The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (24 page)

to break a bargain, and so here's the little that you still need to know.

"It all began in the early seventies at the time of the great gold strike near Kalgoorlie. I had

a younger brother who went into partnership with an Englishman whom we knew as Bully

Addleton and, sure enough, they struck it rich. At that time the tracks to the goldfields were

none too safe, for there were bushrangers at work. Well, only a week after my brother and

Addleton hit the vein, the gold-stage to Kalgoorlie was held up and the guard and driver shot

dead.

"On the false accusation of Bully Addleton and some trumped-up evidence, my unfortunate

brother was seized and tried for the crime. The law was quick to act in those days and they

hung him that night to the Bushranger's Tree. Addleton was left with the mine.

"I was away up the Blue Mountains, timber cutting, and two full years passed before I

heard the truth of the matter from a digger who had it from a dying cook-boy who had been

bribed to silence.

"Addleton had made his pile and gone back to the Old Country, and I hadn't the money to

follow him. From that day I wandered from job to job, always saving and planning how to find

my brother's murderer, aye murderer, may the devil roast him!

"It was nigh twenty years before I came alongside him and that one moment repaid all my

waiting.

" 'Morning, Bully,' said I.

"His face went the colour of putty and the pipe dropped out of his mouth.

" 'Long Tom Greerly!' he gasped, and I thought the man was going to faint.

"Well, we had a talk and I made him get me this job. Then I began to bleed him bit by bit.

No blackmail, mister, but restitution of a dead man's goods. Two days ago, I wrote to him

again and that night he rode down here, cursing and swearing that I was driving him to ruin. I

told him I'd give him until midnight to make his choice, pay or tell, and I'd call for his answer.

"He was waiting for me in the hall, mad with drink and fury, and swearing that I could

go to the police or the devil for all he cared. Did I think that the word of a dirty Australian

timber-jack would be accepted against that of the Lord of the Manor and Justice of the

Peace? He was mad to have ever paid me a penny-piece.

" 'I'll serve you as thoroughly as I served your worthless brother!' he yelled. It was that

which did it. Something seemed to snap in my brain and, tearing down the nearest weapon

from the wall, I buried it in his snarling, grinning head.

"For a moment I stood looking down at him. 'From me and Jim,' I whispered. Then I

turned and ran into the night. That's my story, mister, and now I'd take it kindly if we can

go before my men get back."

Lestrade and his prisoner had reached the door when Holmes's voice halted them.

"I only wish to know," he said, "whether you are aware of the weapon with which you

killed Squire Addleton?"

"I told you it was the nearest thing on the wall, some old axe or club."

"It was an executioner's axe," said Holmes drily. The Australian made no reply, but as

he followed Lestrade to the door it seemed to me that a singular smile lit up his rough,

bearded face.

My friend and I walked back slowly through the woods and up the moor where Lestrade

and the prisoner had already vanished in the direction of Foulkes Rath. Sherlock Holmes

was moody and thoughtful and it was apparent to me that the reaction that generally

followed the conclusion of a case was already upon him.

"It is curious," I observed, "that a man's hatred and ferocity should remain unabated

after twenty years."

"My dear Watson," replied Holmes, "I would remind you of the old Sicilian adage that

vengeance is the only dish that is best when eaten cold. But surely," he continued, shading

his eyes with his hand, "the lady hurrying down our path is Mrs. Longton. Though I trust

that I am not lacking in chivalry, nevertheless I am in no mood for the effusions of

feminine gratitude and therefore, with your permission, we will take this by-path behind

the gorse bushes. If we step out, we should be in time for the afternoon train to town.

"Corata is singing tonight at Covent Garden and, braced by our short holiday in the

invigorating atmosphere of Ashdown Forest, I think that you will agree with me,

Watson, that we could desire no more pleasant homecoming than an hour or two spent amid

the magic of
Manon Lescaut
followed by a cold supper at our rooms in Baker Street."

Here also I find an account of the Addleton tragedy.

FROM "THE GOLDEN PINCE-NEZ"

8

The Adventure of the Abbas Ruby

On glancing through my notes, I find it recorded that the night of November 10th saw the

first heavy blizzard of the winter of 1886. The day had been dark and cold with a bitter,

searching wind that moaned against the windows and, as the early dusk deepened into night,

the street-lamps glimmering through the gloom of Baker Street disclosed the first flurries of

snow and sleet swirling along the empty, glistening pavements.

Scarcely three weeks had passed since my friend Sherlock Holmes and I had returned from

Dartmoor on the conclusion of that singular case, the details of which I have recorded

elsewhere under the name of
The Hound of the Baskervilles
and, though several enquiries

had been brought to my friend's notice since that time, none was of a nature to appeal to his

love of the bizarre or to challenge that unique combination of logic and deduction which

depended for its inspiration upon the intricacies of the problem which lay before it.

A merry fire was crackling in the grate and as I leaned back in my chair and let my eyes

wander about the untidy cosiness of our sitting-room, I had to admit that the wildness of the

night and the rattle of the sleet upon the window-panes served merely to increase my own

sense of contentment. On the far side of the fire-place, Sherlock Holmes was curled up in his

arm-chair, languidly turning over the pages of a black index-book marked "B" in which he

had just completed certain entries under "Baskerville" and giving vent to occasional chuckles

and ejaculations as his eyes wandered over the names and notes covering every page of the

volume. I had flung down
The Lancet
with some idea of encouraging my friend to touch upon

one or two of the names which were strange to me when, beneath the sobbing of the wind, my

ears caught the faint sound of the door-bell.

"You have a visitor," I said.

"Surely a client, Watson," Holmes replied, laying aside his book. "And on urgent business,"

he added, with a glance at the rattling window-panes. "These inclement nights are invariably

the herald of—" His words were interrupted by a rush of feet on the staircase, the door was

burst open, and our visitor stumbled into the room.

He was a short, stout man, wrapped up in a dripping mackintosh cape and wearing a bowler

hat tied under his chin by a woollen muffler. Holmes had tilted the lampshade, so that the light

shone towards the door and, for a moment, the man remained motionless, staring at us across

the room while the moisture from his sodden garment dripped in dark stains upon the carpet.

He would have been a comical figure, with his tubbiness and his fat face framed in its

encircling muffler, were it not for the impression of helpless misery in the man's brown eyes

and in the shaking hands with which he plucked at the absurd bow beneath his chin.

"Take off your coat and come to the fire," said Holmes kindly.

"I must indeed apologize, gentlemen, for my untoward intrusion," he began. "But I fear that

circumstances have arisen which threaten—threaten—"

"Quick, Watson!"

But I was too late. There was a thud and a groan and there lay our visitor senseless upon the

carpet.

Seizing some brandy from the sideboard, I ran to force it between his lips while Holmes,

who had loosened the man's muffler, craned over my shoulder.

"What do you make of him, Watson?" he asked.

"He has had a severe shock," I replied. "From his appearance, he seems a comfortable,

respectable person of the grocer class, and doubtless we will find out more ' about him

when he has recovered."

"Tut, I think that we might venture a little further," my friend said thoughtfully.

"When the butler from some wealthy household rushes on the spur of the moment through

a snow-storm in order to fall senseless on my humble carpet, I am tempted to visualize

some affair of greater moment than a broken till."

"My dear Holmes!"

"I would stake a guinea that there is a livery beneath that overcoat. Ah, did I not say so!"

"Even so, I do not see how you surmised it nor the wealthy household."

Holmes picked up the limp hands. "You will observe that the pads of both thumbs are

darkened, Watson. In a man of sedentary type, I know of only one occupation that will

account for this equality of discolouration. The man polishes silver with his thumbs."

"Surely, Holmes, a leather would be more usual," I protested.

"On ordinary silver, yes. Very fine silver is finished, however, with the thumbs, and

hence my conjecture of a well-to-do household. As for his sudden departure, the man

has rushed into the night in patent-leather pumps despite that it has been snowing since six

o'clock. There, now, you are feeling better," he added kindly, as our visitor opened his

eyes. "Dr. Watson and I will help you into this chair and after you have rested awhile

doubtless you will tell us your troubles."

The man clapped his hands to his head.

"Rested awhile!" he cried wildly. "My God, sir, they must be after me already!"

"Who must be after you?"

"The police, Sir John, all of them! The Abbas Ruby has been stolen!" The words rose

almost to a shriek. My friend leaned forward and placed his long, thin fingers on the

other's wrist. On previous occasions I have noted Holmes's almost magnetic power for

asserting a sense of peace and comfort over the minds of those in distress.

It was so in this case, and the wild, panic-stricken gleam faded slowly in the man's eyes.

"Come, now, give me the facts," Sherlock Holmes enjoined after a moment.

"My name is Andrew Joliffe," began our visitor more calmly, "and for the past two years I

have been employed as butler to Sir John and Lady Doverton at Manchester Square."

"Sir John Doverton, the horticulturist?"

"Yes, sir. Indeed, there's them that say that his flowers, and especially his famous red

camellias, mean more to Sir John than even the Abbas Ruby and all his other family

treasures. I take it you know about the ruby, sir?"

"I know of its existence. But tell me in your own words."

"Well, it makes one frightened just to look at it. Like a big drop of blood it is, with a

touch of devil's fire smouldering in its heart. In two years I had seen it only once, for Sir

John keeps it in the safe in his bedroom, locked up like some deadly poisonous creature

that shouldn't even know the light of day. Tonight, however, I saw it for the second time. It

was just after dinner, when one of our guests, Captain Masterman, suggested to Sir John

that he should show them the Abbas Ruby—"

"Their names," interposed Holmes languidly.

"Names, sir? Ah, you mean the guests. Well, there were Captain Masterman, who is

her ladyship's brother, Lord and Lady Brackminster, Mrs. Dunbar, the Rt. Hon. William

Radford, our Member of Parliament, and Mrs. Fitzsimmons-Leming."

Holmes scribbled a word on his cuff. "Pray continue," said he.

"I was serving coffee in the library when the captain made his suggestion and all the

ladies began to clamour to see the gem. 'I would prefer to show you the red camellias in

the conservatory,' says Sir John. 'The specimen that my wife is wearing in her gown is surely

more beautiful than anything to be found in a jewel-box, as you can judge for yourselves.'

" 'Then, let us judge for ourselves!' smiled Mr. Dunbar, and Sir John went upstairs and

brought down the jewel-case. As he opened it on the table and they all crowded round, her

ladyship told me to light the lamps in the conservatory as they would be coming shortly to see

the red camellias. But there were no red camellias."

"I fail to understand."

"They'd gone, sir! Gone, every single one of them," cried our visitor hoarsely. "When I

entered the conservatory, I just stood there holding the lamp above my head and wondering

if I was stark mad. There was the famous shrub, all right, but of the dozen great blossoms which

I had admired on it this very afternoon there remained not so much as a petal."

Sherlock Holmes stretched out a long arm for his pipe.

"Dear, dear," said he. "This is most gratifying. But pray continue your interesting

narrative."

"I ran back to the library to tell them. 'But it is impossible!' cried her ladyship. 'I saw the

flowers myself when I plucked one for my dress just before dinner.' 'The man's been at the

port!' said Sir John, and then, thrusting the jewel-case into the table drawer, he rushed for the

conservatory with all the rest of them at his heels. But the camellias had gone."