Chương Chương 8 · The Crooked Man

. The Crooked Man

One summer night, a few months after my marriage, I was seated by

my own hearth smoking a last pipe and nodding over a novel, for

my day’s work had been an exhausting one. My wife had already

gone upstairs, and the sound of the locking of the hall door some

time before told me that the servants had also retired. I had

risen from my seat and was knocking out the ashes of my pipe when

I suddenly heard the clang of the bell.

I looked at the clock. It was a quarter to twelve. This could not

be a visitor at so late an hour. A patient, evidently, and

possibly an all-night sitting. With a wry face I went out into

the hall and opened the door. To my astonishment it was Sherlock

Holmes who stood upon my step.

“Ah, Watson,” said he, “I hoped that I might not be too late to

catch you.”

“My dear fellow, pray come in.”

“You look surprised, and no wonder! Relieved, too, I fancy! Hum!

You still smoke the Arcadia mixture of your bachelor days then!

There’s no mistaking that fluffy ash upon your coat. It’s easy to

tell that you have been accustomed to wear a uniform, Watson.

You’ll never pass as a pure-bred civilian as long as you keep

that habit of carrying your handkerchief in your sleeve. Could

you put me up to-night?”

“With pleasure.”

“You told me that you had bachelor quarters for one, and I see

that you have no gentleman visitor at present. Your hat-stand

proclaims as much.”

“I shall be delighted if you will stay.”

“Thank you. I’ll fill the vacant peg then. Sorry to see that

you’ve had the British workman in the house. He’s a token of

evil. Not the drains, I hope?”

“No, the gas.”

“Ah! He has left two nail-marks from his boot upon your linoleum

just where the light strikes it. No, thank you, I had some supper

at Waterloo, but I’ll smoke a pipe with you with pleasure.”

I handed him my pouch, and he seated himself opposite to me and

smoked for some time in silence. I was well aware that nothing

but business of importance would have brought him to me at such

an hour, so I waited patiently until he should come round to it.

“I see that you are professionally rather busy just now,” said

he, glancing very keenly across at me.

“Yes, I’ve had a busy day,” I answered. “It may seem very foolish

in your eyes,” I added, “but really I don’t know how you deduced

it.”

Holmes chuckled to himself.

“I have the advantage of knowing your habits, my dear Watson,”

said he. “When your round is a short one you walk, and when it is

a long one you use a hansom. As I perceive that your boots,

although used, are by no means dirty, I cannot doubt that you are

at present busy enough to justify the hansom.”

“Excellent!” I cried.

“Elementary,” said he. “It is one of those instances where the

reasoner can produce an effect which seems remarkable to his

neighbour, because the latter has missed the one little point

which is the basis of the deduction. The same may be said, my

dear fellow, for the effect of some of these little sketches of

yours, which is entirely meretricious, depending as it does upon

your retaining in your own hands some factors in the problem

which are never imparted to the reader. Now, at present I am in

the position of these same readers, for I hold in this hand

several threads of one of the strangest cases which ever

perplexed a man’s brain, and yet I lack the one or two which are

needful to complete my theory. But I’ll have them, Watson, I’ll

have them!” His eyes kindled and a slight flush sprang into his

thin cheeks. For an instant only. When I glanced again his face

had resumed that red-Indian composure which had made so many

regard him as a machine rather than a man.

“The problem presents features of interest,” said he. “I may even

say exceptional features of interest. I have already looked into

the matter, and have come, as I think, within sight of my

solution. If you could accompany me in that last step you might

be of considerable service to me.”

“I should be delighted.”

“Could you go as far as Aldershot to-morrow?”

“I have no doubt Jackson would take my practice.”

“Very good. I want to start by the 11.10 from Waterloo.”

“That would give me time.”

“Then, if you are not too sleepy, I will give you a sketch of

what has happened, and of what remains to be done.”

“I was sleepy before you came. I am quite wakeful now.”

“I will compress the story as far as may be done without omitting

anything vital to the case. It is conceivable that you may even

have read some account of the matter. It is the supposed murder

of Colonel Barclay, of the Royal Mallows, at Aldershot, which I

am investigating.”

“I have heard nothing of it.”

“It has not excited much attention yet, except locally. The facts

are only two days old. Briefly they are these:

“The Royal Mallows is, as you know, one of the most famous Irish

regiments in the British army. It did wonders both in the Crimea

and the Mutiny, and has since that time distinguished itself upon

every possible occasion. It was commanded up to Monday night by

James Barclay, a gallant veteran, who started as a full private,

was raised to commissioned rank for his bravery at the time of

the Mutiny, and so lived to command the regiment in which he had

once carried a musket.

“Colonel Barclay had married at the time when he was a sergeant,

and his wife, whose maiden name was Miss Nancy Devoy, was the

daughter of a former colour-sergeant in the same corps. There

was, therefore, as can be imagined, some little social friction

when the young couple (for they were still young) found

themselves in their new surroundings. They appear, however, to

have quickly adapted themselves, and Mrs. Barclay has always, I

understand, been as popular with the ladies of the regiment as

her husband was with his brother officers. I may add that she was

a woman of great beauty, and that even now, when she has been

married for upwards of thirty years, she is still of a striking

and queenly appearance.

“Colonel Barclay’s family life appears to have been a uniformly

happy one. Major Murphy, to whom I owe most of my facts, assures

me that he has never heard of any misunderstanding between the

pair. On the whole, he thinks that Barclay’s devotion to his wife

was greater than his wife’s to Barclay. He was acutely uneasy if

he were absent from her for a day. She, on the other hand, though

devoted and faithful, was less obtrusively affectionate. But they

were regarded in the regiment as the very model of a middle-aged

couple. There was absolutely nothing in their mutual relations to

prepare people for the tragedy which was to follow.

“Colonel Barclay himself seems to have had some singular traits

in his character. He was a dashing, jovial old soldier in his

usual mood, but there were occasions on which he seemed to show

himself capable of considerable violence and vindictiveness. This

side of his nature, however, appears never to have been turned

towards his wife. Another fact, which had struck Major Murphy and

three out of five of the other officers with whom I conversed,

was the singular sort of depression which came upon him at times.

As the major expressed it, the smile had often been struck from

his mouth, as if by some invisible hand, when he has been joining

the gayeties and chaff of the mess-table. For days on end, when

the mood was on him, he has been sunk in the deepest gloom. This

and a certain tinge of superstition were the only unusual traits

in his character which his brother officers had observed. The

latter peculiarity took the form of a dislike to being left

alone, especially after dark. This puerile feature in a nature

which was conspicuously manly had often given rise to comment and

conjecture.

“The first battalion of the Royal Mallows (which is the old

117th) has been stationed at Aldershot for some years. The

married officers live out of barracks, and the Colonel has during

all this time occupied a villa called Lachine, about half a mile

from the north camp. The house stands in its own grounds, but the

west side of it is not more than thirty yards from the high-road.

A coachman and two maids form the staff of servants. These with

their master and mistress were the sole occupants of Lachine, for

the Barclays had no children, nor was it usual for them to have

resident visitors.

“Now for the events at Lachine between nine and ten on the

evening of last Monday.”

“Mrs. Barclay was, it appears, a member of the Roman Catholic

Church, and had interested herself very much in the establishment

of the Guild of St. George, which was formed in connection with

the Watt Street Chapel for the purpose of supplying the poor with

cast-off clothing. A meeting of the Guild had been held that

evening at eight, and Mrs. Barclay had hurried over her dinner in

order to be present at it. When leaving the house she was heard

by the coachman to make some commonplace remark to her husband,

and to assure him that she would be back before very long. She

then called for Miss Morrison, a young lady who lives in the next

villa, and the two went off together to their meeting. It lasted

forty minutes, and at a quarter-past nine Mrs. Barclay returned

home, having left Miss Morrison at her door as she passed.

“There is a room which is used as a morning-room at Lachine. This

faces the road and opens by a large glass folding-door on to the

lawn. The lawn is thirty yards across, and is only divided from

the highway by a low wall with an iron rail above it. It was into

this room that Mrs. Barclay went upon her return. The blinds were

not down, for the room was seldom used in the evening, but Mrs.

Barclay herself lit the lamp and then rang the bell, asking Jane

Stewart, the housemaid, to bring her a cup of tea, which was

quite contrary to her usual habits. The Colonel had been sitting

in the dining-room, but hearing that his wife had returned he

joined her in the morning-room. The coachman saw him cross the

hall and enter it. He was never seen again alive.

“The tea which had been ordered was brought up at the end of ten

minutes; but the maid, as she approached the door, was surprised

to hear the voices of her master and mistress in furious

altercation. She knocked without receiving any answer, and even

turned the handle, but only to find that the door was locked upon

the inside. Naturally enough she ran down to tell the cook, and

the two women with the coachman came up into the hall and

listened to the dispute which was still raging. They all agreed

that only two voices were to be heard, those of Barclay and of

his wife. Barclay’s remarks were subdued and abrupt, so that none

of them were audible to the listeners. The lady’s, on the other

hand, were most bitter, and when she raised her voice could be

plainly heard. ‘You coward!’ she repeated over and over again.

‘What can be done now? What can be done now? Give me back my

life. I will never so much as breathe the same air with you

again! You coward! You coward!’ Those were scraps of her

conversation, ending in a sudden dreadful cry in the man’s voice,

with a crash, and a piercing scream from the woman. Convinced

that some tragedy had occurred, the coachman rushed to the door

and strove to force it, while scream after scream issued from

within. He was unable, however, to make his way in, and the maids

were too distracted with fear to be of any assistance to him. A

sudden thought struck him, however, and he ran through the hall

door and round to the lawn upon which the long French windows

open. One side of the window was open, which I understand was

quite usual in the summer-time, and he passed without difficulty

into the room. His mistress had ceased to scream and was

stretched insensible upon a couch, while with his feet tilted

over the side of an armchair, and his head upon the ground near

the corner of the fender, was lying the unfortunate soldier stone

dead in a pool of his own blood.

“Naturally, the coachman’s first thought, on finding that he

could do nothing for his master, was to open the door. But here

an unexpected and singular difficulty presented itself. The key

was not in the inner side of the door, nor could he find it

anywhere in the room. He went out again, therefore, through the

window, and having obtained the help of a policeman and of a

medical man, he returned. The lady, against whom naturally the

strongest suspicion rested, was removed to her room, still in a

state of insensibility. The Colonel’s body was then placed upon

the sofa, and a careful examination made of the scene of the

tragedy.

“The injury from which the unfortunate veteran was suffering was

found to be a jagged cut some two inches long at the back part of

his head, which had evidently been caused by a violent blow from

a blunt weapon. Nor was it difficult to guess what that weapon

may have been. Upon the floor, close to the body, was lying a

singular club of hard carved wood with a bone handle. The Colonel

possessed a varied collection of weapons brought from the

different countries in which he had fought, and it is conjectured

by the police that his club was among his trophies. The servants

deny having seen it before, but among the numerous curiosities in

the house it is possible that it may have been overlooked.

Nothing else of importance was discovered in the room by the

police, save the inexplicable fact that neither upon Mrs.

Barclay’s person nor upon that of the victim nor in any part of

the room was the missing key to be found. The door had eventually

to be opened by a locksmith from Aldershot.

“That was the state of things, Watson, when upon the Tuesday

morning I, at the request of Major Murphy, went down to Aldershot

to supplement the efforts of the police. I think that you will

acknowledge that the problem was already one of interest, but my

observations soon made me realize that it was in truth much more

extraordinary than would at first sight appear.

“Before examining the room I cross-questioned the servants, but

only succeeded in eliciting the facts which I have already

stated. One other detail of interest was remembered by Jane

Stewart, the housemaid. You will remember that on hearing the

sound of the quarrel she descended and returned with the other

servants. On that first occasion, when she was alone, she says

that the voices of her master and mistress were sunk so low that

she could hear hardly anything, and judged by their tones rather

than their words that they had fallen out. On my pressing her,

however, she remembered that she heard the word ‘David’ uttered

twice by the lady. The point is of the utmost importance as

guiding us towards the reason of the sudden quarrel. The

Colonel’s name, you remember, was James.

“There was one thing in the case which had made the deepest

impression both upon the servants and the police. This was the

contortion of the Colonel’s face. It had set, according to their

account, into the most dreadful expression of fear and horror

which a human countenance is capable of assuming. More than one

person fainted at the mere sight of him, so terrible was the

effect. It was quite certain that he had foreseen his fate, and

that it had caused him the utmost horror. This, of course, fitted

in well enough with the police theory, if the Colonel could have

seen his wife making a murderous attack upon him. Nor was the

fact of the wound being on the back of his head a fatal objection

to this, as he might have turned to avoid the blow. No

information could be got from the lady herself, who was

temporarily insane from an acute attack of brain-fever.

“From the police I learned that Miss Morrison, who you remember

went out that evening with Mrs. Barclay, denied having any

knowledge of what it was which had caused the ill-humour in which

her companion had returned.

“Having gathered these facts, Watson, I smoked several pipes over

them, trying to separate those which were crucial from others

which were merely incidental. There could be no question that the

most distinctive and suggestive point in the case was the

singular disappearance of the door-key. A most careful search had

failed to discover it in the room. Therefore it must have been

taken from it. But neither the Colonel nor the Colonel’s wife

could have taken it. That was perfectly clear. Therefore a third

person must have entered the room. And that third person could

only have come in through the window. It seemed to me that a

careful examination of the room and the lawn might possibly

reveal some traces of this mysterious individual. You know my

methods, Watson. There was not one of them which I did not apply

to the inquiry. And it ended by my discovering traces, but very

different ones from those which I had expected. There had been a

man in the room, and he had crossed the lawn coming from the

road. I was able to obtain five very clear impressions of his

footmarks: one in the roadway itself, at the point where he had

climbed the low wall, two on the lawn, and two very faint ones

upon the stained boards near the window where he had entered. He

had apparently rushed across the lawn, for his toe-marks were

much deeper than his heels. But it was not the man who surprised

me. It was his companion.”

“His companion!”

Holmes pulled a large sheet of tissue-paper out of his pocket and

carefully unfolded it upon his knee.

“What do you make of that?” he asked.

The paper was covered with the tracings of the footmarks of some

small animal. It had five well-marked footpads, an indication of

long nails, and the whole print might be nearly as large as a

dessert-spoon.

“It’s a dog,” said I.

“Did you ever hear of a dog running up a curtain? I found

distinct traces that this creature had done so.”

“A monkey, then?”

“But it is not the print of a monkey.”

“What can it be, then?”

“Neither dog nor cat nor monkey nor any creature that we are

familiar with. I have tried to reconstruct it from the

measurements. Here are four prints where the beast has been

standing motionless. You see that it is no less than fifteen

inches from fore-foot to hind. Add to that the length of neck and

head, and you get a creature not much less than two feet

long—probably more if there is any tail. But now observe this

other measurement. The animal has been moving, and we have the

length of its stride. In each case it is only about three inches.

You have an indication, you see, of a long body with very short

legs attached to it. It has not been considerate enough to leave

any of its hair behind it. But its general shape must be what I

have indicated, and it can run up a curtain, and it is

carnivorous.”

“How do you deduce that?”

“Because it ran up the curtain. A canary’s cage was hanging in

the window, and its aim seems to have been to get at the bird.”

“Then what was the beast?”

“Ah, if I could give it a name it might go a long way towards

solving the case. On the whole, it was probably some creature of

the weasel and stoat tribe—and yet it is larger than any of these

that I have seen.”

“But what had it to do with the crime?”

“That, also, is still obscure. But we have learned a good deal,

you perceive. We know that a man stood in the road looking at the

quarrel between the Barclays—the blinds were up and the room

lighted. We know, also, that he ran across the lawn, entered the

room, accompanied by a strange animal, and that he either struck

the Colonel or, as is equally possible, that the Colonel fell

down from sheer fright at the sight of him, and cut his head on

the corner of the fender. Finally, we have the curious fact that

the intruder carried away the key with him when he left.”

“Your discoveries seem to have left the business more obscure

that it was before,” said I.

“Quite so. They undoubtedly showed that the affair was much

deeper than was at first conjectured. I thought the matter over,

and I came to the conclusion that I must approach the case from

another aspect. But really, Watson, I am keeping you up, and I

might just as well tell you all this on our way to Aldershot

to-morrow.”

“Thank you, you have gone rather too far to stop.”

“It is quite certain that when Mrs. Barclay left the house at

half-past seven she was on good terms with her husband. She was

never, as I think I have said, ostentatiously affectionate, but

she was heard by the coachman chatting with the Colonel in a

friendly fashion. Now, it was equally certain that, immediately

on her return, she had gone to the room in which she was least

likely to see her husband, had flown to tea as an agitated woman

will, and finally, on his coming in to her, had broken into

violent recriminations. Therefore something had occurred between

seven-thirty and nine o’clock which had completely altered her

feelings towards him. But Miss Morrison had been with her during

the whole of that hour and a half. It was absolutely certain,

therefore, in spite of her denial, that she must know something

of the matter.

“My first conjecture was, that possibly there had been some

passages between this young lady and the old soldier, which the

former had now confessed to the wife. That would account for the

angry return, and also for the girl’s denial that anything had

occurred. Nor would it be entirely incompatible with most of the

words overheard. But there was the reference to David, and there

was the known affection of the Colonel for his wife, to weigh

against it, to say nothing of the tragic intrusion of this other

man, which might, of course, be entirely disconnected with what

had gone before. It was not easy to pick one’s steps, but, on the

whole, I was inclined to dismiss the idea that there had been

anything between the Colonel and Miss Morrison, but more than

ever convinced that the young lady held the clue as to what it

was which had turned Mrs. Barclay to hatred of her husband. I

took the obvious course, therefore, of calling upon Miss

Morrison, of explaining to her that I was perfectly certain that

she held the facts in her possession, and of assuring her that

her friend, Mrs. Barclay, might find herself in the dock upon a

capital charge unless the matter were cleared up.

“Miss Morrison is a little, ethereal slip of a girl, with timid

eyes and blonde hair, but I found her by no means wanting in

shrewdness and common sense. She sat thinking for some time after

I had spoken, and then, turning to me with a brisk air of

resolution, she broke into a remarkable statement which I will

condense for your benefit.

“‘I promised my friend that I would say nothing of the matter,

and a promise is a promise,’ said she; ‘but if I can really help

her when so serious a charge is laid against her, and when her

own mouth, poor darling, is closed by illness, then I think I am

absolved from my promise. I will tell you exactly what happened

upon Monday evening.

“‘We were returning from the Watt Street Mission about a quarter

to nine o’clock. On our way we had to pass through Hudson Street,

which is a very quiet thoroughfare. There is only one lamp in it,

upon the left-hand side, and as we approached this lamp I saw a

man coming towards us with his back very bent, and something like

a box slung over one of his shoulders. He appeared to be

deformed, for he carried his head low and walked with his knees

bent. We were passing him when he raised his face to look at us

in the circle of light thrown by the lamp, and as he did so he

stopped and screamed out in a dreadful voice, “My God, it’s

Nancy!” Mrs. Barclay turned as white as death, and would have

fallen down had the dreadful-looking creature not caught hold of

her. I was going to call for the police, but she, to my surprise,

spoke quite civilly to the fellow.

“‘“I thought you had been dead this thirty years, Henry,” said

she, in a shaking voice.

“‘“So I have,” said he, and it was awful to hear the tones that

he said it in. He had a very dark, fearsome face, and a gleam in

his eyes that comes back to me in my dreams. His hair and

whiskers were shot with grey, and his face was all crinkled and

puckered like a withered apple.

“‘“Just walk on a little way, dear,” said Mrs. Barclay; “I want

to have a word with this man. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

She tried to speak boldly, but she was still deadly pale and

could hardly get her words out for the trembling of her lips.

“‘I did as she asked me, and they talked together for a few

minutes. Then she came down the street with her eyes blazing, and

I saw the crippled wretch standing by the lamp-post and shaking

his clenched fists in the air as if he were mad with rage. She

never said a word until we were at the door here, when she took

me by the hand and begged me to tell no one what had happened.

“‘“It’s an old acquaintance of mine who has come down in the

world,” said she. When I promised her I would say nothing she

kissed me, and I have never seen her since. I have told you now

the whole truth, and if I withheld it from the police it is

because I did not realize then the danger in which my dear friend

stood. I know that it can only be to her advantage that

everything should be known.’

“There was her statement, Watson, and to me, as you can imagine,

it was like a light on a dark night. Everything which had been

disconnected before began at once to assume its true place, and I

had a shadowy presentiment of the whole sequence of events. My

next step obviously was to find the man who had produced such a

remarkable impression upon Mrs. Barclay. If he were still in

Aldershot it should not be a very difficult matter. There are not

such a very great number of civilians, and a deformed man was

sure to have attracted attention. I spent a day in the search,

and by evening—this very evening, Watson—I had run him down. The

man’s name is Henry Wood, and he lives in lodgings in this same

street in which the ladies met him. He has only been five days in

the place. In the character of a registration-agent I had a most

interesting gossip with his landlady. The man is by trade a

conjurer and performer, going round the canteens after nightfall,

and giving a little entertainment at each. He carries some

creature about with him in that box; about which the landlady

seemed to be in considerable trepidation, for she had never seen

an animal like it. He uses it in some of his tricks according to

her account. So much the woman was able to tell me, and also that

it was a wonder the man lived, seeing how twisted he was, and

that he spoke in a strange tongue sometimes, and that for the

last two nights she had heard him groaning and weeping in his

bedroom. He was all right, as far as money went, but in his

deposit he had given her what looked like a bad florin. She

showed it to me, Watson, and it was an Indian rupee.

“So now, my dear fellow, you see exactly how we stand and why it

is I want you. It is perfectly plain that after the ladies parted

from this man he followed them at a distance, that he saw the

quarrel between husband and wife through the window, that he

rushed in, and that the creature which he carried in his box got

loose. That is all very certain. But he is the only person in

this world who can tell us exactly what happened in that room.”

“And you intend to ask him?”

“Most certainly—but in the presence of a witness.”

“And I am the witness?”

“If you will be so good. If he can clear the matter up, well and

good. If he refuses, we have no alternative but to apply for a

warrant.”

“But how do you know he’ll be there when we return?”

“You may be sure that I took some precautions. I have one of my

Baker Street boys mounting guard over him who would stick to him

like a burr, go where he might. We shall find him in Hudson

Street to-morrow, Watson, and meanwhile I should be the criminal

myself if I kept you out of bed any longer.”

It was midday when we found ourselves at the scene of the

tragedy, and, under my companion’s guidance, we made our way at

once to Hudson Street. In spite of his capacity for concealing

his emotions, I could easily see that Holmes was in a state of

suppressed excitement, while I was myself tingling with that

half-sporting, half-intellectual pleasure which I invariably

experienced when I associated myself with him in his

investigations.

“This is the street,” said he, as we turned into a short

thoroughfare lined with plain two-storied brick houses. “Ah, here

is Simpson to report.”

“He’s in all right, Mr. Holmes,” cried a small street Arab,

running up to us.

“Good, Simpson!” said Holmes, patting him on the head. “Come

along, Watson. This is the house.” He sent in his card with a

message that he had come on important business, and a moment

later we were face to face with the man whom we had come to see.

In spite of the warm weather he was crouching over a fire, and

the little room was like an oven. The man sat all twisted and

huddled in his chair in a way which gave an indescribable

impression of deformity; but the face which he turned towards us,

though worn and swarthy, must at some time have been remarkable

for its beauty. He looked suspiciously at us now out of

yellow-shot, bilious eyes, and, without speaking or rising, he

waved towards two chairs.

“Mr. Henry Wood, late of India, I believe,” said Holmes, affably.

“I’ve come over this little matter of Colonel Barclay’s death.”

“What should I know about that?”

“That’s what I want to ascertain. You know, I suppose, that

unless the matter is cleared up, Mrs. Barclay, who is an old

friend of yours, will in all probability be tried for murder.”

The man gave a violent start.

“I don’t know who you are,” he cried, “nor how you come to know

what you do know, but will you swear that this is true that you

tell me?”

“Why, they are only waiting for her to come to her senses to

arrest her.”

“My God! Are you in the police yourself?”

“No.”

“What business is it of yours, then?”

“It’s every man’s business to see justice done.”

“You can take my word that she is innocent.”

“Then you are guilty.”

“No, I am not.”

“Who killed Colonel James Barclay, then?”

“It was a just providence that killed him. But, mind you this,

that if I had knocked his brains out, as it was in my heart to

do, he would have had no more than his due from my hands. If his

own guilty conscience had not struck him down it is likely enough

that I might have had his blood upon my soul. You want me to tell

the story. Well, I don’t know why I shouldn’t, for there’s no

cause for me to be ashamed of it.

“It was in this way, sir. You see me now with my back like a

camel and my ribs all awry, but there was a time when Corporal

Henry Wood was the smartest man in the 117th Foot. We were in

India then, in cantonments, at a place we’ll call Bhurtee.

Barclay, who died the other day, was sergeant in the same company

as myself, and the belle of the regiment, ay, and the finest girl

that ever had the breath of life between her lips, was Nancy

Devoy, the daughter of the colour-sergeant. There were two men

that loved her, and one that she loved, and you’ll smile when you

look at this poor thing huddled before the fire, and hear me say

that it was for my good looks that she loved me.

“Well, though I had her heart, her father was set upon her

marrying Barclay. I was a harum-scarum, reckless lad, and he had

had an education, and was already marked for the sword-belt. But

the girl held true to me, and it seemed that I would have had her

when the Mutiny broke out, and all hell was loose in the country.

“We were shut up in Bhurtee, the regiment of us with half a

battery of artillery, a company of Sikhs, and a lot of civilians

and women-folk. There were ten thousand rebels round us, and they

were as keen as a set of terriers round a rat-cage. About the

second week of it our water gave out, and it was a question

whether we could communicate with General Neill’s column, which

was moving up country. It was our only chance, for we could not

hope to fight our way out with all the women and children, so I

volunteered to go out and to warn General Neill of our danger. My

offer was accepted, and I talked it over with Sergeant Barclay,

who was supposed to know the ground better than any other man,

and who drew up a route by which I might get through the rebel

lines. At ten o’clock the same night I started off upon my

journey. There were a thousand lives to save, but it was of only

one that I was thinking when I dropped over the wall that night.

“My way ran down a dried-up watercourse, which we hoped would

screen me from the enemy’s sentries; but as I crept round the

corner of it I walked right into six of them, who were crouching

down in the dark waiting for me. In an instant I was stunned with

a blow and bound hand and foot. But the real blow was to my heart

and not to my head, for as I came to and listened to as much as I

could understand of their talk, I heard enough to tell me that my

comrade, the very man who had arranged the way that I was to

take, had betrayed me by means of a native servant into the hands

of the enemy.

“Well, there’s no need for me to dwell on that part of it. You

know now what James Barclay was capable of. Bhurtee was relieved

by Neill next day, but the rebels took me away with them in their

retreat, and it was many a long year before ever I saw a white

face again. I was tortured and tried to get away, and was

captured and tortured again. You can see for yourselves the state

in which I was left. Some of them that fled into Nepaul took me

with them, and then afterwards I was up past Darjeeling. The

hill-folk up there murdered the rebels who had me, and I became

their slave for a time until I escaped; but instead of going

south I had to go north, until I found myself among the Afghans.

There I wandered about for many a year, and at last came back to

the Punjab, where I lived mostly among the natives and picked up

a living by the conjuring tricks that I had learned. What use was

it for me, a wretched cripple, to go back to England or to make

myself known to my old comrades? Even my wish for revenge would

not make me do that. I had rather that Nancy and my old pals

should think of Harry Wood as having died with a straight back,

than see him living and crawling with a stick like a chimpanzee.

They never doubted that I was dead, and I meant that they never

should. I heard that Barclay had married Nancy, and that he was

rising rapidly in the regiment, but even that did not make me

speak.

“But when one gets old one has a longing for home. For years I’ve

been dreaming of the bright green fields and the hedges of

England. At last I determined to see them before I died. I saved

enough to bring me across, and then I came here where the

soldiers are, for I know their ways and how to amuse them and so

earn enough to keep me.”

“Your narrative is most interesting,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I

have already heard of your meeting with Mrs. Barclay, and your

mutual recognition. You then, as I understand, followed her home

and saw through the window an altercation between her husband and

her, in which she doubtless cast his conduct to you in his teeth.

Your own feelings overcame you, and you ran across the lawn and

broke in upon them.”

“I did, sir, and at the sight of me he looked as I have never

seen a man look before, and over he went with his head on the

fender. But he was dead before he fell. I read death on his face

as plain as I can read that text over the fire. The bare sight of

me was like a bullet through his guilty heart.”

“And then?”

“Then Nancy fainted, and I caught up the key of the door from her

hand, intending to unlock it and get help. But as I was doing it

it seemed to me better to leave it alone and get away, for the

thing might look black against me, and any way my secret would be

out if I were taken. In my haste I thrust the key into my pocket,

and dropped my stick while I was chasing Teddy, who had run up

the curtain. When I got him into his box, from which he had

slipped, I was off as fast as I could run.”

“Who’s Teddy?” asked Holmes.

The man leaned over and pulled up the front of a kind of hutch in

the corner. In an instant out there slipped a beautiful

reddish-brown creature, thin and lithe, with the legs of a stoat,

a long, thin nose, and a pair of the finest red eyes that ever I

saw in an animal’s head.

“It’s a mongoose,” I cried.

“Well, some call them that, and some call them ichneumon,” said

the man. “Snake-catcher is what I call them, and Teddy is amazing

quick on cobras. I have one here without the fangs, and Teddy

catches it every night to please the folk in the canteen.

“Any other point, sir?”

“Well, we may have to apply to you again if Mrs. Barclay should

prove to be in serious trouble.”

“In that case, of course, I’d come forward.”

“But if not, there is no object in raking up this scandal against

a dead man, foully as he has acted. You have at least the

satisfaction of knowing that for thirty years of his life his

conscience bitterly reproached him for this wicked deed. Ah,

there goes Major Murphy on the other side of the street. Good-by,

Wood. I want to learn if anything has happened since yesterday.”

We were in time to overtake the major before he reached the

corner.

“Ah, Holmes,” he said: “I suppose you have heard that all this

fuss has come to nothing?”

“What then?”

“The inquest is just over. The medical evidence showed

conclusively that death was due to apoplexy. You see it was quite

a simple case after all.”

“Oh, remarkably superficial,” said Holmes, smiling. “Come,

Watson, I don’t think we shall be wanted in Aldershot any more.”

“There’s one thing,” said I, as we walked down to the station.

“If the husband’s name was James, and the other was Henry, what

was this talk about David?”

“That one word, my dear Watson, should have told me the whole

story had I been the ideal reasoner which you are so fond of

depicting. It was evidently a term of reproach.”

“Of reproach?”

“Yes; David strayed a little occasionally, you know, and on one

occasion in the same direction as Sergeant James Barclay. You

remember the small affair of Uriah and Bathsheba? My biblical

knowledge is a trifle rusty, I fear, but you will find the story

in the first or second of Samuel.”

IX.