His Last Bow, Arthur Conan Doyle [love books to read TXT] 📗
- Author: Arthur Conan Doyle
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foremost. “Take it back this instant!”
“What the devil do you mean? Once again I ask you, where is your
warrant?” shouted the furious Peters, his big red face glaring
over the farther end of the coffin.
“The warrant is on its way. The coffin shall remain in the house
until it comes.”
The authority in Holmes’s voice had its effect upon the bearers.
Peters had suddenly vanished into the house, and they obeyed
these new orders. “Quick, Watson, quick! Here is a screw-driver!” he shouted as the coffin was replaced upon the table.
“Here’s one for you, my man! A sovreign if the lid comes off in
a minute! Ask no questions—work away! That’s good! Another!
And another! Now pull all together! It’s giving! It’s giving!
Ah, that does it at last.”
With a united effort we tore off the coffin-lid. As we did so
there came from the inside a stupefying and overpowering smell of
chloroform. A body lay within, its head all wreathed in cotton-wool, which had been soaked in the narcotic. Holmes plucked it
off and disclosed the statuesque face of a handsome and spiritual
woman of middle age. In an instant he had passed his arm round
the figure and raised her to a sitting position.
“Is she gone, Watson? Is there a spark left? Surely we are not
too late!”
For half an hour it seemed that we were. What with actual
suffocation, and what with the poisonous fumes of the chloroform,
the Lady Frances seemed to have passed the last point of recall.
And then, at last, with artificial respiration, with injected
ether, and with every device that science could suggest, some
flutter of life, some quiver of the eyelids, some dimming of a
mirror, spoke of the slowly returning life. A cab had driven up,
and Holmes, parting the blind, looked out at it. “Here is
Lestrade with his warrant,” said he. “He will find that his
birds have flown. And here,” he added as a heavy step hurried
along the passage, “is someone who has a better right to nurse
this lady than we have. Good morning, Mr. Green; I think that
the sooner we can move the Lady Frances the better. Meanwhile,
the funeral may proceed, and the poor old woman who still lies in
that coffin may go to her last resting-place alone.”
“Should you care to add the case to your annals, my dear Watson,”
said Holmes that evening, “it can only be as an example of that
temporary eclipse to which even the best-balanced mind may be
exposed. Such slips are common to all mortals, and the greatest
is he who can recognize and repair them. To this modified credit
I may, perhaps, make some claim. My night was haunted by the
thought that somewhere a clue, a strange sentence, a curious
observation, had come under my notice and had been too easily
dismissed. Then, suddenly, in the gray of the morning, the words
came back to me. It was the remark of the undertaker’s wife, as
reported by Philip Green. She had said, ‘It should be there
before now. It took longer, being out of the ordinary.’ It was
the coffin of which she spoke. It had been out of the ordinary.
That could only mean that it had been made to some special
measurement. But why? Why? Then in an instant I remembered the
deep sides, and the little wasted figure at the bottom. Why so
large a coffin for so small a body? To leave room for another
body. Both would be buried under the one certificate. It had all
been so clear, if only my own sight had not been dimmed. At
eight the Lady Frances would be buried. Our one chance was to
stop the coffin before it left the house.
“It was a desperate chance that we might find her alive, but it
WAS a chance, as the result showed. These people had never, to
my knowledge, done a murder. They might shrink from actual
violence at the last. The could bury her with no sign of how she
met her end, and even if she were exhumed there was a chance for
them. I hoped that such considerations might prevail with them.
You can reconstruct the scene well enough. You saw the horrible
den upstairs, where the poor lady had been kept so long. They
rushed in and overpowered her with their chloroform, carried her
down, poured more into the coffin to insure against her waking,
and then screwed down the lid. A clever device, Watson. It is
new to me in the annals of crime. If our ex-missionary friends
escape the clutches of Lestrade, I shall expect to hear of some
brilliant incidents in their future career.”
The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot
In recording from time to time some of the curious experiences
and interesting recollections which I associate with my long and
intimate friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have continually
been faced by difficulties caused by his own aversion to
publicity. To his sombre and cynical spirit all popular applause
was always abhorrent, and nothing amused him more at the end of a
successful case than to hand over the actual exposure to some
orthodox official, and to listen with a mocking smile to the
general chorus of misplaced congratulation. It was indeed this
attitude upon the part of my friend and certainly not any lack of
interesting material which has caused me of late years to lay
very few of my records before the public. My participation in
some if his adventures was always a privilege which entailed
discretion and reticence upon me.
It was, then, with considerable surprise that I received a
telegram from Homes last Tuesday—he has never been known to
write where a telegram would serve—in the following terms:
Why not tell them of the Cornish horror—strangest case I have
handled.
I have no idea what backward sweep of memory had brought the
matter fresh to his mind, or what freak had caused him to desire
that I should recount it; but I hasten, before another cancelling
telegram may arrive, to hunt out the notes which give me the
exact details of the case and to lay the narrative before my
readers.
It was, then, in the spring of the year 1897 that Holmes’s iron
constitution showed some symptoms of giving way in the face of
constant hard work of a most exacting kind, aggravated, perhaps,
by occasional indiscretions of his own. In March of that year
Dr. Moore Agar, of Harley Street, whose dramatic introduction to
Holmes I may some day recount, gave positive injunctions that the
famous private agent lay aside all his cases and surrender
himself to complete rest if he wished to avert an absolute
breakdown. The state of his health was not a matter in which he
himself took the faintest interest, for his mental detachment was
absolute, but he was induced at last, on the threat of being
permanently disqualified from work, to give himself a complete
change of scene and air. Thus it was that in the early spring of
that year we found ourselves together in a small cottage near
Poldhu Bay, at the further extremity of the Cornish peninsula.
It was a singular spot, and one peculiarly well suited to the
grim humour of my patient. From the windows of our little
whitewashed house, which stood high upon a grassy headland, we
looked down upon the whole sinister semicircle of Mounts Bay,
that old death trap of sailing vessels, with its fringe of black
cliffs and surge-swept reefs on which innumerable seamen have met
their end. With a northerly breeze it lies placid and sheltered,
inviting the storm-tossed craft to tack into it for rest and
protection.
Then come the sudden swirl round of the wind, the blistering gale
from the south-west, the dragging anchor, the lee shore, and the
last battle in the creaming breakers. The wise mariner stands
far out from that evil place.
On the land side our surroundings were as sombre as on the sea.
It was a country of rolling moors, lonely and dun-colored, with
an occasional church tower to mark the site of some old-world
village. In every direction upon these moors there were traces
of some vanished race which had passed utterly away, and left as
it sole record strange monuments of stone, irregular mounds which
contained the burned ashes of the dead, and curious earthworks
which hinted at prehistoric strife. The glamour and mystery of
the place, with its sinister atmosphere of forgotten nations,
appealed to the imagination of my friend, and he spent much of
his time in long walks and solitary meditations upon the moor.
The ancient Cornish language had also arrested his attention, and
he had, I remember, conceived the idea that it was akin to the
Chaldean, and had been largely derived from the Phoenician
traders in tin. He had received a consignment of books upon
philology and was settling down to develop this thesis when
suddenly, to my sorrow and to his unfeigned delight, we found
ourselves, even in that land of dreams, plunged into a problem at
our very doors which was more intense, more engrossing, and
infinitely more mysterious than any of those which had driven us
from London. Our simple life and peaceful, healthy routine were
violently interrupted, and we were precipitated into the midst of
a series of events which caused the utmost excitement not only in
Cornwall but throughout the whole west of England. Many of my
readers may retain some recollection of what was called at the
time “The Cornish Horror,” though a most imperfect account of the
matter reached the London press. Now, after thirteen years, I
will give the true details of this inconceivable affair to the
public.
I have said that scattered towers marked the villages which
dotted this part of Cornwall. The nearest of these was the
hamlet of Tredannick Wollas, where the cottages of a couple of
hundred inhabitants clustered round an ancient, moss-grown
church. The vicar of the parish, Mr. Roundhay, was something of
an archaeologist, and as such Holmes had made his acquaintance.
He was a middle-aged man, portly and affable, with a considerable
fund of local lore. At his invitation we had taken tea at the
vicarage and had come to know, also, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis, an
independent gentleman, who increased the clergyman’s scanty
resources by taking rooms in his large, straggling house. The
vicar, being a bachelor, was glad to come to such an arrangement,
though he had little in common with his lodger, who was a thin,
dark, spectacled man, with a stoop which gave the impression of
actual, physical deformity. I remember that during our short
visit we found the vicar garrulous, but his lodger strangely
reticent, a sad-faced, introspective man, sitting with averted
eyes, brooding apparently upon his own affairs.
These were the two men who entered abruptly into our little
sitting-room on Tuesday, March the 16th, shortly after our
breakfast hour, as we were smoking together, preparatory to our
daily excursion upon the moors.
“Mr. Holmes,” said the vicar in an agitated voice, “the most
extraordinary and tragic affair has occurred during the night.
It is the most unheard-of business. We can only regard it as a
special Providence that you should chance to be here at the time,
for in all England you are the one man we need.”
I glared at the intrusive vicar with no very friendly eyes; but
Holmes took his pipe from his lips and sat up in his chair like
an old hound who hears the view-halloa. He waved his hand to the
sofa, and our palpitating visitor with his agitated companion sat
side
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