His Last Bow, Arthur Conan Doyle [love books to read TXT] 📗

lady been obviously murdered, they would have

buried her in a hole in the back garden. But here all is open

and regular. What does this mean? Surely that they have done

her to death in some way which has deceived the doctor and

simulated a natural end—poisoning, perhaps. And yet how strange

that they should ever let a doctor approach her unless he were a

confederate, which is hardly a credible proposition.”

 

“Could they have forged a medical certificate?”

 

“Dangerous, Watson, very dangerous. No, I hardly see them doing

that. Pull up, cabby! This is evidently the undertaker’s, for

we have just passed the pawnbroker’s. Would go in, Watson? Your

appearance inspires confidence. Ask what hour the Poultney

Square funeral takes place tomorrow.”

 

The woman in the shop answered me without hesitation that it was

to be at eight o’clock in the morning. “You see, Watson, no

mystery; everything above-board! In some way the legal forms

have undoubtedly been complied with, and they think that they

have little to fear. Well, there’s nothing for it now but a

direct frontal attack. Are you armed?”

 

“My stick!”

 

“Well, well, we shall be strong enough. ‘Thrice is he armed who

hath his quarrel just.’ We simply can’t afford to wait for the

police or to keep within the four corners of the law. You can

drive off, cabby. Now, Watson, we’ll just take our luck

together, as we have occasionally in the past.”

 

He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark house in the

centre of Poultney Square. It was opened immediately, and the

figure of a tall woman was outlined against the dim-lit hall.

 

“Well, what do you want?” she asked sharply, peering at us

through the darkness.

 

“I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger,” said Holmes.

 

“There is no such person here,” she answered, and tried to close

the door, but Holmes had jammed it with his foot.

 

“Well, I want to see the man who lives here, whatever he may call

himself,” said Holmes firmly.

 

She hesitated. Then she threw open the door. “Well, come in!”

said she. “My husband is not afraid to face any man in the

world.” She closed the door behind us and showed us into a

sitting-room on the right side of the hall, turning up the gas as

she left us. “Mr. Peters will be with you in an instant,” she

said.

 

Her words were literally true, for we had hardly time to look

around the dusty and moth-eaten apartment in which we found

ourselves before the door opened and a big, clean-shaven bald-headed man stepped lightly into the room. He had a large red

face, with pendulous cheeks, and a general air of superficial

benevolence which was marred by a cruel, vicious mouth.

 

“There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen,” he said in an

unctuous, make-everything-easy voice. “I fancy that you have

been misdirected. Possibly if you tried farther down the street-

-”

 

“That will do; we have no time to waste,” said my companion

firmly. “You are Henry Peters, of Adelaide, late the Rev. Dr.

Shlessinger, of Baden and South America. I am as sure of that as

that my own name is Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Peters, as I will now call him, started and stared hard at his

formidable pursuer. “I guess your name does not frighten me, Mr.

Holmes,” said he coolly. “When a man’s conscience is easy you

can’t rattle him. What is your business in my house?”

 

“I want to know what you have done with the Lady Frances Carfax,

whom you brought away with you from Baden.”

 

“I’d be very glad if you could tell me where that lady may be,”

Peters answered coolly. “I’ve a bill against her for a nearly a

hundred pounds, and nothing to show for it but a couple of

trumpery pendants that the dealer would hardly look at. She

attached herself to Mrs. Peters and me at Baden—it is a fact

that I was using another name at the time—and she stuck on to us

until we came to London. I paid her bill and her ticket. Once

in London, she gave us the slip, and, as I say, left these out-of-date jewels to pay her bills. You find her, Mr. Holmes, and

I’m your debtor.”

 

In MEAN to find her,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I’m going through

this house till I do find her.”

 

“Where is your warrant?”

 

Holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket. “This will have to

serve till a better one comes.”

 

“Why, you’re a common burglar.”

 

“So you might describe me,” said Holmes cheerfully. “My

companion is also a dangerous ruffian. And together we are going

through your house.”

 

Our opponent opened the door.

 

“Fetch a policeman, Annie!” said he. There was a whisk of

feminine skirts down the passage, and the hall door was opened

and shut.

 

“Our time is limited, Watson,” said Holmes. “If you try to stop

us, Peters, you will most certainly get hurt. Where is that

coffin which was brought into your house?”

 

“What do you want with the coffin? It is in use. There is a

body in it.”

 

“I must see the body.”

 

“Never with my consent.”

 

“Then without it.” With a quick movement Holmes pushed the

fellow to one side and passed into the hall. A door half opened

stood immediately before us. We entered. It was the dining-room. On the table, under a half-lit chandelier, the coffin was

lying. Holmes turned up the gas and raised the lid. Deep down

in the recesses of the coffin lay an emaciated figure. The glare

from the lights above beat down upon an aged and withered face.

By no possible process of cruelty, starvation, or disease could

this wornout wreck be the still beautiful Lady Frances. Holmes’s

face showed his amazement, and also his relief.

 

“Thank God!” he muttered. “It’s someone else.”

 

“Ah, you’ve blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said

Peters, who had followed us into the room.

 

“Who is the dead woman?”

 

“Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse of my wife’s,

Rose Spender by name, whom we found in the Brixton Workhouse

Infirmary. We brought her round here, called in Dr. Horsom, of

13 Firbank Villas—mind you take the address, Mr. Holmes—and had

her carefully tended, as Christian folk should. On the third day

she died—certificate says senile decay—but that’s only the

doctor’s opinion, and of course you know better. We ordered her

funeral to be carried out by Stimson and Co., of the Kennington

Road, who will bury her at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Can

you pick any hole in that, Mr. Holmes? You’ve made a silly

blunder, and you may as well own up to it. I’d give something

for a photograph of your gaping, staring face when you pulled

aside that lid expecting to see the Lady Frances Carfax and only

found a poor old woman of ninety.”

 

Holmes’s expression was as impassive as ever under the jeers of

his antagonist, but his clenched hands betrayed his acute

annoyance.

 

“I am going through your house,” said he.

 

“Are you, though!” cried Peters as a woman’s voice and heavy

steps sounded in the passage. “We’ll soon see about that. This

way, officers, if you please. These men have forced their way

into my house, and I cannot get rid of them. Help me to put them

out.”

 

A sergeant and a constable stood in the doorway. Holmes drew his

card from his case.

 

“This is my name and address. This is my friend, Dr. Watson.”

 

“Bless you, sir, we know you very well,” said the sergeant, “but

you can’t stay here without a warrant.”

 

“Of course not. I quite understand that.”

 

“Arrest him!” cried Peters.

 

“We know where to lay our hands on this gentleman if he is

wanted,” said the sergeant majestically, “but you’ll have to go,

Mr. Holmes.”

 

“Yes, Watson, we shall have to go.”

 

A minute later we were in the street once more. Holmes was as

cool as ever, but I was hot with anger and humiliation. The

sergeant had followed us.

 

“Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but that’s the law.”

 

“Exactly, Sergeant, you could not do otherwise.”

 

“I expect there was good reason for your presence there. If

there is anything I can do—”

 

“It’s a missing lady, Sergeant, and we think she is in that

house. I expect a warrant presently.”

 

“Then I’ll keep my eye on the parties, Mr. Holmes. If anything

comes along, I will surely let you know.”

 

It was only nine o’clock, and we were off full cry upon the trail

at once. First we drove to Brixton Workhoused Infirmary, where

we found that it was indeed the truth that a charitable couple

had called some days before, that they had claimed an imbecile

old woman as a former servant, and that they had obtained

permission to take her away with them. No surprise was expressed

at the news that she had since died.

 

The doctor was our next goal. He had been called in, had found

the woman dying of pure senility, had actually seen her pass

away, and had signed the certificate in due form. “I assure you

that everything was perfectly normal and there was no room for

foul play in the matter,” said he. Nothing in the house had

struck him as suspicious save that for people of their class it

was remarkable that they should have no servant. So far and no

further went the doctor.

 

Finally we found our way to Scotland Yard. There had been

difficulties of procedure in regard to the warrant. Some delay

was inevitable. The magistrate’s signature might not be obtained

until next morning. If Holmes would call about nine he could go

down with Lestrade and see it acted upon. So ended the day, save

that near midnight our friend, the sergeant, called to say that

he had seen flickering lights here and there in the windows of

the great dark house, but that no one had left it and none had

entered. We could but pray for patience and wait for the morrow.

 

Sherlock Holmes was too irritable for conversation and too

restless for sleep. I left him smoking hard, with his heavy,

dark brows knotted together, and his long, nervous fingers

tapping upon the arms of his chair, as he turned over in his mind

every possible solution of the mystery. Several times in the

course of the night I heard him prowling about the house.

Finally, just after I had been called in the morning, he rushed

into my room. He was in his dressing-gown, but his pale, hollow-eyed face told me that his night had been a sleepless one.

 

“What time was the funeral? Eight, was it not?” he asked

eagerly. “Well, it is 7:20 now. Good heavens, Watson, what has

become of any brains that God has given me? Quick, man, quick!

It’s life or death—a hundred chances on death to one on life.

I’ll never forgive myself, never, if we are too late!”

 

Five minutes had not passed before we were flying in a hansom

down Baker Street. But even so it was twenty-five to eight as we

passed Big Ben, and eight struck as we tore down the Brixton

Road. But others were late as well as we. Ten minutes after the

hour the hearse was still standing at the door of the house, and

even as our foaming horse came to a halt the coffin, supported by

three men, appeared on the threshold. Holmes darted forward and

barred their way.

 

“Take it back!”