The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes

vista of grey, lowering sky and white-capped tiles dimly discernible through a curtain of snow-flakes.

Though it had been a memorable year for my friend, it had been of yet greater importance to me, for it was but two months since that Miss Mary Morston had paid me the signal honour of joining her destiny to mine. The change from my bachelor existence as a half-pay, ex-Army surgeon into the state of wedded bliss had not been accomplished without some uncalled-for and ironic com­ments from Sherlock Holmes but, as my wife and I could thank him for the fact that we had found each other, we could afford to accept his cynical attitude with tolerance and even understanding.

I had dropped in to our old lodgings on this afternoon, to be precise December 30th, to pass a few hours with my friend and enquire whether any new case of interest had come his way since my previous visit. I had found him pale and listless, his dressing-gown drawn round his shoulders and the room reeking with the smoke of his favorite black shag, through which the fire in the grate gleamed like a brazier in a fog.

'Nothing, save a few routine enquiries, Watson,' he had replied in a voice shrill with complaint. 'Creative art in crime seems to have become atrophied since I disposed of the late-lamented Bert Stevens.' Then lapsing into silence, he curled himself up morosely in his arm-chair, and not another word passed between us until my thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the observation that com­menced this narrative.

As I rose to go, he looked at me critically.

'I perceive, Watson,' said he, 'that you are already paying the price. The slovenly state of your left jawbone bears regrettable testimony that somebody has changed the position of your shaving-mirror. Furthermore, you are indulging in extravagances.'

'You do me a gross injustice.'

'What, at the winter price of fivepence a blossom! Your buttonhole tells me that you were sporting a flower not later than yesterday.'

'This is the first time I have known you penurious, Holmes,' I retorted with some bitterness.

He broke into a hearty laugh. 'My dear fellow, you must forgive me!' he cried. 'It is most unfair that I should penalize you because a surfeit of unexpended mental energy tends to play upon my nerves. But hullo, what's this!'

A heavy step was mounting the stairs. My friend waved me back into my chair.

'Stay a moment, Watson,' said he. 'It is Gregson, and the old game may be afoot once more.'

'Gregson?'

'There is no mistaking that regulation tread. Too heavy for Lestrade's and yet known to Mrs. Hudson or she would accompany him. It is Gregson.'

As he finished speaking, there came a knock on the door and a figure muffled to the ears in a heavy cape entered the room. Our visitor tossed his bowler on the nearest chair and unwinding the scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, disclosed the flaxen hair and long, pale features of the Scotland Yard detective.

'Ah, Gregson,' greeted Holmes, with a sly glance in my direction. 'It must be urgent business that brings you out in this inclement weather. But throw off your cape, man, and come over to the fire.'

The police-agent shook his head. 'There is not a moment to lose,' he replied, consulting a large silver turnip watch. 'The train to Derbyshire leaves in half an hour and I have a hansom waiting below. Though the case should present no difficulties for an officer of my experience, nevertheless I shall be glad of your company.'

'Something of interest?'

'Murder, Mr. Holmes,' snapped Gregson curtly, 'and a singular one at that, to judge from the telegram from the local police. It appears that Lord Jocelyn Cope, the Deputy-Lieutenant of the County, has been found butch­ered at Arnsworth Castle. The Yard is quite capable of solving crimes of this nature, but in view of the curious terms contained in the police telegram, it occurred to me that you might wish to accompany me. Will you come?'

Holmes leaned forward, emptied the Persian slipper into his tobacco pouch and sprang to his feet.

'Give me a moment to pack a clean collar and tooth­brush,' he cried. 'I have a spare one for you, Watson. No, my dear fellow, not a word. Where would I be with­out your assistance? Scribble a note to your wife, and Mrs. Hudson will have it delivered. We should be back tomorrow. Now, Gregson, I'm your man and you can fill in the details during our journey.'

The guard's flag was already waving as we rushed up the platform at St. Pancras and tore open the door of the first empty smoker. Holmes had brought three travelling-rugs with him and as the train roared its way through the fading winter daylight we made ourselves comfortable enough in our respective corners.

'Well, Gregson, I shall be interested to hear the de­tails,' remarked Holmes, his thin, eager face framed in the ear-flaps of his deer-stalker and a spiral of blue smoke rising from his pipe.

'I know nothing beyond what I have already told you.'

'And yet you used the word 'singular' and referred to the telegram from the county police as 'curious.' Kindly explain.'

'I used both terms for the same reason. The wire from the local inspector advised that the officer from Scotland Yard should read the Derbyshire County Guide and the Gazeteer. A most extraordinary suggestion!'

'I should say a wise one. What have you done about it?'

'The Gazeteer states merely that Lord Jocelyn Cope is a Deputy-Lieutenant and county magnate, married, childless and noted for his bequests to local archeological societies. As for the Guide, I have it here.' He drew a pamphlet from his pocket and thumbed over the pages. 'Here we are,' he continued. 'Arnsworth Castle. Built reign of Edward III. Fifteenth-century stained-glass win­dow to celebrate Battle of Agincourt. Cope family penal­ized for suspected Catholic leaning by Royal Visitation, 1574. Museum open to public once a year. Contains large collection of martial and other relics including small guillotine built originally in Nimes during French Revo­lution for execution of a maternal ancestor of the present owner. Never used owing to escape of intended victim and later purchased as relic by family after Napoleonic Wars and brought to Arnsworth. Pshaw! That local in­spector must be out of his senses, Mr. Holmes. There is nothing to help us here.'

'Let us reserve judgment. The man would not have made such a suggestion without reason. In the meantime, I would recommend to your attention the dusk now fall­ing over the landscape. Every material object has become vague and indistinct and yet their solid existence remains, though almost hidden from our visual senses. There is much to be learned from the twilight.'

'Quite so, Mr. Holmes,' grinned Gregson, with a wink at me. 'Very poetical, I am sure. Well, I'm for a short nap.'

It was some three hours later that we alighted at a small wayside station. The snow had ceased and beyond the roofs of the hamlet the long desolate slopes of the Derbyshire moors, white and glistening under the light of a full moon, rolled away to the sky-line. A stocky, bow-legged man swathed in a shepherd's plaid hurried towards us along the platform.

'You're from Scotland Yard, I take it?' He greeted us brusquely. 'I got your wire in reply to mine and I have a carriage waiting outside. Yes, I'm Inspector Dawlish,' he added in response to Gregson's question. 'But who are these gentlemen?'

'I considered that Mr. Sherlock Holmes's reputation—' began our companion.

'I've never heard of him,' interposed the local man, looking at us with a gleam of hostility in his dark eyes. 'This is a serious affair and there is no room for ama­teurs. But it is too cold to stand arguing here and, if London approves his presence, who am I to gainsay him? This way, if you please.'

A closed carriage was standing before the station and a moment later we had swung out of the yard and were bowling swiftly but silently up the village high street.

'There'll be accommodation for you at the Queen's Head,' grunted Inspector Dawlish. 'But first to the castle.'

'I shall be glad to hear the facts of this case,' stated Gregson, 'and the reason for the most irregular sugges­tion contained in your telegram.'

'The facts are simple enough,' replied the other, with a grim smile. 'His lordship has been murdered and we know who did it.'

'Ah!'

'Captain Jasper Lothian, the murdered man's cousin, has disappeared in a hurry. It's common knowledge hereabouts that the man's got a touch of the devil in him, a hard hand with a bottle, a horse or the nearest woman. It's come as a surprise to none of us that Captain Jasper should end by slaughtering his benefactor and the head of his house. Aye, head's a well-chosen word,' he ended softly.