of my readers who have followed my record of his adventures that, in the spring of 1897, Dr. Moore Agar of Harley Street had prescribed to my friend a complete rest, should he wish to avoid a breakdown in his health. We had taken a small cottage near Poldhu Bay, near Mullion, on the Lizard Peninsula almost, but not quite, on the farthest extremity of Cornwall.
It was here that the ancient Cornish language had arrested Holmes’s attention and he received a consignment of books on philology and set himself to writing a monograph on what he perceived as Chaldean roots in that branch of the Celtic languages.
Our idyll was rudely interrupted when, taking tea at the local vicarage with its incumbent, Mr. Roundhay, we became involved with the strange case of Mortimer Tregennis, which I have recounted as “The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot.” It was a stimulating exercise in deduction but, as Holmes remarked at the end of it, he was pleased to get back to the study of the Cornish language.
Only three days elapsed before we had a visitor who would send us helterskelter into a case that made the investigation of the death of Mortimer Tregennis seem a mere diversion in mental entertainment by comparison with the terrifying peril it presented.
It was just before noon. I was taking the sun in a garden chair outside our cottage, sipping a preprandial sherry. Although it was April, it was a warm day and not at all breezy. Holmes was enclosed in the room we had set aside as his study, poring over a newly acquired volume that had arrived by that morning’s mail. It was
Holmes had scooped up the book and disappeared into his study after breakfast, promising faithfully to appear for luncheon because our daily help, Mrs. Chirgwin, was preparing it, and she did not take kindly to her meals being missed.
I was, therefore, sitting, reading the
It took a moment for the carriage to appear from behind a clump of trees and come to a halt before the garden gate. It was a sturdily built carriage, one more often seen in the country than in town. But it was clearly the vehicle of some welltodo personage.
A tall, darkfaced coachman leaped down and opened the door. From the interior, a short, wellbuilt man alighted and glanced about him. He had a shock of white hair, a red face and was well dressed, bearing the hallmarks of a country squire. In fact, he seemed almost a caricature of one.
He saw me and hailed even as he opened the gate and came toward me. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
“I am his colleague, Dr. Watson,” I replied. “Can I be of assistance, sir?”
The man frowned impatiently. “It is Mr. Holmes that I must see.”
“I am afraid that he is busy at the moment. May I take your name, sir, and I will see-?”
“It’s all right, Watson,” came Holmes’s voice from behind me. He was leaning out of his study window, which he had opened. “I heard the carriage arriving. What can I do for you?”
The whitehaired man examined him for a moment with intense blue eyes; a keen examination that seemed to miss nothing.
“A moment of your time is what I require, sir. Perhaps some advice at the end of it. My name is Sir Jelbart Trevossow. It is a name not unknown in these parts.”
Holmes stared at the man in amusement. “That’s as may be, sir, yet, unfortunately, it is a name unknown to me,” he replied amiably. “Nevertheless, I have a moment before luncheon. Watson, old fellow, bring Sir Jelbart into our little parlor, and I will be there directly.”
I smiled a little at the mortification on the country squire’s face. He was apparently unused to people not recognizing him nor having his wishes obeyed instantly. I gestured to the door with a slight bow.
His mouth tightened, but he moved inside to the room we had set aside as our common parlor. I followed him and closed the cottage door behind me.
“Now, sir,” I said, “may I offer you some refreshment? Something to keep out the chill? A whiskey or a sherry, perhaps?”
“I do not agree with strong spirits, Doctor,” Sir Jelbart snapped. “I am of the Wesleyan religion, sir. My views are firm on strong drink and tobacco….” He sniffed suspiciously, for Holmes’s noxious weed could be discerned all over our small cottage.
“Then be seated, sir,” I invited. “Perhaps Mrs. Chirgwin might be prevailed upon to make you some tea?”
“I will have nothing, thank ‘ee,” he replied firmly, sitting down. His attitude was somewhat pugnacious.
Holmes entered at that moment, and I was thankful for it, raising my eyes to the ceiling to indicate to him that our guest was of an awkward nature.
Holmes stretched himself at his ease in an armchair opposite our visitor and, undaunted by the look that would have sent others straight to the fires of hell, he took a pipe from his pocket and lit up.
“I do not agree with tobacco, sir,” snapped our guest.
Holmess goodnatured expression did not change. “Each to their own enjoyment, sir,” he replied indifferently. “Myself, I think best over a pipe or two of shag tobacco. The coarser, the better.”
Sir Jelbart eyed Holmes for a moment, and when he saw that he was dealing with someone of an equal steel will, he suddenly relented. Holmes would doubtless have pointed out that by giving way so easily on the matter, Sir Jelbart’s business must have been of considerable importance to him.
“Now, sir”-Holmes smiled-”perhaps we can discuss the reason for this visit, for I presume you have not come merely to pass the time of day with me on our respective likes and prejudices?”
Sir Jelbart Trevossow cleared his throat more in an expression of annoyance than to help him in his speech. “I am not one to waste time, Mr. Holmes. I have business interests, sir. I was a stockholder in the company which owned the barque
Holmes leaned back for a moment, his eyes closed as he recalled the case. “Exactly ten years ago,” he agreed. He turned to me. “It is not a case that you have as yet recorded, Watson, old fellow.”
“I did mention it in passing when I was relating the case of ‘The Five Orange Pips,’” I replied in defense. “I felt that it was too pedestrian a case to excite the temperament of readers of
Sir Jelbart cleared his throat again in annoyance.
Holmes smiled politely.
“Pray, proceed,” he said, waving a hand.
“I came to you, Mr. Holmes, knowing that you have some dealings with the mysteries of the sea.”
“A number of my cases have been concerned with the disappearance or foundering of ships. The cutter
“Mr. Holmes,” interrupted Sir Jelbart, “do you know how many ships-and I mean ships of some tonnage, not merely little coasters-have been lost on this coast alone during the last fifteen years?”
Holmes speculated. “A halfdozen, a dozen, perhaps?”
“One hundred and eight,” our guest informed us solemnly. “This, sir, is a wrecker’s coast, always has been. The people scavenge from the sea.”
Holmes pursed his lips. “If memory serves me well, three years ago the new Merchant Shipping Act, especially part nine on the law of salvage and wrecks, should now prevent any lucrative business being made out of wrecking.”
“Not at all, sir. My brother, Captain Silas Trevossow, is the local Excise Officer. He will tell you that wrecking is still as virile a business as ever it was.”
“Most interesting, Sir Jelbart, but I cannot yet see what has brought you to my door.”
“I come to you for assistance, Mr. Holmes. As soon as I learned that you were staying in the Duchy, I knew
