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

has been tarred.”

 

“Precisely. It is a piece of tarred twine. You have also, no

doubt, remarked that Miss Cushing has cut the cord with a

scissors, as can be seen by the double fray on each side. This

is of importance.”

 

“I cannot see the importance,” said Lestrade.

 

“The importance lies in the fact that the knot is left intact,

and that this knot is of a peculiar character.”

 

“It is very neatly tied. I had already made a note of that

effect,” said Lestrade complacently.

 

“So much for the string, then,” said Holmes, smiling, “now for

the box wrapper. Brown paper, with a distinct smell of coffee.

What, did you not observe it? I think there can be no doubt of

it. Address printed in rather straggling characters: ‘Miss S.

Cushing, Cross Street, Croydon.’ Done with a broad-pointed pen,

probably a J, and with very inferior ink. The word ‘Croydon’ has

been originally spelled with an ‘i’, which has been changed to

‘y’. The parcel was directed, then, by a man—the printing is

distinctly masculine—of limited education and unacquainted with

the town of Croydon. So far, so good! The box is a yellow,

half-pound honeydew box, with nothing distinctive save two thumb

marks at the left bottom corner. It is filled with rough salt of

the quality used for preserving hides and other of the coarser

commercial purposes. And embedded in it are these very singular

enclosures.”

 

He took out the two ears as he spoke, and laying a board across

his knee he examined them minutely, while Lestrade and I, bending

forward on each side of him, glanced alternately at these

dreadful relics and at the thoughtful, eager face of our

companion. Finally he returned them to the box once more and sat

for a while in deep meditation.

 

“You have observed, of course,” said he at last, “that the ears

are not a pair.”

 

“Yes, I have noticed that. But if this were the practical joke

of some students from the dissecting-rooms, it would be as easy

for them to send two odd ears as a pair.”

 

“Precisely. But this is not a practical joke.”

 

“You are sure of it?”

 

“The presumption is strongly against it. Bodies in the

dissecting-rooms are injected with preservative fluid. These

ears bear no signs of this. They are fresh, too. They have been

cut off with a blunt instrument, which would hardly happen if a

student had done it. Again, carbolic or rectified spirits would

be the preservatives which would suggest themselves to the

medical mind, certainly not rough salt. I repeat that there is

no practical joke here, but that we are investigating a serious

crime.”

 

A vague thrill ran through me as I listened to my companion’s

words and saw the stern gravity which had hardened his features.

This brutal preliminary seemed to shadow forth some strange and

inexplicable horror in the background. Lestrade, however, shook

his head like a man who is only half convinced.

 

“There are objections to the joke theory, no doubt,” said he,

“but there are much stronger reasons against the other. We know

that this woman has led a most quiet and respectable life at

Penge and here for the last twenty years. She has hardly been

away from her home for a day during that time. Why on earth,

then, should any criminal send her the proofs of his guilt,

especially as, unless she is a most consummate actress, she

understands quite as little of the matter as we do?”

 

“That is the problem which we have to solve,” Holmes answered,

“and for my part I shall set about it by presuming that my

reasoning is correct, and that a double murder has been

committed. One of these ears is a woman’s, small, finely formed,

and pierced for an earring. The other is a man’s, sunburned,

discoloured, and also pierced for an earring. These two people

are presumably dead, or we should have heard their story before

now. To-day is Friday. The packet was posted on Thursday

morning. The tragedy, then, occurred on Wednesday or Tuesday, or

earlier. If the two people were murdered, who but their murderer

would have sent this sign of his work to Miss Cushing? We may

take it that the sender of the packet is the man whom we want.

But he must have some strong reason for sending Miss Cushing this

packet. What reason then? It must have been to tell her that

the deed was done! or to pain her, perhaps. But in that case she

knows who it is. Does she know? I doubt it. If she knew, why

should she cal the police in? She might have buried the ears,

and no one would have been the wiser. That is what she would have

done if she had wished to shield the criminal. But if she does

not wish to shield him she would give his name. There is a

tangle here which needs straightening to.” He had been talking

in a high, quick voice, staring blankly up over the garden fence,

but now he sprang briskly to his feet and walked towards the

house.

 

“I have a few questions to ask Miss Cushing,” said he.

 

“In that case I may leave you here,” said Lestrade, “for I have

another small business on hand. I think that I have nothing

further to learn form Miss Cushing. You will find me at the

police-station.”

 

“We shall look in on our way to the train,” answered Holmes. A

moment later he and I were back in the front room, where the

impassive lady was still quietly working away at her

antimacassar. She put it down on her lap as we entered and

looked at us with her frank, searching blue eyes.

 

“I am convinced, sir,” she said, “that this matter is a mistake,

and that the parcel was never meant for me at all. I have said

this several times to the gentlemen from Scotland Yard, but he

simply laughs at me. I have not an enemy in the world, as far as

I know, so why should anyone play me such a trick?”

 

“I am coming to be of the same opinion, Miss Cushing,” said

Holmes, taking a seat beside her. “I think that it is more than

probable—” He paused, and I was surprised, on glancing round to

see that he was staring with singular intentness at the lady’s

profile. Surprise and satisfaction were both for an instant to

be read upon his eager face, though when she glanced round to

find out the cause of his silence he had become as demure as

ever. I stared hard myself at her flat, grizzled hair, her trim

cap, her little gilt earrings, her placid features; but I could

see nothing which could account for my companion’s evident

excitement.

 

“There were one or two questions—”

 

“Oh, I am weary of questions!” cried Miss Cushing impatiently.

 

“You have two sisters, I believe.”

 

“How could you know that?”

 

“I observed the very instant that I entered the room that you

have a portrait group of three ladies upon the mantelpiece, one

of whom is undoubtedly yourself, while the others are so

exceedingly like you that there could be no doubt of the

relationship.”

 

“Yes, you are quite right. Those are my sisters, Sarah and

Mary.”

 

“And here at my elbow is another portrait, taken at Liverpool, of

your younger sister, in the company of a man who appears to be a

steward by his uniform. I observe that she was unmarried at the

time.”

 

“You are very quick at observing.”

 

“That is my trade.”

 

“Well, you are quite right. But she was married to Mr. Browner a

few days afterwards. He was on the South American line when that

was taken, but he was so fond of her that he couldn’t abide to

leave her for so long, and he got into the Liverpool and London

boats.”

 

“Ah, the Conqueror, perhaps?”

 

“No, the May Day, when last I heard. Jim came down here to see

me once. That was before he broke the pledge; but afterwards he

would always take drink when he was ashore, and a little drink

would send him stark, staring mad. Ah! it was a bad day that

ever he took a glass in his hand again. First he dropped me,

then he quarrelled with Sarah, and now that Mary has stopped

writing we don’t know how things are going with them.”

 

It was evident that Miss Cushing had come upon a subject on which

she felt very deeply. Like most people who lead a lonely life,

she was shy at first, but ended by becoming extremely

communicative. She told us many details about her brother-in-law

the steward, and then wandering off on the subject of her former

lodgers, the medical students, she gave us a long account of

their delinquencies, with their names and those of their

hospitals. Holmes listened attentively to everything, throwing

in a question from time to time.

 

“About your second sister, Sarah,” said he. “I wonder, since you

are both maiden ladies, that you do not keep house together.”

 

“Ah! you don’t know Sarah’s temper or you would wonder no more.

I tried it when I came to Croydon, and we kept on until about two

months ago, when we had to part. I don’t want to say a word

against my own sister, but she was always meddlesome and hard to

please, was Sarah.”

 

“You say that she quarrelled with your Liverpool relations.”

 

“Yes, and they were the best of friends at one time. Why, she

went up there to live in order to be near them. And now she has

no word hard enough for Jim Browner. The last six months that

she was here she would speak of nothing but his drinking and his

ways. He had caught her meddling, I suspect, and given her a bit

of his mind, and that was the start of it.”

 

“Thank you, Miss Cushing,” said Holmes, rising and bowing. “Your

sister Sarah lives, I think you said, at New Street, Wallington?

Good-bye, and I am very sorry that you should have been troubled

over a case with which, as you say, you have nothing whatever to

do.”

 

There was a cab passing as we came out, and Holmes hailed it.

 

“How far to Wallington?” he asked.

 

“Only about a mile, sir.”

 

“Very good. Jump in, Watson. We must strike while the iron is

hot. Simple as the case is, there have been one or two very

instructive details in connection with it. Just pull up at a

telegraph office as you pass, cabby.”

 

Holmes sent off a short wire and for the rest of the drive lay

back in the cab, with his hat tilted over his nose to keep the

sun from his face. Our drive pulled up at a house which was not

unlike the one which we had just quitted. My companion ordered

him to wait, and had his hand upon the knocker, when the door

opened and a grave young gentleman in black, with a very shiny

hat, appeared on the step.

 

“Is Miss Cushing at home?” asked Holmes.

 

“Miss Sarah Cushing is extremely ill,” said he. “She has been

suffering since yesterday from brain symptoms of great severity.

As her medical adviser, I cannot possibly take the responsibility

of allowing anyone to see her. I should recommend you to call

again in ten days.” He drew on his gloves, closed the door, and

marched off down the street.

 

“Well, if we can’t we can’t,” said Holmes, cheerfully.

 

“Perhaps she could not or would not have told you