong proof of the confidence which I have in you, founded upon all that I have heard of you. I rely upon you not only to be discreet and to refrain from all gossip upon the matter but, above all, to preserve this coronet with every possible precaution because I need not say that a great public scandal would be caused if any harm were to befall it. Any injury to it would be almost as serious as its complete loss, for there are no beryls in the world to match these, and it would be impossible to replace them. I leave it with you, however, with every confidence, and I shall call for it in person on Monday morning.’ “Seeing that my client was anxious to leave, I said no more but, calling for my cashier, I ordered him to pay over fifty £1000 notes. When I was alone once more, however, with the precious case lying upon the table in front of me, I could not but think with some misgivings of the immense responsibility which it entailed upon me. There could be no doubt that, as it was a national possession, a horrible scandal would ensue if any misfortune should occur to it. I already regretted having ever consented to take charge of it. However, it was too late to alter the matter now, so I locked it up in my private safe and turned once more to my work. “When evening came I felt that it would be an imprudence to leave so precious a thing in the office behind me. Bankers’ safes had been forced before now, and why should not mine be? If so, how terrible would be the position in which I should find myself! I determined, therefore, that for the next few days I would always carry the case backward and forward with me, so that it might never be really out of my reach. With this intention, I called a cab and drove out to my house at Streatham, carrying the jewel with me. I did not breathe freely until I had taken it upstairs and locked it in the bureau of my dressing-room. “And now a word as to my household, Mr. Holmes, for I wish you to thoroughly understand the situation. My groom and my page sleep out of the house, and may be set aside altogether. I have three maid-servants who have been with me a number of years and whose absolute reliability is quite above suspicion. Another, Lucy Parr, the second waiting-maid, has only been in my service a few months. She came with an excellent character, however, and has always given me satisfaction. She is a very pretty girl and has attracted admirers who have occasionally hung about the place. That is the only drawback which we have found to her, but we believe her to be a thoroughly good girl in every way. “So much for the servants. My family itself is so small that it will not take me long to describe it. I am a widower and have an only son, Arthur. He has been a disappointment to me, Mr. Holmes — a grievous disappointment. I have no doubt that I am myself to blame. People tell me that I have spoiled him. Very likely I have. When my dear wife died I felt that he was all I had to love. I could not bear to see the smile fade even for a moment from his face. I have never denied him a wish. Perhaps it would have been better for both of us had I been sterner, but I meant it for the best. “It was naturally my intention that he should succeed me in my business, but he was not of a business turn. He was wild, wayward, and, to speak the truth, I could not trust him in the handling of large sums of money. When he was young he became a member of an aristocratic club, and there, having charming manners, he was soon the intimate of a number of men with long purses and expensive habits. He learned to play heavily at cards and to squander money on the turf, until he had again and again to come to me and implore me to give him an advance upon his allowance, that he might settle his debts of honour. He tried more than once to break away from the dangerous company which he was keeping, but each time the influence of his friend, Sir George Burnwell, was enough to draw him back again. “And, indeed, I could not wonder that such a man as Sir George Burnwell should gain an influence over him, for he has frequently brought him to my house, and I have found myself that I could hardly resist the fascination of his manner. He is older than Arthur, a man of the world to his finger-tips, one who had been everywhere, seen everything, a brilliant talker, and a man of great personal beauty. Yet when I think of him in cold blood, far away from the glamour of his presence, I am convinced from his cynical speech and the look which I have caught in his eyes that he is one who should be deeply distrusted. So I think, and so, too, thinks my little Mary, who has a woman’s quick insight into character. “And now there is only she to be described. She is my niece; but when my brother died five years ago and left her alone in the world I adopted her, and have looked upon her ever since as my daughter. She is a sunbeam in my house — sweet, loving, beautiful, a wonderful manager and housekeeper, yet as tender and quiet and gentle as a woman could be. She is my right hand. I do not know what I could do without her. In only one matter has she ever gone against my wishes. Twice my boy has asked her to marry him, for he loves her devotedly, but each time she has refused him. I think that if anyone could have drawn him into the right path it would have been she, and that his marriage might have changed his whole life; but now, alas! it is too late — forever too late! “Now, Mr. Holmes, you know the people who live under my roof, and I shall continue with my miserable story. “When we were taking coffee in the drawing-room that night after dinner, I told Arthur and Mary my experience, and of the precious treasure which we had under our roof, suppressing only the name of my client. Lucy Parr, who had brought in the coffee, had, I am sure, left the room; but I cannot swear that the door was closed. Mary and Arthur were much interested and wished to see the famous coronet, but I thought it better not to disturb it. “ ’Where have you put it?’ asked Arthur. “ ’In my own bureau.’ “ ’Well, I hope to goodness the house won’t be burgled during the night.’ said he. “ ’It is locked up,’ I answered. “ ’Oh, any old key will fit that bureau. When I was a youngster I have opened it myself with the key of the box-room cupboard.’ “He often had a wild way of talking, so that I thought little of what he said. He followed me to my room, however, that night with a very grave face. “ ’Look here, dad,’ said he with his eyes cast down, ‘can you let me have £200?’ “ ’No, I cannot!’ I answered sharply. ‘I have been far too generous with you in money matters.’ “ ’You have been very kind,’ said he, ‘but I must have this money, or else I can never show my face inside the club again.’ “ ’And a very good thing, too!’ I cried. “ ’Yes, but you would not have me leave it a dishonoured man,’ said he. ‘I could not bear the disgrace. I must raise the money in some way, and if you will not let me have it, then I must try other means.’ “I was very angry, for this was the third demand during the month. ‘You shall not have a farthing from me,’ I cried, on which he bowed and left the room without another word. “When he was gone I unlocked my bureau, made sure that my treasure was safe, and locked it again. Then I started to go round the house to see that all was secure — a duty which I usually leave to Mary but which I thought it well to perform myself that night. As I came down the stairs I saw Mary herself at the side window of the hall, which she closed and fastened as I approached. “ ’Tell me, dad,’ said she, looking, I thought, a little disturbed, ‘did you give Lucy, the maid, leave to go out to-night?’ “ ’Certainly not.’ “ ’She came in just now by the back door. I have no doubt that she has only been to the side gate to see someone, but I think that it is hardly safe and should be stopped.’ “ ’You must speak to her in the morning, or I will if you prefer it. Are you sure that everything is fastened?’ “ ’Quite sure, dad.’ “ ’Then, good-night.’ I kissed her and went up to my bedroom again, where I was soon asleep. “I am endeavouring to tell you everything, Mr. Holmes, which may have any bearing upon the case, but I beg that you will question me upon any point which I do not make clear.” “On the contrary, your statement is singularly lucid.” “I come to a part of my story now in which I should wish to be particularly so. I am not a very heavy sleeper, and the anxiety in my mind tended, no doubt, to make me even less so than usual. About two in the morning, then, I was awakened by some sound in the house. It had ceased ere I was wide awake, but it had left an impression behind it as though a window had gently closed somewhere. I lay listening with all my ears. Suddenly, to my horror, there was a distinct sound of footsteps moving softly in the next room. I slipped out of bed, all palpitating with fear, and peeped round the corner of my dressing-room door. “ ’Arthur!’ I screamed, ‘you villain! you thief! How dare you touch that coronet?’ “The gas was half up, as I had left it, and my unhappy boy, dressed only in his shirt and trousers, was standing beside the light, holding the coronet in his hands. He appeared to be wrenching at it, or bending it with all his strength. At my cry he dropped it from his grasp and turned as pale as death. I snatched it up and examined it. One of the gold corners, with three of the beryls in it, was missing. “ ’You blackguard!’ I shouted, beside myself with rage. ‘You have destroyed it! You have dishonoured me forever! Where are the jewels which you have stolen?’ “ ’Stolen!’ he cried. “ ’Yes, thief!’ I roared, shaking him by the shoulder. “ ’There are none missing. There cannot be any missing,’ said he. “ ’There are three missing. And you know where they are. Must I call you a liar as well as a thief? Did I not see you trying to tear off another piece?’ “ ’You have called me names enough,’ said he, ‘I will not stand it any longer. I shall not say another word about this business, since you have chosen to insult me. I will leave your house in the morning and make my own way in the world.’ “ ’You shall leave it in the hands of the police!’ I cried half-mad with grief and rage. ‘I shall have this matter probed to the bottom.’ “ ’You shall learn nothing from me,’ said he with a passion such as I should not have thought was in his nature. ‘If you choose to call the police, let the police find what they can.’ “By this time the whole house was astir, for I had raised my voice in my anger. Mary was the first to rush into my room, and, at the sight of the coronet and of Arthur’s face, she read the whole story and, with a scream, fell down senseless on the ground. I sent the house-maid for the police and put the investigation into their hands at once. When the inspector and a constable entered the house, Arthur, who had stood sullenly with his arms folded, asked me whether it was my intention to charge him with theft. I answered that it had ceased to be a private matter, but had become a public one, since the ruined coronet was national property. I was determined that the law should have its way in everything. “ ’At least,’ said he, ‘you will not have me arrested at once. It would be to your advantage as well as mine if I might leave the house for five minutes.’ “ ’That you may get away, or perhaps that you may conceal what you have stolen,’ said I. And then, realising the dreadful position in which I was placed, I implored him to remember that not only my honour but that of one who was far greater than I was at stake; and that he threatened to raise a scandal which would convulse the nation. He might avert it all if he would but tell me what he had done with the three missing stones. “ ’You may as well face the matter,’ said I; ‘you have been caught in the act, and no confession could make your guilt more heinous. If you but make such reparation as is in your power, by telling us where the beryls are, all shall be forgiven and forgotten.’ “ ’Keep your forgiveness for those who ask for it,’ he answered, turning away from me with a sneer. I saw that he was too hardened for any words of mine to influence him. There was but one way for it. I called in the inspector and gave him into custody. A search was made at once not only of his person but of his room and of every portion of the house where he could possibly have concealed the gems; but no trace of them could be found, nor would the wretched boy open his mouth for all our persuasions and our threats. This morning he was removed to a cell, and I, after going through all the police formalities, have hurried round to you to implore you to use your skill in unravelling the matter. The police have openly confessed that they can at present make nothing of it. You may go to any expense which you think necessary. I have already offered a reward of £1000. My God, what shall I do! I have lost my honour, my gems, and my son in one night. Oh, what shall I do!” He put a hand on either side of his head and rocked himself to and fro, droning to himself like a child whose grief has got beyond words. Sherlock Holmes sat silent for some few minutes, with his brows knitted and his eyes fixed upon the fire. “Do you receive much company?” he asked. “None save my partner with his family and an occasional friend of Arthur’s. Sir George Burnwell has been several times lately. No one else, I think.” “Do you go out much in society?” “Arthur does. Mary and I stay at home. We neither of us care for it.” “That is unusual in a young girl.” “She is of a quiet nature. Besides, she is not so very young. She is four-and-twenty.” “This matter, from what you say, seems to have been a shock to her also.” “Terrible! She is even more affected than I.” “You have neither of you any doubt as to your son’s guilt?” “How can we have when I saw him with my own eyes with the coronet in his hands.” “I hardly consider that a conclusive proof. Was the remainder of the coronet at all injured?” “Yes, it was twisted.” “Do you not think, then, that he might have been trying to straighten it?” “God bless you! You are doing what you can for him and for me. But it is too heavy a task. What was he doing there at all? If his purpose were innocent, why did he not say so?” “Precisely. And if it were guilty, why did he not invent a lie? His silence appears to me to cut both ways. There are several singular points about the case. What did the police think of the noise which awoke you from your sleep?” “They considered that it might be caused by Arthur’s closing his bedroom door.” “A likely story! As if a man bent on felony would slam his door so as to wake a household. What did they say, then, of the disappearance of these gems?” “They are still sounding the planking and probing the furniture in the hope of finding them.” “Have they thought of looking outside the house?” “Yes, they have shown extraordinary energy. The whole garden has already been minutely examined.” “Now, my dear sir,” said Holmes. “is it not obvious to you now that this matter really strikes very much deeper than either you or the police were at first inclined to think? It appeared to you to be a simple case; to me it seems exceedingly complex. Consider what is involved by your theory. You suppose that your son came down from his bed, went, at great risk, to your dressing-room, opened your bureau, took out your coronet, broke off by main force a small portion of it, went off to some other place, concealed three gems out of the thirty-nine, with such skill that nobody can find them, and then returned with the other thirty-six into the room in which he exposed himself to the greatest danger of being discovered. I ask you now, is such a theory tenable?” “But what other is there?” cried the banker with a gesture of despair. “If his motives were innocent, why does he not explain them?” “It is our task to find that out,” replied Holmes; “so now, if you please, Mr. Holder, we will set off for Streatham together, and devote an hour to glancing a little more closely into details.” My friend insisted upon my accompanying them in their expedition, which I was eager enough to do, for my curiosity and sympathy were deeply stirred by the story to which we had listened. I confess that the guilt of the banker’s son appeared to me to be as obvious as it did to his unhappy father, but still I had such faith in Holmes’ judgment that I felt that there must be some grounds for hope as long as he was dissatisfied with the accepted explanation. He hardly spoke a word the whole way out to the southern suburb, but sat with his chin upon his breast and his hat drawn over his eyes, sunk in the deepest thought. Our client appeared to have taken fresh heart at the little glimpse of hope which had been presented to him, and he even broke into a desultory chat with me over his business affairs. A short railway journey and a shorter walk brought us to Fairbank, the modest residence of the great financier. Fairbank was a good-sized square house of white stone, standing back a little from the road. A double carriage-sweep, with a snow-clad lawn, stretched down in front to two large iron gates which closed the entrance. On the right side was a small wooden thicket, which led into a narrow path between two neat hedges stretching from the road to the kitchen door, and forming the tradesmen’s entrance. On the left ran a lane which led to the stables, and was not itself within the grounds at all, being a public, though little used, thoroughfare. Holmes left us standing at the door and walked slowly all round the house, across the front, down the tradesmen’s path, and so round by the garden behind into the stable lane. So long was he that Mr. Holder and I went into the dining-room and waited by the fire until he should return. We were sitting there in silence when the door opened and a young lady came in. She was rather above the middle height, slim, with dark hair and eyes, which seemed the darker against the absolute pallor of her skin. I do not think that I have ever seen such deadly paleness in a woman’s face. Her lips, too, were bloodless, but her eyes were flushed with crying. As she swept silently into the room she impressed me with a greater sense of grief than the banker had done in the morning, and it was the more striking in her as she was evidently a woman of strong character, with immense capacity for self-restraint. Disregarding my presence, she went straight to her uncle and passed her hand over his head with a sweet womanly caress. “You have given orders that Arthur should be liberated, have you not, dad?” she asked. “No, no, my girl, the matter must be probed to the bottom.” “But I am so sure that he is innocent. You know what woman’s instincts are. I know that he has done no harm and that you will be sorry for having acted so harshly.” “Why is he silent, then, if he is innocent?” “Who knows? Perhaps because he was so angry that you should suspect him.” “How could I help suspecting him, when I actually saw him with the coronet in his hand?” “Oh, but he had only picked it up to look at it. Oh, do, do take my word for it that he is innocent. Let the matter drop and say no more. It is so dreadful to think of our dear Arthur in prison!” “I shall never let it drop until the gems are found — never, Mary! Your affection for Arthur blinds you as to the awful consequences to me. Far from hushing the thing up, I have brought a gentleman down from London to inquire more deeply into it.” “This gentleman?” she asked, facing round to me. “No, his friend. He wished us to leave him alone. He is round in the stable lane now.” “The stable lane?” She raised her dark eyebrows. “What can he hope to find there? Ah! this, I suppose, is he. I trust, sir, that you will succeed in proving, what I feel sure is the truth, that my cousin Arthur is innocent of this crime.” “I fully share your opinion, and I trust, with you, that we may prove it,” returned Holmes, going back to the mat to knock the snow from his shoes. “I believe I have the honour of addressing Miss Mary Holder. Might I ask you a question or two?” “Pray do, sir, if it may help to clear this horrible affair up.” “You heard nothing yourself last night?” “Nothing, until my uncle here began to speak loudly. I heard that, and I came down.” “You shut up the windows and doors the night before. Did you fasten all the windows?” “Yes.” “Were they all fastened this morning?” “Yes.” “You have a maid who has a sweetheart? I think that you remarked to your uncle last night that she had been out to see him?” “Yes, and she was the girl who waited in the drawing-room, and who may have heard uncle’s remarks about the coronet.” “I see. You infer that she may have gone out to tell her sweetheart, and that the two may have planned the robbery.” “But what is the good of all these vague theories,” cried the banker impatiently, “when I have told you that I saw Arthur with the coronet in his hands?” “Wait a little, Mr. Holder. We must come back to that. About this girl, Miss Holder. You saw her return by the kitchen door, I presume?” “Yes; when I went to see if the door was fastened for the night I met her slipping in. I saw the man, too, in the gloom.” “Do you know him?” “Oh, yes! he is the green-grocer who brings our vegetables round. His name is Francis Prosper.” “He stood,” said Holmes, “to the left of the door — that is to say, farther up the path than is necessary to reach the door?” “Yes, he did.” “And he is a man with a wooden leg?” Something like fear sprang up in the young lady’s expressive black eyes. “Why, you are like a magician,” said she. “How do you know that?” She smiled, but there was no answering smile in Holmes’ thin, eager face. “I should be very glad now to go upstairs,” said he. “I shall probably wish to go over the outside of the house again. Perhaps I had better take a look at the lower windows before I go up.” He walked swiftly round from one to the other, pausing only at the large one which looked from the hall onto the stable lane. This he opened and made a very careful examination of the sill with his powerful magnifying lens. “Now we shall go upstairs,” said he at last. The banker’s dressing-room was a plainly furnished little chamber, with a grey carpet, a large bureau, and a long mirror. Holmes went to the bureau first and looked hard at the lock. “Which key was used to open it?” he asked. “That which my son himself indicated — that of the cupboard of the lumber-room.” “Have you it here?” “That is it on the dressing-table.” Sherlock Holmes took it up and opened the bureau. “It is a noiseless lock,” said he. “It is no wonder that it did not wake you. This case, I presume, contains the coronet. We must have a look at it.” He opened the case, and taking out the diadem he laid it upon the table. It was a magnificent specimen of the jeweller’s art, and the thirty-six stones were the finest that I have ever seen. At one side of the coronet was a cracked edge, where a corner holding three gems had been torn away. “Now, Mr. Holder,” said Holmes, “here is the corner which corresponds to that which has been so unfortunately lost. Might I beg that you will break it off.” The banker recoiled in horror. “I should not dream of trying,” said he. “Then I will.” Holmes suddenly bent his strength upon it, but without result. “I feel it give a little,” said he; “but, though I am exceptionally strong in the fingers, it would take me all my time to break it. An ordinary man could not do it. Now, what do you think would happen if I did break it, Mr. Holder? There would be a noise like a pistol shot. Do you tell me that all this happened within a few yards of your bed and that you heard nothing of it?” “I do not know what to think. It is all dark to me.” “But perhaps it may grow lighter as we go. What do you think, Miss Holder?” “I confess that I still share my uncle’s perplexity.” “Your son had no shoes or slippers on when you saw him?” “He had nothing on save only his trousers and shirt.” “Thank you. We have certainly been favoured with extraordinary luck during this inquiry, and it will be entirely our own fault if we do not succeed in clearing the matter up. With your permission, Mr. Holder, I shall now continue my investigations outside.” He went alone, at his own request, for he explained that any unnecessary footmarks might make his task more difficult. For an hour or more he was at work, returning at last with his feet heavy with snow and his features as inscrutable as ever. “I think that I have seen now all that there is to see, Mr. Holder,” said he; “I can serve you best by returning to my rooms.” “But the gems, Mr. Holmes. Where are they?” “I cannot tell.” The banker wrung his hands. “I shall never see them again!” he cried. “And my son? You give me hopes?” “My opinion is in no way altered.” “Then, for God’s sake, what was this dark business which was acted in my house last night?” “If you can call upon me at my Baker Street rooms to-morrow morning between nine and ten I shall be happy to do what I can to make it clearer. I understand that you give me carte blanche to act for you, provided only that I get back the gems, and that you place no limit on the sum I may draw.” “I would give my fortune to have them back.” “Very good. I shall look into the matter between this and then. Good-bye; it is just possible that I may have to come over here again before evening.” It was obvious to me that my companion’s mind was now made up about the case, although what his conclusions were was more than I could even dimly imagine. Several times during our homeward journey I endeavoured to sound him upon the point, but he always glided away to some other topic, until at last I gave it over in despair. It was not yet three when we found ourselves in our rooms once more. He hurried to his chamber and was down again in a few minutes dressed as a common loafer. With his collar turned up, his shiny, seedy coat, his red cravat, and his worn boots, he was a perfect sample of the class. “I think that this should do,” said he, glancing into the glass above the fireplace. “I only wish that you could come with me, Watson, but I fear that it won’t do. I may be on the trail in this matter, or I may be following a will-o’-the-wisp, but I shall soon know which it is. I hope that I may be back in a few hours.” He cut a slice of beef from the joint upon the sideboard, sandwiched it between two rounds of bread, and thrusting this rude meal into his pocket he started off upon his expedition. I had just finished my tea when he returned, evidently in excellent spirits, swinging an old elastic-sided boot in his hand. He chucked it down into a corner and helped himself to a cup of tea. “I only looked in as I passed,” said he. “I am going right on.” “Where to?” “Oh, to the other side of the West End. It may be some time before I get back. Don’t wait up for me in case I should be late.” “How are you getting on?” “Oh, so so. Nothing to complain of. I have been out to Streatham since I saw you last, but I did not call at the house. It is a very sweet little problem, and I would not have missed it for a good deal. However, I must not sit gossiping here, but must get these disreputable clothes off and return to my highly respectable self.” I could see by his manner that he had stronger reasons for satisfaction than his words alone would imply. His eyes twinkled, and there was even a touch of colour upon his sallow cheeks. He hastened upstairs, and a few minutes later I heard the slam of the hall door, which told me that he was off once more upon his congenial hunt. I waited until midnight, but there was no sign of his return, so I retired to my room. It was no uncommon thing for him to be away for days and nights on end when he was hot upon a scent, so that his lateness caused me no surprise. I do not know at what hour he came in, but when I came down to breakfast in the morning there he was with a cup of coffee in one hand and the paper in the other, as fresh and trim as possible. “You will excuse my beginning without you, Watson,” said he, “but you remember that our client has rather an early appointment this morning.” “Why, it is after nine now,” I answered. “I should not be surprised if that were he. I thought I heard a ring.” It was, indeed, our friend the financier. I was shocked by the change which had come over him, for his face which was naturally of a broad and massive mould, was now pinched and fallen in, while his hair seemed to me at least a shade whiter. He entered with a weariness and lethargy which was even more painful than his violence of the morning before, and he dropped heavily into the armchair which I pushed forward for him. “I do not know what I have done to be so severely tried,” said he. “Only two days ago I was a happy and prosperous man, without a care in the world. Now I am left to a lonely and dishonoured age. One sorrow comes close upon the heels of another. My niece, Mary, has deserted me.” “Deserted you?” “Yes. Her bed this morning had not been slept in, her room was empty, and a note for me lay upon the hall table. I had said to her last night, in sorrow and not in anger, that if she had married my boy all might have been well with him. Perhaps it was thoughtless of me to say so. It is to that remark that she refers in this note: “ ’MY DEAREST UNCLE: — I feel that I have brought trouble upon you, and that if I had acted differently this terrible misfortune might never have occurred. I cannot, with this thought in my mind, ever again be happy under your roof, and I feel that I must leave you forever. Do not worry about my future, for that is provided for; and, above all, do not search for me, for it will be fruitless labour and an ill-service to me. In life or in death, I am ever your loving “ ’MARY.’ “What could she mean by that note, Mr. Holmes? Do you think it points to suicide?” “No, no, nothing of the kind. It is perhaps the best possible solution. I trust, Mr. Holder, that you are nearing the end of your troubles.” “Ha! You say so! You have heard something, Mr. Holmes; you have learned something! Where are the gems?” “You would not think £1000 apiece an excessive sum for them?” “I would pay ten.” “That would be unnecessary. Three thousand will cover the matter. And there is a little reward, I fancy. Have you your check-book? Here is a pen. Better make it out for £4000.” With a dazed face the banker made out the required check. Holmes walked over to his desk, took out a little triangular piece of gold with three gems in it, and threw it down upon the table. With a shriek of joy our client clutched it up. “You have it!” he gasped. “I am saved! I am saved!” The reaction of joy was as passionate as his grief had been, and he hugged his recovered gems to his bosom. “There is one other thing you owe, Mr. Holder,” said Sherlock Holmes rather sternly. “Owe!” He caught up a pen. “Name the sum, and I will pay it.” “No, the debt is not to me. You owe a very humble apology to that noble lad, your son, who has carried himself in this matter as I should be proud to see my own son do, should I ever chance to have one.” “Then it was not Arthur who took them?” “I told you yesterday, and I repeat to-day, that it was not.” “You are sure of it! Then let us hurry to him at once to let him know that the truth is known.” “He knows it already. When I had cleared it all up I had an interview with him, and finding that he would not tell me the story, I told it to him, on which he had to confess that I was right and to add the very few details which were not yet quite clear to me. Your news of this morning, however, may open his lips.” “For heaven’s sake, tell me, then, what is this extraordinary mystery!” “I will do so, and I will show you the steps by which I reached it. And let me say to you, first, that which it is hardest for me to say and for you to hear: there has been an understanding between Sir George Burnwell and your niece Mary. They have now fled together.” “My Mary? Impossible!” “It is unfortunately more than possible; it is certain. Neither you nor your son knew the true character of this man when you admitted him into your family circle. He is one of the most dangerous men in England — a ruined gambler, an absolutely desperate villain, a man without heart or conscience. Your niece knew nothing of such men. When he breathed his vows to her, as he had done to a hundred before her, she flattered herself that she alone had touched his heart. The devil knows best what he said, but at least she became his tool and was in the habit of seeing him nearly every evening.” “I cannot, and I will not, believe it!” cried the banker with an ashen face. “I will tell you, then, what occurred in your house last night. Your niece, when you had, as she thought, gone to your room, slipped down and talked to her lover through the window which leads into the stable lane. His footmarks had pressed right through the snow, so long had he stood there. She told him of the coronet. His wicked lust for gold kindled at the news, and he bent her to his will. I have no doubt that she loved you, but there are women in whom the love of a lover extinguishes all other loves, and I think that she must have been one. She had hardly listened to his instructions when she saw you coming downstairs, on which she closed the window rapidly and told you about one of the servants’ escapade with her wooden-legged lover, which was all perfectly true. “Your boy, Arthur, went to bed after his interview with you but he slept badly on account of his uneasiness about his club debts. In the middle of the night he heard a soft tread pass his door, so he rose and, looking out, was surprised to see his cousin walking very stealthily along the passage until she disappeared into your dressing-room. Petrified with astonishment, the lad slipped on some clothes and waited there in the dark to see what would come of this strange affair. Presently she emerged from the room again, and in the light of the passage-lamp your son saw that she carried the precious coronet in her hands. She passed down the stairs, and he, thrilling with horror, ran along and slipped behind the curtain near your door, whence he could see what passed in the hall beneath. He saw her stealthily open the window, hand out the coronet to someone in the gloom, and then closing it once more hurry back to her room, passing quite close to where he stood hid behind the curtain. “As long as she was on the scene he could not take any action without a horrible exposure of the woman whom he loved. But the instant that she was gone he realised how crushing a misfortune this would be for you, and how all-important it was to set it right. He rushed down, just as he was, in his bare feet, opened the window, sprang out into the snow, and ran down the lane, where he could see a dark figure in the moonlight. Sir George Burnwell tried to get away, but Arthur caught him, and there was a struggle between them, your lad tugging at one side of the coronet, and his opponent at the other. In the scuffle, your son struck Sir George and cut him over the eye. Then something suddenly snapped, and your son, finding that he had the coronet in his hands, rushed back, closed the window, ascended to your room, and had just observed that the coronet had been twisted in the struggle and was endeavouring to straighten it when you appeared upon the scene.” “Is it possible?” gasped the banker. “You then roused his anger by calling him names at a moment when he felt that he had deserved your warmest thanks. He could not explain the true state of affairs without betraying one who certainly deserved little enough consideration at his hands. He took the more chivalrous view, however, and preserved her secret.” “And that was why she shrieked and fainted when she saw the coronet,” cried Mr. Holder. “Oh, my God! what a blind fool I have been! And his asking to be allowed to go out for five minutes! The dear fellow wanted to see if the missing piece were at the scene of the struggle. How cruelly I have misjudged him!” “When I arrived at the house,” continued Holmes, “I at once went very carefully round it to observe if there were any traces in the snow which might help me. I knew that none had fallen since the evening before, and also that there had been a strong frost to preserve impressions. I passed along the tradesmen’s path, but found it all trampled down and indistinguishable. Just beyond it, however, at the far side of the kitchen door, a woman had stood and talked with a man, whose round impressions on one side showed that he had a wooden leg. I could even tell that they had been disturbed, for the woman had run back swiftly to the door, as was shown by the deep toe and light heel marks, while Wooden-leg had waited a little, and then had gone away. I thought at the time that this might be the maid and her sweetheart, of whom you had already spoken to me, and inquiry showed it was so. I passed round the garden without seeing anything more than random tracks, which I took to be the police; but when I got into the stable lane a very long and complex story was written in the snow in front of me. “There was a double line of tracks of a booted man, and a second double line which I saw with delight belonged to a man with naked feet. I was at once convinced from what you had told me that the latter was your son. The first had walked both ways, but the other had run swiftly, and as his tread was marked in places over the depression of the boot, it was obvious that he had passed after the other. I followed them up and found they led to the hall window, where Boots had worn all the snow away while waiting. Then I walked to the other end, which was a hundred yards or more down the lane. I saw where Boots had faced round, where the snow was cut up as though there had been a struggle, and, finally, where a few drops of blood had fallen, to show me that I was not mistaken. Boots had then run down the lane, and another little smudge of blood showed that it was he who had been hurt. When he came to the highroad at the other end, I found that the pavement had been cleared, so there was an end to that clue. “On entering the house, however, I examined, as you remember, the sill and framework of the hall window with my lens, and I could at once see that someone had passed out. I could distinguish the outline of an instep where the wet foot had been placed in coming in. I was then beginning to be able to form an opinion as to what had occurred. A man had waited outside the window; someone had brought the gems; the deed had been overseen by your son; he had pursued the thief; had struggled with him; they had each tugged at the coronet, their united strength causing injuries which neither alone could have effected. He had returned with the prize, but had left a fragment in the grasp of his opponent. So far I was clear. The question now was, who was the man and who was it brought him the coronet? “It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Now, I knew that it was not you who had brought it down, so there only remained your niece and the maids. But if it were the maids, why should your son allow himself to be accused in their place? There could be no possible reason. As he loved his cousin, however, there was an excellent explanation why he should retain her secret — the more so as the secret was a disgraceful one. When I remembered that you had seen her at that window, and how she had fainted on seeing the coronet again, my conjecture became a certainty. “And who could it be who was her confederate? A lover evidently, for who else could outweigh the love and gratitude which she must feel to you? I knew that you went out little, and that your circle of friends was a very limited one. But among them was Sir George Burnwell. I had heard of him before as being a man of evil reputation among women. It must have been he who wore those boots and retained the missing gems. Even though he knew that Arthur had discovered him, he might still flatter himself that he was safe, for the lad could not say a word without compromising his own family. “Well, your own good sense will suggest what measures I took next. I went in the shape of a loafer to Sir George’s house, managed to pick up an acquaintance with his valet, learned that his master had cut his head the night before, and, finally, at the expense of six shillings, made all sure by buying a pair of his cast-off shoes. With these I journeyed down to Streatham and saw that they exactly fitted the tracks.” “I saw an ill-dressed vagabond in the lane yesterday evening,” said Mr. Holder. “Precisely. It was I. I found that I had my man, so I came home and changed my clothes. It was a delicate part which I had to play then, for I saw that a prosecution must be avoided to avert scandal, and I knew that so astute a villain would see that our hands were tied in the matter. I went and saw him. At first, of course, he denied everything. But when I gave him every particular that had occurred, he tried to bluster and took down a life-preserver from the wall. I knew my man, however, and I clapped a pistol to his head before he could strike. Then he became a little more reasonable. I told him that we would give him a price for the stones he held — £1000 apiece. That brought out the first signs of grief that he had shown. ‘Why, dash it all!’ said he, ‘I’ve let them go at six hundred for the three!’ I soon managed to get the address of the receiver who had them, on promising him that there would be no prosecution. Off I set to him, and after much chaffering I got our stones at £1000 apiece. Then I looked in upon your son, told him that all was right, and eventually got to my bed about two o’clock, after what I may call a really hard day’s work.” “A day which has saved England from a great public scandal,” said the banker, rising. “Sir, I cannot find words to thank you, but you shall not find me ungrateful for what you have done. Your skill has indeed exceeded all that I have heard of it. And now I must fly to my dear boy to apologise to him for the wrong which I have done him. As to what you tell me of poor Mary, it goes to my very heart. Not even your skill can inform me where she is now.” “I think that we may safely say,” returned Holmes, “that she is wherever Sir George Burnwell is. It is equally certain, too, that whatever her sins are, they will soon receive a more than sufficient punishment.”

L’AVVENTURA DELLA CORONETTA DI BERILLIO
“Holmes,” dissi una mattina mentre stavo affacciato alla finestra a guardare la strada sottostante, “ecco un pazzo che sta venendo da questa parte. È davvero triste che i suoi parenti gli permettano di uscire da solo.”
Il mio amico si alzò pigramente dal suo divano, mise le mani in tasca e guardò fuori dalla mia spalla. Era una mattina fresca e soleggiata di febbraio; la neve caduta il giorno prima giaceva ancora densa sul terreno, brillando sotto i raggi invernali. Lungo il centro di Baker Street era stata spalata da veicoli, lasciando soltanto una striscia marrone e friabile, ma sui bordi dei marciapiedi rimaneva bianca come quando era caduta. Il selciato grigio era stato pulito, ma ancora scivoloso; per questo c’erano meno passanti del solito. Da direzione della stazione ferroviaria non si vedeva nessuno, tranne quel singolo signore il cui comportamento eccentrico aveva attirato la mia attenzione.
Era un uomo di circa cinquant’anni, alto, robusto e imponente, con un viso massiccio e caratteristico, e una figura autoritaria. Era vestito in modo sobrio ma elegante: abito nero, cappello lucido, calzamaglie marroni e pantaloni di colore grigio perla. Tuttavia i suoi gesti erano in stridente contrasto con l’ dignità del suo abbigliamento. Correva velocemente, facendo di tanto in tanto piccoli balzi, come chi non è abituato a muoversi molto. Mentre correva, alzava le mani su e giù, scuoteva la testa e contorceva il viso in modo assurdo. “Ma che cosa gli sta succedendo?” chiesi. “Sta guardando i numeri delle case, ”
“Credo che stia venendo da me,” disse Holmes, strofinandosi le mani.
“Da me?”
“Sì. Penso che voglia consultarmi professionalmente. Riconosco questi sintomi. Ah! Non te l’avevo detto?” Mentre parlava, l’uomo, ansimando e sbuffando, si precipitò verso la nostra porta e suonò il campanello con tanta forza che l’intera casa risuonò.
Pochi momenti dopo era nella nostra stanza. Ancora ansimante, ancora gesticolante. Ma nei suoi occhi c’era un’espressione di dolore e disperazione così intensa che i nostri sorrisi si trasformarono immediatamente in orrore e compassione. Per un po’ non riuscì a parlare; si agitava e si strappava i capelli, come se fosse sull’orlo della follia. Poi, all’improvviso, balzò in piedi e cominciò a sbattere la testa contro il muro con tale forza che entrambi ci precipitammo su di lui per fermarlo. Sherlock Holmes lo fece sedere sul divano e, tenendogli la mano, gli parlò con quel tono calmo e rassicurante che sapeva così bene utilizzare. “È venuto da me per raccontarmi la sua storia, vero?” disse. “È troppo stanco per parlare. Aspetti un attimo che si riposi, poi sarò felice di aiutarla con qualsiasi problema abbia.” L’uomo rimase seduto per un minuto o più, con il petto che si alzava e si abbassava per l’emozione, lottando contro i propri sentimenti. Poi si asciugò la fronte con il fazzoletto, serrò le labbra e girò il viso verso di noi.
“Senza dubbio pensate che io sia pazzo,” disse.
“Vedo che avete attraversato grandi difficoltà,” rispose Holmes.
“Dio lo sa! Difficoltà tali da poter spezzare la ragione umana. Tanto improvvisamente e terribilmente. Avrei potuto subire disonore pubblico, anche se il mio carattere non ha mai conosciuto macchie. Ogni uomo deve affrontare sofferenze personali; ma che queste due cose si combinino in modo così spaventoso, è stato sufficiente per scuotere la mia anima. Inoltre, non sono l’unico a soffrire: anche i più nobili di questo paese potrebbero subire lo stesso destino, se non si trova una soluzione a questa orribile situazione.”
“Per favore, calmatevi, signore,” disse Holmes. “Lasciate che io sappia chi siete e cosa vi è accaduto.”
“Il mio nome,” rispose il nostro visitatore, “è probabilmente noto a voi. Sono Alexander Holder, del banco Holder & Stevenson, in Threadneedle Street.”
Il nome ci era effettivamente familiare: apparteneva al socio principale della seconda più grande banca privata di Londra. Cosa poteva essere accaduto, dunque, per far arrivare uno dei cittadini più importanti di Londra in una situazione così tragica? Aspettavamo con curiosità che continuasse a raccontare.
“Capisco che il tempo sia prezioso,” disse. “È per questo che sono venuto qui subito, quando l’ispettore di polizia mi ha suggerito di contattarvi. Sono arrivato in Baker Street con la metropolitana e poi ho proseguito a piedi, perché i taxi procedono molto lentamente nella neve. Ecco perché ero così senza fiato: non faccio quasi mai esercizio fisico. Ora mi sento meglio e vi racconterò tutto il più brevemente e chiaramente possibile.”
“È ovvio che sappiate bene quanto sia importante, in un’attività bancaria di successo, trovare investimenti redditizi per i nostri fondi, così come ampliare le nostre relazioni con i clienti e aumentare il numero dei depositanti. Uno dei modi più proficui per impiegare i nostri soldi è attraverso prestiti, sempre che le garanzie siano ineccepibili. Negli ultimi anni abbiamo ottenuto ottimi risultati in questo campo; molte famiglie nobili ci hanno affidato somme ingenti in cambio di quadri, biblioteche o argenteria.”
“Ieri mattina ero nel mio ufficio quando uno dei impiegati mi portò una carta. Quando lessi il nome, beh, forse è meglio che non dica altro: si trattava di un nome conosciuto in tutto il mondo, uno dei nomi più nobili e rispettati d’Inghilterra. Ero sopraffatto dall’onore. Quando quell’uomo entrò, cercai di dirglielo, ma lui iniziò subito a parlare di affari, con l’aria di chi vuole sbrigarsi il prima possibile con una questione sgradevole.” “‘Signor Holder,’ disse lui, ‘mi è stato detto che lei ha l’abitudine di prestare denaro.’ “‘La nostra azienda lo fa soltanto quando le garanzie sono adeguate,’ risposi. “‘Per me è assolutamente essenziale avere subito 50.000 sterline,’ continuò. ‘Certo, potrei chiederne dieci volte quella somma in prestito ai miei amici, ma preferisco trattare la questione in modo professionale e occuparmene personalmente. Nella mia posizione, capirà facilmente che non è saggio assumersi obblighi finanziari.’ “‘Per quanto tempo le serve questa somma?’ chiesi. “‘Lunedì prossimo mi verrà pagata una grossa somma, e allora ripagherò senz’altro il prestito, con gli interessi che riterrà opportuni. Ma è davvero fondamentale che i soldi vengano versati immediatamente.’ “‘Con piacere li presterei dalla mia tasca personale,’ dissi, ‘se non fosse per il fatto che la responsabilità sarebbe eccessiva per me. Se invece dovesse farlo l’azienda, allora, per rispetto verso il mio socio, devo insistere affinché vengano adottate tutte le precauzioni necessarie.’ “‘Preferirei di gran lunga che fosse così,’ disse lui, prendendo una scatola nera in marocchino che aveva posato accanto alla sedia. ‘Avrà sicuramente sentito parlare della Corona di Berillio, ’ “‘Una delle più preziose proprietà pubbliche dell’impero,’ risposi. “‘Esatto.’ Aprì la scatola, e lì, avvolta in velluto morbido color carne, c’era quella magnifica gioielleria. ‘Ci sono trentanove berilli enormi,’ spiegò, ‘e il valore dell’oro utilizzato per i lavori è incalcolabile. La stima più bassa valuta la corona il doppio della somma che ho chiesto in prestito. Sono disposto a lasciarla presso di lei come garanzia.’ “Presi la scatola e la fissai, un po’ perplesso, mentre il mio cliente illustre continuava a parlare. “‘Dubita del suo valore?’ chiese. “‘Nient affatto. Solo, ’ “‘Che sia opportuno che io la lasci presso di lei.’ Non si preoccupi: non lo farei mai se non fossi assolutamente certo di poterla recuperare entro quattro giorni. È solo una formalità. La garanzia è sufficiente?’ “‘Assolutamente.’ “‘Capisce, signor Holder, che le sto dimostrando la grande fiducia che ho in lei, sulla base di tutto ciò che ho sentito dire su di lei. Mi affido a lei non solo perché sia discreto e si astenga da qualsiasi pettegolezzo al riguardo, ma soprattutto perché preservi questa corona con ogni possibile precauzione. Un danno a essa causerebbe uno scandalo pubblico enorme. Qualsiasi danneggiamento sarebbe quasi altrettanto grave della sua perdita totale: non esistono berilli al mondo paragonabili a questi, e sarebbe impossibile sostituirli. Tuttavia, gliela lascio con piena fiducia. La ritirerò personalmente lunedì mattina.’” “Vedendo che il mio cliente era ansioso di andarsene, non dissi più nulla; chiamai invece il mio cassiere e gli ordinai di pagare con cinquanta banconote da 1000 sterline ciascuna. Tuttavia, quando rimasi di nuovo solo, con la preziosa scatola davanti a me sul tavolo, non potei fare a meno di riflettere con preoccupazione sulla enorme responsabilità che mi era stata affidata. Non c’era dubbio che, essendo si trattava di un bene nazionale, uno scandalo terribile ne sarebbe derivato in caso di perdita. Già mi pentivo di aver accettato di occuparmene. Ma ormai era troppo tardi per cambiare idea, quindi la chiusi nella mia cassaforte personale e ripresi il mio lavoro. “Quando arrivò la sera, pensai che sarebbe stato imprudente lasciare un oggetto così prezioso in ufficio. Le casseforti dei banchieri erano già state scassinate in passato. Perché mai la mia no? In tal caso, in quale terribile situazione mi sarei trovato! Decisi quindi di portare con me quella scatola giorno e notte, in modo che non fosse mai realmente fuori dalla mia portata. Con questo intento presi un taxi e tornai a casa mia a Streatham, portando con me il gioiello. Solo quando lo misi al sicuro nella cassaforte del mio bagno riuscii a respirare liberamente. “Ora, signor Holmes, vorrei parlare della mia famiglia, affinché comprendiate appieno la situazione. Il mio valletto e il mio paggio dormono fuori casa, quindi possono essere completamente esclusi dalla questione. Ho tre cameriere che lavorano con me da molti anni; la loro affidabilità è assoluta. Un’altra ragazza, Lucy Parr, la seconda cameriera personale, lavora con me da pochi mesi. Ha un ottimo carattere e mi ha sempre soddisfatto. È una ragazza molto carina e attira gli sguardi di alcuni uomini che a volte si aggirano intorno alla casa. Questo è l’unico difetto che abbiamo riscontrato in lei, ma riteniamo che sia comunque una persona assolutamente onesta e perbene. “Per quanto riguarda la mia famiglia. Sono vedovo e ho un solo figlio, Arthur. È stato una grande delusione per me, signor Holmes. Una vera e propria delusione. Non ho dubbi che la colpa sia mia. La gente dice che l’ho viziato. Molto probabilmente è vero. Quando mia moglie morì, sentii che lui era tutto ciò che avevo. Non potevo sopportare l’idea che anche solo per un momento scomparisse quel sorriso dal suo viso. Gli ho sempre accontentato ogni desiderio. Forse sarebbe stato meglio per entrambi se fossi stato più severo. Ma le mie intenzioni erano buone, ” “Naturalmente, il mio desiderio era che lui mi succedesse nell’affare, ma non aveva la stoffa necessaria per farlo. Era selvaggio, capriccioso. E, a dire il vero, non potevo fidarmi di lui nel gestire somme ingenti di denaro. Da giovane entrò in un club aristocratico; lì, grazie ai suoi modi affascinanti, divenne presto intimo di uomini ricchi e con abitudini dispendiose. Imparò a giocare d’azzardo e a sperperare denaro, fino al punto che più volte dovette venire da me per chiedermi in prestito i suoi soldi, affinché potesse saldare i suoi debiti di onore. Tentò più volte di allontanarsi da quella compagnia pericolosa, ma ogni volta l’influenza del suo amico Sir George Burnwell lo riportava indietro. “E in effetti, non posso meravigliarmi che un uomo come Sir George Burnwell avesse tanta influenza su di lui. Lo portava spesso a casa mia, e devo ammettere che faticavo a resistere al fascino del suo modo di comportarsi. È più anziano di Arthur, un uomo molto esperto nel mondo, che aveva viaggiato ovunque, visto tutto. Un oratore brillante, di grande bellezza personale. Tuttavia, se ci penso con distacco, vedo chiaramente che è una persona di cui non ci si può fidare. Lo penso anch’io. E lo pensa anche mia figlia Mary, che ha un’intuizione femminile molto acuta riguardo ai caratteri delle persone. “Ora resta solo da parlare di lei. È mia nipote; ma quando mio fratello morì cinque anni fa, lasciandola sola al mondo, la presi con me e da allora l’ho considerata come mia figlia. È una luce nella mia casa: dolce, amorevole, bellissima. Un’ottima organizzatrice domestica. Eppure tenera, silenziosa, gentile come solo una donna può essere. È la mia mano destra. Non so cosa potrei fare senza di lei. Solo in un’occasione ha mai contraddetto i miei desideri. Due volte mio figlio le ha chiesto di sposarlo. L’ama profondamente. Ma lei gli ha sempre rifiutato. Penso che se qualcuno avesse potuto guidarlo sulla retta strada, sarebbe stata lei. E che il suo matrimonio avrebbe potuto cambiare completamente la sua vita. Ma ora, ahimè, è troppo tardi. Per sempre troppo tardi! “Ora, signor Holmes, conosce le persone che vivono sotto il mio tetto. Continuerò quindi con la mia triste storia. “Quella sera, dopo cena, mentre bevevamo il caffè in salotto, raccontai ad Arthur e Mary quanto mi era accaduto. E parlai anche del prezioso tesoro che avevamo in casa. Tralasciando soltanto il nome del mio cliente. Lucy Parr, che aveva portato il caffè, doveva essere già uscita dalla stanza. Ma non posso giurare che la porta fosse stata chiusa. Arthur e Mary erano molto interessati. Volevano vedere quella famosa corona. Ma pensai fosse meglio non disturbarla. “‘Dove l’hai messa?’ chiese Arthur. “‘Nel mio bureau.’ “‘Spero davvero che la casa non venga saccheggiata durante la notte, ’, disse lui.” “È chiuso a chiave,” risposi.
“Ah, qualsiasi chiave andrà bene per quel comò. Da ragazzo l’ho aperto io stesso con la chiave dell’armadio in corridoio.”
“Aveva spesso un modo di parlare così strano che non davo molto peso a ciò che diceva. Quella notte, tuttavia, mi seguì nella mia stanza con un’espressione molto seria.
“‘Guarda, papà,’ disse, con lo sguardo basso, ‘potresti darmi 200 sterline?’
“‘No, non posso!’ risposi bruscamente. ‘Sono stato troppo generoso con te in questioni di denaro.’
“‘Sei molto gentile,’ disse lui, ‘ma devo avere quei soldi. Altrimenti non potrò mai più presentarmi nel club.’
“‘E per fortuna è così!’ esclamai.
“‘Sì, ma non vorresti che diventassi un uomo disonorevole,’ disse lui. ‘Non potrei sopportare quella vergogna. Devo trovare un modo per procurarmi quei soldi. E se tu non me li dai, dovrò provare altri metodi.’
“Ero molto arrabbiato. Era la terza volta che me lo chiedeva in quel mese. ‘Non avrai nemmeno un penny da me!’ gridai. Lui si inchinò e se ne andò senza dire una parola.
“Dopo che se ne fu andato, aprii il comò per assicurarmi che il mio “tesoro” fosse al sicuro, poi lo richiusi a chiave. Poi iniziai a controllare tutta la casa per verificare che tutto fosse in ordine. Di solito lascio questo compito a Mary, ma quella notte decisi di farlo io stesso. Mentre scendevo le scale, vidi Mary alla finestra del corridoio. Lei la chiuse non appena mi avvicinai.
“‘Dimmi, papà,’ disse, sembrando un po’ turbata, ‘hai dato a Lucy il permesso di uscire stasera?’
“‘Certo che no.’
“‘È entrata poco fa dalla porta posteriore. Sono sicura che sia andata solo alla porta laterale per incontrare qualcuno. Ma penso che non sia affatto sicuro. Dovremmo fermarla.’
“‘Devi parlarle domani mattina. O lo farò io, se preferisci. Sei sicura che tutto sia chiuso a chiave?’
“‘Assolutamente, papà.’
“‘Allora buonanotte.’ La baciai e tornai in camera mia. Presto mi addormentai.
“Sto cercando di raccontarvi tutto ciò che potrebbe essere rilevante per questa faccenda, signor Holmes. Ma vi prego di interrogarmi su qualsiasi punto non abbia spiegato chiaramente.”
“Al contrario. Il vostro resoconto è estremamente chiaro.”
“Ora arrivo a una parte della mia storia che vorrei descrivere con particolare attenzione. Non sono una persona che dorme profondamente. E l’ansia che provavo, senza dubbio, mi rendeva ancora meno addormentata del solito. Verso le due di notte, fui svegliata da un qualche rumore in casa. Il rumore cessò prima che potessi svegliarmi completamente. Ma lasciò l’impressione che qualcuno avesse chiuso dolcemente una finestra da qualche parte. Rimasi ad ascoltare attentamente. All’improvviso, con orrore, sentii chiaramente dei passi che si muovevano silenziosamente nella stanza accanto. Scivolai fuori dal letto, tremando di paura, e sbirciai intorno all’angolo della porta del mio bagno. “‘Arthur!’ gridai. ‘Tu, mostro! Tu ladro! Come osi toccare quella corona?’” “Il gas era ancora a metà livello, esattamente come l’avevo lasciato; mio figlio, vestito soltanto con camicia e pantaloni, stava in piedi accanto alla lampada, tenendo in mano la corona. Sembrava che stesse cercando di strapparla o di piegarla con tutte le sue forze. Al mio grido, la lasciò cadere e impallidì mortalmente. La afferrai subito e l’esaminai: uno degli angoli d’oro, insieme a tre dei berilli che vi erano incastonati, era scomparso.
“‘Mascalzone!’ gridai, fuori di me dalla rabbia. ‘L’hai distrutta! Mi hai disonorato per sempre. Dove sono le gemme che hai rubato?’
“‘Rubate?’ esclamò lui.
“‘Sì, ladro!’ urlai, scuotendolo per la spalla.
“‘Non manca nulla. Non può mancare nulla,’ disse lui.
“‘Mancano tre pietre. E tu sai dove sono. Devo forse chiamarti bugiardo oltre che ladro? Non ti ho visto cercare di strapparne un’altra?’
“‘Mi hai già insultato abbastanza,’ rispose lui. ‘Non ne dirò più una parola, visto che preferisci insultarmi. Me ne andrò da casa tua domani mattina e mi troverò un lavoro da solo.’
“‘Te ne andrai nelle mani della polizia!’ gridai, fuori di me dal dolore e dalla rabbia. ‘Farò indagare a fondo su questa faccenda.’
“‘Non scoprirai nulla da me,’ disse lui con una passione che non avrei mai pensato fosse in lui. ‘Se vuoi chiamare la polizia, lascia che trovino ciò che possono.’
“A quel punto tutta la casa si era svegliata; Mary fu la prima a correre nella mia stanza. Vedendo la corona e il viso di Arthur, capì subito tutto e, con un grido, svenne a terra. Chiamai immediatamente la polizia e affidai loro le indagini. Quando l’ispettore e il poliziotto entrarono in casa, Arthur, che stava in piedi con le braccia incrociate, mi chiese se intendevo accusarlo di furto. Risposi che non si trattava più di una questione privata, ma pubblica: quella corona distrutta era proprietà nazionale. Ero decisa a far rispettare la legge in tutto.
“‘Almeno,’ disse lui, ‘non mi arresterete subito. Mi farebbe bene poter uscire di casa per cinque minuti.’
“‘Per scappare, o forse per nascondere ciò che hai rubato?’ dissi io. Realizzando la terribile situazione in cui mi trovavo, lo supplicai di ricordare che in gioco non c’era solo la mia onore, ma anche quella di qualcuno molto più importante di me. E che il suo comportamento avrebbe potuto scatenare uno scandalo che avrebbe sconvolto il paese. Avrebbe potuto evitare tutto questo se solo mi avesse detto dove aveva nascosto le tre pietre mancanti. “‘Meglio affrontare la situazione,’ disse lui, ‘Sono stato colto in flagrante. Nessuna confessione potrebbe rendere il mio crimine più orribile. Se solo potessi rimediare, dicendoci dove si trovano i berilli. Tutto verrà perdonato e dimenticato.’” “Tieni il tuo perdono per coloro che lo chiedono,” rispose lui, allontanandosi da me con un sorriso beffardo. Vidi che era troppo indurito perché le mie parole potessero influenzarlo. C’era solo un modo. Chiamai l’ispettore e lo feci arrestare. Fu subito effettuata una perquisizione non solo su di lui, ma anche nella sua stanza e in ogni parte della casa dove avrebbe potuto nascondere le gemme; tuttavia non ne fu trovata traccia, e quel povero ragazzo non aprì bocca nonostante tutte le nostre persuasioni e minacce. Questa mattina è stato portato in cella, e io, dopo aver seguito tutte le formalità della polizia, sono venuto subito da te per implorarti di utilizzare la tua abilità nel risolvere questo caso. La polizia ha ammesso apertamente di non essere riuscita a fare nulla al momento. Puoi spendere qualsiasi somma ritenga necessaria. Ho già offerto una ricompensa di 1000 sterline. Mio Dio, cosa devo fare! Ho perso onore, gemme e mio figlio in una sola notte. Oh, cosa farò, ”
Si prese le tempie con entrambe le mani e iniziò a dondolarsi avanti e indietro, mormorando tra sé come un bambino il cui dolore è troppo grande per essere espresso a parole.
Sherlock Holmes rimase in silenzio per alcuni minuti, con le sopracciglia corrugate e lo sguardo fisso sul fuoco.
“Ricevi molte visite?” chiese.
“Nessuna, tranne che quelle del mio socio e della sua famiglia, e occasionalmente di qualche amico di Arthur. Sir George Burnwell è venuto qui più volte ultimamente. Nessun altro, credo.”
“Vai spesso in società?”
“Arthur sì. Mary ed io restiamo a casa. A nessuno dei due piace uscire.”
“È insolito per una ragazza giovane, ”
“Ha un carattere tranquillo. Inoltre, non è più così giovane. Ha ventiquattro anni, ”
“Da quanto dici, anche lei deve essere stata profondamente colpita da questa situazione, ”
“Terribile. È ancora più sconvolta di me, ”
“Non avete alcun dubbio sulla colpevolezza di vostro figlio?”
“Come potremmo averne, quando l’ho visto con i miei occhi, con la corona in mano, ”
“Non credo che questo costituisca una prova decisiva. La parte restante della corona era danneggiata?”
“Sì. Era storta, ”
“Allora non pensi che potesse essere intento a ripararla?”
“Dio ti benedica. Stai facendo del tuo meglio per lui e per me. Ma è un compito troppo arduo. Cosa stava facendo lì, in realtà? Se le sue intenzioni erano innocenti, perché non lo ha detto? E se fossero state colpevoli, perché non avrebbe inventato una bugia? Il suo silenzio sembra indicare qualcosa di ambiguo. Ci sono diversi aspetti strani in questo caso. Cosa ne pensa la polizia del rumore che ti ha svegliato?”
“Ritengono possa essere stato causato dal fatto che Arthur abbia chiuso la porta della sua stanza, ”
“Una spiegazione plausibile. Come se una persona intenzionata a commettere un reato avrebbe sbattuto la porta per svegliare tutta la casa. E cosa dicono riguardo alla scomparsa di quelle gemme?”
“Stanno ancora controllando ogni angolo della casa, nella speranza di trovarle, ”
“Hanno pensato anche di cercare all’esterno dell’edificio?”
“Sì. Hanno lavorato con grande impegno. L’intero giardino è stato esaminato minuziosamente, ” “Ora, mio caro signore,” disse Holmes, “non le sembra evidente che questa faccenda sia molto più complessa di quanto lei o la polizia aveste inizialmente pensato? A voi è parsa un caso semplice; a me, invece, appare estremamente complicata. Consideri bene ciò che implica la sua teoria: lei suppone che suo figlio si sia alzato dal letto, sia andato, a grande rischio, nel vostro bagno, abbia aperto il vostro scrigno, preso la vostra corona, ne abbia spezzato una piccola parte con la forza, sia andato da qualche altra parte, abbia nascosto tre gemme su trentanove con tale abilità che nessuno riesce a trovarle, e poi sia tornato con le altre trentasei nella stanza in cui si è esposto al rischio più grande di essere scoperto. Le chiedo ora: una teoria del genere può reggere?”
“Ma quale altra potrebbe esserci?” esclamò il banchiere con un gesto di disperazione. “Se i suoi motivi fossero innocenti, perché non li spiega?”
“È nostro compito scoprirlo,” rispose Holmes; “quindi, ora, se le va bene, signor Holder, partiremo insieme per Streatham e dedicheremo un’ora ad esaminare più attentamente i dettagli.”
Il mio amico insistette affinché li accompagnassi in questa indagine, e io fui più che felice di farlo: la curiosità e la simpatia che provavo per quella storia erano davvero grandi. Devo confessare che, a mio parere, la colpevolezza del figlio del banchiere era altrettanto evidente quanto lo fosse per suo padre sconsolato; tuttavia, avevo tanta fiducia nel giudizio di Holmes che sentivo ci dovesse essere qualche motivo di speranza, finché lui stesso non fosse rimasto insoddisfatto dell’interpretazione accettata. Lungo il tragitto verso quel sobborgo meridionale, Holmes non disse quasi una parola; sedeva con il mento sul petto e il cappello calato sugli occhi, immerso nei suoi pensieri più profondi. Il nostro cliente sembrava essersi rincuorato dopo quella piccola speranza apparsa davanti a lui, e anzi iniziò a chiacchierare con me di affari. Dopo un breve viaggio in treno e una camminata ancora più breve, arrivammo a Fairbank, la modesta residenza di quel grande finanziere. Fairbank era una casa quadrata di dimensioni considerevoli, costruita in pietra bianca e situata un po’ indietro rispetto alla strada. Davanti ad essa si estendeva un prato innevato, lungo il quale si trovavano due grandi porte di ferro che chiudevano l’ingresso. Sul lato destro c’era un piccolo boschetto di alberi, che conduceva a un sentiero stretto tra due siepi ben curate, che andavano dalla strada fino alla porta della cucina, costituendo l’ingresso riservato ai fornitori. Sul lato sinistro correva un vicolo che portava alle stalle; questo vicolo non faceva parte del terreno privato, essendo una strada pubblica, sebbene poco utilizzata. Holmes ci lasciò davanti alla porta e percorse lentamente tutto il perimetro della casa, passando davanti al fronte, lungo il sentiero riservato ai fornitori, e poi attorno al giardino posteriore fino al vicolo delle stalle. Rimase via così a lungo che io e il signor Holder entrammo in sala da pranzo e aspettammo accanto al fuoco il suo ritorno. Mentre eravamo lì seduti in silenzio, la porta si aprì e entrò una giovane donna. Era piuttosto alta, snella, con capelli e occhi scuri; questi ultimi sembravano ancora più scuri rispetto alla pallidità assoluta della sua pelle. Non credo di aver mai visto una tale palidezza sul viso di una donna. Anche le sue labbra erano prive di colore, ma i suoi occhi erano arrossati dal pianto. Mentre entrava silenziosamente nella stanza, mi colpì con un senso di dolore ancora più profondo di quello che il banchiere aveva suscitato in me la mattina precedente; questo aspetto era tanto più evidente considerando che lei era chiaramente una donna dal carattere forte e dotata di grande capacità di autocontrollo. Ignorandomi completamente, andò direttamente dal suo zio e gli accarezzò dolcemente la testa con un gesto affettuoso da donna. “Avete ordinato che Arthur venisse liberato, vero, papà?” chiese. “No, no, mia cara. La questione deve essere indagata fino in fondo.” “Ma sono così sicura che sia innocente. Conoscete bene quali siano gli istinti di una donna. So che non ha fatto nulla di male e che vi pentirete di aver agito con tanta durezza.” “Allora, perché rimane in silenzio se è innocente?” “Chi lo sa. Forse perché era così arrabbiato per il sospetto che gli avete rivolto, ” “Come avrei potuto non sospettarlo, visto che l’ho effettivamente visto con la corona in mano?” “Oh. L’aveva solo presa per guardarla. Vi assicuro che è innocente. Lasciate perdere questa faccenda e basta. È terribile pensare al nostro caro Arthur in prigione, ” “Non lascerò perdere questa questione finché non verranno trovate le gemme. Mai, Mary! Il vostro affetto per Arthur vi fa ignorare le terribili conseguenze che questo potrebbe avere per me. Anzi, ho fatto venire da Londra un signore per indagare più a fondo, ” “Questo signore?” chiese, voltandosi verso di me. “No. Il suo amico. Voleva che lo lasciassimo in pace. Adesso è nel vicolo delle stalle, ” “Il vicolo delle stalle?” Alzò le sopracciglia scure. “Cosa potrebbe sperare di trovare lì? Ah. Immagino sia lui. Signore, spero davvero che riusciate a dimostrare, come sono certa che sia la verità, che mio cugino Arthur è innocente di questo crimine, ” “I condivido pienamente il tuo punto di vista, e confido che insieme riusciremo a provarlo,” rispose Holmes, tornando sul tappeto per scuotere la neve dai suoi stivali. “Credo di avere l’onore di parlare con la signorina Mary Holder. Posso farle qualche domanda?”
“Prego, signore, se può aiutare a chiarire questa terribile faccenda.”
“Ieri sera lei non ha sentito nulla?”
“Niente, fino a quando mio zio non ha iniziato a parlare ad alta voce. Allora sono scesa.”
“La notte prima aveva chiuso tutte le porte e le finestre. Le aveva chiuse tutte?”
“Sì.”
“Anche questa mattina erano tutte chiuse?”
“Sì.”
“Ha una cameriera che ha un fidanzato. Ieri sera ha detto a suo zio che era uscita per vederlo, vero?”
“Sì. È stata lei la ragazza che aspettava in salotto. Forse ha sentito le parole di mio zio riguardo alla corona.”
“Capisco. Lei pensa che possa essere andata a dirlo al suo fidanzato, e che insieme abbiano pianificato il furto, ”
“Ma a cosa servono tutte queste teorie vaghe,” esclamò impazientemente il banchiere, “se vi ho già detto di aver visto Arthur con la corona in mano?”
“Aspetti un attimo, signor Holder. Dobbiamo tornare su questo punto. Riguardo a questa ragazza. Lei l’ha vista rientrare dalla porta della cucina, giusto?”
“Sì. Quando sono andata a controllare se la porta fosse chiusa per la notte, l’ho incontrata mentre si intrufolava dentro. Ho visto anche quell’uomo, nella semioscurità, ”
“Lo conosce?”
“Oh, sì. È il verduretto che ci fornisce le verdure. Si chiama Francis Prosper.”
“Stava, ” disse Holmes, “a sinistra della porta, cioè più in su lungo il sentiero di quanto fosse necessario per raggiungere la porta?”
“Sì, esatto.”
“E ha una gamba di legno, ”
Qualcosa di simile al terrore apparve negli occhi scuri e espressivi della giovane donna. “Ma lei è come un mago. Come fa a saperlo?” disse sorridendo. Ma sul volto magro ed eccitato di Holmes non c’era alcun sorriso in risposta.
“Ora vorrei andare di sopra, ” disse lui. “Probabilmente dovrò ispezionare anche l’esterno della casa. Forse è meglio dare un’occhiata alle finestre inferiori prima di salire, ”
Si avvicinò rapidamente a una delle finestre, fermandosi solo davanti a quella grande che dava sul cortile posteriore. La aprì e esaminò attentamente il davanzale con la sua potente lente di ingrandimento, “Ora possiamo andare di sopra,” disse infine.
La stanza da vestire del banchiere era una piccola camera arredata in modo semplice: moquette grigia, un grande comò e uno specchio lungo. Holmes si avvicinò prima di tutto al comò e osservò attentamente la serratura.
“Con quale chiave è stata aperta?” chiese.
“Con quella che mio figlio stesso aveva indicato. Quella dell’armadio nel ripostiglio, ”
“L’ha qui con sé?”
“È lì, sul comò, ”
Sherlock Holmes prese la chiave e aprì il comò. “Il lucchetto è silenzioso,” disse lui. “Non c’è da meravigliarsi che non vi abbia svegliato. Presumo che questa scatola contenga la corona. Dobbiamo darle un’occhiata.” Aprì la scatola e, tirando fuori la diadema, la posò sul tavolo. Era un esempio magnifico dell’arte orafa; i trentasei diamanti erano i più fini che avessi mai visto. Su un lato della corona c’era un bordo crepato: un angolo che conteneva tre gemme era stato strappato via.
“Ora, signor Holder,” disse Holmes, “ecco questo angolo che corrisponde a quello purtroppo andato perduto. Potrebbe gentilmente romperlo per me?”
Il banchiere indietreggiò inorridito. “Non oserei nemmeno provarci,” disse.
“Allora lo farò io.” Holmes concentrò tutte le sue forze, ma senza successo. “Credo che si stia muovendo un po’. Ma, anche se ho dita particolarmente forti, mi ci vorrebbe molto tempo per romperlo. Un uomo normale non riuscirebbe mai. Ora, cosa pensa che accadrebbe se davvero lo rompesse, signor Holder? Si sentirebbe un rumore simile a quello di uno sparo. Mi dice che tutto questo è avvenuto a pochi metri dal suo letto e che lei non ha sentito nulla?”
“Non so cosa pensare. È tutto così confuso per me, ”
“Forse le cose diventeranno più chiare man mano che andremo avanti. Che ne dice, signorina Holder?”
“Confesso di condividere ancora la perplessità di mio zio.”
“Quando l’ha visto, suo figlio non indossava scarpe né pantofole, ”
“Non aveva addosso nulla, tranne i pantaloni e la camicia.”
“Grazie. Durante questa indagine abbiamo avuto davvero molta fortuna. Se non riusciremo a chiarire tutto, sarà solo colpa nostra. Con il suo permesso, signor Holder, continuerò le mie indagini fuori, ”
Se ne andò da solo, su sua stessa richiesta: spiegò che eventuali impronte inutili avrebbero potuto rendere il suo compito più difficile. Dopo un’ora circa tornò, con i piedi coperti di neve e l’espressione ancora indecifrabile come sempre.
“Credo di aver visto tutto ciò che c’era da vedere, signor Holder,” disse. “È meglio che torni nelle mie stanze, ”
“Ma i diamanti. Dove sono?”
“Non posso dirlo.”
Il banchiere si strinse le mani. “Non li rivedrò mai più!” esclamò. “E mio figlio? Mi dà qualche speranza?”
“Il mio parere non è cambiato affatto, ”
“Allora, per l’amor di Dio. Che cos’è stato tutto questo mistero che è avvenuto in casa mia ieri notte?”
“Se potesse venire nelle mie stanze di Baker Street domani mattina, tra le nove e le dieci, sarei felice di fare del mio meglio per chiarire la situazione. So che mi dà piena autorità per agire in suo nome. A condizione che recuperiamo i diamanti e che lei non imponga limiti alla somma che potrei spendere, ”
“Darei tutta la mia fortuna per riaverli indietro, ”
“Molto bene. Controllerò la questione entro domani. Addio. È possibile che debba tornare qui prima di sera.” Era ovvio per me che il mio compagno avesse ormai preso una decisione riguardo a quella questione, anche se non riuscivo nemmeno a immaginare quali fossero le sue conclusioni. Durante il viaggio di ritorno, più volte cercai di approfondire l’argomento, ma lui cambiava sempre discorso, fino a quando alla fine desistetti, disperato. Non erano ancora le tre quando rientrammo nelle nostre stanze. Lui si affrettò nella sua camera e in pochi minuti tornò vestito come un comune vagabondo: colletto alzato, cappotto lucido e logoro, cravatta rossa e stivali consumati. Era l’esempio perfetto di quella classe sociale.
“Penso che vada bene così,” disse, guardandosi nello specchio sopra il caminetto. “Vorrei solo che potessi venire con me, Watson. Ma temo che non sia possibile. Forse sto seguendo la pista giusta, o forse sto semplicemente perdendo tempo. Ma presto lo scoprirò. Spero di tornare tra poche ore.” Tagliò un pezzo di carne dal tagliere sul comodino, lo avvolse in due fette di pane e se lo mise in tasca, poi partì per la sua missione.
Avevo appena finito il tè quando tornò, chiaramente di ottimo umore, con un vecchio stivale in mano. Lo gettò in un angolo e si servì una tazza di tè.
“Sono solo passato di sfuggita,” disse. “Devo andare subito.”
“Dove?”
“Oh, dall’altra parte del West End. Potrei non tornare per un po’. Non aspettarmi se dovesse fare tardi.”
“Come procede?”
“Abbastanza bene. Niente di cui lamentarmi. Da quando ti ho visto l’ultima volta, sono stato a Streatham, ma non sono andato a casa loro. È un caso davvero interessante. Non me lo sarei perso per nulla al mondo. Comunque, non posso certo stare qui a chiacchierare. Devo togliermi questi abiti indecenti e tornare ad essere me stesso, ”
Dal suo comportamento era evidente che fosse molto soddisfatto di sé. I suoi occhi brillavano e sulle sue guance pallide c’era un leggero rossore. Si affrettò di andare di sopra, e pochi minuti dopo sentii la porta d’ingresso chiudersi. Era di nuovo partito per la sua “caccia”. Aspettai fino a mezzanotte, ma non tornò. Così mi ritirai in camera mia. Non era affatto insolito che fosse via per giorni interi quando aveva una pista da seguire. Quindi il suo ritardo non mi sorprese affatto. Non so a che ora sia rientrato, ma la mattina seguente lo trovai già pronto per colazione: con una tazza di caffè in una mano e il giornale nell’altra, fresco e riposato come sempre.
“Scusami se ho iniziato senza di te, Watson. Ma ricordi che il nostro cliente ha un appuntamento molto presto stamattina, ”
“Ma sono già le nove. Non mi sorprenderebbe affatto se fosse lui. Penso di aver sentito suonare il campanello, ” Era davvero il nostro amico, quel finanziere. Fui scioccato dal cambiamento che aveva subito: il suo viso, naturalmente largo e massiccio, ora appariva smunto e incavato; i suoi capelli, almeno a mio parere, sembravano più bianchi del solito. Entrò con un’aria di stanchezza e apatia che era ancora più dolorosa della sua violenza del mattino precedente; si lasciò cadere pesantemente nella poltrona che gli avevo preparato.
“Non so cosa abbia fatto per essere messo alla prova in questo modo,” disse. “Solo due giorni fa ero un uomo felice e prospero, senza alcuna preoccupazione al mondo. Ora mi ritrovo solo, disonorato, a vivere gli ultimi anni della mia vita. Una tragedia dopo l’altra. Mia nipote, Mary, mi ha abbandonato.”
“Ti ha abbandonato?”
“Sì. Questa mattina il suo letto non era stato usato; la sua stanza era vuota, e sul tavolo dell’ingresso c’era una lettera per me. Ieri sera le avevo detto, con tristezza ma senza rabbia, che se avesse sposato mio figlio tutto sarebbe andato bene. Forse è stato un errore da parte mia dirlo. Ed è proprio a questa osservazione che si riferisce in quella lettera, ” “Mio carissimo zio: Sento di avervi causato dei problemi, e che se avessi agito diversamente, questa terribile sfortuna non sarebbe mai accaduta. Con questo pensiero in mente, non potrò mai più essere felice sotto il vostro tetto, e sento di dovervi lasciare per sempre. Non preoccupatevi per il mio futuro, perché è già tutto organizzato; e soprattutto, non cercatemi, perché sarebbe un’impresa inutile e potrebbe rivelarsi dannosa per me. In vita o in morte, sarò sempre vostra affezionata, ”
“MARY.” “Cosa intendeva con quel biglietto, signor Holmes? Pensa che si riferisca al suicidio?”
“No, no. Niente del genere. Forse è la soluzione migliore possibile. Spero, signor Holder, che stiate per giungere alla fine dei vostri problemi.”
“Ah! Dite così. Avete scoperto qualcosa, signor Holmes; avete saputo qualcosa! Dove sono le gemme?”
“Non pensate che 1000 sterline a pezzo sia una somma eccessiva per loro?”
“Ne pagherei diecimila.”
“Non sarebbe necessario. Tre migliaia saranno sufficienti. E, inoltre, ci sarà anche una piccola ricompensa. Avete il vostro libretto degli assegni? Ecco una penna. Meglio emetterne uno per 4000 sterline.” Con il viso stordito, il banchiere compilò il assegno richiesto. Holmes si avvicinò alla sua scrivania, tirò fuori un piccolo pezzo di oro a forma di triangolo, incastonato con tre gemme, e lo gettò sul tavolo. Con un grido di gioia, il nostro cliente lo afferrò immediatamente.
“L’ho! Sono salvo, sono salvo!” esclamò. La sua reazione di felicità fu altrettanto intensa quanto quella della sua tristezza; abbracciò le gemme recuperate contro il petto.
“C’è ancora una cosa che deve, signor Holder,” disse Sherlock Holmes in tono piuttosto severo.
“Devo?” Prese una penna. “Dica la somma, e la pagherò.”
“No, il debito non è nei miei confronti. Deve chiedere scusa a quel nobile ragazzo, suo figlio, che si è comportato in questa faccenda esattamente come io sarei orgoglioso che facesse mio figlio, se ne avessi uno.”
“Allora non è stato Arthur ad averle prese, ”
“Gliel’ho detto ieri, e lo ripeto oggi: non è stato lui.” “Ne sei sicuro? Allora dobbiamo correre subito da lui per fargli sapere che la verità è stata scoperta.”
“Lui lo sa già. Quando ho chiarito tutto, ho avuto un colloquio con lui; poiché si rifiutava di raccontarmi la storia, gliel’ho raccontata io stesso, e allora ha dovuto ammettere che avevo ragione, aggiungendo anche quei pochi dettagli che ancora non mi erano chiari. Tuttavia, le notizie che hai portato stamattina potrebbero farlo parlare.”
“Per l’amor del cielo, dimmi allora quale sia questo mistero straordinario!”
“Te lo dirò e ti mostrerò anche i passaggi attraverso cui sono arrivato a scoprirlo. Ma lascia che ti dica prima la cosa più difficile da dire per me e da ascoltare per te: c’è stata una complicità tra Sir George Burnwell e tua nipote Mary. Ora sono fuggiti insieme.”
“Mia Mary? Impossibile!”
“Purtroppo è molto più che possibile. È certo. Né tu né tuo figlio conoscevate la vera natura di quest’uomo quando l’avete accolto nella vostra famiglia. È uno degli uomini più pericolosi d’Inghilterra: un giocatore d’azzardo rovinato, un vero e proprio malvagio senza cuore né coscienza. Tua nipote non conosceva affatto questo tipo di persone. Quando le ha fatto giurare amore, come aveva già fatto con centinaia di altre prima di lei, si è illusa di essere l’unica a toccargli il cuore. Solo il diavolo sa cosa abbia detto realmente. Ma almeno è diventata il suo strumento e aveva l’abitudine di incontrarlo quasi ogni sera.”
“Non posso, e non voglio crederci!” gridò il banchiere con il viso pallido come la cenere.
“Allora ti dirò cosa è accaduto nella tua casa ieri notte. Tua nipote, quando pensava che tu fossi andato nella tua stanza, si è intrufolata nel cortile e ha parlato con il suo amante attraverso la finestra che dà sul vicolo delle stalle. Le sue orme erano ben visibili sulla neve. Era lì da molto tempo. Gli ha parlato della corona. La sua malvagia sete di denaro si è accesa al sentire questa notizia, e l’ha costretta a fare ciò che voleva. Non ho dubbi che ti amasse. Ma ci sono donne per cui l’amore di un amante soffoca tutti gli altri sentimenti. Penso che lei fosse una di queste. Appena ti ha visto scendere le scale, ha chiuso rapidamente la finestra e ti ha raccontato di uno scherzo di uno dei servitori con il suo innamorato zoppo. Il tutto era perfettamente vero, ” “Il vostro figlio, Arthur, andò a letto dopo l’intervista con voi, ma dormì male a causa dell’ansia per i debiti del suo club. A mezzanotte sentì dei passi leggeri vicino alla sua porta; si alzò e, guardando fuori, vide la sua cugina muoversi silenziosamente lungo il corridoio fino a scomparire nel vostro bagno. Spaventato a morte, indossò in fretta alcuni vestiti e rimase nell’oscurità ad aspettare di scoprire cosa stesse succedendo. Poco dopo lei uscì di nuovo dalla stanza; sotto la luce del corridoio vostro figlio vide che aveva in mano la preziosa corona. Lei scese le scale, e lui, tremando di terrore, la seguì nascosto dietro una tenda vicino alla porta, da dove poteva vedere ciò che accadeva nel corridoio sottostante. La vide aprire furtivamente la finestra, consegnare la corona a qualcuno nell’oscurità e poi rientrare nella sua stanza, passando proprio vicino al punto in cui si nascondeva lui. Finché lei era lì, non poteva fare nulla senza esporre alla vergogna la donna che amava. Ma non appena se ne andò, capì quanto fosse terribile questa sfortuna per voi e quanto fosse importante rimediare al danno. Corse giù, a piedi nudi, aprì la finestra, saltò fuori nella neve e corse lungo il sentiero, dove vide una figura scura sotto la luce della luna. Sir George Burnwell cercò di fuggire, ma Arthur lo afferrò; ci fu una lotta: vostro figlio tirava da un lato della corona, mentre il suo avversario dall’altro. Nel tumulto, Arthur colpì Sir George e gli ferì l’occhio. Poi qualcosa si ruppe. Vostro figlio si rese conto di avere la corona in mano, tornò dentro, chiuse la finestra, salì nella vostra stanza e stava cercando di sistemarla quando voi appariste.” “È possibile?” esclamò il banchiere. “In quel momento lo avete offeso chiamandolo con nomi offensive, proprio quando lui si sentiva di meritare i vostri ringraziamenti più calorosi. Non poteva spiegare la verità senza tradire qualcuno che certamente non meritava alcuna considerazione da parte sua. Così scelse di mantenere il segreto.” “Ecco perché lei gridò e svenne quando vide la corona, ” esclamò il signor Holder. “Oh, mio Dio. Che stupido sono stato! E lui che chiedeva solo cinque minuti per uscire. Voleva controllare se il pezzo mancante fosse ancora nel luogo della lotta. Come ho potuto giudicarlo così male, ” “Quando arrivai in casa,” continuò Holmes, “per prima cosa feci un giro molto attento intorno all’edificio per cercare eventuali tracce nella neve che potessero essermi utili. Sapevo che da sera prima non era caduta alcuna neve e che c’era stata una forte gelata, quindi le impronte sarebbero state ben conservate. Percorsi il sentiero riservato ai commercianti, ma lo trovai completamente calpestato e indistinguibile. Tuttavia, poco oltre, sul lato opposto della porta della cucina, vidi che una donna si era fermata a parlare con un uomo; le impronte rotonde di quest’ultimo indicavano chiaramente che zoppicava su una gamba di legno. Riuscii persino a capire che erano stati disturbati: la donna era corsa rapidamente verso la porta, come dimostravano le orme profonde dei talloni e quelle più leggere delle punte dei piedi; l’uomo con la gamba di legno invece aveva aspettato un attimo prima di andarsene. All’epoca pensai che si trattasse della cameriera e del suo amante, di cui mi avevate già parlato, e infatti le indagini confermarono questa ipotesi. Percorsi anche il giardino, ma non vidi nulla di significativo, solo tracce casuali che probabilmente appartenevano alla polizia; tuttavia, quando arrivai nel vicolo adiacente al cortile, trovai nella neve una storia molto complessa scritta con chiarezza. C’erano due file di impronte appartenenti a un uomo che indossava stivali, e una seconda fila, che riconobbi con gioia, apparteneva a un uomo a piedi nudi. Basandomi su ciò che mi avevate detto, capii immediatamente che quest’ultimo era vostro figlio. La prima serie di impronte indicava che l’uomo era andato avanti e indietro, mentre la seconda dimostrava che aveva corso velocemente; in alcuni punti le sue orme si sovrapponevano a quelle degli stivali, il che significava che aveva raggiunto l’altro uomo dopo di lui. Seguii quelle tracce fino alla finestra del salone: lì gli stivali avevano cancellato tutta la neve mentre l’uomo aspettava. Proseguii poi verso l’estremità opposta del vicolo, che si trovava a circa cento metri di distanza; vidi dove gli stivali avevano girato bruscamente, dove la neve era stata smossa a causa di una lotta, e infine, alcune gocce di sangue confermarono che non mi sbagliavo. Gli stivali avevano poi continuato a correre lungo il vicolo; un’altra macchia di sangue indicava che l’uomo era stato ferito. Quando arrivò alla strada principale, notai che il marciapiede era stato pulito, quindi anche quella pista si interrompeva lì. Entrando in casa, esaminai con la mia lente il davanzale e la cornice della finestra del salone, e vidi subito che qualcuno era passato di lì. Riuscii a distinguere anche la forma di un piede umido, lasciato dall’uomo che era entrato. A quel punto iniziai a capire cosa fosse accaduto: un uomo aveva aspettato fuori dalla finestra; qualcuno aveva portato le gemme; vostro figlio aveva assistito all’intera operazione; aveva inseguito il ladro, aveva lottato con lui, entrambi avevano cercato di afferrare la corona, e la loro forza combinata aveva causato ferite che nessuno dei due avrebbe potuto infliggere da solo. Vostro figlio era tornato con il bottino, ma aveva lasciato indietro un frammento della corona nelle mani del suo avversario. Fino a quel punto, tutto era chiaro. Ora la domanda era: chi era quell’uomo, e chi gli aveva portato la corona?” “È un vecchio principio mio: quando si escludono le possibilità impossibili, ciò che rimane, per quanto improbabile, deve essere la verità. Ora, sapevo che non eri stato tu ad abbatterlo, quindi restavano solo tua nipote e le domestiche. Ma se fossero state le domestiche, perché tuo figlio avrebbe dovuto lasciarsi incolpare al loro posto? Non poteva esserci alcuna ragione plausibile. Tuttavia, poiché amava sua cugina, esisteva una spiegazione logica per il motivo per cui voleva tenere segreto quel fatto, soprattutto considerando che si trattava di un segreto vergognoso. Quando ricordai che l’avevi vista a quella finestra, e che era svenuta rivedendo la corona, la mia congettura divenne certezza.
“E chi poteva essere il suo complice? Ovviamente un amante. Chi altro avrebbe potuto avere più importanza dell’amore e della gratitudine che lei provava per te? Sapevo che uscivi raramente e che il tuo cerchio di amici era molto limitato. Ma tra loro c’era Sir George Burnwell. Avevo già sentito parlare di lui come di un uomo con una cattiva reputazione tra le donne. Doveva essere stato lui a indossare quei stivali e a nascondere i gioielli scomparsi. Anche se sapeva che Arthur lo aveva scoperto, poteva ancora illudersi di essere al sicuro, quel ragazzo non avrebbe potuto dire nulla senza compromettere la propria famiglia.
“Beh, il tuo buon senso ti farà capire quali misure ho preso dopo. Sono andato a casa di Sir George sotto mentite spoglie, ho fatto conoscenza con il suo valletto, ho scoperto che il suo padrone era stato ucciso la notte precedente, e infine, spendendo sei scellini, sono riuscito ad acquistare un paio delle sue scarpe usate. Con quelle sono andato a Streatham e ho constatato che corrispondevano esattamente alle orme lasciate.
“Ieri sera ho visto un vagabondo malvestito nel vicolo, ” disse il signor Holder.
“Esatto. Ero io. Avevo trovato la persona giusta, quindi sono tornato a casa e mi sono cambiato. È stato un compito delicato, dovevo evitare qualsiasi azione legale per non causare uno scandalo. E sapevo che un individuo astuto come lui avrebbe capito che eravamo impotenti in quella situazione. Sono andato da lui. All’inizio ha negato tutto. Ma quando gli ho raccontato tutti i dettagli degli eventi, ha cercato di minacciarmi e ha preso un salvagente dal muro. Conoscevo bene quel tipo. Gli ho puntato una pistola alla testa prima che potesse colpirmi. Poi è diventato più ragionevole. Gli ho offerto 1000 sterline per ogni gioiello che aveva. Questo ha suscitato in lui la prima traccia di rimorso, ‘Ma perché, dannazione!’ ha detto, ‘Li ho venduti a 600 sterline l’uno!’ Alla fine sono riuscito ad ottenere l’indirizzo del compratore. Dopo molte trattative, ho recuperato i gioielli per 1000 sterline l’uno. Poi sono andato da tuo figlio e gli ho detto che tutto era a posto. E finalmente sono andato a letto verso le due di notte, dopo una giornata davvero impegnativa, ” “Un giorno che ha salvato l’Inghilterra da un grande scandalo pubblico,” disse il banchiere alzandosi. “Signore, non so trovare parole per ringraziarvi, ma non troverete in me alcuna ingratitudine per ciò che avete fatto. La vostra abilità ha davvero superato tutte le aspettative. Ora devo correre dal mio caro ragazzo per scusarmi del torto che gli ho fatto. Per quanto riguarda quella povera Mary, la cosa mi tocca profondamente il cuore. Nemmeno la vostra abilità può dirmi dove si trovi ora.”
“Credo che possiamo affermare con certezza,” rispose Holmes, “che lei si trova ovunque si trovi Sir George Burnwell. È altrettanto certo che, qualunque siano i suoi peccati, presto riceveranno una punizione più che sufficiente.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES “To the man who loves art for its own sake,” remarked Sherlock Holmes, tossing aside the advertisement sheet of the Daily Telegraph, “it is frequently in its least important and lowliest manifestations that the keenest pleasure is to be derived. It is pleasant to me to observe, Watson, that you have so far grasped this truth that in these little records of our cases which you have been good enough to draw up, and, I am bound to say, occasionally to embellish, you have given prominence not so much to the many causes célèbres and sensational trials in which I have figured but rather to those incidents which may have been trivial in themselves, but which have given room for those faculties of deduction and of logical synthesis which I have made my special province.” “And yet,” said I, smiling, “I cannot quite hold myself absolved from the charge of sensationalism which has been urged against my records.” “You have erred, perhaps,” he observed, taking up a glowing cinder with the tongs and lighting with it the long cherry-wood pipe which was wont to replace his clay when he was in a disputatious rather than a meditative mood—”you have erred perhaps in attempting to put colour and life into each of your statements instead of confining yourself to the task of placing upon record that severe reasoning from cause to effect which is really the only notable feature about the thing.” “It seems to me that I have done you full justice in the matter,” I remarked with some coldness, for I was repelled by the egotism which I had more than once observed to be a strong factor in my friend’s singular character. “No, it is not selfishness or conceit,” said he, answering, as was his wont, my thoughts rather than my words. “If I claim full justice for my art, it is because it is an impersonal thing — a thing beyond myself. Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon the logic rather than upon the crime that you should dwell. You have degraded what should have been a course of lectures into a series of tales.” It was a cold morning of the early spring, and we sat after breakfast on either side of a cheery fire in the old room at Baker Street. A thick fog rolled down between the lines of dun-coloured houses, and the opposing windows loomed like dark, shapeless blurs through the heavy yellow wreaths. Our gas was lit and shone on the white cloth and glimmer of china and metal, for the table had not been cleared yet. Sherlock Holmes had been silent all the morning, dipping continuously into the advertisement columns of a succession of papers until at last, having apparently given up his search, he had emerged in no very sweet temper to lecture me upon my literary shortcomings. “At the same time,” he remarked after a pause, during which he had sat puffing at his long pipe and gazing down into the fire, “you can hardly be open to a charge of sensationalism, for out of these cases which you have been so kind as to interest yourself in, a fair proportion do not treat of crime, in its legal sense, at all. The small matter in which I endeavoured to help the King of Bohemia, the singular experience of Miss Mary Sutherland, the problem connected with the man with the twisted lip, and the incident of the noble bachelor, were all matters which are outside the pale of the law. But in avoiding the sensational, I fear that you may have bordered on the trivial.” “The end may have been so,” I answered, “but the methods I hold to have been novel and of interest.” “Pshaw, my dear fellow, what do the public, the great unobservant public, who could hardly tell a weaver by his tooth or a compositor by his left thumb, care about the finer shades of analysis and deduction! But, indeed, if you are trivial. I cannot blame you, for the days of the great cases are past. Man, or at least criminal man, has lost all enterprise and originality. As to my own little practice, it seems to be degenerating into an agency for recovering lost lead pencils and giving advice to young ladies from boarding-schools. I think that I have touched bottom at last, however. This note I had this morning marks my zero-point, I fancy. Read it!” He tossed a crumpled letter across to me. It was dated from Montague Place upon the preceding evening, and ran thus: “DEAR MR. HOLMES: — I am very anxious to consult you as to whether I should or should not accept a situation which has been offered to me as governess. I shall call at half-past ten to-morrow if I do not inconvenience you. Yours faithfully, “VIOLET HUNTER.” “Do you know the young lady?” I asked. “Not I.” “It is half-past ten now.” “Yes, and I have no doubt that is her ring.” “It may turn out to be of more interest than you think. You remember that the affair of the blue carbuncle, which appeared to be a mere whim at first, developed into a serious investigation. It may be so in this case, also.” “Well, let us hope so. But our doubts will very soon be solved, for here, unless I am much mistaken, is the person in question.” As he spoke the door opened and a young lady entered the room. She was plainly but neatly dressed, with a bright, quick face, freckled like a plover’s egg, and with the brisk manner of a woman who has had her own way to make in the world. “You will excuse my troubling you, I am sure,” said she, as my companion rose to greet her, “but I have had a very strange experience, and as I have no parents or relations of any sort from whom I could ask advice, I thought that perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me what I should do.” “Pray take a seat, Miss Hunter. I shall be happy to do anything that I can to serve you.” I could see that Holmes was favourably impressed by the manner and speech of his new client. He looked her over in his searching fashion, and then composed himself, with his lids drooping and his finger-tips together, to listen to her story. “I have been a governess for five years,” said she, “in the family of Colonel Spence Munro, but two months ago the colonel received an appointment at Halifax, in Nova Scotia, and took his children over to America with him, so that I found myself without a situation. I advertised, and I answered advertisements, but without success. At last the little money which I had saved began to run short, and I was at my wit’s end as to what I should do. “There is a well-known agency for governesses in the West End called Westaway’s, and there I used to call about once a week in order to see whether anything had turned up which might suit me. Westaway was the name of the founder of the business, but it is really managed by Miss Stoper. She sits in her own little office, and the ladies who are seeking employment wait in an anteroom, and are then shown in one by one, when she consults her ledgers and sees whether she has anything which would suit them. “Well, when I called last week I was shown into the little office as usual, but I found that Miss Stoper was not alone. A prodigiously stout man with a very smiling face and a great heavy chin which rolled down in fold upon fold over his throat sat at her elbow with a pair of glasses on his nose, looking very earnestly at the ladies who entered. As I came in he gave quite a jump in his chair and turned quickly to Miss Stoper. “ ’That will do,’ said he; ‘I could not ask for anything better. Capital! capital!’ He seemed quite enthusiastic and rubbed his hands together in the most genial fashion. He was such a comfortable-looking man that it was quite a pleasure to look at him. “ ’You are looking for a situation, miss?’ he asked. “ ’Yes, sir.’ “ ’As governess?’ “ ’Yes, sir.’ “ ’And what salary do you ask?’ “ ’I had £4 a month in my last place with Colonel Spence Munro.’ “ ’Oh, tut, tut! sweating — rank sweating!’ he cried, throwing his fat hands out into the air like a man who is in a boiling passion. ‘How could anyone offer so pitiful a sum to a lady with such attractions and accomplishments?’ “ ’My accomplishments, sir, may be less than you imagine,’ said I. ‘A little French, a little German, music, and drawing—’ “ ’Tut, tut!’ he cried. ‘This is all quite beside the question. The point is, have you or have you not the bearing and deportment of a lady? There it is in a nutshell. If you have not, you are not fitted for the rearing of a child who may some day play a considerable part in the history of the country. But if you have why, then, how could any gentleman ask you to condescend to accept anything under the three figures? Your salary with me, madam, would commence at £100 a year.’ “You may imagine, Mr. Holmes, that to me, destitute as I was, such an offer seemed almost too good to be true. The gentleman, however, seeing perhaps the look of incredulity upon my face, opened a pocket-book and took out a note. “ ’It is also my custom,’ said he, smiling in the most pleasant fashion until his eyes were just two little shining slits amid the white creases of his face, ‘to advance to my young ladies half their salary beforehand, so that they may meet any little expenses of their journey and their wardrobe.’ “It seemed to me that I had never met so fascinating and so thoughtful a man. As I was already in debt to my tradesmen, the advance was a great convenience, and yet there was something unnatural about the whole transaction which made me wish to know a little more before I quite committed myself. “ ’May I ask where you live, sir?’ said I. “ ’Hampshire. Charming rural place. The Copper Beeches, five miles on the far side of Winchester. It is the most lovely country, my dear young lady, and the dearest old country-house.’ “ ’And my duties, sir? I should be glad to know what they would be.’ “ ’One child — one dear little romper just six years old. Oh, if you could see him killing cockroaches with a slipper! Smack! smack! smack! Three gone before you could wink!’ He leaned back in his chair and laughed his eyes into his head again. “I was a little startled at the nature of the child’s amusement, but the father’s laughter made me think that perhaps he was joking. “ ’My sole duties, then,’ I asked, ‘are to take charge of a single child?’ “ ’No, no, not the sole, not the sole, my dear young lady,’ he cried. ‘Your duty would be, as I am sure your good sense would suggest, to obey any little commands my wife might give, provided always that they were such commands as a lady might with propriety obey. You see no difficulty, heh?’ “ ’I should be happy to make myself useful.’ “ ’Quite so. In dress now, for example. We are faddy people, you know — faddy but kind-hearted. If you were asked to wear any dress which we might give you, you would not object to our little whim. Heh?’ “ ’No,’ said I, considerably astonished at his words. “ ’Or to sit here, or sit there, that would not be offensive to you?’ “ ’Oh, no.’ “ ’Or to cut your hair quite short before you come to us?’ “I could hardly believe my ears. As you may observe, Mr. Holmes, my hair is somewhat luxuriant, and of a rather peculiar tint of chestnut. It has been considered artistic. I could not dream of sacrificing it in this offhand fashion. “ ’I am afraid that that is quite impossible,’ said I. He had been watching me eagerly out of his small eyes, and I could see a shadow pass over his face as I spoke. “ ’I am afraid that it is quite essential,’ said he. ‘It is a little fancy of my wife’s, and ladies’ fancies, you know, madam, ladies’ fancies must be consulted. And so you won’t cut your hair?’ “ ’No, sir, I really could not,’ I answered firmly. “ ’Ah, very well; then that quite settles the matter. It is a pity, because in other respects you would really have done very nicely. In that case, Miss Stoper, I had best inspect a few more of your young ladies.’ “The manageress had sat all this while busy with her papers without a word to either of us, but she glanced at me now with so much annoyance upon her face that I could not help suspecting that she had lost a handsome commission through my refusal. “ ’Do you desire your name to be kept upon the books?’ she asked. “ ’If you please, Miss Stoper.’ “ ’Well, really, it seems rather useless, since you refuse the most excellent offers in this fashion,’ said she sharply. ‘You can hardly expect us to exert ourselves to find another such opening for you. Good-day to you, Miss Hunter.’ She struck a gong upon the table, and I was shown out by the page. “Well, Mr. Holmes, when I got back to my lodgings and found little enough in the cupboard, and two or three bills upon the table. I began to ask myself whether I had not done a very foolish thing. After all, if these people had strange fads and expected obedience on the most extraordinary matters, they were at least ready to pay for their eccentricity. Very few governesses in England are getting £100 a year. Besides, what use was my hair to me? Many people are improved by wearing it short and perhaps I should be among the number. Next day I was inclined to think that I had made a mistake, and by the day after I was sure of it. I had almost overcome my pride so far as to go back to the agency and inquire whether the place was still open when I received this letter from the gentleman himself. I have it here and I will read it to you: “ ’The Copper Beeches, near Winchester. “ ’DEAR MISS HUNTER: — Miss Stoper has very kindly given me your address, and I write from here to ask you whether you have reconsidered your decision. My wife is very anxious that you should come, for she has been much attracted by my description of you. We are willing to give £30 a quarter, or £120 a year, so as to recompense you for any little inconvenience which our fads may cause you. They are not very exacting, after all. My wife is fond of a particular shade of electric blue and would like you to wear such a dress indoors in the morning. You need not, however, go to the expense of purchasing one, as we have one belonging to my dear daughter Alice (now in Philadelphia), which would, I should think, fit you very well. Then, as to sitting here or there, or amusing yourself in any manner indicated, that need cause you no inconvenience. As regards your hair, it is no doubt a pity, especially as I could not help remarking its beauty during our short interview, but I am afraid that I must remain firm upon this point, and I only hope that the increased salary may recompense you for the loss. Your duties, as far as the child is concerned, are very light. Now do try to come, and I shall meet you with the dog-cart at Winchester. Let me know your train. Yours faithfully, “ ’JEPHRO RUCASTLE.’ “That is the letter which I have just received, Mr. Holmes, and my mind is made up that I will accept it. I thought, however, that before taking the final step I should like to submit the whole matter to your consideration.” “Well, Miss Hunter, if your mind is made up, that settles the question,” said Holmes, smiling. “But you would not advise me to refuse?” “I confess that it is not the situation which I should like to see a sister of mine apply for.” “What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?” “Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have yourself formed some opinion?” “Well, there seems to me to be only one possible solution. Mr. Rucastle seemed to be a very kind, good-natured man. Is it not possible that his wife is a lunatic, that he desires to keep the matter quiet for fear she should be taken to an asylum, and that he humours her fancies in every way in order to prevent an outbreak?” “That is a possible solution — in fact, as matters stand, it is the most probable one. But in any case it does not seem to be a nice household for a young lady.” “But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!” “Well, yes, of course the pay is good — too good. That is what makes me uneasy. Why should they give you £120 a year, when they could have their pick for £40? There must be some strong reason behind.” “I thought that if I told you the circumstances you would understand afterwards if I wanted your help. I should feel so much stronger if I felt that you were at the back of me.” “Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you. I assure you that your little problem promises to be the most interesting which has come my way for some months. There is something distinctly novel about some of the features. If you should find yourself in doubt or in danger—” “Danger! What danger do you foresee?” Holmes shook his head gravely. “It would cease to be a danger if we could define it,” said he. “But at any time, day or night, a telegram would bring me down to your help.” “That is enough.” She rose briskly from her chair with the anxiety all swept from her face. “I shall go down to Hampshire quite easy in my mind now. I shall write to Mr. Rucastle at once, sacrifice my poor hair to-night, and start for Winchester to-morrow.” With a few grateful words to Holmes she bade us both good-night and bustled off upon her way. “At least,” said I as we heard her quick, firm steps descending the stairs, “she seems to be a young lady who is very well able to take care of herself.” “And she would need to be,” said Holmes gravely. “I am much mistaken if we do not hear from her before many days are past.” It was not very long before my friend’s prediction was fulfilled. A fortnight went by, during which I frequently found my thoughts turning in her direction and wondering what strange side-alley of human experience this lonely woman had strayed into. The unusual salary, the curious conditions, the light duties, all pointed to something abnormal, though whether a fad or a plot, or whether the man were a philanthropist or a villain, it was quite beyond my powers to determine. As to Holmes, I observed that he sat frequently for half an hour on end, with knitted brows and an abstracted air, but he swept the matter away with a wave of his hand when I mentioned it. “Data! data! data!” he cried impatiently. “I can’t make bricks without clay.” And yet he would always wind up by muttering that no sister of his should ever have accepted such a situation. The telegram which we eventually received came late one night just as I was thinking of turning in and Holmes was settling down to one of those all-night chemical researches which he frequently indulged in, when I would leave him stooping over a retort and a test-tube at night and find him in the same position when I came down to breakfast in the morning. He opened the yellow envelope, and then, glancing at the message, threw it across to me. “Just look up the trains in Bradshaw,” said he, and turned back to his chemical studies. The summons was a brief and urgent one. “Please be at the Black Swan Hotel at Winchester at midday to-morrow,” it said. “Do come! I am at my wit’s end. “HUNTER.” “Will you come with me?” asked Holmes, glancing up. “I should wish to.” “Just look it up, then.” “There is a train at half-past nine,” said I, glancing over my Bradshaw. “It is due at Winchester at 11:30.” “That will do very nicely. Then perhaps I had better postpone my analysis of the acetones, as we may need to be at our best in the morning.” By eleven o’clock the next day we were well upon our way to the old English capital. Holmes had been buried in the morning papers all the way down, but after we had passed the Hampshire border he threw them down and began to admire the scenery. It was an ideal spring day, a light blue sky, flecked with little fleecy white clouds drifting across from west to east. The sun was shining very brightly, and yet there was an exhilarating nip in the air, which set an edge to a man’s energy. All over the countryside, away to the rolling hills around Aldershot, the little red and grey roofs of the farm-steadings peeped out from amid the light green of the new foliage. “Are they not fresh and beautiful?” I cried with all the enthusiasm of a man fresh from the fogs of Baker Street. But Holmes shook his head gravely. “Do you know, Watson,” said he, “that it is one of the curses of a mind with a turn like mine that I must look at everything with reference to my own special subject. You look at these scattered houses, and you are impressed by their beauty. I look at them, and the only thought which comes to me is a feeling of their isolation and of the impunity with which crime may be committed there.” “Good heavens!” I cried. “Who would associate crime with these dear old homesteads?” “They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.” “You horrify me!” “But the reason is very obvious. The pressure of public opinion can do in the town what the law cannot accomplish. There is no lane so vile that the scream of a tortured child, or the thud of a drunkard’s blow, does not beget sympathy and indignation among the neighbours, and then the whole machinery of justice is ever so close that a word of complaint can set it going, and there is but a step between the crime and the dock. But look at these lonely houses, each in its own fields, filled for the most part with poor ignorant folk who know little of the law. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser. Had this lady who appeals to us for help gone to live in Winchester, I should never have had a fear for her. It is the five miles of country which makes the danger. Still, it is clear that she is not personally threatened.” “No. If she can come to Winchester to meet us she can get away.” “Quite so. She has her freedom.” “What can be the matter, then? Can you suggest no explanation?” “I have devised seven separate explanations, each of which would cover the facts as far as we know them. But which of these is correct can only be determined by the fresh information which we shall no doubt find waiting for us. Well, there is the tower of the cathedral, and we shall soon learn all that Miss Hunter has to tell.” The Black Swan is an inn of repute in the High Street, at no distance from the station, and there we found the young lady waiting for us. She had engaged a sitting-room, and our lunch awaited us upon the table. “I am so delighted that you have come,” she said earnestly. “It is so very kind of you both; but indeed I do not know what I should do. Your advice will be altogether invaluable to me.” “Pray tell us what has happened to you.” “I will do so, and I must be quick, for I have promised Mr. Rucastle to be back before three. I got his leave to come into town this morning, though he little knew for what purpose.” “Let us have everything in its due order.” Holmes thrust his long thin legs out towards the fire and composed himself to listen. “In the first place, I may say that I have met, on the whole, with no actual ill-treatment from Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle. It is only fair to them to say that. But I cannot understand them, and I am not easy in my mind about them.” “What can you not understand?” “Their reasons for their conduct. But you shall have it all just as it occurred. When I came down, Mr. Rucastle met me here and drove me in his dog-cart to the Copper Beeches. It is, as he said, beautifully situated, but it is not beautiful in itself, for it is a large square block of a house, whitewashed, but all stained and streaked with damp and bad weather. There are grounds round it, woods on three sides, and on the fourth a field which slopes down to the Southampton highroad, which curves past about a hundred yards from the front door. This ground in front belongs to the house, but the woods all round are part of Lord Southerton’s preserves. A clump of copper beeches immediately in front of the hall door has given its name to the place. “I was driven over by my employer, who was as amiable as ever, and was introduced by him that evening to his wife and the child. There was no truth, Mr. Holmes, in the conjecture which seemed to us to be probable in your rooms at Baker Street. Mrs. Rucastle is not mad. I found her to be a silent, pale-faced woman, much younger than her husband, not more than thirty, I should think, while he can hardly be less than forty-five. From their conversation I have gathered that they have been married about seven years, that he was a widower, and that his only child by the first wife was the daughter who has gone to Philadelphia. Mr. Rucastle told me in private that the reason why she had left them was that she had an unreasoning aversion to her stepmother. As the daughter could not have been less than twenty, I can quite imagine that her position must have been uncomfortable with her father’s young wife. “Mrs. Rucastle seemed to me to be colourless in mind as well as in feature. She impressed me neither favourably nor the reverse. She was a nonentity. It was easy to see that she was passionately devoted both to her husband and to her little son. Her light grey eyes wandered continually from one to the other, noting every little want and forestalling it if possible. He was kind to her also in his bluff, boisterous fashion, and on the whole they seemed to be a happy couple. And yet she had some secret sorrow, this woman. She would often be lost in deep thought, with the saddest look upon her face. More than once I have surprised her in tears. I have thought sometimes that it was the disposition of her child which weighed upon her mind, for I have never met so utterly spoiled and so ill-natured a little creature. He is small for his age, with a head which is quite disproportionately large. His whole life appears to be spent in an alternation between savage fits of passion and gloomy intervals of sulking. Giving pain to any creature weaker than himself seems to be his one idea of amusement, and he shows quite remarkable talent in planning the capture of mice, little birds, and insects. But I would rather not talk about the creature, Mr. Holmes, and, indeed, he has little to do with my story.” “I am glad of all details,” remarked my friend, “whether they seem to you to be relevant or not.” “I shall try not to miss anything of importance. The one unpleasant thing about the house, which struck me at once, was the appearance and conduct of the servants. There are only two, a man and his wife. Toller, for that is his name, is a rough, uncouth man, with grizzled hair and whiskers, and a perpetual smell of drink. Twice since I have been with them he has been quite drunk, and yet Mr. Rucastle seemed to take no notice of it. His wife is a very tall and strong woman with a sour face, as silent as Mrs. Rucastle and much less amiable. They are a most unpleasant couple, but fortunately I spend most of my time in the nursery and my own room, which are next to each other in one corner of the building. “For two days after my arrival at the Copper Beeches my life was very quiet; on the third, Mrs. Rucastle came down just after breakfast and whispered something to her husband. “ ’Oh, yes,’ said he, turning to me, ‘we are very much obliged to you, Miss Hunter, for falling in with our whims so far as to cut your hair. I assure you that it has not detracted in the tiniest iota from your appearance. We shall now see how the electric-blue dress will become you. You will find it laid out upon the bed in your room, and if you would be so good as to put it on we should both be extremely obliged.’ “The dress which I found waiting for me was of a peculiar shade of blue. It was of excellent material, a sort of beige, but it bore unmistakable signs of having been worn before. It could not have been a better fit if I had been measured for it. Both Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle expressed a delight at the look of it, which seemed quite exaggerated in its vehemence. They were waiting for me in the drawing-room, which is a very large room, stretching along the entire front of the house, with three long windows reaching down to the floor. A chair had been placed close to the central window, with its back turned towards it. In this I was asked to sit, and then Mr. Rucastle, walking up and down on the other side of the room, began to tell me a series of the funniest stories that I have ever listened to. You cannot imagine how comical he was, and I laughed until I was quite weary. Mrs. Rucastle, however, who has evidently no sense of humour, never so much as smiled, but sat with her hands in her lap, and a sad, anxious look upon her face. After an hour or so, Mr. Rucastle suddenly remarked that it was time to commence the duties of the day, and that I might change my dress and go to little Edward in the nursery. “Two days later this same performance was gone through under exactly similar circumstances. Again I changed my dress, again I sat in the window, and again I laughed very heartily at the funny stories of which my employer had an immense répertoire, and which he told inimitably. Then he handed me a yellow-backed novel, and moving my chair a little sideways, that my own shadow might not fall upon the page, he begged me to read aloud to him. I read for about ten minutes, beginning in the heart of a chapter, and then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, he ordered me to cease and to change my dress. “You can easily imagine, Mr. Holmes, how curious I became as to what the meaning of this extraordinary performance could possibly be. They were always very careful, I observed, to turn my face away from the window, so that I became consumed with the desire to see what was going on behind my back. At first it seemed to be impossible, but I soon devised a means. My hand-mirror had been broken, so a happy thought seized me, and I concealed a piece of the glass in my handkerchief. On the next occasion, in the midst of my laughter, I put my handkerchief up to my eyes, and was able with a little management to see all that there was behind me. I confess that I was disappointed. There was nothing. At least that was my first impression. At the second glance, however, I perceived that there was a man standing in the Southampton Road, a small bearded man in a grey suit, who seemed to be looking in my direction. The road is an important highway, and there are usually people there. This man, however, was leaning against the railings which bordered our field and was looking earnestly up. I lowered my handkerchief and glanced at Mrs. Rucastle to find her eyes fixed upon me with a most searching gaze. She said nothing, but I am convinced that she had divined that I had a mirror in my hand and had seen what was behind me. She rose at once. “ ’Jephro,’ said she, ‘there is an impertinent fellow upon the road there who stares up at Miss Hunter.’ “ ’No friend of yours, Miss Hunter?’ he asked. “ ’No, I know no one in these parts.’ “ ’Dear me! How very impertinent! Kindly turn round and motion to him to go away.’ “ ’Surely it would be better to take no notice.’ “ ’No, no, we should have him loitering here always. Kindly turn round and wave him away like that.’ “I did as I was told, and at the same instant Mrs. Rucastle drew down the blind. That was a week ago, and from that time I have not sat again in the window, nor have I worn the blue dress, nor seen the man in the road.” “Pray continue,” said Holmes. “Your narrative promises to be a most interesting one.” “You will find it rather disconnected, I fear, and there may prove to be little relation between the different incidents of which I speak. On the very first day that I was at the Copper Beeches, Mr. Rucastle took me to a small outhouse which stands near the kitchen door. As we approached it I heard the sharp rattling of a chain, and the sound as of a large animal moving about. “ ’Look in here!’ said Mr. Rucastle, showing me a slit between two planks. ‘Is he not a beauty?’ “I looked through and was conscious of two glowing eyes, and of a vague figure huddled up in the darkness. “ ’Don’t be frightened,’ said my employer, laughing at the start which I had given. ‘It’s only Carlo, my mastiff. I call him mine, but really old Toller, my groom, is the only man who can do anything with him. We feed him once a day, and not too much then, so that he is always as keen as mustard. Toller lets him loose every night, and God help the trespasser whom he lays his fangs upon. For goodness’ sake don’t you ever on any pretext set your foot over the threshold at night, for it’s as much as your life is worth.’ “The warning was no idle one, for two nights later I happened to look out of my bedroom window about two o’clock in the morning. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and the lawn in front of the house was silvered over and almost as bright as day. I was standing, rapt in the peaceful beauty of the scene, when I was aware that something was moving under the shadow of the copper beeches. As it emerged into the moonshine I saw what it was. It was a giant dog, as large as a calf, tawny tinted, with hanging jowl, black muzzle, and huge projecting bones. It walked slowly across the lawn and vanished into the shadow upon the other side. That dreadful sentinel sent a chill to my heart which I do not think that any burglar could have done. “And now I have a very strange experience to tell you. I had, as you know, cut off my hair in London, and I had placed it in a great coil at the bottom of my trunk. One evening, after the child was in bed, I began to amuse myself by examining the furniture of my room and by rearranging my own little things. There was an old chest of drawers in the room, the two upper ones empty and open, the lower one locked. I had filled the first two with my linen, and as I had still much to pack away I was naturally annoyed at not having the use of the third drawer. It struck me that it might have been fastened by a mere oversight, so I took out my bunch of keys and tried to open it. The very first key fitted to perfection, and I drew the drawer open. There was only one thing in it, but I am sure that you would never guess what it was. It was my coil of hair. “I took it up and examined it. It was of the same peculiar tint, and the same thickness. But then the impossibility of the thing obtruded itself upon me. How could my hair have been locked in the drawer? With trembling hands I undid my trunk, turned out the contents, and drew from the bottom my own hair. I laid the two tresses together, and I assure you that they were identical. Was it not extraordinary? Puzzle as I would, I could make nothing at all of what it meant. I returned the strange hair to the drawer, and I said nothing of the matter to the Rucastles as I felt that I had put myself in the wrong by opening a drawer which they had locked. “I am naturally observant, as you may have remarked, Mr. Holmes, and I soon had a pretty good plan of the whole house in my head. There was one wing, however, which appeared not to be inhabited at all. A door which faced that which led into the quarters of the Tollers opened into this suite, but it was invariably locked. One day, however, as I ascended the stair, I met Mr. Rucastle coming out through this door, his keys in his hand, and a look on his face which made him a very different person to the round, jovial man to whom I was accustomed. His cheeks were red, his brow was all crinkled with anger, and the veins stood out at his temples with passion. He locked the door and hurried past me without a word or a look. “This aroused my curiosity, so when I went out for a walk in the grounds with my charge, I strolled round to the side from which I could see the windows of this part of the house. There were four of them in a row, three of which were simply dirty, while the fourth was shuttered up. They were evidently all deserted. As I strolled up and down, glancing at them occasionally, Mr. Rucastle came out to me, looking as merry and jovial as ever. “ ’Ah!’ said he, ‘you must not think me rude if I passed you without a word, my dear young lady. I was preoccupied with business matters.’ “I assured him that I was not offended. ‘By the way,’ said I, ‘you seem to have quite a suite of spare rooms up there, and one of them has the shutters up.’ “He looked surprised and, as it seemed to me, a little startled at my remark. “ ’Photography is one of my hobbies,’ said he. ‘I have made my dark room up there. But, dear me! what an observant young lady we have come upon. Who would have believed it? Who would have ever believed it?’ He spoke in a jesting tone, but there was no jest in his eyes as he looked at me. I read suspicion there and annoyance, but no jest. “Well, Mr. Holmes, from the moment that I understood that there was something about that suite of rooms which I was not to know, I was all on fire to go over them. It was not mere curiosity, though I have my share of that. It was more a feeling of duty — a feeling that some good might come from my penetrating to this place. They talk of woman’s instinct; perhaps it was woman’s instinct which gave me that feeling. At any rate, it was there, and I was keenly on the lookout for any chance to pass the forbidden door. “It was only yesterday that the chance came. I may tell you that, besides Mr. Rucastle, both Toller and his wife find something to do in these deserted rooms, and I once saw him carrying a large black linen bag with him through the door. Recently he has been drinking hard, and yesterday evening he was very drunk; and when I came upstairs there was the key in the door. I have no doubt at all that he had left it there. Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle were both downstairs, and the child was with them, so that I had an admirable opportunity. I turned the key gently in the lock, opened the door, and slipped through. “There was a little passage in front of me, unpapered and uncarpeted, which turned at a right angle at the farther end. Round this corner were three doors in a line, the first and third of which were open. They each led into an empty room, dusty and cheerless, with two windows in the one and one in the other, so thick with dirt that the evening light glimmered dimly through them. The centre door was closed, and across the outside of it had been fastened one of the broad bars of an iron bed, padlocked at one end to a ring in the wall, and fastened at the other with stout cord. The door itself was locked as well, and the key was not there. This barricaded door corresponded clearly with the shuttered window outside, and yet I could see by the glimmer from beneath it that the room was not in darkness. Evidently there was a skylight which let in light from above. As I stood in the passage gazing at the sinister door and wondering what secret it might veil, I suddenly heard the sound of steps within the room and saw a shadow pass backward and forward against the little slit of dim light which shone out from under the door. A mad, unreasoning terror rose up in me at the sight, Mr. Holmes. My overstrung nerves failed me suddenly, and I turned and ran — ran as though some dreadful hand were behind me clutching at the skirt of my dress. I rushed down the passage, through the door, and straight into the arms of Mr. Rucastle, who was waiting outside. “ ’So,’ said he, smiling, ‘it was you, then. I thought that it must be when I saw the door open.’ “ ’Oh, I am so frightened!’ I panted. “ ’My dear young lady! my dear young lady!’ — you cannot think how caressing and soothing his manner was—’and what has frightened you, my dear young lady?’ “But his voice was just a little too coaxing. He overdid it. I was keenly on my guard against him. “ ’I was foolish enough to go into the empty wing,’ I answered. ‘But it is so lonely and eerie in this dim light that I was frightened and ran out again. Oh, it is so dreadfully still in there!’ “ ’Only that?’ said he, looking at me keenly. “ ’Why, what did you think?’ I asked. “ ’Why do you think that I lock this door?’ “ ’I am sure that I do not know.’ “ ’It is to keep people out who have no business there. Do you see?’ He was still smiling in the most amiable manner. “ ’I am sure if I had known—’ “ ’Well, then, you know now. And if you ever put your foot over that threshold again’ — here in an instant the smile hardened into a grin of rage, and he glared down at me with the face of a demon—’I’ll throw you to the mastiff.’ “I was so terrified that I do not know what I did. I suppose that I must have rushed past him into my room. I remember nothing until I found myself lying on my bed trembling all over. Then I thought of you, Mr. Holmes. I could not live there longer without some advice. I was frightened of the house, of the man, of the woman, of the servants, even of the child. They were all horrible to me. If I could only bring you down all would be well. Of course I might have fled from the house, but my curiosity was almost as strong as my fears. My mind was soon made up. I would send you a wire. I put on my hat and cloak, went down to the office, which is about half a mile from the house, and then returned, feeling very much easier. A horrible doubt came into my mind as I approached the door lest the dog might be loose, but I remembered that Toller had drunk himself into a state of insensibility that evening, and I knew that he was the only one in the household who had any influence with the savage creature, or who would venture to set him free. I slipped in in safety and lay awake half the night in my joy at the thought of seeing you. I had no difficulty in getting leave to come into Winchester this morning, but I must be back before three o’clock, for Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle are going on a visit, and will be away all the evening, so that I must look after the child. Now I have told you all my adventures, Mr. Holmes, and I should be very glad if you could tell me what it all means, and, above all, what I should do.” Holmes and I had listened spellbound to this extraordinary story. My friend rose now and paced up and down the room, his hands in his pockets, and an expression of the most profound gravity upon his face. “Is Toller still drunk?” he asked. “Yes. I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that she could do nothing with him.” “That is well. And the Rucastles go out to-night?” “Yes.” “Is there a cellar with a good strong lock?” “Yes, the wine-cellar.” “You seem to me to have acted all through this matter like a very brave and sensible girl, Miss Hunter. Do you think that you could perform one more feat? I should not ask it of you if I did not think you a quite exceptional woman.” “I will try. What is it?” “We shall be at the Copper Beeches by seven o’clock, my friend and I. The Rucastles will be gone by that time, and Toller will, we hope, be incapable. There only remains Mrs. Toller, who might give the alarm. If you could send her into the cellar on some errand, and then turn the key upon her, you would facilitate matters immensely.” “I will do it.” “Excellent! We shall then look thoroughly into the affair. Of course there is only one feasible explanation. You have been brought there to personate someone, and the real person is imprisoned in this chamber. That is obvious. As to who this prisoner is, I have no doubt that it is the daughter, Miss Alice Rucastle, if I remember right, who was said to have gone to America. You were chosen, doubtless, as resembling her in height, figure, and the colour of your hair. Hers had been cut off, very possibly in some illness through which she has passed, and so, of course, yours had to be sacrificed also. By a curious chance you came upon her tresses. The man in the road was undoubtedly some friend of hers — possibly her fiancé — and no doubt, as you wore the girl’s dress and were so like her, he was convinced from your laughter, whenever he saw you, and afterwards from your gesture, that Miss Rucastle was perfectly happy, and that she no longer desired his attentions. The dog is let loose at night to prevent him from endeavouring to communicate with her. So much is fairly clear. The most serious point in the case is the disposition of the child.” “What on earth has that to do with it?” I ejaculated. “My dear Watson, you as a medical man are continually gaining light as to the tendencies of a child by the study of the parents. Don’t you see that the converse is equally valid. I have frequently gained my first real insight into the character of parents by studying their children. This child’s disposition is abnormally cruel, merely for cruelty’s sake, and whether he derives this from his smiling father, as I should suspect, or from his mother, it bodes evil for the poor girl who is in their power.” “I am sure that you are right, Mr. Holmes,” cried our client. “A thousand things come back to me which make me certain that you have hit it. Oh, let us lose not an instant in bringing help to this poor creature.” “We must be circumspect, for we are dealing with a very cunning man. We can do nothing until seven o’clock. At that hour we shall be with you, and it will not be long before we solve the mystery.” We were as good as our word, for it was just seven when we reached the Copper Beeches, having put up our trap at a wayside public-house. The group of trees, with their dark leaves shining like burnished metal in the light of the setting sun, were sufficient to mark the house even had Miss Hunter not been standing smiling on the door-step. “Have you managed it?” asked Holmes. A loud thudding noise came from somewhere downstairs. “That is Mrs. Toller in the cellar,” said she. “Her husband lies snoring on the kitchen rug. Here are his keys, which are the duplicates of Mr. Rucastle’s.” “You have done well indeed!” cried Holmes with enthusiasm. “Now lead the way, and we shall soon see the end of this black business.” We passed up the stair, unlocked the door, followed on down a passage, and found ourselves in front of the barricade which Miss Hunter had described. Holmes cut the cord and removed the transverse bar. Then he tried the various keys in the lock, but without success. No sound came from within, and at the silence Holmes’ face clouded over. “I trust that we are not too late,” said he. “I think, Miss Hunter, that we had better go in without you. Now, Watson, put your shoulder to it, and we shall see whether we cannot make our way in.” It was an old rickety door and gave at once before our united strength. Together we rushed into the room. It was empty. There was no furniture save a little pallet bed, a small table, and a basketful of linen. The skylight above was open, and the prisoner gone. “There has been some villainy here,” said Holmes; “this beauty has guessed Miss Hunter’s intentions and has carried his victim off.” “But how?” “Through the skylight. We shall soon see how he managed it.” He swung himself up onto the roof. “Ah, yes,” he cried, “here’s the end of a long light ladder against the eaves. That is how he did it.” “But it is impossible,” said Miss Hunter; “the ladder was not there when the Rucastles went away.” “He has come back and done it. I tell you that he is a clever and dangerous man. I should not be very much surprised if this were he whose step I hear now upon the stair. I think, Watson, that it would be as well for you to have your pistol ready.” The words were hardly out of his mouth before a man appeared at the door of the room, a very fat and burly man, with a heavy stick in his hand. Miss Hunter screamed and shrunk against the wall at the sight of him, but Sherlock Holmes sprang forward and confronted him. “You villain!” said he, “where’s your daughter?” The fat man cast his eyes round, and then up at the open skylight. “It is for me to ask you that,” he shrieked, “you thieves! Spies and thieves! I have caught you, have I? You are in my power. I’ll serve you!” He turned and clattered down the stairs as hard as he could go. “He’s gone for the dog!” cried Miss Hunter. “I have my revolver,” said I. “Better close the front door,” cried Holmes, and we all rushed down the stairs together. We had hardly reached the hall when we heard the baying of a hound, and then a scream of agony, with a horrible worrying sound which it was dreadful to listen to. An elderly man with a red face and shaking limbs came staggering out at a side door. “My God!” he cried. “Someone has loosed the dog. It’s not been fed for two days. Quick, quick, or it’ll be too late!” Holmes and I rushed out and round the angle of the house, with Toller hurrying behind us. There was the huge famished brute, its black muzzle buried in Rucastle’s throat, while he writhed and screamed upon the ground. Running up, I blew its brains out, and it fell over with its keen white teeth still meeting in the great creases of his neck. With much labour we separated them and carried him, living but horribly mangled, into the house. We laid him upon the drawing-room sofa, and having dispatched the sobered Toller to bear the news to his wife, I did what I could to relieve his pain. We were all assembled round him when the door opened, and a tall, gaunt woman entered the room. “Mrs. Toller!” cried Miss Hunter. “Yes, miss. Mr. Rucastle let me out when he came back before he went up to you. Ah, miss, it is a pity you didn’t let me know what you were planning, for I would have told you that your pains were wasted.” “Ha!” said Holmes, looking keenly at her. “It is clear that Mrs. Toller knows more about this matter than anyone else.” “Yes, sir, I do, and I am ready enough to tell what I know.” “Then, pray, sit down, and let us hear it for there are several points on which I must confess that I am still in the dark.” “I will soon make it clear to you,” said she; “and I’d have done so before now if I could ha’ got out from the cellar. If there’s police-court business over this, you’ll remember that I was the one that stood your friend, and that I was Miss Alice’s friend too. “She was never happy at home, Miss Alice wasn’t, from the time that her father married again. She was slighted like and had no say in anything, but it never really became bad for her until after she met Mr. Fowler at a friend’s house. As well as I could learn, Miss Alice had rights of her own by will, but she was so quiet and patient, she was, that she never said a word about them but just left everything in Mr. Rucastle’s hands. He knew he was safe with her; but when there was a chance of a husband coming forward, who would ask for all that the law would give him, then her father thought it time to put a stop on it. He wanted her to sign a paper, so that whether she married or not, he could use her money. When she wouldn’t do it, he kept on worrying her until she got brain-fever, and for six weeks was at death’s door. Then she got better at last, all worn to a shadow, and with her beautiful hair cut off; but that didn’t make no change in her young man, and he stuck to her as true as man could be.” “Ah,” said Holmes, “I think that what you have been good enough to tell us makes the matter fairly clear, and that I can deduce all that remains. Mr. Rucastle then, I presume, took to this system of imprisonment?” “Yes, sir.” “And brought Miss Hunter down from London in order to get rid of the disagreeable persistence of Mr. Fowler.” “That was it, sir.” “But Mr. Fowler being a persevering man, as a good seaman should be, blockaded the house, and having met you succeeded by certain arguments, metallic or otherwise, in convincing you that your interests were the same as his.” “Mr. Fowler was a very kind-spoken, free-handed gentleman,” said Mrs. Toller serenely. “And in this way he managed that your good man should have no want of drink, and that a ladder should be ready at the moment when your master had gone out.” “You have it, sir, just as it happened.” “I am sure we owe you an apology, Mrs. Toller,” said Holmes, “for you have certainly cleared up everything which puzzled us. And here comes the country surgeon and Mrs. Rucastle, so I think, Watson, that we had best escort Miss Hunter back to Winchester, as it seems to me that our locus standi now is rather a questionable one.” And thus was solved the mystery of the sinister house with the copper beeches in front of the door. Mr. Rucastle survived, but was always a broken man, kept alive solely through the care of his devoted wife. They still live with their old servants, who probably know so much of Rucastle’s past life that he finds it difficult to part from them. Mr. Fowler and Miss Rucastle were married, by special license, in Southampton the day after their flight, and he is now the holder of a government appointment in the island of Mauritius. As to Miss Violet Hunter, my friend Holmes, rather to my disappointment, manifested no further interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of one of his problems, and she is now the head of a private school at Walsall, where I believe that she has met with considerable success.

THE MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES This collection of eleven Sherlock Holmes stories was originally published in 1894.

Le avventure dei pioppi di rame
“Per colui che ama l’arte per se stessa,” osservò Sherlock Holmes, gettando da parte la pagina pubblicitaria del Daily Telegraph, “spesso è proprio nelle sue manifestazioni più insignificanti e umili che si trova il piacere più intenso. Mi fa piacere notare, Watson, che hai compreso bene questa verità: nei piccoli resoconti dei nostri casi che hai avuto la gentilezza di redigere – e, devo dire, talvolta anche di abbellire – non hai dato risalto alle molte cause celebri e ai processi sensazionalistici in cui ho avuto un ruolo, ma piuttosto a quegli episodi che, per sé banali, hanno offerto l’occasione di mettere in mostra quelle facoltà di deduzione e sintesi logica che rappresentano la vera essenza della mia attività.”
“Eppure,” dissi sorridendo, “non riesco del tutto a liberarmi dall’accusa di sensazionalismo mossa contro i miei resoconti.”
“Forse hai sbagliato,” osservò lui, prendendo con le pinze un tizzone ardente e accendendo con esso la lunga pipa di ciliegio che sostituiva quella di terracotta quando era in vena di discutere piuttosto che di riflettere. “Forse hai sbagliato nel cercare di dare colore e vita a ogni singola descrizione, invece di limitarti a registrare con precisione quelle deduzioni logiche che rappresentano davvero l’aspetto più significativo degli eventi.”
“Mi sembra di aver reso piena giustizia alla tua arte,” dissi con una certa freddezza, perché mi ripugnava l’egoismo che avevo più volte notato come un tratto distintivo del carattere strano di mio amico.
“No, non si tratta di egoismo o presunzione,” rispose lui, come al solito interpretando i miei pensieri piuttosto che le mie parole. “Se pretendo che la mia arte venga riconosciuta per ciò che è veramente, è perché rappresenta qualcosa di impersonale, qualcosa che va oltre me stesso. Il crimine è comune; la logica, invece, è rara. Pertanto, dovresti concentrarti sulla logica, non sul crimine. Hai trasformato ciò che avrebbe potuto essere una serie di lezioni in una serie di storie.”
Era una fredda mattina all’inizio della primavera; dopo colazione sedevamo uno di fronte all’altro accanto al camino nella vecchia stanza di Baker Street. Una fitta nebbia si diffondeva tra le file di case dal colore grigio-brunastro, e le finestre opposte apparivano come macchie scure e indistinte attraverso i pesanti drappi gialli. La nostra lampada a gas era accesa; il suo chiarore illuminava la tovaglia bianca, nonché i pezzi di porcellana e metallo disposti sul tavolo, che ancora non era stato sparecchiato. Sherlock Holmes era rimasto in silenzio per tutta la mattina, immergendosi continuamente nelle colonne pubblicitarie di diversi giornali; alla fine, apparentemente scoraggiato nella sua ricerca, aveva iniziato a rimproverarmi per i miei difetti letterari. “Nello stesso tempo,” osservò dopo una pausa, durante la quale aveva fumato la sua lunga pipa e fissato il fuoco, “è difficile che si possa accusarvi di sensazionalismo, poiché tra questi casi di cui vi siete gentilmente interessati, una buona parte non riguarda affatto il crimine nel senso legale del termine. La piccola questione per la quale ho cercato di aiutare il Re di Boemia, l’insolita esperienza della signorina Mary Sutherland, il problema legato all’uomo dal labbro storto e l’episodio del nobile scapolo, sono tutti casi che esulano dall’ambito della legge. Ma evitando di essere sensazionalistici, temo che si possa finire per trattare di cose banali.”
“L’esito potrebbe essere stato proprio questo,” risposi, “ma i metodi che ho adottato mi sembrano innovativi e interessanti.”
“Pah, caro mio. A chi importano le sottili sfumature dell’analisi e della deduzione, soprattutto al grande pubblico, che difficilmente riuscirebbe a distinguere un tessitore dal suo dente o un compositore dal suo pollice sinistro! Ma, in effetti, se si tratta di cose banali, non posso biasimarvi: i tempi dei grandi casi sono ormai passati. L’uomo, o almeno il criminale, ha perso ogni spirito d’iniziativa e originalità. Per quanto riguarda la mia piccola attività, sembra che stia degenerando in un semplice servizio per recuperare matite di grafite perdute e dare consigli a giovani signorine provenienti da scuole private. Credo di aver finalmente raggiunto il fondo. Questa lettera, che ho ricevuto questa mattina, rappresenta, credo, il punto zero della mia attività. Leggetela!” Mi gettò una lettera stropicciata.
Era datata dalla sera precedente e recitava quanto segue:
“Caro signor Holmes, sono molto preoccupata riguardo alla decisione di accettare o meno l’offerta di diventare governante. Verrò da voi domani alle dieci e mezza, se non vi causo disturbo. Con affetto,
Violet Hunter.”
“Conoscete questa giovane signorina?” chiesi.
“No.”
“Ora sono le dieci e mezza, ”
“Sì, e non ho dubbi che sia il suo anello.”
“Forse si tratta di qualcosa di più interessante di quanto pensiate. Ricordatevi dell’affare del foruncolo blu, che all’inizio sembrava solo una sciocchezza, ma che poi si è rivelato un caso serio da indagare. Potrebbe essere lo stesso anche in questo caso.”
“Beh, speriamo. Ma presto avremo la risposta: eccola qui, se non mi sbaglio, ” Mentre parlava, la porta si aprì e una giovane signorina entrò nella stanza. Era vestita semplicemente ma con cura; aveva un viso vivace e svelto, pieno di lentiggini, e l’aria decisa di una donna che sa come farsi strada nel mondo. “Scusate se vi disturbo,” disse, mentre il mio compagno si alzava per salutarla, “ma ho avuto un’esperienza molto strana. E poiché non ho genitori né parenti a cui chiedere consiglio, pensavo che forse sareste stato così gentile da dirmi cosa dovrei fare, ”
“Prego, si sieda, signorina Hunter. Sarò felice di fare tutto ciò che posso per aiutarla.” Potevo vedere che Holmes era piuttosto colpito dal modo di parlare e dall’aspetto della sua nuova cliente. La osservò attentamente, poi si sistemò, con le palpebre abbassate e le dita delle mani giunte insieme, per ascoltare la sua storia.
“Sono stata governante per cinque anni nella famiglia del Colonnello Spence Munro,” disse lei, “ma due mesi fa il colonnello ha ricevuto un incarico a Halifax, in Nuova Scozia, e ha portato i suoi figli in America con sé; così mi sono ritrovata senza lavoro. Ho pubblicizzato la mia disponibilità e ho risposto a molte offerte, ma senza successo. Alla fine, i pochi soldi che avevo risparmiato hanno iniziato ad esaurirsi, e non sapevo proprio cosa fare. “C’è un’agenzia molto conosciuta per governanti nel West End, chiamata Westaway’s; ci andavo una volta alla settimana per vedere se fosse saltata fuori qualche opportunità adatta a me. Il nome dell’agenzia apparteneva al suo fondatore, ma in realtà era gestita da Miss Stoper. Lei lavorava nel suo piccolo ufficio, e le signore che cercavano lavoro aspettavano nell’anticamera, per poi essere ricevute una alla volta mentre lei consultava i suoi registri per vedere se aveva qualcosa adatto a loro. “La scorsa settimana, quando sono andata lì, sono stata fatta entrare nel solito ufficio, ma ho trovato che Miss Stoper non era sola. C’era un uomo molto robusto, con un viso sorridente e un mento enorme che gli pendeva sul collo; indossava occhiali e osservava attentamente le signore che entravano. Quando sono arrivata, lui ha fatto un balzo sulla sedia e si è girato rapidamente verso Miss Stoper. “‘È perfetto,’ ha detto; ‘Non avrei potuto chiedere di meglio. Ottimo! Ottimo!’ Sembrava davvero entusiasta e si strofinava le mani in modo molto cordiale. Era un uomo così piacevole da guardare. “‘Sta cercando lavoro, signorina?’ ha chiesto.
“‘Sì, signore.’
“‘Come governante?’
“‘Sì, signore.’
“‘E quale stipendio richiede?’
“‘Nel mio ultimo incarico con il Colonnello Spence Munro guadagnavo 4 sterline al mese.’
“‘Oh, ma che sciocchezza!’ ha esclamato, alzando le mani in aria. ‘Come si può offrire una somma così misera a una signora con tali qualità e capacità?’
“‘Le mie capacità, signore, potrebbero essere inferiori a quanto lei immagina,’ ho risposto. ‘So un po’ di francese, un po’ di tedesco, so suonare il pianoforte e disegnare, ’
“‘Oh, ma che importanza ha?’ ha detto lui. ‘L’importante è: ha davvero l’aspetto e i modi di una signora? Ecco la vera questione. Se non li ha, allora non è adatta a educare un bambino che un giorno potrebbe svolgere un ruolo importante nella storia del paese. Ma se li ha, perché mai un gentiluomo dovrebbe chiederle di accettare uno stipendio inferiore alle tre cifre? Con me, signora, il suo stipendio inizierebbe da 100 sterline all’anno.’” “Potete immaginare, signor Holmes, che per me, essendo così indigente, un’offerta del genere sembrasse quasi troppo bella per essere vera. Tuttavia, il gentiluomo, forse notando l’espressione di incredulità sul mio viso, aprì una borsa da tasca e ne estrasse un biglietto. “‘È anche mia abitudine,’ disse sorridendo in modo molto piacevole, fino a quando i suoi occhi non divennero due piccole fessure luminose tra le rughe bianche del suo viso, ‘pagare alle mie giovani signore metà dello stipendio in anticipo, affinché possano coprire eventuali spese di viaggio o di abbigliamento.’ “Mi sembrava di non aver mai incontrato un uomo così affascinante e premuroso. Poiché già dovevo dei soldi ai miei fornitori, quell’anticipo rappresentava davvero una grande comodità. Tuttavia c’era qualcosa di insolito in tutta quella situazione che mi spinse a voler sapere di più prima di impegnarmi completamente. “‘Posso chiederle dove vive, signore?’ dissi. “‘Nel Hampshire. Un luogo rurale incantevole. The Copper Beeches, a cinque miglia da Winchester. È una regione davvero meravigliosa, mia cara giovane signora, e anche la casa è molto bella.’ “‘E quali sarebbero i miei compiti, signore? Mi piacerebbe saperlo.’ “‘Bisognerà prendersi cura di un bambino, un adorabile piccolo monello di sei anni. Oh, se solo poteste vederlo mentre uccide le blatte con una pantofola! Schiaffo! Schiaffo! Tre blatte eliminate in un attimo!’ Si appoggiò allo schienale della sedia e scoppiò a ridere di nuovo. “Ero un po’ sorpresa dal tipo di divertimento preferito da quel bambino. Ma il riso del padre mi fece pensare che forse stesse scherzando. “‘Quindi i miei unici compiti sarebbero prendersi cura di un solo bambino?’ chiesi. “‘No, no, non solo,’ esclamò. ‘Il vostro compito sarebbe, come sicuramente capirete, obbedire a qualsiasi piccola richiesta mia moglie potesse farvi, purché si tratti di ordini che una signora possa onorare in modo appropriato. Capite? Non c’è alcuna difficoltà, vero?’ “‘Sarei felice di essere utile.’ “‘Esatto. Per esempio, per quanto riguarda l’abbigliamento. Siamo persone un po’ capricciose, sapete, ma anche gentili. Se vi chiedessimo di indossare qualche abito che vi fornissimo, non vi opporreste, vero?’ “‘No,’ dissi, piuttosto sorpresa dalle sue parole. “‘O di sedervi qui o lì. Non vi sembrerebbe offensivo, vero?’ “‘Oh, no.’ “‘O di tagliarvi i capelli molto corti prima di venire da noi?’ “Riuscivo a malapena a credere alle mie orecchie. Come potete vedere, signor Holmes, i miei capelli sono piuttosto lunghi e di un colore castano particolare. Si direbbe che sia una scelta artistica. Non avrei mai pensato di sacrificarli in modo così improvviso. “‘Temo che sia davvero impossibile,’ dissi. Lui mi stava osservando attentamente con i suoi piccoli occhi. E vidi un’ombra passargli sul viso mentre parlavo. “‘Temo che sia assolutamente necessario,’ rispose. ‘È una piccola eccentricità di mia moglie. E le eccentricità delle signore, sapete, bisogna sempre tenerle in considerazione. Quindi non taglierete i vostri capelli?’ “‘No, signore. Davvero non potrei farlo,’ risposi con fermezza.” “Ah, molto bene; allora la questione è risolta. È un peccato, perché in altri aspetti avreste davvero fatto molto bene. In tal caso, signorina Stoper, sarà meglio che esamini altre delle vostre giovani dame.”
La direttrice era rimasta seduta tutto il tempo occupata con i suoi documenti, senza dire una parola a nessuno di noi, ma ora mi lanciò uno sguardo così pieno di irritazione che non potei fare a meno di sospettare che avesse perso un’ottima opportunità a causa del mio rifiuto.
“Desiderate che il vostro nome venga registrato nei registri?” chiese.
“Se vi fa piacere, signorina Stoper.”
“Beh, davvero, sembra inutile, visto che rifiutate le offerte più vantaggiose in questo modo,” disse lei bruscamente. “Non potete certo aspettarvi che ci impegniamo a trovare un’altra opportunità del genere per voi. Buongiorno, signorina Hunter.” Batté su un campanello e il paggio mi accompagnò fuori.
Beh, signor Holmes, quando tornai al mio alloggio, scoprii che nel mobile c’era ben poco, mentre sul tavolo c’erano due o tre conti da pagare. Iniziai a chiedermi se non avessi commesso un errore grave. Dopotutto, se quelle persone avevano strane abitudini e si aspettavano obbedienza in questioni davvero insolite, almeno erano disposte a pagarne le conseguenze. Molte istitutrici in Inghilterra guadagnano sì e no 100 sterline all’anno; inoltre, a che mi serviva quel mio lungo capello? Molte persone migliorano tagliandosi i capelli corti, forse anch’io avrei potuto trarne beneficio. Il giorno dopo ero ancora convinta di aver commesso un errore; il giorno successivo ne fui certa. Avevo quasi superato la mia orgoglio al punto di tornare all’agenzia per chiedere se quel posto fosse ancora disponibile. Quando ricevetti questa lettera dal signore stesso, decisi di leggerla a voi:
“‘The Copper Beeches, vicino a Winchester.’” “Cara signorina Hunter: la signorina Stoper mi ha gentilmente fornito il suo indirizzo, e scrivo per chiederle se abbia ripensato alla sua decisione. Mia moglie desidera molto che venga da noi, poiché è stata molto colpita dalla mia descrizione di lei. Siamo disposti a pagarle 30 sterline al trimestre, ovvero 120 sterline all’anno, per compensarla eventuali piccoli disagi che le nostre abitudini potrebbero causare. Dopotutto, non sono poi così esigenti. Mia moglie ama un particolare tono di blu elettrico e vorrebbe che lei indossasse un vestito di quel colore in casa, al mattino. Tuttavia, non è necessario che si compri uno nuovo: abbiamo uno che apparteneva a mia figlia Alice (che ora vive a Filadelfia) e penso che le starebbe molto bene. Per quanto riguarda il fatto di sedersi qui o là, o di divertirsi in qualsiasi modo desideri, non dovrebbe causarle alcun problema. Per quanto riguarda i suoi capelli, beh, è davvero un peccato, soprattutto perché non ho potuto fare a meno di notare quanto siano belli durante il nostro breve incontro. Ma temo di dover essere ferma su questo punto. Spero solo che lo stipendio più alto possa compensarla per questa perdita. I suoi compiti, riguardo al bambino, sono molto leggeri. Quindi, si sforzi davvero di venire. La aspetterò con la carrozza a Winchester. Mi dica quale treno prenderà. Con affetto,
‘Jephro Rucastle.’”
“Ecco la lettera che ho appena ricevuto, signor Holmes. E ho deciso di accettare l’offerta. Tuttavia, prima di prendere una decisione definitiva, vorrei che esaminasse tutta la situazione con me.”
“Beh, signorina Hunter, se ha già preso questa decisione, allora non c’è più nulla da discutere,” disse Holmes sorridendo.
“Ma non mi consiglierebbe di rifiutare?”
“Devo ammettere che non è una situazione che vorrei vedere una mia sorella affrontare, ”
“Cosa significa tutto questo, signor Holmes?”
“Ah, non ho alcuna informazione concreta. Non posso dirlo. Forse lei stessa ha già formulato qualche ipotesi, ”
“Beh, a mio parere, c’è solo una possibile spiegazione: il signor Rucastle sembra essere un uomo molto gentile e cordiale. È possibile che sua moglie sia pazza. Che lui voglia mantenere la situazione sotto controllo per evitare che venga rinchiusa in un manicomio. E che acconsenta a tutte le sue richieste pur di evitarlo, ”
“È una possibilità. Anzi, considerando le circostanze attuali, è probabilmente la più plausibile. Ma comunque, non sembra certo un ambiente adatto per una giovane donna, ”
“Ma i soldi, signor Holmes, i soldi!”
“Beh, sì, lo stipendio è davvero buono. Troppo buono. Ed è proprio questo che mi preoccupa. Perché dovrebbero pagarle 120 sterline all’anno, quando potrebbero scegliere qualcun altro per soli 40 sterline? Deve esserci una ragione molto importante dietro, ”
“Pensavo che, se le avessi raccontato tutta la situazione, lei avrebbe capito meglio. Mi sentirei molto più sicura se sapessi che lei è al mio fianco, ” “Oh, puoi portare via con te quel sentimento. Ti assicuro che il tuo piccolo problema promette di essere il più interessante che mi sia capitato da mesi a questa parte. Alcune delle sue caratteristiche presentano davvero qualcosa di nuovo e originale. Se dovessi trovarti in dubbio o in pericolo, ”
“Pericolo! Quale pericolo prevedi?”
Holmes scosse gravemente la testa. “Non sarebbe più un pericolo se riuscissimo a definirlo con precisione. Ma in qualsiasi momento, di giorno o di notte, un telegramma mi farà arrivare subito ad aiutarti.”
“Questo basta,” disse lei alzandosi rapidamente dalla sedia, con l’ansia ormai completamente svanita dal suo viso. “Ora posso partire per l’Hampshire tranquillamente. Scriverò immediatamente a Mr. Rucastle, mi sacrificherò i capelli stasera e partirò per Winchester domani.” Dopo aver detto alcune parole di ringraziamento a Holmes, ci salutò e se ne andò in fretta.
“Almeno,” dissi mentre sentivamo i suoi passi decisi scendere le scale, “sembra proprio una giovane donna molto capace di badare a se stessa.”
“E dovrebbe esserlo davvero,” disse Holmes con serietà. “Sarò molto sorpreso se non riceveremo sue notizie entro pochi giorni, ” Non trascorse molto tempo prima che la previsione del mio amico si avverasse. Passarono quindici giorni; in quel periodo, spesso i miei pensieri tornavano su di lei, chiedendomi in quale strana direzione dell’esperienza umana quella donna solitaria fosse finita. Lo stipendio insolito, le condizioni particolari, i compiti leggeri, tutto indicava qualcosa di anomalo, anche se non riuscivo a capire se si trattasse di una moda passeggera, di un complotto, o se quell’uomo fosse un filantropo o un malvagio. Per quanto riguardava Holmes, notai che spesso sedeva per mezz’ora di seguito, con le sopracciglia corrugate e lo sguardo assente; tuttavia, quando ne parlavo, lui liquidava l’argomento con un gesto della mano. “Dati! Dati! Dati!” esclamava impazientemente. “Non si possono costruire mattoni senza argilla, ” Eppure, alla fine, ripeteva sempre che nessuna delle sue sorelle avrebbe mai dovuto accettare una situazione del genere. Il telegramma che alla fine ricevemmo arrivò tardi una notte, proprio mentre stavo pensando di andare a letto e Holmes si stava dedicando a uno di quei suoi lunghi studi chimici notturni. Lo lasciavo sempre chino su un becher e dei tubetti di laboratorio, e lo trovavo nella stessa posizione anche la mattina, quando scendevo a colazione. Aprì l’invio giallo, diede un’occhiata al messaggio e me lo passò.
“Basta consultare il Bradshaw per scoprire i treni,” disse, poi tornò ai suoi esperimenti chimici.
L’appello era breve e urgente: “Si prega di recarsi all’hotel Black Swan a Winchester alle dodici di domani. Venga assolutamente! Sono al limite delle mie risorse. HUNTER.”
“Verrà con me?” chiese Holmes, alzando lo sguardo.
“Lo vorrei molto.”
“Allora controlli subito i treni.”
“C’è un treno alle venti e trenta,” dissi dopo aver consultato il Bradshaw. “Arriva a Winchester alle undici e mezza.” “Quello andrà molto bene. Allora forse è meglio che rimandi l’analisi degli acetoni, visto che potremmo aver bisogno di essere al nostro meglio domani mattina.”
Alle undici del giorno seguente eravamo già in viaggio verso l’antica capitale inglese. Lungo il cammino, Holmes era stato completamente assorbito dai giornali del mattino; ma dopo aver superato il confine dello Hampshire li gettò via e iniziò ad ammirare il paesaggio. Era una giornata primaverile ideale: un cielo di un azzurro chiaro, punteggiato da piccole nuvole bianche che si spostavano da ovest a est; il sole splendeva intensamente, eppure nell’aria c’era una freschezza tonificante che rinvigoriva. In tutta la campagna, fino alle colline ondulate intorno ad Aldershot, i piccoli tetti rossi e grigi delle fattorie spuntavano tra il verde tenero dei nuovi germogli.
“Non sono forse freschi e belli?” esclamai con entusiasmo, come chi fosse appena uscito dalle nebbie di Baker Street.
Ma Holmes scosse gravemente la testa.
“Sai, Watson,” disse, “uno dei mali di una mente come la mia è che devo considerare tutto in relazione al mio argomento di studio specifico. Tu guardi queste case sparse e ne sei colpito dalla loro bellezza; io, invece, vedo solo la loro solitudine e l’impunità con cui lì possono essere commessi crimini.”
“Mio Dio!” esclamai. “Chi potrebbe associare il crimine a queste adorabili case antiche?”
“Per me rappresentano sempre una sorta di orrore. Secondo la mia esperienza, Watson, anche i vicoli più infimi e sporchi di Londra non presentano un registro di peccati più terribile di questa campagna serena e bella.”
“Mi spaventi, ”
“Ma il motivo è ovvio: nella città la pressione dell’opinione pubblica riesce a fare ciò che la legge non può. Non esiste vicolo così squallido in cui il grido di un bambino torturato o il colpo di un ubriaco non suscitino compassione e indignazione tra i vicini; inoltre, tutto il sistema giudiziario è sempre pronto ad intervenire al minimo segnale di denuncia. Ma guarda queste case isolate, circondate da campi, dove vivono per lo più persone povere e ignoranti che conoscono poco o nulla della legge. Immagina quali atti di crudeltà orribili possano avvenire lì, anno dopo anno, senza che nessuno se ne accorga. Se questa signora fosse andata a vivere a Winchester, non avrei mai avuto paura per lei. È proprio questi cinque miglia di campagna a rappresentare il vero pericolo. Comunque, è evidente che lei personalmente non corre alcun rischio.”
“No. Se riesce ad arrivare a Winchester per incontrarci, potrà scappare.”
“Esatto. Ha la sua libertà, ”
“Allora, qual è il problema? Puoi suggerire qualche spiegazione?” “Ho elaborato sette spiegazioni diverse, ciascuna delle quali potrebbe giustificare i fatti che conosciamo. Ma quale di queste sia corretta lo possiamo scoprire solo attraverso le nuove informazioni che sicuramente troveremo in attesa di noi. Beh, c’è la torre della cattedrale, e presto sapremo tutto ciò che la signorina Hunter ha da dirci.”
Il Black Swan è una locanda rinomata in High Street, non lontana dalla stazione; lì trovammo la giovane donna ad aspettarci. Aveva prenotato una sala da pranzo e il nostro pasto ci attendeva già sul tavolo.
“Sono così felice che siate venuti,” disse con sincerità. “È davvero molto gentile da parte vostra, ma onestamente non so proprio cosa fare. I vostri consigli saranno per me di inestimabile valore.”
“Per favore, raccontateci esattamente cosa vi è successo.”
“Lo farò, e devo farlo in fretta, perché ho promesso al signor Rucastle di tornare entro le tre. Mi ha dato il permesso di venire in città questa mattina, anche se probabilmente non sapeva a quale scopo.”
“Raccontateci tutto nell’ordine giusto,” disse Holmes, sistemandosi davanti al fuoco con le sue lunghe gambe magre.
“Prima di tutto, devo dire che in generale non ho ricevuto alcun trattamento negativo da parte del signor e della signora Rucastle. È giusto riconoscerlo. Ma non riesco a capirli, e sono davvero preoccupata per loro.”
“Cosa non riuscite a capire?”
“I motivi che li spingono a comportarsi in quel modo, ”
“Allora raccontateci tutto, esattamente come è successo.” “Sono stato investito dal mio datore di lavoro, che era come sempre molto affabile; quella sera stesso mi ha presentato sua moglie e il loro figlio. Non c’era alcuna verità nella congettura che ci sembrava plausibile nelle vostre stanze di Baker Street, signor Holmes: la signora Rucastle non è pazza. L’ho trovata una donna silenziosa, dal viso pallido, molto più giovane di suo marito; credo non abbia più di trent’anni, mentre lui deve avere almeno quarantacinque. Dal loro modo di parlare ho capito che sono sposati da circa sette anni; lui era vedovo e l’unica figlia avuta dalla prima moglie è quella che è andata a Filadelfia. Il signor Rucastle mi ha detto in privato che la ragione per cui lei se n’era andata era un’avversione irragionevole verso sua matrigna. Poiché la figlia doveva avere almeno vent’anni, posso facilmente immaginare che la situazione con la giovane moglie di suo padre fosse molto difficile per lei. “La signora Rucastle mi è sembrata priva sia di intelligenza che di personalità; non mi ha fatto né una buona impressione né una cattiva. Era praticamente invisibile. Era evidente, tuttavia, che fosse profondamente devota sia a suo marito che a suo figlioletto. I suoi occhi grigi chiaro si posavano continuamente su di loro, osservando ogni piccolo bisogno e cercando di soddisfarlo se possibile. Anche lui era gentile con lei, a modo suo schietto e rumoroso. Nel complesso, sembravano una coppia felice. Eppure quella donna nascondeva un dolore segreto: spesso si perdeva in profonde riflessioni, con uno sguardo molto triste sul viso; più di una volta l’ho trovata in lacrime. A volte ho pensato che fosse la cattiva educazione del loro figlio a pesarle sulla mente. Non avevo mai incontrato un bambino così viziato e cattivo. È piccolo per la sua età, con una testa decisamente troppo grande; sembra passare tutto il suo tempo tra scatti di violenza e periodi di malumore cupo. Far soffrire chiunque sia più debole di lui sembra essere la sua unica fonte di divertimento. Dimostra addirittura notevoli capacità nel catturare topi, uccellini e insetti. Ma preferisco non parlare di quel bambino, signor Holmes. In realtà, ha poco a che fare con la mia storia. “Sono contento di tutte queste dettagli,” osservò il mio amico, “anche se forse non sembrano rilevanti, ” “Cercherò di non perdere nulla di importante. L’unica cosa sgradevole riguardo a quella casa, che mi è colpita subito, era l’aspetto e il comportamento dei domestici. Ce ne sono solo due: un uomo e sua moglie. Toller, questo è il suo nome, è un uomo ruvido e rozzo, con i capelli e la barba grigiastri, e un odore costante di alcol. Da quando sono con loro, ci sono stati due momenti in cui era completamente ubriaco, ma il signor Rucastle non sembrava darci peso. Sua moglie è una donna molto alta e robusta, con un viso cupo; è altrettanto silenziosa del signor Rucastle e ancora meno affabile. Sono davvero una coppia sgradevole, ma fortunatamente trascorro la maggior parte del tempo nella nursery e nella mia stanza, che si trovano una accanto all’altra in un angolo dell’edificio. “Per due giorni dopo il mio arrivo a Copper Beeches, la mia vita è stata molto tranquilla; il terzo giorno, la signora Rucastle scese poco dopo colazione e sussurrò qualcosa al marito.
‘Oh, sì,’ disse lui, rivolgendosi a me, ‘siamo davvero molto grati a voi, signorina Hunter, per aver acconsentito ai nostri capricci tagliandovi i capelli. Vi assicuriamo che questo non ha minimamente compromesso il vostro aspetto. Ora vedremo come vi stia addosso quel vestito di colore blu elettrico. Lo troverete sul letto nella vostra stanza; se foste così gentile da indossarlo, ne saremmo molto grati.’
“Il vestito che mi aspettava aveva un colore blu particolare; era fatto di ottimo materiale, una sorta di beige, ma presentava chiari segni di essere stato già indossato in precedenza. Non avrebbe potuto stare meglio se fossi stata misurata apposta. Sia il signor che la signora Rucastle espressero grande entusiasmo nel vederlo; sembrava davvero eccessivo. Mi aspettavano nel salotto, una stanza molto grande che si estende lungo l’intera facciata della casa, con tre grandi finestre che arrivano fino al pavimento. Una sedia era stata posta vicino alla finestra centrale; mi fu chiesto di sedermici, e poi il signor Rucastle, camminando avanti e indietro dall’altra parte della stanza, iniziò a raccontarmi una serie di storie molto divertenti. Non potete immaginare quanto fosse comico. Ridevo fino a sentirmi stanca. La signora Rucastle, invece, che evidentemente non ha alcun senso dell’umorismo, non sorrise nemmeno una volta; sedeva lì, con le mani in grembo, e un’espressione triste e ansiosa sul viso. Dopo circa un’ora, il signor Rucastle disse improvvisamente che era arrivato il momento di iniziare le attività quotidiane. Mi chiese di cambiarmi e di andare da piccolo Edward nella nursery.” “Due giorni dopo, lo stesso spettacolo fu ripetuto in circostanze esattamente simili. Di nuovo cambiai abito, di nuovo mi sedetti vicino alla finestra e di nuovo risi molto alle storie divertenti che il mio datore di lavoro raccontava con grande maestria. Poi mi porse un romanzo con copertina gialla; spostò leggermente la mia sedia per evitare che la mia ombra coprisse le pagine e mi chiese di leggere ad alta voce per lui. Lessi per circa dieci minuti, poi, all’improvviso, nel bel mezzo di una frase, mi ordinò di smettere e di cambiare abito di nuovo.
‘Può immaginare, signor Holmes, quanto fossi curiosa di scoprire il significato di tutto questo comportamento strano. Osservai che facevano sempre in modo che io non potessi guardare fuori dalla finestra; quindi ero assolutamente desiderosa di sapere cosa stesse succedendo alle mie spalle. All’inizio sembrava impossibile, ma presto trovai un modo: il mio specchio da tasca era rotto, così nacque in me l’idea di nascondere un pezzo di vetro nel fazzoletto. La volta successiva, mentre ridevo, mi misi il fazzoletto sugli occhi e riuscii a vedere tutto ciò che accadeva dietro di me. Devo ammettere che rimasi delusa: non c’era nulla. Almeno all’inizio. Ma guardando meglio, notai un uomo in piedi sulla strada di Southampton Road: un ometto con la barba, vestito di grigio, che sembrava fissarmi. Quella strada è molto trafficata. Ma quell’uomo era appoggiato alle ringhiere del nostro campo e guardava verso l’alto con aria attenta. Abbassai il fazzoletto e vidi che la signora Rucastle mi fissava con uno sguardo intenso. Non disse nulla, ma sono sicura che capì che avevo un specchio in mano e che avevo visto ciò che c’era dietro di me. Si alzò immediatamente e disse: “Jephro, c’è un individuo maleducato sulla strada che sta fissando la signorina Hunter, ” Lui chiese: “Non è un suo conoscente, signorina Hunter?” Lei rispose: “No. Non conosco nessuno in queste zone, ” Allora lui disse: “Dio mio. Che maleducazione! Per favore, si giri e gli dica di andarsene, ” Ma lei insistette: “Meglio ignorarlo. Altrimenti continuerà a gironzolare qui intorno, ” Così feci, e in quel momento la signora Rucastle abbassò le tende. È passata una settimana. Da allora non mi sono più seduta vicino alla finestra, non ho più indossato quell’abito blu. E non ho più visto quell’uomo sulla strada.”
“Prosegua, la prego, ” disse Holmes. “La sua storia promette di essere davvero molto interessante, ” “Temo che vi sembrerà piuttosto sconnesso, e potrebbe non esserci alcuna relazione tra i diversi eventi di cui parlo. Il primo giorno in cui mi trovai a Copper Beeches, il signor Rucastle mi portò in una piccola stalla situata vicino alla porta della cucina. Mentre ci avvicinavamo, sentii il rumore stridulo di una catena e il suono prodotto da un animale grande che si muoveva lì dentro. “‘Guarda qui!’ disse il signor Rucastle, mostrandomi una fessura tra due assi. ‘Non è bellissimo?’ “Guardai attraverso la fessura e vidi due occhi luminosi e una figura vaga rannicchiata nell’oscurità. “‘Non avere paura,’ disse il mio datore di lavoro, ridendo del mio spavento iniziale. ‘È solo Carlo, il mio mastino. Lo chiamo mio, ma in realtà l’unico che riesce a controllarlo è il vecchio Toller, il mio stalliere. Gli diamo da mangiare una volta al giorno, e non troppo, così rimane sempre molto energico. Toller lo lascia libero ogni sera. E Dio aiuti chiunque osi invadere il suo territorio! Per l’amor del cielo, non mettere mai piede lì dentro di notte, a nessun costo. Altrimenti potresti perdere la vita.’ “Quel monito non era affatto vano. Due notti dopo, verso le due di mattina, stavo guardando fuori dalla finestra della mia camera. Era una bella notte di luna piena; il prato davanti alla casa era illuminato come se fosse giorno. Mentre ammiravo quella tranquilla bellezza, notai qualcosa che si muoveva nell’ombra degli alberi. Quando emerse sotto la luce della luna, vidi di cosa si trattava: un cane gigantesco, grande quanto un vitello, di colore marrone chiaro, con mascelle pendule, muso nero e ossa sporgenti. Camminò lentamente attraverso il prato e scomparve nell’ombra dall’altra parte. Quel terribile animale mi fece venire i brividi. Credo che nessun ladro riuscirebbe a fare lo stesso, ” “Ora devo raccontarvi un’esperienza molto strana. Come sapete, avevo tagliato i miei capelli a Londra e li avevo messi in una grande treccia, riposta sul fondo del mio baule. Una sera, dopo che il bambino era andato a letto, iniziai a curiosare tra gli oggetti della mia stanza. C’era un vecchio comò: i due cassetti superiori erano vuoti e aperti, quello inferiore chiuso a chiave. Avevo già messo i miei vestiti nei primi due cassetti. Ma avevo ancora molte cose da impacchettare, quindi mi infastidì non poter utilizzare il terzo cassetto. Pensai che forse fosse semplicemente chiuso per errore. Così presi le mie chiavi e provai ad aprirlo. La prima chiave che provai andò perfettamente. Dentro c’era solo una cosa. Ma sono sicura che non riuscireste mai a indovinare quale fosse. Era la mia treccia di capelli, ” “Lo presi e lo esaminai attentamente. Aveva lo stesso colore particolare e la stessa consistenza. Ma poi mi resi conto dell’impossibilità della cosa: come potevano i miei capelli essere finiti nel cassetto? Con mani tremanti aprii il mio baule, rovesciai il contenuto e tirai fuori i miei capelli. Miscai le due ciocche insieme, e vi assicuro che erano identiche. Non era straordinario? Per quanto ci pensassi, non riuscivo a capire cosa significasse tutto questo. Rimisi quei capelli nel cassetto e non dissi nulla ai Rucastle, perché sentivo di aver commesso un errore aprendo un cassetto che loro avevano chiuso a chiave. “Sono naturalmente osservatrice, come avrete notato voi stesso, signor Holmes. E presto mi fui fatta un’idea abbastanza chiara di tutta la casa. C’era però un lato che sembrava del tutto disabitato. Una porta che dava sulle stanze dei Tollers si apriva su quel settore della casa, ma era sempre chiusa a chiave. Un giorno, però, mentre salivo le scale, incontrai il signor Rucastle che ne usciva, con le chiavi in mano e un’espressione sul viso che lo faceva sembrare una persona completamente diversa dall’uomo allegro e cordiale a cui ero abituata. Le guance erano rosse, la fronte corrugata dalla rabbia. Le vene delle tempie spiccavano per l’emozione. Chiuse la porta e passò oltre senza dire una parola. “Questo destò la mia curiosità. Così, quando uscii a fare una passeggiata nel giardino con il mio bambino in custodia, mi diressi verso quella parte della casa da cui potevo vedere le finestre. Ce n’erano quattro in fila: tre erano semplicemente sporche, mentre la quarta era chiusa con le persiane abbassate. Chiaramente tutte disabitate. Mentre camminavo avanti e indietro, guardandole di tanto in tanto, il signor Rucastle uscì e mi venne incontro, ancora sorridente e allegro come sempre. “‘Ah!’ disse, ‘non pensiate che io sia scortese se vi ignoro, mia cara giovane signora. Ero impegnato in affari importanti.’ “Gli assicurai che non ero offesa. ‘A proposito,’ dissi, ‘sembra che abbiate un intero reparto di stanze libere lassù, e una di queste ha le persiane chiuse.’ “Sembrò sorpreso, e, a mio parere, anche un po’ allarmato dalla mia osservazione. “‘La fotografia è uno dei miei hobby,’ disse. ‘Ho allestito il mio laboratorio fotografico lassù. Ma, mio Dio! Che ragazza attenta che siamo incontrata. Chi avrebbe mai potuto crederci?’ Parlava in tono scherzoso, ma nei suoi occhi non c’era alcun sorriso. C’era solo sospetto e irritazione.” “Beh, signor Holmes, dal momento in cui capii che c’era qualcosa in quella serie di stanze che non dovevo conoscere, non vedevo l’ora di esaminarle. Non si trattava semplicemente di curiosità, anche se ne ho una certa dose. Era più un senso del dovere: il presentimento che scoprire qualcosa di importante potesse derivare da quella indagine. Si parla dell’istinto femminile; forse fu proprio questo istinto a spingermi. Comunque sia, quel sentimento era forte, e aspettavo con impazienza l’occasione per superare quella porta proibita. “Solo ieri è arrivata quell’opportunità. Devo dirvi che, oltre al signor Rucastle, anche Toller e sua moglie avevano qualcosa da fare in quelle stanze abbandonate; una volta lo vidi portare con sé una grande borsa di lino nero mentre entrava. Ultimamente beveva molto, e ieri sera era completamente ubriaco. Quando salii al piano di sopra, la chiave era ancora nella porta. Non ho alcun dubbio che l’avesse lasciata lì lui stesso. Il signor e la signora Rucastle erano entrambi al piano di sotto, insieme al bambino. Quindi avevo un’ottima opportunità. Girai dolcemente la chiave nella serratura, aprii la porta e mi infilai dentro. “Davanti a me c’era un piccolo corridoio, senza carta da parati né tappeti; alla fine svoltava ad angolo retto. Dietro quell’angolo c’erano tre porte allineate: la prima e la terza erano aperte. Ognuna conduceva in una stanza vuota, polverosa e desolata. Una stanza con due finestre; entrambe così sporche che la luce del tramonto filtrava appena attraverso di esse. La porta centrale era chiusa; dall’esterno era stata fissata una delle sbarre di un letto di ferro, bloccata a un’estremità con una catena a un anello sul muro, e all’altra con una corda robusta. Anche quella porta era chiusa a chiave. La chiave non c’era. Quella barriera corrispondeva chiaramente alla finestra oscurata fuori. Eppure, dalla fessura sotto la porta, si vedeva che la stanza non era completamente buia. C’era sicuramente una finestra sul soffitto che lasciava entrare luce. Mentre stavo lì a fissare quella porta misteriosa, all’improvviso sentii dei passi all’interno della stanza. Vidi una ombra muoversi avanti e indietro davanti alla fessura di luce. Signor Holmes, provai un terrore folle. I miei nervi si spezzarono. Mi girai e corsi via. Corsi come se qualcosa di terribile mi stesse inseguendo. Scorsi giù per il corridoio, uscii dalla porta. E mi ritrovai tra le braccia del signor Rucastle, che aspettava fuori. “‘Ecco quindi chi era,’ disse lui sorridendo. ‘Ho pensato che fosse tu quando ho visto la porta aperta, ’
“‘Oh, sono così spaventata!’ ansimai.
“‘Mia cara giovane signora. Mia cara giovane signora!’. Non potete immaginare quanto fosse dolce e rassicurante il suo tono, ‘Ma cosa ti ha spaventato, mia cara?’
“Tuttavia, la sua voce era un po’ troppo suadente. Aveva esagerato. Ero estremamente diffidente nei suoi confronti, ” “Ero così sciocco da entrare in quella ala deserta,” risposi. “Ma è così solitaria e inquietante in questa luce fioca che mi sono spaventato e sono scappato via di nuovo. Oh, là dentro c’è un silenzio terribile!”
“Solo questo?” disse lui, guardandomi attentamente.
“Beh, cosa pensavi che ci fosse?” chiesi.
“Perché credi che io chiuda questa porta?”
“Sono sicuro di non saperlo, ”
“È per tenere fuori le persone che non hanno nulla da fare lì. Capisci?” Continuava a sorridere in modo molto amichevole.
“Sicuramente, se lo avessi saputo, ”
“Allora, ora lo sai. E se mai metti di nuovo piede oltre quella soglia, ” In un istante il suo sorriso si trasformò in una smorfia di rabbia; mi fissò con lo sguardo di un demone. “Ti getterò addosso i cani da caccia, ” “Ero così spaventata che non so cosa abbia fatto. Immagino di essere corsa nella mia stanza senza nemmeno pensarci. Non ricordo nulla fino a quando non mi sono ritrovata sdraiata sul letto, tremante in tutto il corpo. Allora ho pensato a voi, signor Holmes. Non avrei potuto continuare a vivere lì senza il vostro consiglio. Avevo paura della casa, di quell’uomo, di quella donna, dei domestici, persino del bambino. Tutti mi sembravano orribili. Se solo fossi riuscita a farvi venire qui, tutto sarebbe andato bene. Certo, avrei potuto anche fuggire dalla casa, ma la mia curiosità era quasi altrettanto forte dei miei timori. Alla fine ho deciso di inviarvi un telegramma. Ho indossato cappello e mantello, sono andata nell’ufficio che si trova a circa mezzo miglio di distanza dalla casa, e poi sono tornata a casa, sentendomi molto più tranquilla. Mentre mi avvicinavo alla porta, mi è venuta un’orribile paura, temevo che il cane fosse libero. Ma ricordavo che quella sera Toller si era ubriacato fino allo stordimento, e sapevo che lui era l’unica persona in casa che potesse controllare quell’animale selvaggio. Sono riuscita a entrare senza problemi, e sono rimasta sveglia per metà della notte, felice all’idea di vedervi.” Non ho avuto alcuna difficoltà ad ottenere il permesso di venire a Winchester stamattina, ma devo tornare prima delle tre, perché il signor e la signora Rucastle sono andati a fare una visita e saranno via per tutta la sera; quindi devo occuparmi del bambino. Ora che vi ho raccontato tutte le mie avventure, signor Holmes, sarei molto grata se poteste dirmi cosa tutto questo significa, e soprattutto cosa dovrei fare. Holmes ed io avevamo ascoltato questa straordinaria storia in silenzio, incantati. Ora mio amico si alzò e cominciò a camminare avanti e indietro nella stanza, con le mani in tasca e un’espressione di estrema serietà sul viso.
“Toller è ancora ubriaco?” chiese.
“Sì. Ho sentito sua moglie dire alla signora Rucastle che non riusciva a fare nulla con lui.”
“Bene. I Rucastle escono stasera?”
“Sì.”
“C’è un seminterrato con una serratura robusta?”
“Sì, il magazzino del vino.”
“Miss Hunter, mi sembra che in tutta questa situazione siate stata davvero coraggiosa e sensata. Credete di poter compiere ancora un’impresa simile? Non ve lo chiederei se non pensassi che siate una donna davvero eccezionale.”
“Ci proverò. Di cosa si tratta?” “Ce l’abbiamo fatta,” risposi.
“Mio caro Watson, come medico sei abituato a studiare le tendenze di un bambino osservando i suoi genitori. Non capisci che il contrario è altrettanto valido? Spesso ho ottenuto una vera comprensione del carattere dei genitori studiando i loro figli. Il temperamento di questo bambino è straordinariamente crudele, e lo è soltanto per il gusto della crudeltà stessa. Che questa crudeltà derivi dal suo padre, come sospetto, o dalla sua madre, in ogni caso, ciò preannuncia disastri per la povera ragazza che è in loro potere.”
“Sono sicuro che avete ragione, signor Holmes,” esclamò il nostro cliente. “Mille cose ora mi tornano in mente. Sì, avete indovinato! Oh, dobbiamo agire immediatamente per salvare questa povera creatura.”
“Dobbiamo essere cauti: abbiamo a che fare con un uomo molto astuto. Non possiamo fare nulla prima delle sette. A quell’ora saremo da voi, e non passerà molto prima che risolviamo il mistero.”
Puntuammo alla nostra promessa: erano esattamente le sette quando arrivammo ai Copper Beeches, dopo aver lasciato la nostra trappola in una locanda lungo la strada. Il gruppo di alberi, con i loro fogli scuri che brillavano come metallo lucido sotto il sole morente, era sufficiente a indicarci la casa, anche se non fosse stata Miss Hunter ad aspettarci sorridente sul gradino d’ingresso.
“Ce l’avete fatta?” chiese Holmes. Un forte rumore provenne da qualche parte al piano di sotto. “È la signora Toller nel seminterrato,” disse lei. “Suo marito russa sul tappeto della cucina. Ecco le sue chiavi; sono delle copie di quelle del signor Rucastle.”
“Avete fatto davvero un ottimo lavoro!” esclamò Holmes con entusiasmo. “Ora guidateci, e presto vedremo la fine di questa brutta faccenda.”
Salimmo le scale, aprimmo la porta e seguimmo un corridoio, fino ad arrivare davanti al baricade descritto dalla signorina Hunter. Holmes tagliò la corda e rimuove il palo trasversale; poi provò diverse chiavi nella serratura, ma senza successo. Non proveniva alcun suono dall’interno. Il viso di Holmes si oscurò.
“Spero che non sia troppo tardi,” disse. “Signorina Hunter, forse è meglio che entriamo da soli. Ora, Watson, mettete tutta la vostra forza: vediamo se riusciamo a entrare.”
La porta era vecchia e traballante; con le nostre forze unite si aprì immediatamente. Entrammo nella stanza. Era vuota. Non c’era alcun mobile, tranne un piccolo letto di legno, un tavolino e un cesto pieno di biancheria da letto. La finestra sul soffitto era aperta. Il prigioniero se n’era andato.
“Qui è successo qualcosa di losco,” disse Holmes. “Quel individuo deve aver indovinato le intenzioni della signorina Hunter e ha portato via la sua vittima, ”
“Ma come?”
“Attraverso la finestra. Presto scopriremo come ci è riuscito.” Si arrampicò sul tetto e gridò: “Ah, eccola. Una lunga scala appoggiata al bordo del tetto. È così che l’ha fatto.”
“Ma è impossibile, ” disse la signorina Hunter. “La scala non c’era quando i Rucastle se ne sono andati, ”
“È tornato e l’ha sistemata. Vi dico che è un uomo astuto e pericoloso. Non mi sorprenderei affatto se fosse lui quello che sentiamo ora salire le scale. Watson, sarebbe meglio tenere pronta la pistola, ”
Non aveva ancora finito di parlare che un uomo apparve sulla porta della stanza: un individuo molto grasso e robusto, con un grosso bastone in mano. La signorina Hunter gridò e si appiattì contro il muro. Ma Sherlock Holmes gli andò incontro.
“Tu traditore!” disse. “Dov’è tua figlia?”
L’uomo guardò intorno, poi alzò lo sguardo verso la finestra aperta.
“È a me che dovete rispondere!” urlò. “Voi ladri. Spie e ladri! Vi ho catturati. Siete in mio potere, ” Si girò e corse giù per le scale il più velocemente possibile.
“È andato a prendere il cane, ” gridò la signorina Hunter.
“Ho la mia pistola,” dissi io.
“Meglio chiudere la porta d’ingresso, ” disse Holmes. E tutti insieme corremmo giù per le scale. Appena raggiungemmo l’atrio, sentimmo il latrato di un cane. Poi un grido di dolore. Un suono orribile. Un anziano uomo con il viso rosso e le gambe tremanti uscì barcollando da una porta laterale.
“Dio mio, ” gridò. “Qualcuno ha liberato il cane. Non è stato nutrito per due giorni. Presto, presto. Altrimenti sarà troppo tardi!” Holmes ed io ci precipitammo fuori e girammo l’angolo della casa; Toller ci seguiva di corsa. Lì c’era quella enorme bestia affamata, con il muso nero conficcato nel collo di Rucastle, che si contorceva e urlava a terra. Corsi verso di essa e le sparai in testa; cadde a terra, i suoi denti bianchi ancora conficcati nelle profonde ferite del suo collo. Con grande sforzo riuscimmo a separarli e portammo Rucastle in casa, ancora vivo ma terribilmente mutilato. Lo adagiammo sul divano del salotto; dopo aver mandato Toller, ormai sobrio, a comunicare la notizia a sua moglie, feci tutto il possibile per alleviare le sue sofferenze. Eravamo tutti riuniti intorno a lui quando la porta si aprì e una donna alta e magra entrò nella stanza.
“Signora Toller!” esclamò Miss Hunter.
“Sì, signorina. Il signor Rucastle mi ha lasciata uscire quando è tornato, prima di andare da voi. Ah, signorina. È un peccato che non mi abbiate detto cosa stavate pianificando. Avrei potuto avvertirvi che tutti i vostri sforzi erano inutili.”
“Ah, ” disse Holmes, osservandola attentamente. “È evidente che la signora Toller sa molto di più su questa faccenda di chiunque altro.”
“Sì, signore. Lo so davvero, e sono pronta a raccontare tutto ciò che so.”
“Allora, per favore, si sieda e ci dica tutto. C’è ancora qualche dettaglio che non ho capito del tutto.”
“Ve lo spiegherò presto. E avrei fattolo già prima, se solo fossi riuscita a uscire dal seminterrato. Se dovesse esserci un processo legale in merito, ricorderete che sono stata io ad aiutare il vostro amico. E anche la signorina Alice.”
“Non è mai stata felice in casa sua. Da quando suo padre si è risposato. Era sempre trascurata, non aveva voce in capitolo su nulla. Ma le cose sono peggiorate solo dopo che ha conosciuto il signor Fowler in casa di un’amica. Per quel che ho potuto capire, la signorina Alice aveva diritti legali legati al proprio patrimonio. Ma era così silenziosa e paziente che non ne ha mai parlato. Lasciava tutto nelle mani del signor Rucastle. Lui sapeva di essere al sicuro con lei. Ma quando è apparso la possibilità che qualcun altro chiedesse legalmente una parte del suo patrimonio, suo padre ha deciso di intervenire. Voleva che firmasse un documento, in modo da poter utilizzare i suoi soldi indipendentemente dal fatto che si sposasse o meno. Quando lei si è rifiutata, lui l’ha tormentata fino a farle venire la febbre cerebrale. È rimasta per sei settimane sull’orlo della morte. Poi finalmente si è ripresa. Ma era ormai distrutta. I suoi bellissimi capelli erano stati tagliati. Eppure quel giovane non l’ha mai abbandonata, ”
“Ah, ” disse Holmes. “Credo che tutto ciò che ci ha raccontato chiarisca completamente la situazione. Posso dedurre il resto da solo. Quindi, presumo che il signor Rucastle abbia adottato questo sistema di prigionia, ”
“Sì, signore.”
“E abbia portato qui Miss Hunter da Londra per liberarsi dell’insistenza fastidiosa del signor Fowler, ”
“Esatto, signore.” “Ma poiché il signor Fowler era un uomo perseverante, come dovrebbe essere un buon marinaio, circondò la casa d’assedio e, dopo avervi incontrato, riuscì, con argomentazioni di vario tipo, a convincervi che i vostri interessi erano gli stessi dei suoi.”
“Il signor Fowler era un gentiluomo molto cortese e generoso,” disse tranquillamente la signora Toller.
“E in questo modo fece sì che vostro marito non mancasse mai di nulla da bere, e che una scala fosse sempre pronta nel momento in cui vostro padrone usciva.”
“È esattamente come è accaduto,” disse lei.
“Sono sicuro che vi dobbiamo delle scuse, signora Toller,” disse Holmes, “perché avete certamente chiarito tutto ciò che ci aveva lasciato perplessi. E adesso arriva il chirurgo di campagna e la signora Rucastle. Quindi, Watson, credo sia meglio riaccompagnare la signorina Hunter a Winchester; sembra infatti che la nostra posizione attuale sia piuttosto incerta.”
E così fu risolto il mistero di quella casa sinistra con i faggi di rame davanti alla porta. Il signor Rucastle sopravvisse, ma rimase per sempre un uomo distrutto, tenuto in vita soltanto dalla cura della sua devota moglie. Vivono ancora con i loro vecchi servitori, che probabilmente sanno troppo sulla vita passata di Rucastle, tanto che lui fatica a separarsi da loro. Il signor Fowler e la signora Rucastle si sposarono, con licenza speciale, il giorno dopo la loro fuga; ora lui ricopre una carica governativa sull’isola di Mauritius. Per quanto riguarda la signorina Violet Hunter, mio caro Holmes, a mio grande dispiacere, non mostrò più alcun interesse per lei non appena smise di essere al centro di uno dei suoi problemi. Oggi dirige una scuola privata a Walsall, e credo che abbia avuto notevoli successi.

Le memorie di Sherlock Holmes
Questa raccolta di undici storie su Sherlock Holmes fu pubblicata per la prima volta nel 1894.