The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes

My friend, sitting back, had closed his eyes: 'Shall we say that you are here in your husband's interests?' he murmured. 'You will not object if I ask you to elucidate a few small points which are still obscure to me?'

Lady Lavington rose to her feet.

'Mr. Holmes, this is unworthy,' she said coldly. 'You are trying to trick me into condemning my own husband! He is innocent, I tell you!'

'So I believe. Nevertheless, I pray that you will com­pose yourself and answer my questions. I understand that this Buck Daley has been an intimate friend of Sir Reginald for some years past.'

Lady Lavington stared at him, and then began to laugh. She laughed most heartily, but with a note in her mirth that jarred on me as a medical man.

'Friend?' she cried at last. 'Why, he was unworthy to black my husband's boots!'

'I am relieved to hear you say so. And yet it is fair to suppose that both men moved in the same circles during the London seasons, and, perhaps unknown to you, might have shared interests in common—possibly of a sporting nature? When did your husband first in­troduce Colonel Daley to you?'

'You are pitiably wrong in all your suppositions! I knew Colonel Daley for years before my marriage. It was I who introduced him to my husband. Buck Daley was a creature of society: ambitious, worldly, merciless, and yet with all the charm of his kind. What interest could such as he share in common with a rough but honourable man whose world begins and ends with the boundaries of his own ancestral lands?'

'A woman's love,' said Holmes quietly.

Lady Lavington's eyes dilated. Then, dropping the veil over her face, she rushed from the room.

For a long time Holmes smoked in silence, his brows drawn down and his gaze fixed thoughtfully upon the fire. I knew from the expression on his face that he had reached some final decision. Then he drew from his pocket a crumpled sheet of paper.

'A while ago, Watson, you asked whether I had found the answer to our problem. In one sense, my dear fellow, I have. Listen closely to the vital evidence I shall read to you. It is from the records in the Maidstone County Registry.'

'I am all attention.'

'This is a little transcription which I have put into comprehensible English. It was originally written in the year 1485, when the House of Lancaster triumphed at last over the House of York.

'And it came to pass that on the field of Bosworth Sir John Lavington did take prisoner two knights and a squire, and carried them with him to Lavington Court. For he would take no ransom from any who had raised banner for the House of York.

'That night, after Sir John had supped, each was brought to the table and offered the Choice. One knight, he who was a kinsman of Sir John, drank from the Life and departed without ransom. And one knight and the squire drank from the Death. It was a deed most un-Christian, for they were unconfessed, and thereafter men spake far and wide of the Luck of Lavington.'

For a while we sat in silence after the reading of this extraordinary document, while the wind lashed the rain against the windows and boomed in the ancient chimney. 'Holmes,' I said at last, 'I seem to sense something monstrous here. Yet what connection can there be be­tween the murder of a profligate gambler and the violence that followed on a battle four hundred years ago? Only the room has remained the same.'

'This, Watson, is the second most important thing that I have discovered.'

'And the first?'

'We shall find it at Lavington Court. A black baronet, Watson! Might it not also suggest blackmail?'

'You mean that Sir Reginald was being blackmailed?' My friend ignored the question.

'I have promised to meet Gregson at the house. Would you care to accompany me?'

'What is in your mind? I have seldom seen you so grave.'

'It is already growing dark,' said Sherlock Holmes. 'The dagger that killed Colonel Daley must do no further harm.'

It was a wild, blustering evening. As we walked through the dusk to the old manor-house, the air was filled with the creaking of tree-branches and I felt the cold touch of a blown leaf against my cheek. Lavington Court was as shadowy as the hollow in which it lay; but, as Gillings opened the door to us, a gleam of light showed in the direction of the banqueting-hall.

'Inspector Gregson has been asking for you, sir,' said the butler, helping us off with our wraps.

We hurried towards the light. Gregson, with a look of deep agitation, was pacing up and down beside the table. He glanced at the now-empty chair beyond the great cup.

'Thank God you've come, Mr. Holmes!' he burst out. 'Sir Reginald was telling the truth. I didn't believe it, but he is innocent! Bassett has dug up two farmers who met him walking from the river at ten-thirty yesterday morning. Why couldn't he have said he met them?'

There was a singular light in Holmes's eyes as he looked at Gregson.

'There are such men,' he said.

'Did you know this all the time?'

'I did not know of the witnesses, no. But I hoped that you would find a witness, since for other reasons I was convinced of his innocence.'

'Then we're back where we started!'

'Hardly that. Had you thought, Gregson, of recon­structing this crime after the French fashion?'

'How do you mean?'

Holmes moved to the end of the table, which still bore the marks of the recent tragedy. 'Let us suppose that I am Colonel Daley—a tall man, standing here at the head of the table. I am about to drink with someone, who means to stab me. I pick up the cup like this, and with both hands I lift it to my mouth. So! Gregson, we will suppose that you are the murderer. Stab me in the throat!'

'What the devil do you mean?'

'Grasp an imaginary dagger in your right hand. That's it! Don't hesitate, man; stab me in the throat!'

Gregson, as though half-hypnotised, took a step for­ward with his hand raised, and stopped.

'But it can't be done, Mr. Holmes! Not like this, any­way!'

'Why not?'

'The direction of the colonel's wound was straight upwards through the throat. Nobody could strike upwards from underneath, across the breadth of the table. It's impossible!'

My friend, who had been standing with his head back and the heavy cup lifted to his lips by both handles, now straightened up and offered it to the Scotland Yard man. 'Good!' said he. 'Now, Gregson, imagine that you are Colonel Daley. I am the murderer. Take my place, and lift the Luck of Lavington.'

'Very well. What next?'

'Do exactly what I did. But don't put the cup to your lips. That's it, Gregson; that's it! Mark well what I say: don't put it to your lips!'

The light flashed back from the great drinking-vessel as it tilted.

'No, man, no!' shouted Holmes suddenly. 'Not an­other inch, if you value your life!'

Even as he spoke, there came a click and a metallic slither. A slim, sharp blade shot from the lower edge of the cup with the speed of a striking snake. Gregson sprang back with an oath, while the vessel, falling from his hands, crashed and jangled across the floor.

'My God!' I cried.

'My God!' echoed a voice which struck across my own. Sir Reginald Lavington, his dark features now livid, was standing behind us with one hand partly raised as though to ward off a blow. Then, with a groan, he buried his face in his hands. We stared at each other in horror-struck silence.

'If you hadn't warned me, the blade would have been through my throat,' said Gregson in a shaking voice.

'Our ancestors had a neat way of eliminating their enemies,' observed Holmes, lifting the heavy cup and once more examining it closely. 'With such a toy in the house, it is a dangerous thing for a guest to drink in his host's absence.'

'Then this was only an appalling accident!' I ex­claimed. 'Daley was the innocent victim of a trap fash­ioned four centuries ago!'

'Observe the cunning of this mechanism, very much as I suspected yesterday afternoon—'