The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes

breeding and training of the Fringilla Canaria is a task worthy of a man's lifetime. You would not credit the ignorance, Dr. Watson, that prevails on this subject even in the most enlightened circles. When I read my paper on the 'Crossing of the Madeira and Canary Island Strains' to the British Ornithological Society I was appalled at the puerility of the ensuing questions.'

'Inspector Lestrade hinted at some special character­istic in your training of these little songsters.'

'Songsters, sir! A thrush is a songster. The Fringilla is the supreme ear of Nature, possessing an unique power of imitation which can be trained for the benefit and edi­fication of the human race. But the inspector was correct,' he went on more calmly, 'in that I have put my birds to a special effect. They are trained to sing by night in artificial light.'

'Surely a somewhat singular pursuit.'

'I like to think that it is a kindly one. My birds are trained for the benefit of those who suffer from insomnia and I have clients in all parts of the country. Their tune­ful song helps to while away the long night hours and the dousing of the lamplight terminates the concert.'

'It seems to me that Lestrade was right,' I observed. 'Yours is indeed an unique profession.'

During our conversation, Holmes, who had idly picked up our companion's heavy stick, had been examining it with some attention.

'I understand that you returned to England some three years ago,' he observed.

'I did.'

'From Cuba, I perceive.'

Theobold Wilson started and for an instant I seemed to catch a gleam of something like wariness in the swift glance that he shot at Holmes.

'That is so,' he said. 'But how did you know?'

'Your stick is cut from Cuban ebony. There is no mistaking that greenish tint and the exceptionally high polish.'

'It might have been bought in London since my return from, say, Africa.'

'No, it has been yours for some years.' Holmes lifted the stick to the carriage-window and tilted it so that the daylight shone upon the handle. 'You will perceive,' he went on, 'that there is a slight but regular scraping that has worn through the polish along the left side of the handle just where the ring finger of a left-handed man would close upon the grip. Ebony is among the toughest of woods and it would require considerable time to cause such wear and a ring of some harder metal than gold. You are left-handed, Mr. Wilson, and wear a silver ring on your middle finger.'

'Dear me, how simple. I thought for the moment that you had done something clever. As it happens, I was in the sugar trade in Cuba and brought my old stick back with me. But here we are at the house and, if you can put my silly niece's fears at rest as quickly as you can deduce my past, I shall be your debtor, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.'

On descending from our four-wheeler, we found our­selves in a lane of mean, slatternly houses sloping, so far as I could judge from the yellow mist that was already creeping up the lower end, to the river's edge. At one side was a high wall of crumbling brickwork pierced by an iron gate through which we caught a glimpse of a sub­stantial mansion lying in its own garden.

'The old house has known better days,' said our com­panion, as we followed him through the gate and up the path. 'It was built in the year that Peter the Great came to live in Scales Court whose ruined park can be seen from the upper windows.'

Usually I am not unduly affected by my surroundings, but I must confess that I was aware of a feeling of de­ pression at the melancholy spectacle that lay before us. The house, though of dignified and even imposing pro­ portions, was faced with blotched, weather-stained plaster which had fallen away in places to disclose the ancient brickwork that lay beneath, while a tangled mass of ivy covering one wall had sent its long tendrils across the high-peaked roof to wreathe itself around the chimney-stacks.

The garden was an overgrown wilderness, and the air of the whole place reeked with the damp musty smell of the river.

Theobold Wilson led us through a small hall into a comfortably furnished drawing-room. A young woman with auburn hair and a freckled face, who was sorting through some papers at a writing-desk, sprang to her feet at our entrance.

'Here are Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson,' announced our  companion.  'This  is my niece  Janet, whose interests you are here to protect against her own unreasonable conduct.'

The young lady faced us bravely enough, though I noted a twitch and tremor of the lips that spoke of a high nervous tension. 'I am leaving tomorrow, Uncle,' she cried, 'and nothing that these gentlemen can say will alter my decision. Here, there is only sorrow and fear— above all, fear!'

'Fear of what?'

The girl passed her hand over her eyes. 'I—I cannot explain. I hate the shadows and the funny little noises.'

'You have inherited both money and property, Janet,' said Mr. Wilson earnestly. 'Will you, because of shadows, desert the roof of your fathers? Be reasonable.'

'We are here only to serve you, young lady,' said Holmes with some gentleness, 'and to try to put your fears at rest. It is often so in life that we injure our own best interests by precipitate action.'

'You will laugh at a woman's intuitions, sir.'

'By no means. They are often the signposts of Provi­dence. Understand clearly that you will go or stay as you see fit. But perhaps, as I am here, it might relieve your mind to show me over the house.'

'An admirable suggestion!' cried Theobold Wilson cheerily. 'Come, Janet, we will soon dispose of your shadows and noises.'

In a little procession, we trooped from one over-furnished room to another on the ground floor.

'I will take you to the bedrooms,' said Miss Wilson, as we paused at last before the staircase.

'Are there no cellars in a house of this antiquity?'

'There is one cellar, Mr. Holmes, but it is little used save for the storage of wood and some of Uncle's old nest-boxes. This way, please.'

It was a gloomy, stone-built chamber in which we found ourselves. A stack of wood was piled against one wall and a pot-bellied Dutch stove, its iron pipe running through the ceiling, filled the far corner. Through a glazed door reached by a line of steps and opening into the garden, a dun light filtered down upon the flagstones. Holmes sniffed the air keenly, and I was myself aware of an increased mustiness from the near-by river.

'Like most Thames-side houses, you must be plagued by rats,' he remarked.

'We used to be. But, since Uncle came here, he has got rid of them.'

'Quite so. Dear me,' he continued, peering down at the floor, 'what busy little fellows!'

Following his gaze, I saw that his attention had been drawn by a few garden ants scurrying across the floor from beneath the edge of the stove and up the steps lead­ing to the garden door. 'It is as well for us, Watson,' he chuckled, pointing with his stick at the tiny particles with which they were encumbered, 'that we are not under the necessity of lugging along our dinners thrice our own size. It is a lesson in patience.' He lapsed into silence, staring thoughtfully at the floor. 'A lesson,' he repeated slowly.

Mr. Wilson's thin lips tightened. 'What foolery is this,' he exclaimed. 'The ants are there because the servants would throw garbage in the stove to save themselves the trouble of going to the dustbin.'

'And so you put a lock on the lid.'

'We did. If you wish, I can fetch the key. No? Then, if you are finished, let me take you to the bedrooms.'

'Perhaps I may see the room where your brother died,' requested Holmes, as we reached the top floor.

'It is here,' replied Miss Wilson, throwing open the door.

It was a large chamber furnished with some taste and even luxury and lit by two deeply recessed windows flanking another pot-bellied stove decorated with yellow tiles to harmonize with the tone of the room. A pair of birdcages hung from the stove-pipe.

'Where does that side door lead?' asked my friend.

'It communicates with my room, which was formerly used by my mother,' she answered.

For a few minutes, Holmes prowled around listlessly.

'I perceive that your brother was addicted to night reading,' he remarked.