Chương Chương 2 · The Adventure of the Cardboard Box

. The Adventure of the Cardboard Box

In choosing a few typical cases which illustrate the remarkable

mental qualities of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have

endeavoured, as far as possible, to select those which presented

the minimum of sensationalism, while offering a fair field for

his talents. It is, however, unfortunately impossible entirely to

separate the sensational from the criminal, and a chronicler is

left in the dilemma that he must either sacrifice details which

are essential to his statement and so give a false impression of

the problem, or he must use matter which chance, and not choice,

has provided him with. With this short preface I shall turn to my

notes of what proved to be a strange, though a peculiarly

terrible, chain of events.

It was a blazing hot day in August. Baker Street was like an

oven, and the glare of the sunlight upon the yellow brickwork of

the house across the road was painful to the eye. It was hard to

believe that these were the same walls which loomed so gloomily

through the fogs of winter. Our blinds were half-drawn, and

Holmes lay curled upon the sofa, reading and re-reading a letter

which he had received by the morning post. For myself, my term of

service in India had trained me to stand heat better than cold,

and a thermometer at ninety was no hardship. But the morning

paper was uninteresting. Parliament had risen. Everybody was out

of town, and I yearned for the glades of the New Forest or the

shingle of Southsea. A depleted bank account had caused me to

postpone my holiday, and as to my companion, neither the country

nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him. He loved

to lie in the very centre of five millions of people, with his

filaments stretching out and running through them, responsive to

every little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation

of nature found no place among his many gifts, and his only

change was when he turned his mind from the evil-doer of the town

to track down his brother of the country.

Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation I had

tossed aside the barren paper, and leaning back in my chair I

fell into a brown study. Suddenly my companion’s voice broke in

upon my thoughts:

“You are right, Watson,” said he. “It does seem a most

preposterous way of settling a dispute.”

“Most preposterous!” I exclaimed, and then suddenly realizing how

he had echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair

and stared at him in blank amazement.

“What is this, Holmes?” I cried. “This is beyond anything which I

could have imagined.”

He laughed heartily at my perplexity.

“You remember,” he said, “that some little time ago when I read

you the passage in one of Poe’s sketches in which a close

reasoner follows the unspoken thoughts of his companion, you were

inclined to treat the matter as a mere _tour-de-force_ of the

author. On my remarking that I was constantly in the habit of

doing the same thing you expressed incredulity.”

“Oh, no!”

“Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with

your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter

upon a train of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity

of reading it off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof

that I had been in rapport with you.”

But I was still far from satisfied. “In the example which you

read to me,” said I, “the reasoner drew his conclusions from the

actions of the man whom he observed. If I remember right, he

stumbled over a heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so

on. But I have been seated quietly in my chair, and what clues

can I have given you?”

“You do yourself an injustice. The features are given to man as

the means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are

faithful servants.”

“Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my

features?”

“Your features and especially your eyes. Perhaps you cannot

yourself recall how your reverie commenced?”

“No, I cannot.”

“Then I will tell you. After throwing down your paper, which was

the action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a

minute with a vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves

upon your newly framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by

the alteration in your face that a train of thought had been

started. But it did not lead very far. Your eyes flashed across

to the unframed portrait of Henry Ward Beecher which stands upon

the top of your books. Then you glanced up at the wall, and of

course your meaning was obvious. You were thinking that if the

portrait were framed it would just cover that bare space and

correspond with Gordon’s picture over there.”

“You have followed me wonderfully!” I exclaimed.

“So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughts

went back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were

studying the character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to

pucker, but you continued to look across, and your face was

thoughtful. You were recalling the incidents of Beecher’s career.

I was well aware that you could not do this without thinking of

the mission which he undertook on behalf of the North at the time

of the Civil War, for I remember your expressing your passionate

indignation at the way in which he was received by the more

turbulent of our people. You felt so strongly about it that I

knew you could not think of Beecher without thinking of that

also. When a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the

picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned to the Civil

War, and when I observed that your lips set, your eyes sparkled,

and your hands clenched I was positive that you were indeed

thinking of the gallantry which was shown by both sides in that

desperate struggle. But then, again, your face grew sadder; you

shook your head. You were dwelling upon the sadness and horror

and useless waste of life. Your hand stole towards your own old

wound and a smile quivered on your lips, which showed me that the

ridiculous side of this method of settling international

questions had forced itself upon your mind. At this point I

agreed with you that it was preposterous and was glad to find

that all my deductions had been correct.”

“Absolutely!” said I. “And now that you have explained it, I

confess that I am as amazed as before.”

“It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should

not have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some

incredulity the other day. But I have in my hands here a little

problem which may prove to be more difficult of solution than my

small essay in thought reading. Have you observed in the paper a

short paragraph referring to the remarkable contents of a packet

sent through the post to Miss Cushing, of Cross Street, Croydon?”

“No, I saw nothing.”

“Ah! then you must have overlooked it. Just toss it over to me.

Here it is, under the financial column. Perhaps you would be good

enough to read it aloud.”

I picked up the paper which he had thrown back to me and read the

paragraph indicated. It was headed, “A Gruesome Packet.”

“Miss Susan Cushing, living at Cross Street, Croydon, has been

made the victim of what must be regarded as a peculiarly

revolting practical joke unless some more sinister meaning should

prove to be attached to the incident. At two o’clock yesterday

afternoon a small packet, wrapped in brown paper, was handed in

by the postman. A cardboard box was inside, which was filled with

coarse salt. On emptying this, Miss Cushing was horrified to find

two human ears, apparently quite freshly severed. The box had

been sent by parcel post from Belfast upon the morning before.

There is no indication as to the sender, and the matter is the

more mysterious as Miss Cushing, who is a maiden lady of fifty,

has led a most retired life, and has so few acquaintances or

correspondents that it is a rare event for her to receive

anything through the post. Some years ago, however, when she

resided at Penge, she let apartments in her house to three young

medical students, whom she was obliged to get rid of on account

of their noisy and irregular habits. The police are of opinion

that this outrage may have been perpetrated upon Miss Cushing by

these youths, who owed her a grudge and who hoped to frighten her

by sending her these relics of the dissecting-rooms. Some

probability is lent to the theory by the fact that one of these

students came from the north of Ireland, and, to the best of Miss

Cushing’s belief, from Belfast. In the meantime, the matter is

being actively investigated, Mr. Lestrade, one of the very

smartest of our detective officers, being in charge of the case.”

“So much for the _Daily Chronicle_,” said Holmes as I finished

reading. “Now for our friend Lestrade. I had a note from him this

morning, in which he says: ‘I think that this case is very much

in your line. We have every hope of clearing the matter up, but

we find a little difficulty in getting anything to work upon. We

have, of course, wired to the Belfast post-office, but a large

number of parcels were handed in upon that day, and they have no

means of identifying this particular one, or of remembering the

sender. The box is a half-pound box of honeydew tobacco and does

not help us in any way. The medical student theory still appears

to me to be the most feasible, but if you should have a few hours

to spare I should be very happy to see you out here. I shall be

either at the house or in the police-station all day.’ What say

you, Watson? Can you rise superior to the heat and run down to

Croydon with me on the off chance of a case for your annals?”

“I was longing for something to do.”

“You shall have it then. Ring for our boots and tell them to

order a cab. I’ll be back in a moment when I have changed my

dressing-gown and filled my cigar-case.”

A shower of rain fell while we were in the train, and the heat

was far less oppressive in Croydon than in town. Holmes had sent

on a wire, so that Lestrade, as wiry, as dapper, and as

ferret-like as ever, was waiting for us at the station. A walk of

five minutes took us to Cross Street, where Miss Cushing resided.

It was a very long street of two-story brick houses, neat and

prim, with whitened stone steps and little groups of aproned

women gossiping at the doors. Halfway down, Lestrade stopped and

tapped at a door, which was opened by a small servant girl. Miss

Cushing was sitting in the front room, into which we were

ushered. She was a placid-faced woman, with large, gentle eyes,

and grizzled hair curving down over her temples on each side. A

worked antimacassar lay upon her lap and a basket of coloured

silks stood upon a stool beside her.

“They are in the outhouse, those dreadful things,” said she as

Lestrade entered. “I wish that you would take them away

altogether.”

“So I shall, Miss Cushing. I only kept them here until my friend,

Mr. Holmes, should have seen them in your presence.”

“Why in my presence, sir?”

“In case he wished to ask any questions.”

“What is the use of asking me questions when I tell you I know

nothing whatever about it?”

“Quite so, madam,” said Holmes in his soothing way. “I have no

doubt that you have been annoyed more than enough already over

this business.”

“Indeed, I have, sir. I am a quiet woman and live a retired life.

It is something new for me to see my name in the papers and to

find the police in my house. I won’t have those things in here,

Mr. Lestrade. If you wish to see them you must go to the

outhouse.”

It was a small shed in the narrow garden which ran behind the

house. Lestrade went in and brought out a yellow cardboard box,

with a piece of brown paper and some string. There was a bench at

the end of the path, and we all sat down while Holmes examined,

one by one, the articles which Lestrade had handed to him.

“The string is exceedingly interesting,” he remarked, holding it

up to the light and sniffing at it. “What do you make of this

string, Lestrade?”

“It has been tarred.”

“Precisely. It is a piece of tarred twine. You have also, no

doubt, remarked that Miss Cushing has cut the cord with a

scissors, as can be seen by the double fray on each side. This is

of importance.”

“I cannot see the importance,” said Lestrade.

“The importance lies in the fact that the knot is left intact,

and that this knot is of a peculiar character.”

“It is very neatly tied. I had already made a note to that

effect,” said Lestrade complacently.

“So much for the string, then,” said Holmes, smiling, “now for

the box wrapper. Brown paper, with a distinct smell of coffee.

What, did you not observe it? I think there can be no doubt of

it. Address printed in rather straggling characters: ‘Miss S.

Cushing, Cross Street, Croydon.’ Done with a broad-pointed pen,

probably a J, and with very inferior ink. The word ‘Croydon’ has

been originally spelled with an ‘i,’ which has been changed to

‘y.’ The parcel was directed, then, by a man—the printing is

distinctly masculine—of limited education and unacquainted with

the town of Croydon. So far, so good! The box is a yellow

half-pound honeydew box, with nothing distinctive save two thumb

marks at the left bottom corner. It is filled with rough salt of

the quality used for preserving hides and other of the coarser

commercial purposes. And embedded in it are these very singular

enclosures.”

He took out the two ears as he spoke, and laying a board across

his knee he examined them minutely, while Lestrade and I, bending

forward on each side of him, glanced alternately at these

dreadful relics and at the thoughtful, eager face of our

companion. Finally he returned them to the box once more and sat

for a while in deep meditation.

“You have observed, of course,” said he at last, “that the ears

are not a pair.”

“Yes, I have noticed that. But if this were the practical joke of

some students from the dissecting-rooms, it would be as easy for

them to send two odd ears as a pair.”

“Precisely. But this is not a practical joke.”

“You are sure of it?”

“The presumption is strongly against it. Bodies in the

dissecting-rooms are injected with preservative fluid. These ears

bear no signs of this. They are fresh, too. They have been cut

off with a blunt instrument, which would hardly happen if a

student had done it. Again, carbolic or rectified spirits would

be the preservatives which would suggest themselves to the

medical mind, certainly not rough salt. I repeat that there is no

practical joke here, but that we are investigating a serious

crime.”

A vague thrill ran through me as I listened to my companion’s

words and saw the stern gravity which had hardened his features.

This brutal preliminary seemed to shadow forth some strange and

inexplicable horror in the background. Lestrade, however, shook

his head like a man who is only half convinced.

“There are objections to the joke theory, no doubt,” said he,

“but there are much stronger reasons against the other. We know

that this woman has led a most quiet and respectable life at

Penge and here for the last twenty years. She has hardly been

away from her home for a day during that time. Why on earth,

then, should any criminal send her the proofs of his guilt,

especially as, unless she is a most consummate actress, she

understands quite as little of the matter as we do?”

“That is the problem which we have to solve,” Holmes answered,

“and for my part I shall set about it by presuming that my

reasoning is correct, and that a double murder has been

committed. One of these ears is a woman’s, small, finely formed,

and pierced for an earring. The other is a man’s, sun-burned,

discoloured, and also pierced for an earring. These two people

are presumably dead, or we should have heard their story before

now. To-day is Friday. The packet was posted on Thursday morning.

The tragedy, then, occurred on Wednesday or Tuesday or earlier.

If the two people were murdered, who but their murderer would

have sent this sign of his work to Miss Cushing? We may take it

that the sender of the packet is the man whom we want. But he

must have some strong reason for sending Miss Cushing this

packet. What reason then? It must have been to tell her that the

deed was done! or to pain her, perhaps. But in that case she

knows who it is. Does she know? I doubt it. If she knew, why

should she call the police in? She might have buried the ears,

and no one would have been the wiser. That is what she would have

done if she had wished to shield the criminal. But if she does

not wish to shield him she would give his name. There is a tangle

here which needs straightening out.” He had been talking in a

high, quick voice, staring blankly up over the garden fence, but

now he sprang briskly to his feet and walked towards the house.

“I have a few questions to ask Miss Cushing,” said he.

“In that case I may leave you here,” said Lestrade, “for I have

another small business on hand. I think that I have nothing

further to learn from Miss Cushing. You will find me at the

police-station.”

“We shall look in on our way to the train,” answered Holmes. A

moment later he and I were back in the front room, where the

impassive lady was still quietly working away at her

antimacassar. She put it down on her lap as we entered and looked

at us with her frank, searching blue eyes.

“I am convinced, sir,” she said, “that this matter is a mistake,

and that the parcel was never meant for me at all. I have said

this several times to the gentleman from Scotland Yard, but he

simply laughs at me. I have not an enemy in the world, as far as

I know, so why should anyone play me such a trick?”

“I am coming to be of the same opinion, Miss Cushing,” said

Holmes, taking a seat beside her. “I think that it is more than

probable——” he paused, and I was surprised, on glancing round to

see that he was staring with singular intentness at the lady’s

profile. Surprise and satisfaction were both for an instant to be

read upon his eager face, though when she glanced round to find

out the cause of his silence he had become as demure as ever. I

stared hard myself at her flat, grizzled hair, her trim cap, her

little gilt earrings, her placid features; but I could see

nothing which could account for my companion’s evident

excitement.

“There were one or two questions——”

“Oh, I am weary of questions!” cried Miss Cushing impatiently.

“You have two sisters, I believe.”

“How could you know that?”

“I observed the very instant that I entered the room that you

have a portrait group of three ladies upon the mantelpiece, one

of whom is undoubtedly yourself, while the others are so

exceedingly like you that there could be no doubt of the

relationship.”

“Yes, you are quite right. Those are my sisters, Sarah and Mary.”

“And here at my elbow is another portrait, taken at Liverpool, of

your younger sister, in the company of a man who appears to be a

steward by his uniform. I observe that she was unmarried at the

time.”

“You are very quick at observing.”

“That is my trade.”

“Well, you are quite right. But she was married to Mr. Browner a

few days afterwards. He was on the South American line when that

was taken, but he was so fond of her that he couldn’t abide to

leave her for so long, and he got into the Liverpool and London

boats.”

“Ah, the _Conqueror_, perhaps?”

“No, the _May Day_, when last I heard. Jim came down here to see

me once. That was before he broke the pledge; but afterwards he

would always take drink when he was ashore, and a little drink

would send him stark, staring mad. Ah! it was a bad day that ever

he took a glass in his hand again. First he dropped me, then he

quarrelled with Sarah, and now that Mary has stopped writing we

don’t know how things are going with them.”

It was evident that Miss Cushing had come upon a subject on which

she felt very deeply. Like most people who lead a lonely life,

she was shy at first, but ended by becoming extremely

communicative. She told us many details about her brother-in-law

the steward, and then wandering off on the subject of her former

lodgers, the medical students, she gave us a long account of

their delinquencies, with their names and those of their

hospitals. Holmes listened attentively to everything, throwing in

a question from time to time.

“About your second sister, Sarah,” said he. “I wonder, since you

are both maiden ladies, that you do not keep house together.”

“Ah! you don’t know Sarah’s temper or you would wonder no more. I

tried it when I came to Croydon, and we kept on until about two

months ago, when we had to part. I don’t want to say a word

against my own sister, but she was always meddlesome and hard to

please, was Sarah.”

“You say that she quarrelled with your Liverpool relations.”

“Yes, and they were the best of friends at one time. Why, she

went up there to live in order to be near them. And now she has

no word hard enough for Jim Browner. The last six months that she

was here she would speak of nothing but his drinking and his

ways. He had caught her meddling, I suspect, and given her a bit

of his mind, and that was the start of it.”

“Thank you, Miss Cushing,” said Holmes, rising and bowing. “Your

sister Sarah lives, I think you said, at New Street Wallington?

Good-bye, and I am very sorry that you should have been troubled

over a case with which, as you say, you have nothing whatever to

do.”

There was a cab passing as we came out, and Holmes hailed it.

“How far to Wallington?” he asked.

“Only about a mile, sir.”

“Very good. Jump in, Watson. We must strike while the iron is

hot. Simple as the case is, there have been one or two very

instructive details in connection with it. Just pull up at a

telegraph office as you pass, cabby.”

Holmes sent off a short wire and for the rest of the drive lay

back in the cab, with his hat tilted over his nose to keep the

sun from his face. Our driver pulled up at a house which was not

unlike the one which we had just quitted. My companion ordered

him to wait, and had his hand upon the knocker, when the door

opened and a grave young gentleman in black, with a very shiny

hat, appeared on the step.

“Is Miss Cushing at home?” asked Holmes.

“Miss Sarah Cushing is extremely ill,” said he. “She has been

suffering since yesterday from brain symptoms of great severity.

As her medical adviser, I cannot possibly take the responsibility

of allowing anyone to see her. I should recommend you to call

again in ten days.” He drew on his gloves, closed the door, and

marched off down the street.

“Well, if we can’t we can’t,” said Holmes, cheerfully.

“Perhaps she could not or would not have told you much.”

“I did not wish her to tell me anything. I only wanted to look at

her. However, I think that I have got all that I want. Drive us

to some decent hotel, cabby, where we may have some lunch, and

afterwards we shall drop down upon friend Lestrade at the

police-station.”

We had a pleasant little meal together, during which Holmes would

talk about nothing but violins, narrating with great exultation

how he had purchased his own Stradivarius, which was worth at

least five hundred guineas, at a Jew broker’s in Tottenham Court

Road for fifty-five shillings. This led him to Paganini, and we

sat for an hour over a bottle of claret while he told me anecdote

after anecdote of that extraordinary man. The afternoon was far

advanced and the hot glare had softened into a mellow glow before

we found ourselves at the police-station. Lestrade was waiting

for us at the door.

“A telegram for you, Mr. Holmes,” said he.

“Ha! It is the answer!” He tore it open, glanced his eyes over

it, and crumpled it into his pocket. “That’s all right,” said he.

“Have you found out anything?”

“I have found out everything!”

“What!” Lestrade stared at him in amazement. “You are joking.”

“I was never more serious in my life. A shocking crime has been

committed, and I think I have now laid bare every detail of it.”

“And the criminal?”

Holmes scribbled a few words upon the back of one of his visiting

cards and threw it over to Lestrade.

“That is the name,” he said. “You cannot effect an arrest until

to-morrow night at the earliest. I should prefer that you do not

mention my name at all in connection with the case, as I choose

to be only associated with those crimes which present some

difficulty in their solution. Come on, Watson.” We strode off

together to the station, leaving Lestrade still staring with a

delighted face at the card which Holmes had thrown him.

“The case,” said Sherlock Holmes as we chatted over our cigars

that night in our rooms at Baker Street, “is one where, as in the

investigations which you have chronicled under the names of ‘A

Study in Scarlet’ and of ‘The Sign of Four,’ we have been

compelled to reason backward from effects to causes. I have

written to Lestrade asking him to supply us with the details

which are now wanting, and which he will only get after he has

secured his man. That he may be safely trusted to do, for

although he is absolutely devoid of reason, he is as tenacious as

a bulldog when he once understands what he has to do, and,

indeed, it is just this tenacity which has brought him to the top

at Scotland Yard.”

“Your case is not complete, then?” I asked.

“It is fairly complete in essentials. We know who the author of

the revolting business is, although one of the victims still

escapes us. Of course, you have formed your own conclusions.”

“I presume that this Jim Browner, the steward of a Liverpool

boat, is the man whom you suspect?”

“Oh! it is more than a suspicion.”

“And yet I cannot see anything save very vague indications.”

“On the contrary, to my mind nothing could be more clear. Let me

run over the principal steps. We approached the case, you

remember, with an absolutely blank mind, which is always an

advantage. We had formed no theories. We were simply there to

observe and to draw inferences from our observations. What did we

see first? A very placid and respectable lady, who seemed quite

innocent of any secret, and a portrait which showed me that she

had two younger sisters. It instantly flashed across my mind that

the box might have been meant for one of these. I set the idea

aside as one which could be disproved or confirmed at our

leisure. Then we went to the garden, as you remember, and we saw

the very singular contents of the little yellow box.

“The string was of the quality which is used by sailmakers aboard

ship, and at once a whiff of the sea was perceptible in our

investigation. When I observed that the knot was one which is

popular with sailors, that the parcel had been posted at a port,

and that the male ear was pierced for an earring which is so much

more common among sailors than landsmen, I was quite certain that

all the actors in the tragedy were to be found among our

seafaring classes.

“When I came to examine the address of the packet I observed that

it was to Miss S. Cushing. Now, the oldest sister would, of

course, be Miss Cushing, and although her initial was ‘S’ it

might belong to one of the others as well. In that case we should

have to commence our investigation from a fresh basis altogether.

I therefore went into the house with the intention of clearing up

this point. I was about to assure Miss Cushing that I was

convinced that a mistake had been made when you may remember that

I came suddenly to a stop. The fact was that I had just seen

something which filled me with surprise and at the same time

narrowed the field of our inquiry immensely.

“As a medical man, you are aware, Watson, that there is no part

of the body which varies so much as the human ear. Each ear is as

a rule quite distinctive and differs from all other ones. In last

year’s _Anthropological Journal_ you will find two short

monographs from my pen upon the subject. I had, therefore,

examined the ears in the box with the eyes of an expert and had

carefully noted their anatomical peculiarities. Imagine my

surprise, then, when on looking at Miss Cushing I perceived that

her ear corresponded exactly with the female ear which I had just

inspected. The matter was entirely beyond coincidence. There was

the same shortening of the pinna, the same broad curve of the

upper lobe, the same convolution of the inner cartilage. In all

essentials it was the same ear.

“Of course I at once saw the enormous importance of the

observation. It was evident that the victim was a blood relation

and probably a very close one. I began to talk to her about her

family, and you remember that she at once gave us some

exceedingly valuable details.

“In the first place, her sister’s name was Sarah, and her address

had until recently been the same, so that it was quite obvious

how the mistake had occurred and for whom the packet was meant.

Then we heard of this steward, married to the third sister, and

learned that he had at one time been so intimate with Miss Sarah

that she had actually gone up to Liverpool to be near the

Browners, but a quarrel had afterwards divided them. This quarrel

had put a stop to all communications for some months, so that if

Browner had occasion to address a packet to Miss Sarah, he would

undoubtedly have done so to her old address.

“And now the matter had begun to straighten itself out

wonderfully. We had learned of the existence of this steward, an

impulsive man, of strong passions—you remember that he threw up

what must have been a very superior berth in order to be nearer

to his wife—subject, too, to occasional fits of hard drinking. We

had reason to believe that his wife had been murdered, and that a

man—presumably a seafaring man—had been murdered at the same

time. Jealousy, of course, at once suggests itself as the motive

for the crime. And why should these proofs of the deed be sent to

Miss Sarah Cushing? Probably because during her residence in

Liverpool she had some hand in bringing about the events which

led to the tragedy. You will observe that this line of boats

calls at Belfast, Dublin, and Waterford; so that, presuming that

Browner had committed the deed and had embarked at once upon his

steamer, the _May Day_, Belfast would be the first place at which

he could post his terrible packet.

“A second solution was at this stage obviously possible, and

although I thought it exceedingly unlikely, I was determined to

elucidate it before going further. An unsuccessful lover might

have killed Mr. and Mrs. Browner, and the male ear might have

belonged to the husband. There were many grave objections to this

theory, but it was conceivable. I therefore sent off a telegram

to my friend Algar, of the Liverpool force, and asked him to find

out if Mrs. Browner were at home, and if Browner had departed in

the _May Day_. Then we went on to Wallington to visit Miss Sarah.

“I was curious, in the first place, to see how far the family ear

had been reproduced in her. Then, of course, she might give us

very important information, but I was not sanguine that she

would. She must have heard of the business the day before, since

all Croydon was ringing with it, and she alone could have

understood for whom the packet was meant. If she had been willing

to help justice she would probably have communicated with the

police already. However, it was clearly our duty to see her, so

we went. We found that the news of the arrival of the packet—for

her illness dated from that time—had such an effect upon her as

to bring on brain fever. It was clearer than ever that she

understood its full significance, but equally clear that we

should have to wait some time for any assistance from her.

“However, we were really independent of her help. Our answers

were waiting for us at the police-station, where I had directed

Algar to send them. Nothing could be more conclusive. Mrs.

Browner’s house had been closed for more than three days, and the

neighbours were of opinion that she had gone south to see her

relatives. It had been ascertained at the shipping offices that

Browner had left aboard of the _May Day_, and I calculate that

she is due in the Thames to-morrow night. When he arrives he will

be met by the obtuse but resolute Lestrade, and I have no doubt

that we shall have all our details filled in.”

Sherlock Holmes was not disappointed in his expectations. Two

days later he received a bulky envelope, which contained a short

note from the detective, and a typewritten document, which

covered several pages of foolscap.

“Lestrade has got him all right,” said Holmes, glancing up at me.

“Perhaps it would interest you to hear what he says.

“My dear Mr. Holmes,—In accordance with the scheme which we had

formed in order to test our theories”—“the ‘we’ is rather fine,

Watson, is it not?”—“I went down to the Albert Dock yesterday at

6 P.M., and boarded the S.S. _May Day_, belonging to the

Liverpool, Dublin, and London Steam Packet Company. On inquiry, I

found that there was a steward on board of the name of James

Browner and that he had acted during the voyage in such an

extraordinary manner that the captain had been compelled to

relieve him of his duties. On descending to his berth, I found

him seated upon a chest with his head sunk upon his hands,

rocking himself to and fro. He is a big, powerful chap,

clean-shaven, and very swarthy— something like Aldridge, who

helped us in the bogus laundry affair. He jumped up when he heard

my business, and I had my whistle to my lips to call a couple of

river police, who were round the corner, but he seemed to have no

heart in him, and he held out his hands quietly enough for the

darbies. We brought him along to the cells, and his box as well,

for we thought there might be something incriminating; but, bar a

big sharp knife such as most sailors have, we got nothing for our

trouble. However, we find that we shall want no more evidence,

for on being brought before the inspector at the station he asked

leave to make a statement, which was, of course, taken down, just

as he made it, by our shorthand man. We had three copies

typewritten, one of which I enclose. The affair proves, as I

always thought it would, to be an extremely simple one, but I am

obliged to you for assisting me in my investigation. With kind

regards, yours very truly,—G. Lestrade.”

“Hum! The investigation really was a very simple one,” remarked

Holmes, “but I don’t think it struck him in that light when he

first called us in. However, let us see what Jim Browner has to

say for himself. This is his statement as made before Inspector

Montgomery at the Shadwell Police Station, and it has the

advantage of being verbatim.”

“Have I anything to say? Yes, I have a deal to say. I have to

make a clean breast of it all. You can hang me, or you can leave

me alone. I don’t care a plug which you do. I tell you I’ve not

shut an eye in sleep since I did it, and I don’t believe I ever

will again until I get past all waking. Sometimes it’s his face,

but most generally it’s hers. I’m never without one or the other

before me. He looks frowning and black-like, but she has a kind

o’ surprise upon her face. Ay, the white lamb, she might well be

surprised when she read death on a face that had seldom looked

anything but love upon her before.

“But it was Sarah’s fault, and may the curse of a broken man put

a blight on her and set the blood rotting in her veins! It’s not

that I want to clear myself. I know that I went back to drink,

like the beast that I was. But she would have forgiven me; she

would have stuck as close to me as a rope to a block if that

woman had never darkened our door. For Sarah Cushing loved

me—that’s the root of the business—she loved me until all her

love turned to poisonous hate when she knew that I thought more

of my wife’s footmark in the mud than I did of her whole body and

soul.

“There were three sisters altogether. The old one was just a good

woman, the second was a devil, and the third was an angel. Sarah

was thirty-three, and Mary was twenty-nine when I married. We

were just as happy as the day was long when we set up house

together, and in all Liverpool there was no better woman than my

Mary. And then we asked Sarah up for a week, and the week grew

into a month, and one thing led to another, until she was just

one of ourselves.

“I was blue ribbon at that time, and we were putting a little

money by, and all was as bright as a new dollar. My God, whoever

would have thought that it could have come to this? Whoever would

have dreamed it?

“I used to be home for the week-ends very often, and sometimes if

the ship were held back for cargo I would have a whole week at a

time, and in this way I saw a deal of my sister-in-law, Sarah.

She was a fine tall woman, black and quick and fierce, with a

proud way of carrying her head, and a glint from her eye like a

spark from a flint. But when little Mary was there I had never a

thought of her, and that I swear as I hope for God’s mercy.

“It had seemed to me sometimes that she liked to be alone with

me, or to coax me out for a walk with her, but I had never

thought anything of that. But one evening my eyes were opened. I

had come up from the ship and found my wife out, but Sarah at

home. ‘Where’s Mary?’ I asked. ‘Oh, she has gone to pay some

accounts.’ I was impatient and paced up and down the room. ‘Can’t

you be happy for five minutes without Mary, Jim?’ says she. ‘It’s

a bad compliment to me that you can’t be contented with my

society for so short a time.’ ‘That’s all right, my lass,’ said

I, putting out my hand towards her in a kindly way, but she had

it in both hers in an instant, and they burned as if they were in

a fever. I looked into her eyes and I read it all there. There

was no need for her to speak, nor for me either. I frowned and

drew my hand away. Then she stood by my side in silence for a

bit, and then put up her hand and patted me on the shoulder.

‘Steady old Jim!’ said she, and with a kind o’ mocking laugh, she

ran out of the room.

“Well, from that time Sarah hated me with her whole heart and

soul, and she is a woman who can hate, too. I was a fool to let

her go on biding with us—a besotted fool—but I never said a word

to Mary, for I knew it would grieve her. Things went on much as

before, but after a time I began to find that there was a bit of

a change in Mary herself. She had always been so trusting and so

innocent, but now she became queer and suspicious, wanting to

know where I had been and what I had been doing, and whom my

letters were from, and what I had in my pockets, and a thousand

such follies. Day by day she grew queerer and more irritable, and

we had ceaseless rows about nothing. I was fairly puzzled by it

all. Sarah avoided me now, but she and Mary were just

inseparable. I can see now how she was plotting and scheming and

poisoning my wife’s mind against me, but I was such a blind

beetle that I could not understand it at the time. Then I broke

my blue ribbon and began to drink again, but I think I should not

have done it if Mary had been the same as ever. She had some

reason to be disgusted with me now, and the gap between us began

to be wider and wider. And then this Alec Fairbairn chipped in,

and things became a thousand times blacker.

“It was to see Sarah that he came to my house first, but soon it

was to see us, for he was a man with winning ways, and he made

friends wherever he went. He was a dashing, swaggering chap,

smart and curled, who had seen half the world and could talk of

what he had seen. He was good company, I won’t deny it, and he

had wonderful polite ways with him for a sailor man, so that I

think there must have been a time when he knew more of the poop

than the forecastle. For a month he was in and out of my house,

and never once did it cross my mind that harm might come of his

soft, tricky ways. And then at last something made me suspect,

and from that day my peace was gone forever.

“It was only a little thing, too. I had come into the parlour

unexpected, and as I walked in at the door I saw a light of

welcome on my wife’s face. But as she saw who it was it faded

again, and she turned away with a look of disappointment. That

was enough for me. There was no one but Alec Fairbairn whose step

she could have mistaken for mine. If I could have seen him then I

should have killed him, for I have always been like a madman when

my temper gets loose. Mary saw the devil’s light in my eyes, and

she ran forward with her hands on my sleeve. ‘Don’t, Jim, don’t!’

says she. ‘Where’s Sarah?’ I asked. ‘In the kitchen,’ says she.

‘Sarah,’ says I as I went in, ‘this man Fairbairn is never to

darken my door again.’ ‘Why not?’ says she. ‘Because I order it.’

‘Oh!’ says she, ‘if my friends are not good enough for this

house, then I am not good enough for it either.’ ‘You can do what

you like,’ says I, ‘but if Fairbairn shows his face here again

I’ll send you one of his ears for a keepsake.’ She was frightened

by my face, I think, for she never answered a word, and the same

evening she left my house.

“Well, I don’t know now whether it was pure devilry on the part

of this woman, or whether she thought that she could turn me

against my wife by encouraging her to misbehave. Anyway, she took

a house just two streets off and let lodgings to sailors.

Fairbairn used to stay there, and Mary would go round to have tea

with her sister and him. How often she went I don’t know, but I

followed her one day, and as I broke in at the door Fairbairn got

away over the back garden wall, like the cowardly skunk that he

was. I swore to my wife that I would kill her if I found her in

his company again, and I led her back with me, sobbing and

trembling, and as white as a piece of paper. There was no trace

of love between us any longer. I could see that she hated me and

feared me, and when the thought of it drove me to drink, then she

despised me as well.

“Well, Sarah found that she could not make a living in Liverpool,

so she went back, as I understand, to live with her sister in

Croydon, and things jogged on much the same as ever at home. And

then came this last week and all the misery and ruin.

“It was in this way. We had gone on the _May Day_ for a round

voyage of seven days, but a hogshead got loose and started one of

our plates, so that we had to put back into port for twelve

hours. I left the ship and came home, thinking what a surprise it

would be for my wife, and hoping that maybe she would be glad to

see me so soon. The thought was in my head as I turned into my

own street, and at that moment a cab passed me, and there she

was, sitting by the side of Fairbairn, the two chatting and

laughing, with never a thought for me as I stood watching them

from the footpath.

“I tell you, and I give you my word for it, that from that moment

I was not my own master, and it is all like a dim dream when I

look back on it. I had been drinking hard of late, and the two

things together fairly turned my brain. There’s something

throbbing in my head now, like a docker’s hammer, but that

morning I seemed to have all Niagara whizzing and buzzing in my

ears.

“Well, I took to my heels, and I ran after the cab. I had a heavy

oak stick in my hand, and I tell you I saw red from the first;

but as I ran I got cunning, too, and hung back a little to see

them without being seen. They pulled up soon at the railway

station. There was a good crowd round the booking-office, so I

got quite close to them without being seen. They took tickets for

New Brighton. So did I, but I got in three carriages behind them.

When we reached it they walked along the Parade, and I was never

more than a hundred yards from them. At last I saw them hire a

boat and start for a row, for it was a very hot day, and they

thought, no doubt, that it would be cooler on the water.

“It was just as if they had been given into my hands. There was a

bit of a haze, and you could not see more than a few hundred

yards. I hired a boat for myself, and I pulled after them. I

could see the blur of their craft, but they were going nearly as

fast as I, and they must have been a long mile from the shore

before I caught them up. The haze was like a curtain all round

us, and there were we three in the middle of it. My God, shall I

ever forget their faces when they saw who was in the boat that

was closing in upon them? She screamed out. He swore like a

madman and jabbed at me with an oar, for he must have seen death

in my eyes. I got past it and got one in with my stick that

crushed his head like an egg. I would have spared her, perhaps,

for all my madness, but she threw her arms round him, crying out

to him, and calling him ‘Alec.’ I struck again, and she lay

stretched beside him. I was like a wild beast then that had

tasted blood. If Sarah had been there, by the Lord, she should

have joined them. I pulled out my knife, and—well, there! I’ve

said enough. It gave me a kind of savage joy when I thought how

Sarah would feel when she had such signs as these of what her

meddling had brought about. Then I tied the bodies into the boat,

stove a plank, and stood by until they had sunk. I knew very well

that the owner would think that they had lost their bearings in

the haze, and had drifted off out to sea. I cleaned myself up,

got back to land, and joined my ship without a soul having a

suspicion of what had passed. That night I made up the packet for

Sarah Cushing, and next day I sent it from Belfast.

“There you have the whole truth of it. You can hang me, or do

what you like with me, but you cannot punish me as I have been

punished already. I cannot shut my eyes but I see those two faces

staring at me—staring at me as they stared when my boat broke

through the haze. I killed them quick, but they are killing me

slow; and if I have another night of it I shall be either mad or

dead before morning. You won’t put me alone into a cell, sir? For

pity’s sake don’t, and may you be treated in your day of agony as

you treat me now.’

“What is the meaning of it, Watson?” said Holmes solemnly as he

laid down the paper. “What object is served by this circle of

misery and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else

our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what

end? There is the great standing perennial problem to which human

reason is as far from an answer as ever.”

III.