Chapter Chapter 6 · THE ADVENTURE OF BLACK PETER

I have never known my friend to be in better form, both mental

and physical, than in the year ’95. His increasing fame had

brought with it an immense practice, and I should be guilty of an

indiscretion if I were even to hint at the identity of some of

the illustrious clients who crossed our humble threshold in Baker

Street. Holmes, however, like all great artists, lived for his

art’s sake, and, save in the case of the Duke of Holdernesse, I

have seldom known him claim any large reward for his inestimable

services. So unworldly was he—or so capricious—that he frequently

refused his help to the powerful and wealthy where the problem

made no appeal to his sympathies, while he would devote weeks of

most intense application to the affairs of some humble client

whose case presented those strange and dramatic qualities which

appealed to his imagination and challenged his ingenuity.

In this memorable year ’95, a curious and incongruous succession

of cases had engaged his attention, ranging from his famous

investigation of the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca—an inquiry

which was carried out by him at the express desire of His

Holiness the Pope—down to his arrest of Wilson, the notorious

canary-trainer, which removed a plague-spot from the East End of

London. Close on the heels of these two famous cases came the

tragedy of Woodman’s Lee, and the very obscure circumstances

which surrounded the death of Captain Peter Carey. No record of

the doings of Mr. Sherlock Holmes would be complete which did not

include some account of this very unusual affair.

During the first week of July, my friend had been absent so often

and so long from our lodgings that I knew he had something on

hand. The fact that several rough-looking men called during that

time and inquired for Captain Basil made me understand that

Holmes was working somewhere under one of the numerous disguises

and names with which he concealed his own formidable identity. He

had at least five small refuges in different parts of London, in

which he was able to change his personality. He said nothing of

his business to me, and it was not my habit to force a

confidence. The first positive sign which he gave me of the

direction which his investigation was taking was an extraordinary

one. He had gone out before breakfast, and I had sat down to mine

when he strode into the room, his hat upon his head and a huge

barbed-headed spear tucked like an umbrella under his arm.

“Good gracious, Holmes!” I cried. “You don’t mean to say that you

have been walking about London with that thing?”

“I drove to the butcher’s and back.”

“The butcher’s?”

“And I return with an excellent appetite. There can be no

question, my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before

breakfast. But I am prepared to bet that you will not guess the

form that my exercise has taken.”

“I will not attempt it.”

He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.

“If you could have looked into Allardyce’s back shop, you would

have seen a dead pig swung from a hook in the ceiling, and a

gentleman in his shirt sleeves furiously stabbing at it with this

weapon. I was that energetic person, and I have satisfied myself

that by no exertion of my strength can I transfix the pig with a

single blow. Perhaps you would care to try?”

“Not for worlds. But why were you doing this?”

“Because it seemed to me to have an indirect bearing upon the

mystery of Woodman’s Lee. Ah, Hopkins, I got your wire last

night, and I have been expecting you. Come and join us.”

Our visitor was an exceedingly alert man, thirty years of age,

dressed in a quiet tweed suit, but retaining the erect bearing of

one who was accustomed to official uniform. I recognized him at

once as Stanley Hopkins, a young police inspector, for whose

future Holmes had high hopes, while he in turn professed the

admiration and respect of a pupil for the scientific methods of

the famous amateur. Hopkins’s brow was clouded, and he sat down

with an air of deep dejection.

“No, thank you, sir. I breakfasted before I came round. I spent

the night in town, for I came up yesterday to report.”

“And what had you to report?”

“Failure, sir, absolute failure.”

“You have made no progress?”

“None.”

“Dear me! I must have a look at the matter.”

“I wish to heavens that you would, Mr. Holmes. It’s my first big

chance, and I am at my wits’ end. For goodness’ sake, come down

and lend me a hand.”

“Well, well, it just happens that I have already read all the

available evidence, including the report of the inquest, with

some care. By the way, what do you make of that tobacco pouch,

found on the scene of the crime? Is there no clue there?”

Hopkins looked surprised.

“It was the man’s own pouch, sir. His initials were inside it.

And it was of sealskin,—and he was an old sealer.”

“But he had no pipe.”

“No, sir, we could find no pipe. Indeed, he smoked very little,

and yet he might have kept some tobacco for his friends.”

“No doubt. I only mention it because, if I had been handling the

case, I should have been inclined to make that the starting-point

of my investigation. However, my friend, Dr. Watson, knows

nothing of this matter, and I should be none the worse for

hearing the sequence of events once more. Just give us some short

sketches of the essentials.”

Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.

“I have a few dates here which will give you the career of the

dead man, Captain Peter Carey. He was born in ’45—fifty years of

age. He was a most daring and successful seal and whale fisher.

In 1883 he commanded the steam sealer _Sea Unicorn_, of Dundee.

He had then had several successful voyages in succession, and in

the following year, 1884, he retired. After that he travelled for

some years, and finally he bought a small place called Woodman’s

Lee, near Forest Row, in Sussex. There he has lived for six

years, and there he died just a week ago to-day.

“There were some most singular points about the man. In ordinary

life, he was a strict Puritan—a silent, gloomy fellow. His

household consisted of his wife, his daughter, aged twenty, and

two female servants. These last were continually changing, for it

was never a very cheery situation, and sometimes it became past

all bearing. The man was an intermittent drunkard, and when he

had the fit on him he was a perfect fiend. He has been known to

drive his wife and daughter out of doors in the middle of the

night and flog them through the park until the whole village

outside the gates was aroused by their screams.

“He was summoned once for a savage assault upon the old vicar,

who had called upon him to remonstrate with him upon his conduct.

In short, Mr. Holmes, you would go far before you found a more

dangerous man than Peter Carey, and I have heard that he bore the

same character when he commanded his ship. He was known in the

trade as Black Peter, and the name was given him, not only on

account of his swarthy features and the colour of his huge beard,

but for the humours which were the terror of all around him. I

need not say that he was loathed and avoided by every one of his

neighbours, and that I have not heard one single word of sorrow

about his terrible end.

“You must have read in the account of the inquest about the man’s

cabin, Mr. Holmes, but perhaps your friend here has not heard of

it. He had built himself a wooden outhouse—he always called it

the ‘cabin’—a few hundred yards from his house, and it was here

that he slept every night. It was a little, single-roomed hut,

sixteen feet by ten. He kept the key in his pocket, made his own

bed, cleaned it himself, and allowed no other foot to cross the

threshold. There are small windows on each side, which were

covered by curtains and never opened. One of these windows was

turned towards the high road, and when the light burned in it at

night the folk used to point it out to each other and wonder what

Black Peter was doing in there. That’s the window, Mr. Holmes,

which gave us one of the few bits of positive evidence that came

out at the inquest.

“You remember that a stonemason, named Slater, walking from

Forest Row about one o’clock in the morning—two days before the

murder—stopped as he passed the grounds and looked at the square

of light still shining among the trees. He swears that the shadow

of a man’s head turned sideways was clearly visible on the blind,

and that this shadow was certainly not that of Peter Carey, whom

he knew well. It was that of a bearded man, but the beard was

short and bristled forward in a way very different from that of

the captain. So he says, but he had been two hours in the

public-house, and it is some distance from the road to the

window. Besides, this refers to the Monday, and the crime was

done upon the Wednesday.

“On the Tuesday, Peter Carey was in one of his blackest moods,

flushed with drink and as savage as a dangerous wild beast. He

roamed about the house, and the women ran for it when they heard

him coming. Late in the evening, he went down to his own hut.

About two o’clock the following morning, his daughter, who slept

with her window open, heard a most fearful yell from that

direction, but it was no unusual thing for him to bawl and shout

when he was in drink, so no notice was taken. On rising at seven,

one of the maids noticed that the door of the hut was open, but

so great was the terror which the man caused that it was midday

before anyone would venture down to see what had become of him.

Peeping into the open door, they saw a sight which sent them

flying, with white faces, into the village. Within an hour, I was

on the spot and had taken over the case.

“Well, I have fairly steady nerves, as you know, Mr. Holmes, but

I give you my word, that I got a shake when I put my head into

that little house. It was droning like a harmonium with the flies

and bluebottles, and the floor and walls were like a

slaughter-house. He had called it a cabin, and a cabin it was,

sure enough, for you would have thought that you were in a ship.

There was a bunk at one end, a sea-chest, maps and charts, a

picture of the _Sea Unicorn_, a line of logbooks on a shelf, all

exactly as one would expect to find it in a captain’s room. And

there, in the middle of it, was the man himself—his face twisted

like a lost soul in torment, and his great brindled beard stuck

upward in his agony. Right through his broad breast a steel

harpoon had been driven, and it had sunk deep into the wood of

the wall behind him. He was pinned like a beetle on a card. Of

course, he was quite dead, and had been so from the instant that

he had uttered that last yell of agony.

“I know your methods, sir, and I applied them. Before I permitted

anything to be moved, I examined most carefully the ground

outside, and also the floor of the room. There were no

footmarks.”

“Meaning that you saw none?”

“I assure you, sir, that there were none.”

“My good Hopkins, I have investigated many crimes, but I have

never yet seen one which was committed by a flying creature. As

long as the criminal remains upon two legs so long must there be

some indentation, some abrasion, some trifling displacement which

can be detected by the scientific searcher. It is incredible that

this blood-bespattered room contained no trace which could have

aided us. I understand, however, from the inquest that there were

some objects which you failed to overlook?”

The young inspector winced at my companion’s ironical comments.

“I was a fool not to call you in at the time Mr. Holmes. However,

that’s past praying for now. Yes, there were several objects in

the room which called for special attention. One was the harpoon

with which the deed was committed. It had been snatched down from

a rack on the wall. Two others remained there, and there was a

vacant place for the third. On the stock was engraved ‘SS. _Sea

Unicorn_, Dundee.’ This seemed to establish that the crime had

been done in a moment of fury, and that the murderer had seized

the first weapon which came in his way. The fact that the crime

was committed at two in the morning, and yet Peter Carey was

fully dressed, suggested that he had an appointment with the

murderer, which is borne out by the fact that a bottle of rum and

two dirty glasses stood upon the table.”

“Yes,” said Holmes; “I think that both inferences are

permissible. Was there any other spirit but rum in the room?”

“Yes, there was a tantalus containing brandy and whisky on the

sea-chest. It is of no importance to us, however, since the

decanters were full, and it had therefore not been used.”

“For all that, its presence has some significance,” said Holmes.

“However, let us hear some more about the objects which do seem

to you to bear upon the case.”

“There was this tobacco-pouch upon the table.”

“What part of the table?”

“It lay in the middle. It was of coarse sealskin—the

straight-haired skin, with a leather thong to bind it. Inside was

‘P.C.’ on the flap. There was half an ounce of strong ship’s

tobacco in it.”

“Excellent! What more?”

Stanley Hopkins drew from his pocket a drab-covered notebook. The

outside was rough and worn, the leaves discoloured. On the first

page were written the initials “J.H.N.” and the date “1883.”

Holmes laid it on the table and examined it in his minute way,

while Hopkins and I gazed over each shoulder. On the second page

were the printed letters “C.P.R.,” and then came several sheets

of numbers. Another heading was “Argentine,” another “Costa

Rica,” and another “San Paulo,” each with pages of signs and

figures after it.

“What do you make of these?” asked Holmes.

“They appear to be lists of Stock Exchange securities. I thought

that ‘J.H.N.’ were the initials of a broker, and that ‘C.P.R.’

may have been his client.”

“Try Canadian Pacific Railway,” said Holmes.

Stanley Hopkins swore between his teeth, and struck his thigh

with his clenched hand.

“What a fool I have been!” he cried. “Of course, it is as you

say. Then ‘J.H.N.’ are the only initials we have to solve. I have

already examined the old Stock Exchange lists, and I can find no

one in 1883, either in the house or among the outside brokers,

whose initials correspond with these. Yet I feel that the clue is

the most important one that I hold. You will admit, Mr. Holmes,

that there is a possibility that these initials are those of the

second person who was present—in other words, of the murderer. I

would also urge that the introduction into the case of a document

relating to large masses of valuable securities gives us for the

first time some indication of a motive for the crime.”

Sherlock Holmes’s face showed that he was thoroughly taken aback

by this new development.

“I must admit both your points,” said he. “I confess that this

notebook, which did not appear at the inquest, modifies any views

which I may have formed. I had come to a theory of the crime in

which I can find no place for this. Have you endeavoured to trace

any of the securities here mentioned?”

“Inquiries are now being made at the offices, but I fear that the

complete register of the stockholders of these South American

concerns is in South America, and that some weeks must elapse

before we can trace the shares.”

Holmes had been examining the cover of the notebook with his

magnifying lens.

“Surely there is some discolouration here,” said he.

“Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain. I told you that I picked the book

off the floor.”

“Was the blood-stain above or below?”

“On the side next the boards.”

“Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after the

crime was committed.”

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated that point, and I conjectured

that it was dropped by the murderer in his hurried flight. It lay

near the door.”

“I suppose that none of these securities have been found among

the property of the dead man?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you any reason to suspect robbery?”

“No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched.”

“Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case. Then there was

a knife, was there not?”

“A sheath-knife, still in its sheath. It lay at the feet of the

dead man. Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband’s

property.”

Holmes was lost in thought for some time.

“Well,” said he, at last, “I suppose I shall have to come out and

have a look at it.”

Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.

“Thank you, sir. That will, indeed, be a weight off my mind.”

Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.

“It would have been an easier task a week ago,” said he. “But

even now my visit may not be entirely fruitless. Watson, if you

can spare the time, I should be very glad of your company. If you

will call a four-wheeler, Hopkins, we shall be ready to start for

Forest Row in a quarter of an hour.”

Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles

through the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of

that great forest which for so long held the Saxon invaders at

bay—the impenetrable “weald,” for sixty years the bulwark of

Britain. Vast sections of it have been cleared, for this is the

seat of the first iron-works of the country, and the trees have

been felled to smelt the ore. Now the richer fields of the North

have absorbed the trade, and nothing save these ravaged groves

and great scars in the earth show the work of the past. Here, in

a clearing upon the green slope of a hill, stood a long, low,

stone house, approached by a curving drive running through the

fields. Nearer the road, and surrounded on three sides by bushes,

was a small outhouse, one window and the door facing in our

direction. It was the scene of the murder.

Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced us

to a haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man,

whose gaunt and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror

in the depths of her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years of

hardship and ill-usage which she had endured. With her was her

daughter, a pale, fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed defiantly

at us as she told us that she was glad that her father was dead,

and that she blessed the hand which had struck him down. It was a

terrible household that Black Peter Carey had made for himself,

and it was with a sense of relief that we found ourselves in the

sunlight again and making our way along a path which had been

worn across the fields by the feet of the dead man.

The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled,

shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the farther

side. Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket and had

stooped to the lock, when he paused with a look of attention and

surprise upon his face.

“Someone has been tampering with it,” he said.

There could be no doubt of the fact. The woodwork was cut, and

the scratches showed white through the paint, as if they had been

that instant done. Holmes had been examining the window.

“Someone has tried to force this also. Whoever it was has failed

to make his way in. He must have been a very poor burglar.”

“This is a most extraordinary thing,” said the inspector, “I

could swear that these marks were not here yesterday evening.”

“Some curious person from the village, perhaps,” I suggested.

“Very unlikely. Few of them would dare to set foot in the

grounds, far less try to force their way into the cabin. What do

you think of it, Mr. Holmes?”

“I think that fortune is very kind to us.”

“You mean that the person will come again?”

“It is very probable. He came expecting to find the door open. He

tried to get in with the blade of a very small penknife. He could

not manage it. What would he do?”

“Come again next night with a more useful tool.”

“So I should say. It will be our fault if we are not there to

receive him. Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin.”

The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the furniture

within the little room still stood as it had been on the night of

the crime. For two hours, with most intense concentration, Holmes

examined every object in turn, but his face showed that his quest

was not a successful one. Once only he paused in his patient

investigation.

“Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?”

“No, I have moved nothing.”

“Something has been taken. There is less dust in this corner of

the shelf than elsewhere. It may have been a book lying on its

side. It may have been a box. Well, well, I can do nothing more.

Let us walk in these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few

hours to the birds and the flowers. We shall meet you here later,

Hopkins, and see if we can come to closer quarters with the

gentleman who has paid this visit in the night.”

It was past eleven o’clock when we formed our little ambuscade.

Hopkins was for leaving the door of the hut open, but Holmes was

of the opinion that this would rouse the suspicions of the

stranger. The lock was a perfectly simple one, and only a strong

blade was needed to push it back. Holmes also suggested that we

should wait, not inside the hut, but outside it, among the bushes

which grew round the farther window. In this way we should be

able to watch our man if he struck a light, and see what his

object was in this stealthy nocturnal visit.

It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it

something of the thrill which the hunter feels when he lies

beside the water-pool, and waits for the coming of the thirsty

beast of prey. What savage creature was it which might steal upon

us out of the darkness? Was it a fierce tiger of crime, which

could only be taken fighting hard with flashing fang and claw, or

would it prove to be some skulking jackal, dangerous only to the

weak and unguarded?

In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting for

whatever might come. At first the steps of a few belated

villagers, or the sound of voices from the village, lightened our

vigil, but one by one these interruptions died away, and an

absolute stillness fell upon us, save for the chimes of the

distant church, which told us of the progress of the night, and

for the rustle and whisper of a fine rain falling amid the

foliage which roofed us in.

Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which

precedes the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click

came from the direction of the gate. Someone had entered the

drive. Again there was a long silence, and I had begun to fear

that it was a false alarm, when a stealthy step was heard upon

the other side of the hut, and a moment later a metallic scraping

and clinking. The man was trying to force the lock. This time his

skill was greater or his tool was better, for there was a sudden

snap and the creak of the hinges. Then a match was struck, and

next instant the steady light from a candle filled the interior

of the hut. Through the gauze curtain our eyes were all riveted

upon the scene within.

The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a

black moustache, which intensified the deadly pallor of his face.

He could not have been much above twenty years of age. I have

never seen any human being who appeared to be in such a pitiable

fright, for his teeth were visibly chattering, and he was shaking

in every limb. He was dressed like a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket

and knickerbockers, with a cloth cap upon his head. We watched

him staring round with frightened eyes. Then he laid the

candle-end upon the table and disappeared from our view into one

of the corners. He returned with a large book, one of the

logbooks which formed a line upon the shelves. Leaning on the

table, he rapidly turned over the leaves of this volume until he

came to the entry which he sought. Then, with an angry gesture of

his clenched hand, he closed the book, replaced it in the corner,

and put out the light. He had hardly turned to leave the hut when

Hopkins’s hand was on the fellow’s collar, and I heard his loud

gasp of terror as he understood that he was taken. The candle was

relit, and there was our wretched captive, shivering and cowering

in the grasp of the detective. He sank down upon the sea-chest,

and looked helplessly from one of us to the other.

“Now, my fine fellow,” said Stanley Hopkins, “who are you, and

what do you want here?”

The man pulled himself together, and faced us with an effort at

self-composure.

“You are detectives, I suppose?” said he. “You imagine I am

connected with the death of Captain Peter Carey. I assure you

that I am innocent.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Hopkins. “First of all, what is your

name?”

“It is John Hopley Neligan.”

I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.

“What are you doing here?”

“Can I speak confidentially?”

“No, certainly not.”

“Why should I tell you?”

“If you have no answer, it may go badly with you at the trial.”

The young man winced.

“Well, I will tell you,” he said. “Why should I not? And yet I

hate to think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life.

Did you ever hear of Dawson and Neligan?”

I could see, from Hopkins’s face, that he never had, but Holmes

was keenly interested.

“You mean the West Country bankers,” said he. “They failed for a

million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall, and Neligan

disappeared.”

“Exactly. Neligan was my father.”

At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a

long gap between an absconding banker and Captain Peter Carey

pinned against the wall with one of his own harpoons. We all

listened intently to the young man’s words.

“It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson had retired. I

was only ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to

feel the shame and horror of it all. It has always been said that

my father stole all the securities and fled. It is not true. It

was his belief that if he were given time in which to realize

them, all would be well and every creditor paid in full. He

started in his little yacht for Norway just before the warrant

was issued for his arrest. I can remember that last night when he

bade farewell to my mother. He left us a list of the securities

he was taking, and he swore that he would come back with his

honour cleared, and that none who had trusted him would suffer.

Well, no word was ever heard from him again. Both the yacht and

he vanished utterly. We believed, my mother and I, that he and

it, with the securities that he had taken with him, were at the

bottom of the sea. We had a faithful friend, however, who is a

business man, and it was he who discovered some time ago that

some of the securities which my father had with him had

reappeared on the London market. You can imagine our amazement. I

spent months in trying to trace them, and at last, after many

doubtings and difficulties, I discovered that the original seller

had been Captain Peter Carey, the owner of this hut.

“Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found that he

had been in command of a whaler which was due to return from the

Arctic seas at the very time when my father was crossing to

Norway. The autumn of that year was a stormy one, and there was a

long succession of southerly gales. My father’s yacht may well

have been blown to the north, and there met by Captain Peter

Carey’s ship. If that were so, what had become of my father? In

any case, if I could prove from Peter Carey’s evidence how these

securities came on the market it would be a proof that my father

had not sold them, and that he had no view to personal profit

when he took them.

“I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the captain,

but it was at this moment that his terrible death occurred. I

read at the inquest a description of his cabin, in which it

stated that the old logbooks of his vessel were preserved in it.

It struck me that if I could see what occurred in the month of

August, 1883, on board the _Sea Unicorn_, I might settle the

mystery of my father’s fate. I tried last night to get at these

logbooks, but was unable to open the door. To-night I tried again

and succeeded, but I find that the pages which deal with that

month have been torn from the book. It was at that moment I found

myself a prisoner in your hands.”

“Is that all?” asked Hopkins.

“Yes, that is all.” His eyes shifted as he said it.

“You have nothing else to tell us?”

He hesitated.

“No, there is nothing.”

“You have not been here before last night?”

“No.”

“Then how do you account for _that_?” cried Hopkins, as he held

up the damning notebook, with the initials of our prisoner on the

first leaf and the blood-stain on the cover.

The wretched man collapsed. He sank his face in his hands, and

trembled all over.

“Where did you get it?” he groaned. “I did not know. I thought I

had lost it at the hotel.”

“That is enough,” said Hopkins, sternly. “Whatever else you have

to say, you must say in court. You will walk down with me now to

the police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very much obliged to

you and to your friend for coming down to help me. As it turns

out your presence was unnecessary, and I would have brought the

case to this successful issue without you, but, none the less, I

am grateful. Rooms have been reserved for you at the Brambletye

Hotel, so we can all walk down to the village together.”

“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” asked Holmes, as we

travelled back next morning.

“I can see that you are not satisfied.”

“Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied. At the same

time, Stanley Hopkins’s methods do not commend themselves to me.

I am disappointed in Stanley Hopkins. I had hoped for better

things from him. One should always look for a possible

alternative, and provide against it. It is the first rule of

criminal investigation.”

“What, then, is the alternative?”

“The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing. It

may give us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow

it to the end.”

Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He

snatched one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a

triumphant chuckle of laughter.

“Excellent, Watson! The alternative develops. Have you telegraph

forms? Just write a couple of messages for me: ‘Sumner, Shipping

Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on, to arrive ten

to-morrow morning.—Basil.’ That’s my name in those parts. The

other is: ‘Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46 Lord Street, Brixton.

Come breakfast to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if

unable to come.—Sherlock Holmes.’ There, Watson, this infernal

case has haunted me for ten days. I hereby banish it completely

from my presence. To-morrow, I trust that we shall hear the last

of it forever.”

Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and

we sat down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs. Hudson

had prepared. The young detective was in high spirits at his

success.

“You really think that your solution must be correct?” asked

Holmes.

“I could not imagine a more complete case.”

“It did not seem to me conclusive.”

“You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask for?”

“Does your explanation cover every point?”

“Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the Brambletye

Hotel on the very day of the crime. He came on the pretence of

playing golf. His room was on the ground-floor, and he could get

out when he liked. That very night he went down to Woodman’s Lee,

saw Peter Carey at the hut, quarrelled with him, and killed him

with the harpoon. Then, horrified by what he had done, he fled

out of the hut, dropping the notebook which he had brought with

him in order to question Peter Carey about these different

securities. You may have observed that some of them were marked

with ticks, and the others—the great majority—were not. Those

which are ticked have been traced on the London market, but the

others, presumably, were still in the possession of Carey, and

young Neligan, according to his own account, was anxious to

recover them in order to do the right thing by his father’s

creditors. After his flight he did not dare to approach the hut

again for some time, but at last he forced himself to do so in

order to obtain the information which he needed. Surely that is

all simple and obvious?”

Holmes smiled and shook his head.

“It seems to me to have only one drawback, Hopkins, and that is

that it is intrinsically impossible. Have you tried to drive a

harpoon through a body? No? Tut, tut my dear sir, you must really

pay attention to these details. My friend Watson could tell you

that I spent a whole morning in that exercise. It is no easy

matter, and requires a strong and practised arm. But this blow

was delivered with such violence that the head of the weapon sank

deep into the wall. Do you imagine that this anæmic youth was

capable of so frightful an assault? Is he the man who hobnobbed

in rum and water with Black Peter in the dead of the night? Was

it his profile that was seen on the blind two nights before? No,

no, Hopkins, it is another and more formidable person for whom we

must seek.”

The detective’s face had grown longer and longer during Holmes’s

speech. His hopes and his ambitions were all crumbling about him.

But he would not abandon his position without a struggle.

“You can’t deny that Neligan was present that night, Mr. Holmes.

The book will prove that. I fancy that I have evidence enough to

satisfy a jury, even if you are able to pick a hole in it.

Besides, Mr. Holmes, I have laid my hand upon _my_ man. As to

this terrible person of yours, where is he?”

“I rather fancy that he is on the stair,” said Holmes, serenely.

“I think, Watson, that you would do well to put that revolver

where you can reach it.” He rose and laid a written paper upon a

side-table. “Now we are ready,” said he.

There had been some talking in gruff voices outside, and now Mrs.

Hudson opened the door to say that there were three men inquiring

for Captain Basil.

“Show them in one by one,” said Holmes.

“The first who entered was a little Ribston pippin of a man, with

ruddy cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers. Holmes had drawn a

letter from his pocket.

“What name?” he asked.

“James Lancaster.”

“I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full. Here is half a

sovereign for your trouble. Just step into this room and wait

there for a few minutes.”

The second man was a long, dried-up creature, with lank hair and

sallow cheeks. His name was Hugh Pattins. He also received his

dismissal, his half-sovereign, and the order to wait.

The third applicant was a man of remarkable appearance. A fierce

bull-dog face was framed in a tangle of hair and beard, and two

bold, dark eyes gleamed behind the cover of thick, tufted,

overhung eyebrows. He saluted and stood sailor-fashion, turning

his cap round in his hands.

“Your name?” asked Holmes.

“Patrick Cairns.”

“Harpooner?”

“Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages.”

“Dundee, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And ready to start with an exploring ship?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What wages?”

“Eight pounds a month.”

“Could you start at once?”

“As soon as I get my kit.”

“Have you your papers?”

“Yes, sir.” He took a sheaf of worn and greasy forms from his

pocket. Holmes glanced over them and returned them.

“You are just the man I want,” said he. “Here’s the agreement on

the side-table. If you sign it the whole matter will be settled.”

The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.

“Shall I sign here?” he asked, stooping over the table.

Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over his

neck.

“This will do,” said he.

I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull. The

next instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground

together. He was a man of such gigantic strength that, even with

the handcuffs which Holmes had so deftly fastened upon his

wrists, he would have very quickly overpowered my friend had

Hopkins and I not rushed to his rescue. Only when I pressed the

cold muzzle of the revolver to his temple did he at last

understand that resistance was vain. We lashed his ankles with

cord, and rose breathless from the struggle.

“I must really apologize, Hopkins,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I fear

that the scrambled eggs are cold. However, you will enjoy the

rest of your breakfast all the better, will you not, for the

thought that you have brought your case to a triumphant

conclusion.”

Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.

“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Holmes,” he blurted out at last,

with a very red face. “It seems to me that I have been making a

fool of myself from the beginning. I understand now, what I

should never have forgotten, that I am the pupil and you are the

master. Even now I see what you have done, but I don’t know how

you did it or what it signifies.”

“Well, well,” said Holmes, good-humouredly. “We all learn by

experience, and your lesson this time is that you should never

lose sight of the alternative. You were so absorbed in young

Neligan that you could not spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the

true murderer of Peter Carey.”

The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.

“See here, mister,” said he, “I make no complaint of being

man-handled in this fashion, but I would have you call things by

their right names. You say I murdered Peter Carey, I say I

_killed_ Peter Carey, and there’s all the difference. Maybe you

don’t believe what I say. Maybe you think I am just slinging you

a yarn.”

“Not at all,” said Holmes. “Let us hear what you have to say.”

“It’s soon told, and, by the Lord, every word of it is truth. I

knew Black Peter, and when he pulled out his knife I whipped a

harpoon through him sharp, for I knew that it was him or me.

That’s how he died. You can call it murder. Anyhow, I’d as soon

die with a rope round my neck as with Black Peter’s knife in my

heart.”

“How came you there?” asked Holmes.

“I’ll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit me up a little, so

as I can speak easy. It was in ’83 that it happened—August of

that year. Peter Carey was master of the _Sea Unicorn_, and I was

spare harpooner. We were coming out of the ice-pack on our way

home, with head winds and a week’s southerly gale, when we picked

up a little craft that had been blown north. There was one man on

her—a landsman. The crew had thought she would founder and had

made for the Norwegian coast in the dinghy. I guess they were all

drowned. Well, we took him on board, this man, and he and the

skipper had some long talks in the cabin. All the baggage we took

off with him was one tin box. So far as I know, the man’s name

was never mentioned, and on the second night he disappeared as if

he had never been. It was given out that he had either thrown

himself overboard or fallen overboard in the heavy weather that

we were having. Only one man knew what had happened to him, and

that was me, for, with my own eyes, I saw the skipper tip up his

heels and put him over the rail in the middle watch of a dark

night, two days before we sighted the Shetland Lights. Well, I

kept my knowledge to myself, and waited to see what would come of

it. When we got back to Scotland it was easily hushed up, and

nobody asked any questions. A stranger died by accident and it

was nobody’s business to inquire. Shortly after Peter Carey gave

up the sea, and it was long years before I could find where he

was. I guessed that he had done the deed for the sake of what was

in that tin box, and that he could afford now to pay me well for

keeping my mouth shut. I found out where he was through a sailor

man that had met him in London, and down I went to squeeze him.

The first night he was reasonable enough, and was ready to give

me what would make me free of the sea for life. We were to fix it

all two nights later. When I came, I found him three parts drunk

and in a vile temper. We sat down and we drank and we yarned

about old times, but the more he drank the less I liked the look

on his face. I spotted that harpoon upon the wall, and I thought

I might need it before I was through. Then at last he broke out

at me, spitting and cursing, with murder in his eyes and a great

clasp-knife in his hand. He had not time to get it from the

sheath before I had the harpoon through him. Heavens! what a yell

he gave! and his face gets between me and my sleep. I stood

there, with his blood splashing round me, and I waited for a bit,

but all was quiet, so I took heart once more. I looked round, and

there was the tin box on the shelf. I had as much right to it as

Peter Carey, anyhow, so I took it with me and left the hut. Like

a fool I left my baccy-pouch upon the table.

“Now I’ll tell you the queerest part of the whole story. I had

hardly got outside the hut when I heard someone coming, and I hid

among the bushes. A man came slinking along, went into the hut,

gave a cry as if he had seen a ghost, and legged it as hard as he

could run until he was out of sight. Who he was or what he wanted

is more than I can tell. For my part I walked ten miles, got a

train at Tunbridge Wells, and so reached London, and no one the

wiser.

“Well, when I came to examine the box I found there was no money

in it, and nothing but papers that I would not dare to sell. I

had lost my hold on Black Peter and was stranded in London

without a shilling. There was only my trade left. I saw these

advertisements about harpooners, and high wages, so I went to the

shipping agents, and they sent me here. That’s all I know, and I

say again that if I killed Black Peter, the law should give me

thanks, for I saved them the price of a hempen rope.”

“A very clear statement,” said Holmes, “rising and lighting his

pipe. “I think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time in

conveying your prisoner to a place of safety. This room is not

well adapted for a cell, and Mr. Patrick Cairns occupies too

large a proportion of our carpet.”

“Mr. Holmes,” said Hopkins, “I do not know how to express my

gratitude. Even now I do not understand how you attained this

result.”

“Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue from the

beginning. It is very possible if I had known about this notebook

it might have led away my thoughts, as it did yours. But all I

heard pointed in the one direction. The amazing strength, the

skill in the use of the harpoon, the rum and water, the sealskin

tobacco-pouch with the coarse tobacco—all these pointed to a

seaman, and one who had been a whaler. I was convinced that the

initials ‘P.C.’ upon the pouch were a coincidence, and not those

of Peter Carey, since he seldom smoked, and no pipe was found in

his cabin. You remember that I asked whether whisky and brandy

were in the cabin. You said they were. How many landsmen are

there who would drink rum when they could get these other

spirits? Yes, I was certain it was a seaman.”

“And how did you find him?”

“My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If it

were a seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with him on

the _Sea Unicorn_. So far as I could learn he had sailed in no

other ship. I spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the

end of that time I had ascertained the names of the crew of the

_Sea Unicorn_ in 1883. When I found Patrick Cairns among the

harpooners, my research was nearing its end. I argued that the

man was probably in London, and that he would desire to leave the

country for a time. I therefore spent some days in the East End,

devised an Arctic expedition, put forth tempting terms for

harpooners who would serve under Captain Basil—and behold the

result!”

“Wonderful!” cried Hopkins. “Wonderful!”

“You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as

possible,” said Holmes. “I confess that I think you owe him some

apology. The tin box must be returned to him, but, of course, the

securities which Peter Carey has sold are lost forever. There’s

the cab, Hopkins, and you can remove your man. If you want me for

the trial, my address and that of Watson will be somewhere in

Norway—I’ll send particulars later.”

Adventure 7.