The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Regendered

by L. E. Smart

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

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

  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 Ms. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that her life is despaired of."

  "An elderly woman, I presume?" said Holmes.

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

  "Indeed! That is interesting," said Holmes.

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

  "Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this McCarthy, who appears to have had little of her own, and to have been under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying her daughter to Turner's son, who is, presumably, heir 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 herself was averse to the idea. The son 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 her 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 manservant, at Holmes' request, showed us the boots which his mistress wore at the time of her death, and also a pair of the daughter's, though not the pair which she 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 she was hot upon such a scent as this. Women who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker Street would have failed to recognise her. Her face flushed and darkened. Her brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while her eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. Her face was bent downward, her shoulders bowed, her lips compressed, and the veins stood out like whipcord in her long, sinewy neck. Her nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and her mind was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before her that a question or remark fell unheeded upon her ears, or, at the most, only provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently she made her 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 she made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked behind her, the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while I watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the conviction that every one of her 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 Ms. 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 woman. To Holmes, as I could see by her eager face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read upon the trampled grass. She 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?" she 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." She drew out a lens and lay down upon her waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time rather to herself than to us. "These are young McCarthy's feet. Twice she was walking, and once she ran swiftly, so that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out her story. She ran when she saw her mother on the ground. Then here are the mother's feet as she paced up and down. What is this, then? It is the butt-end of the gun as the daughter 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?" She 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 her way to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon her face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time she remained there, turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to me to be dust into an envelope and examining with her lens not only the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as she could reach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also she carefully examined and retained. Then she followed a pathway through the wood until she came to the highroad, where all traces were lost.

  "It has been a case of considerable interest," she remarked, returning to her 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 her the stone which she had picked up in the wood.

  "This may interest you, Lestrade," she 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 murderess?"

  "Is a tall woman, 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 her 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," she 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 lady I describe."

  "But who is she?"

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

  Lestrade shrugged her shoulders. "I am a practical woman," she said, "and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a left-handed lady 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 her 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 her face, as one who finds herself in a perplexing position.

  "Look here, Watson," she 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 her favour and you against her. One was the fact that her mother should, according to her account, cry 'Cooee!' before seeing her. The other was her singular dying reference to a rat. She mumbled several words, you understand, but that was all that caught the daughter's ear. Now from this double point our research must commence, and we will begin it by presuming that what the lass says is absolutely true."

  "What of this 'Cooee!' then?"

  "Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the daughter. The daughter, as far as she knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that she was within earshot. The 'Cooee!' was meant to attract the attention of whoever it was that she 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 her at Boscombe Pool was someone who had been in Australia."

  "What of the rat, then?"

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

  "ARAT," I read.

  "And now?" She raised her hand.

  "BALLARAT."

  "Quite so. That was the word the woman uttered, and of which her daughter only caught the last two syllables. She was trying to utter the name of her murderess. 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 daughter'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 today. 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."

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

  "Yes, they were peculiar boots."

  "But her lameness?"

  "The impression of her right foot was always less distinct than her left. She put less weight upon it. Why? Because she limped -- she was lame."

  "But her 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 woman? She had stood behind that tree during the interview between the mother and daughter. She 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 she 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 her mouth. Therefore, she 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 woman from which she cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as truly as if you had cut the cord which was hanging her. I see the direction in which all this points. The culprit is -- "

  "Ms. Janette Turner," cried the hotel waitress, opening the door of our sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.

  The woman who entered was a strange and impressive figure. Her slow, limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude, and yet her hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and her enormous limbs showed that she was possessed of unusual strength of body and of character. Her grizzled hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows combined to give an air of dignity and power to her appearance, but her face was of an ashen white, while her lips and the corners of her nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear to me at a glance that she 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?" She looked across at my companion with despair in her weary eyes, as though her question was already answered.

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

  The old woman sank her face in her hands. "God help me!" she cried. "But I would not have let the young woman come to harm. I give you my word that I would have spoken out if it went against her 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 boy. It would break his heart -- it will break his heart when he 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 son who required my presence here, and I am acting in his interests. Young McCarthy must be got off, however."

  "I am a dying woman," 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 her pen in her hand and
a bundle of paper before her. "Just tell us the truth," she 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 woman; "it's a question whether I shall live to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I should wish to spare Alvin 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 woman, McCarthy. She was a devil incarnate. I tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of such a woman as she. Her grip has been upon me these twenty years, and she has blasted my life. I'll tell you first how I came to be in her power.

  "It was in the early '60's at the diggings. I was a young lass 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 girls were killed, however, before we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon-driver, who was this very woman McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had shot her then, but I spared her, though I saw her wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as though to remember every feature. We got away with the gold, became wealthy women, 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 husband died young he left me my dear little Alvin. Even when he was just a baby his 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 her grip upon me.