– Я мушу закiнчити, – сказала вона. – Коли мiй термiн скiнчився, я вирiшила здобути щоденники та листи й вiдправити iх росiйському уряду, щоб мого коханого випустили на волю. Я знала, що мiй чоловiк в Англii. Пiсля багатьох мiсяцiв безплiдних пошукiв я нарештi його знайшла. Знала, що вiн зберiгае щоденник, бо отримала в Сибiру вiд нього листа, в якому вiн докоряв менi, цитуючи щоденника. Але я була переконана, знаючи його мстивiсть, що вiн не вiддасть менi документ iз власноi волi. Я мала його вкрасти. З цiею метою винайняла приватного агента-детектива, котрий прийшов у будинок чоловiка як секретар, це був твiй другий секретар, Сергiю, той, котрий так поквапився покинути тебе. Йому вдалося з’ясувати, що щоденник i листи лежать у середнiй шухлядi секретера, також вiн скопiював ключа. Бiльше нiчого робити не хотiв. Лише передав менi план будинку й повiдомив, що в другiй половинi дня в кабiнетi нiкого не бувае, бо секретар працюе ось тут, нагорi. Зрештою я зважилася та проникла в оселю, щоб забрати папери. Менi це вдалося, але якою цiною! Документи були в моiх руках i я вже замикала шухляду столу, коли той юнак схопив мене. Я його бачила вранцi. Ми зустрiлися на дорозi, i я спитала, де живе професор Корем, не знаючи, що вiн працюе секретарем у цьому обiйстi.
– Саме так! – вигукнув Голмс. – Прийшовши додому, секретар розповiв своему працедавцю про зустрiч. Вмираючи, спробував пояснити, що це була вона, тобто та, про котру вiн йому казав.
– Дозвольте менi закiнчити, – владно звелiла жiнка, i ii обличчя спотворилося, буцiмто вiд болю. – Коли юнак упав горiлиць, я кинулася геть iз кiмнати, помилилася дверима й опинилася в спальнi чоловiка. Вiн хотiв мене видати. Але я сказала йому, що його життя в моiх руках. Якщо вiн вiддасть мене правосуддю, то я видам його органiзацii. Хотiла жити не заради себе самоi, а мала реалiзувати задумане. Вiн знав, що я зроблю те, чим погрожувала, i що його доля – у моiх руках. З цiеi причини, i винятково тому вiн сховав мене. Штовхнув мене в цей сховок, що залишився вiд минулих часiв, i про який знав лише вiн. Чоловiк харчувався у своiй спальнi й мiг видiляти менi дещицю своеi iжi. Ми вирiшили, що, коли полiцiя покине будинок, я зникну вночi й нiколи бiльше не повернуся. Але ви якимось чином про все дiзналися.
Вона вийняла з-за пазухи невеликий пакет.
– Вислухайте моi останнi слова. Цей пакет врятуе Олексiя, я довiряю його вашiй честi та вашiй любовi до справедливостi. Вiзьмiть його. Вiднесiть у росiйське посольство. Я виконала свiй обов’язок i…
– Зупинiть ii! – вигукнув Голмс. Вiн кинувся до жiнки й вирвав iз ii рук маленьку пляшечку.
– Пiзно, – сказала вона й упала на лiжко. – Я прийняла отруту ще перед тим, як вийти зi сховку. У головi паморочиться. Я вмираю. Прошу, сер, не забудьте про пакет.
– Простий випадок, однак певним чином дуже повчальний, – зауважив Голмс, коли ми поверталися до мiста. – Вся справа залежала вiд пенсне. Якби не щаслива випадковiсть, що вмираючий секретар останньоi митi схопив його, я не переконаний, що ми б знайшли розв’язок. Менi було зрозумiло, що, втративши такi потужнi скельця, людина стае безпорадною та слiпою. Пригадуете, коли ви запевняли мене, що вона й назад пройшла тiею самою вузькою смужкою трави, нi разу не ступивши вбiк, а я сказав, що це був подвиг. Про себе ж вирiшив, що це неможливо, хiба що, на наше нещастя, у неi виявилося б запасне пенсне. Тодi я почав серйозно розмiрковувати над гiпотезою, що власниця пенсне й досi в будинку. Виявивши схожiсть двох коридорiв, я збагнув, що вона дуже легко могла iх сплутати. У такому разi, вочевидь, вона мала потрапити до спальнi професора. Це мiркування насторожило мене, i я ретельно оглянув кiмнату, розраховуючи помiтити в нiй хоч якiсь ознаки схованки. Килим був цiлiсний i туго натягнутий на пiдлозi, i я вiдкинув версiю про люк. Могла бути нiша позаду книг, таке бувае в старовинних бiблiотеках. Я звернув увагу, що книги розкиданi всюди, але не перед тiею шафою. Отже, вона могла слугувати дверима. Але жодних iнших ознак, якi б пiдтверджували мою теорiю, не було. Тодi я знову звернув увагу на килим. Вiн був сiрувато-брунатний, i я мiг легко провести один експеримент. Для цього викурив незлiченну кiлькiсть цих чудових цигарок i обсипав попелом усю пiдлогу бiля пiдозрiлоi шафи. Цей простий виверт виявився дуже ефективним. Потiм ми пiшли донизу i я, Ватсоне, у вашiй присутностi переконався (втiм, ви не зовсiм зрозумiли, до чого тi моi розпитування), що професор почав iсти набагато бiльше. Цього й слiд було очiкувати, якщо йому довелося годувати ще одну людину. Потiм ми знову пiднялися в спальню. Розсипавши пачку з цигарками, я отримав нагоду уважно дослiдити килим i переконався, що пiд час нашоi вiдсутностi бранка покидала свiй притулок… Ну, Гопкiнсе, ось i Черiнг-Кросс. Вiтаю вас iз вдало закритим слiдством. Ви, не сумнiваюся, поiдете звiдси прямо до Скотленд-Ярду. А наш шлях, Ватсоне, лежить до росiйського посольства.
The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez
When I look at the three massive manuscript volumes which contain our work for the year 1894 I confess that it is very difficult for me, out of such a wealth of material, to select the cases which are most interesting in themselves and at the same time most conducive to a display of those peculiar powers for which my friend was famous. As I turn over the pages I see my notes upon the repulsive story of the red leech and the terrible death of Crosby the banker. Here also I find an account of the Addleton tragedy and the singular contents of the ancient British barrow. The famous Smith-Mortimer succession case comes also within this period, and so does the tracking and arrest of Huret, the Boulevard assassin – an exploit which won for Holmes an autograph letter of thanks from the French President and the Order of the Legion of Honour. Each of these would furnish a narrative, but on the whole I am of opinion that none of them unite so many singular points of interest as the episode of Yoxley Old Place, which includes not only the lamentable death of young Willoughby Smith, but also those subsequent developments which threw so curious a light upon the causes of the crime.
It was a wild, tempestuous night towards the close of November. Holmes and I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged with a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original inscription upon a palimpsest, I deep in a recent treatise upon surgery. Outside the wind howled down Baker Street, while the rain beat fiercely against the windows. It was strange there in the very depths of the town, with ten miles of man’s handiwork on every side of us, to feel the iron grip of Nature, and to be conscious that to the huge elemental forces all London was no more than the molehills that dot the fields. I walked to the window and looked out on the deserted street. The occasional lamps gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and shining pavement. a single cab was splashing its way from the Oxford Street end.
“Well, Watson, it’s as well we have not to turn out to-night,” said Holmes, laying aside his lens and rolling up the palimpsest. “I’ve done enough for one sitting. It is trying work for the eyes. So far as I can make out it is nothing more exciting than an Abbey’s accounts dating from the second half of the fifteenth century. Halloa! Halloa! Halloa! What’s this?”
Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of a horse’s hoofs and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped against the kerb. The cab which I had seen had pulled up at our door.
“What can he want?” I ejaculated, as a man stepped out of it.
“Want! He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and cravats and goloshes, and every aid that man ever invented to fight the weather. Wait a bit, though! There’s the cab off again! There’s hope yet. He’d have kept it if he had wanted us to come. Run down, my dear fellow, and open the door, for all virtuous folk have been long in bed.”
When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor I had no difficulty in recognising him. It was young Stanley Hopkins, a promising detective, in whose career Holmes had several times shown a very practical interest.
“Is he in?” he asked, eagerly.
“Come up, my dear sir,” said Holmes’s voice from above. “I hope you have no designs upon us on such a night as this.”
The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon his shining waterproof. I helped him out of it while Holmes knocked a blaze out of the logs in the grate.
“Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes,” said he. “Here’s a cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing hot water and a lemon which is good medicine on a night like this. It must be something important which has brought you out in such a gale.”
“It is indeed, Mr. Holmes. I’ve had a bustling afternoon, I promise you. Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the latest editions?”
“I’ve seen nothing later than the fifteenth century today.”
“Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you have not missed anything. I haven’t let the grass grow under my feet. It’s down in Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three from the railway line. I was wired for at three-fifteen, reached Yoxley Old Place at five, conducted my investigation, was back at Charing Cross by the last train, and straight to you by cab.”
“Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your case?”
“It means that I can make neither head nor tail of it. So far as I can see it is just as tangled a business as ever I handled, and yet at first it seemed so simple that one couldn’t go wrong. There’s no motive, Mr. Holmes. That’s what bothers me – I can’t put my hand on a motive. Here’s a man dead – there’s no denying that – but, so far as I can see, no reason on earth why anyone should wish him harm.”
Holmes lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.
“Let us hear about it,” said he.
“I’ve got my facts pretty clear,” said Stanley Hopkins. “All I want now is to know what they all mean. The story, so far as I can make it out, is like this. Some years ago this country house, Yoxley Old Place, was taken by an elderly man, who gave the name of Professor Coram. He was an invalid, keeping his bed half the time, and the other half hobbling round the house with a stick or being pushed about the grounds by the gardener in a bath-chair. He was well liked by the few neighbours who called upon him, and he has the reputation down there of being a very learned man. His household used to consist of an elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Marker, and of a maid, Susan Tarlton. These have both been with him since his arrival, and they seem to be women of excellent character. The Professor is writing a learned book, and he found it necessary about a year ago to engage a secretary. The first two that he tried were not successes; but the third, Mr. Willoughby Smith, a very young man straight from the University, seems to have been just what his employer wanted. His work consisted in writing all the morning to the Professor’s dictation, and he usually spent the evening in hunting up references and passages which bore upon the next day’s work. This Willoughby Smith has nothing against him either as a boy at Uppingham or as a young man at Cambridge. I have seen his testimonials, and from the first he was a decent, quiet, hardworking fellow, with no weak spot in him at all. And yet this is the lad who has met his death this morning in the Professor’s study under circumstances which can point only to murder.”
The wind howled and screamed at the windows. Holmes and I drew closer to the fire while the young inspector slowly and point by point developed his singular narrative.
“If you were to search all England,” said he, “I don’t suppose you could find a household more self-contained or free from outside influences. Whole weeks would pass and not one of them go past the garden gate. The Professor was buried in his work and existed for nothing else. Young Smith knew nobody in the neighbourhood, and lived very much as his employer did. The two women had nothing to take them from the house. Mortimer the gardener, who wheels the bath-chair, is an Army pensioner – an old Crimean man of excellent character. He does not live in the house, but in a three-roomed cottage at the other end of the garden. Those are the only people that you would find within the grounds of Yoxley Old Place. At the same time, the gate of the garden is a hundred yards from the main London to Chatham road. It opens with a latch, and there is nothing to prevent anyone from walking in.
“Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the only person who can say anything positive about the matter. It was in the forenoon, between eleven and twelve. She was engaged at the moment in hanging some curtains in the upstairs front bedroom. Professor Coram was still in bed, for when the weather is bad he seldom rises before midday. The housekeeper was busied with some work in the back of the house. Willoughby Smith had been in his bedroom, which he uses as a sitting-room; but the maid heard him at that moment pass along the passage and descend to the study immediately below her. She did not see him, but she says that she could not be mistaken in his quick, firm tread. She did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so later there was a dreadful cry in the room below. It was a wild, hoarse scream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come either from a man or a woman. At the same instant there was a heavy thud, which shook the old house, and then all was silence. The maid stood petrified for a moment, and then, recovering her courage, she ran downstairs. The study door was shut, and she opened it. Inside young Mr. Willoughby Smith was stretched upon the floor. At first she could see no injury, but as she tried to raise him she saw that blood was pouring from the underside of his neck. It was pierced by a very small but very deep wound, which had divided the carotid artery. The instrument with which the injury had been inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him. It was one of those small sealing-wax knives to be found on old-fashioned writing-tables, with an ivory handle and a stiff blade. It was part of the fittings of the Professor’s own desk.
“At first the maid thought that young Smith was already dead, but on pouring some water from the carafe over his forehead he opened his eyes for an instant. ‘The Professor,’ he murmured – ‘it was she.’ The maid is prepared to swear that those were the exact words. He tried desperately to say something else, and he held his right hand up in the air. Then he fell back dead.
“In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived upon the scene, but she was just too late to catch the young man’s dying words. Leaving Susan with the body, she hurried to the Professor’s room. He was sitting up in bed horribly agitated, for he had heard enough to convince him that something terrible had occurred. Mrs. Marker is prepared to swear that the Professor was still in his night-clothes, and, indeed, it was impossible for him to dress without the help of Mortimer, whose orders were to come at twelve o’clock. The Professor declares that he heard the distant cry, but that he knows nothing more. He can give no explanation of the young man’s last words, ‘The Professor – it was she,’ but imagines that they were the outcome of delirium. He believes that Willoughby Smith had not an enemy in the world, and can give no reason for the crime. His first action was to send Mortimer the gardener for the local police. a little later the chief constable sent for me. Nothing was moved before I got there, and strict orders were given that no one should walk upon the paths leading to the house. It was a splendid chance of putting your theories into practice, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There was really nothing wanting.”
“Except Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said my companion, with a somewhat bitter smile. “Well, let us hear about it. What sort of job did you make of it?”
“I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes, to glance at this rough plan, which will give you a general idea of the position of the Professor’s study and the various points of the case. It will help you in following my investigation.”
He unfolded the rough chart, which I here reproduce, and he laid it across Holmes’s knee. I rose, and, standing behind Holmes, I studied it over his shoulder.
“It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the points which seem to me to be essential. All the rest you will see later for yourself. Now, first of all, presuming that the assassin entered the house, how did he or she come in? Undoubtedly by the garden path and the back door, from which there is direct access to the study. Any other way would have been exceedingly complicated. The escape must have also been made along that line, for of the two other exits from the room one was blocked by Susan as she ran downstairs and the other leads straight to the Professor’s bedroom. I therefore directed my attention at once to the garden path, which was saturated with recent rain and would certainly show any footmarks.
“My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and expert criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path. There could be no question, however, that someone had passed along the grass border which lines the path, and that he had done so in order to avoid leaving a track. I could not find anything in the nature of a distinct impression, but the grass was trodden down and someone had undoubtedly passed. It could only have been the murderer, since neither the gardener nor anyone else had been there that morning and the rain had only begun during the night.”
“One moment,” said Holmes. “Where does this path lead to?”
“To the road.”
“How long is it?”
“A hundred yards or so.”
“At the point where the path passes through the gate you could surely pick up the tracks?”
“Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point.”
“Well, on the road itself?”
“No; it was all trodden into mire.”
“Tut-tut! Well, then, these tracks upon the grass, were they coming or going?”
“It was impossible to say. There was never any outline.”
“A large foot or a small?”
“You could not distinguish.”
