Exploits of Sherlock Holmes Read online

  "But it is true, Mr. Holmes!" cried our visitor, clasping her hands together in even deeper agitation. "My name is Celia Forsythe, and for over a year I have been companion to Lady Mayo, of Groxton Low Hall, in Surrey. Charles—"

  "Charles? That is the name of the gentleman in question?"

  Miss Forsythe nodded her head without looking up.

  "If I hesitate to speak of him," she continued, "it is because I fear you may laugh at me. I fear you may think me mad; or, worse still, that poor Charles himself is mad."

  "And why should I think so, Miss Forsythe?"

  "Mr. Holmes, he cannot endure the sight of a clock!"

  "Of a clock?"

  "In the past fortnight, sir, and for no explicable reason, he has destroyed seven clocks. Two of them he smashed in public, and before my own eyes!"

  Sherlock Holmes rubbed his long, thin fingers together.

  "Come," said he, "this is most satis—most curious. Pray continue your narrative."

  "I despair of doing so, Mr. Holmes. Yet I will try. For the past year I have been very happy in the employ of Lady Mayo. I must tell you that both my parents are dead, but I received a good education and such references as I could obtain were fortunately satisfactory. Lady Mayo, I must acknowledge, is of somewhat forbidding appearance. She is of the old school, stately and austere. Yet to me she has been kindness itself. In fact, it was she who suggested that we take the holiday in Switzerland, fearing that the isolation of Groxton Low Hall might depress my spirits. In the train between Paris and Grindelwald we met—met Charles. I should say Mr. Charles Hendon."

  Holmes had relapsed into the armchair, putting his fingertips together as was his wont when he was in a judicial mood.

  "Then this was the first time you had met the gentleman?" he asked.

  "Oh, yes!"

  "I see. And how did the acquaintanceship come about?"

  "A trifling matter, Mr. Holmes. We three were alone in a first-class carriage. Charles's manners are so beautiful, his voice so fine, his smile so captivating—"

  "No doubt. But pray be precise as to details."

  Miss Forsythe opened wide her large blue eyes.

  "I believe it was the window," said she. "Charles (I may tell you that he has remarkable eyes and a heavy brown moustache) bowed and requested Lady Mayo's permission to lower the window. She assented, and in a few moments they were chatting together like old friends."

  "Hm! I see."

  "Lady Mayo, in turn, presented me to Charles. The journey to Grindelwald passed quickly and happily. And yet, no sooner had we entered the foyer of the Hotel Splendide, than there occurred the first of the horrible shocks which have since made my life wretched."

  "Despite its name, the hotel proved to be rather small and charming. Even then, I knew Mr. Hendon for a man of some importance, though he had described himself modestly as a single gentleman traveling with only one manservant. The manager of the hotel, M. Branger, approached and bowed deeply both to Lady Mayo and to Mr. Hendon. With M. Branger he exchanged some words in a low voice and the manager bowed deeply again. Whereupon Charles turned round, smiling, and then quite suddenly his whole demeanor altered."

  "I can still see him standing there, in his long coat and top hat, with a heavy Malacca walking stick under his arm. His back was turned towards an ornamental half-circle of ferns and evergreens surrounding a fireplace with a low mantelshelf on which stood a Swiss clock of exquisite design."

  "Up to this time I had not even observed the clock. But Charles, uttering a stifled cry, rushed towards the fireplace. Lifting the heavy walking stick, he brought it crashing down on the hood of the clock, and rained blow after blow until the clock fell in tinkling ruins on the hearth."

  "Then he turned round and walked slowly back. Without a word of explanation he took out a pocketbook, gave to M. Branger a banknote which would ten times over have paid for the clock, and began lightly to speak of other matters."

  "You may well imagine, Mr. Holmes, that we stood as though stunned. My impression was that Lady Mayo, for all her dignity, was frightened. Yet I swear Charles had not been frightened; he had been merely furious and determined. At this point I caught sight of Charles's manservant, who was standing in the background amid luggage. He is a small, spare man with mutton-chop whiskers; and upon his face there was an expression only of embarrassment and, though it hurts me to breathe the word, of deep shame."

  "No word was spoken at the time, and the incident was forgotten. For two days Charles was his usual serene self. On the third morning, when we met him in the dining room for breakfast, it happened again."

  "The windows of the dining room had their heavy curtains partly drawn against the dazzle of sun on the first snow. The room was fairly well filled with other guests taking breakfast. Only then did I remark that Charles, who had just returned from a morning walk, still carried the Malacca stick in his hand."

  "'Breathe this air, madame!' he was saying gaily to Lady Mayo. 'You will find it as invigorating as any food or drink!'"

  "At this he paused, and glanced towards one of the windows. Plunging past us, he struck heavily at the curtain and then tore it aside to disclose the ruins of a large clock shaped like a smiling sun-face. I think I should have faulted if Lady Mayo had not grasped my arm."

  Miss Forsythe, who had removed her gloves, now pressed her hands against her cheeks.

  "But not only does Charles smash clocks," she went on. "He buries them in the snow, and even hides them in the cupboard of his own room."

  Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, and his head sunk into a cushion, but he now half opened his lids.

  "In the cupboard?" exclaimed he, frowning. "This is even more singular! How did you become aware of the circumstance?"

  "To my shame, Mr. Holmes, I was reduced to questioning his servant."

  "To your shame?"

  "I had no right to do so. In my humble position, Charles would never—that is, I could mean nothing to him! I had no right!"

  "You had every right, Miss Forsythe," answered Holmes kindly. "Then you questioned the servant, whom you describe as a small, spare man with mutton-chop whiskers. His name?"

  "His name is Trepley, I believe. More than once I have heard Charles address him as 'Trep.' And I vow, Mr. Holmes, he is the faithfulest creature alive. Even the sight of his dogged English face was a comfort to me. He knew, he felt, he sensed my—my interest, and he told me that his master had buried or concealed five other clocks. Though he refused to say so, I could tell he shared my fears. Yet Charles is not mad! He is not! You yourself must admit that, because of the final incident."

  "Yes?"

  "It took place only four days ago. You must know that Lady Mayo's suite included a small drawing room containing a piano. I am passionately devoted to music, and it was my habit to play to Lady Mayo and Charles after tea. On this occasion I had scarcely begun to play when a hotel servant entered with a letter for Charles."

  "One moment. Did you observe the postmark?"

  "Yes; it was foreign." Miss Forsythe spoke in some surprise. "But surely it was of no importance, since you—"

  "Since I—what?"

  A sudden touch of bewilderment was manifest in our client's expression, and then, as though, to drive away some perplexity, she hurried on with her narrative.

  "Charles tore open the letter, read it, and turned deathly pale. With an incoherent exclamation he rushed from the room. When we descended half an hour later, it was only to discover that he and Trepley had departed with all his luggage. He left no message. He sent no word. I have not seen him since."

  Celia Forsythe lowered her head, and tears glimmered in her eyes.

  "Now, Mr. Holmes, I have been frank with you. I beg that you will be equally frank with me. What did you write in that letter?"

  The question was so startling that I, for one, leaned back in my chair. Sherlock Holmes's face was without expression. His long, nervous fingers reached out for the
tobacco in the Persian slipper, and began to fill a clay pipe.

  "In the letter, you say," he stated rather than asked.

  "Yes! You wrote that letter. I saw your signature. That is why I am here!"

  "Dear me!" remarked Holmes. He was silent for several minutes, the blue smoke curling about him, and his eyes fixed vacantly upon the clock on the mantelshelf.

  "There are times, Miss Forsythe," he said at last, "when one must be guarded in one's replies. I have only one more question to ask you."

  "Well, Mr. Holmes?"

  "Did Lady Mayo still preserve her friendliness for Mr. Charles Hendon?"

  "Oh, yes! She became quite attached to him. More than once I heard her address him as Alec, apparently her nickname for him." Miss Forsythe paused, with an air of doubt, and even suspicion. "But what can you mean by such a question?"

  Holmes rose to his feet.

  "Only, madam, that I shall be happy to look into this matter for you. You return to Groxton Low Hall this evening?"

  "Yes. But surely you have more to say to me than this? You have answered not one of my questions!"

  "Well, well! I have my methods, as Watson here can tell you. But if you could find it convenient to come here, say a week from this day, at nine o'clock in the evening? Thank you. Then I shall hope to have some news for you."

  Palpably it was a dismissal. Miss Forsythe rose to her feet, and looked at him so forlornly that I felt the need to interpose some word of comfort.

  "Be of good cheer, madam!" I cried, gently taking her hand. "You may have every confidence in my friend Mr. Holmes; and, if I may say so, in myself as well."

  I was rewarded by a gracious and grateful smile. When the door had closed behind our fair visitor, I turned to my companion with some asperity.

  "I do feel, Holmes, that you might have treated the young lady with more sympathy."

  "Oh? Sets the wind in that quarter?"

  "Holmes, for shame!" said I, flinging myself into my chair. "The affair is trivial, no doubt. But why you should have written a letter to this clock-breaking madman I cannot conjecture."

  Holmes leaned across and laid his long, thin forefinger upon my knee.

  "Watson, I wrote no such letter."

  "What?" I exclaimed.

  "Tut, it is not the first time my name has been borrowed by others! There is devilry here, Watson, else I am much mistaken."

  "You take it seriously, then?"

  "So seriously that I leave for the Continent tonight."

  "For the Continent? For Switzerland?"

  "No, no; what have we to do with Switzerland? Our trail lies further afield."

  "Then where do you go?"

  "Surely that is obvious?"

  "My dear Holmes!"

  "Yet nearly all the data are before you, and, as I informed Miss Forsythe, you know my methods. Use them, Watson! Use them!"

  Already the first lamps were glimmering through the fog in Baker Street, when my friend's simple preparations were completed. He stood at the doorway of our sitting room, tall and gaunt in his ear-flapped traveling cap and long Inverness cape, his Gladstone bag at his feet, and regarded me with singular fixity.

  "One last word, Watson, since you still appear to see no light. I would remind you that Mr. Charles Hendon cannot endure the s—"

  "But that is clear enough! He cannot bear the sight of a clock."

  Holmes shook his head.

  "Not necessarily," said he. "I would further draw your attention to the other five clocks, as described by the servant."

  "Mr. Charles Hendon did not smash those clocks!"

  "That is why I draw your attention to them. Until nine o'clock this day week, Watson!"

  A moment more, and I was alone.

  During the dreary week which followed, I occupied myself as best I might. I played billiards with Thurston. I smoked many pipes of Ship's, and I pondered over the notes in the case of Mr. Charles Hendon. One does not associate for some years with Sherlock Holmes without becoming more observant than most. It seemed to me that some dark and sinister peril hung over that poor young lady, Miss Forsythe, nor did I trust either the too-handsome Charles Hendon or the enigmatic Lady Mayo.

  On Wednesday, November 23rd, my wife returned with the welcome news that our fortunes were in better order and that I should soon be able to buy a small practice. Her homecoming was a joyous one. That night, as we sat hand in hand before the fire in our lodgings, I told her something of the strange problem before me. I spoke of Miss Forsythe, touching on her parlous plight, and on her youth and beauty and refinement. My wife did not reply, but sat looking thoughtfully at the fire.

  It was the distant chime of Big Ben striking the half hour after eight, which roused me.

  "By Jove, Mary!" cried I. "I had all but forgotten!"

  "Forgotten?" repeated my wife, with a slight start.

  "I have promised to be in Baker Street at nine o'clock tonight. Miss Forsythe is to be there."

  My wife drew back her hand.

  "Then you had best be off at once," said she, with a coldness which astonished me. "You are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes's cases."

  Puzzled and somewhat hurt, I took my hat and my departure. It was a bitter-cold night, with no breath of fog, but with the roads ice-blocked in mud. Within the half hour a hansom set me down in Baker Street. With a thrill of excitement I observed that Sherlock Holmes had returned from his mission. The upper windows were lighted, and several times I saw his gaunt shadow pass and repass on the blinds.

  Letting myself in with a latchkey, I went softly up the stairs and opened the door of the sitting room. Clearly Holmes had only just returned, for his cape, his cloth cap, and his old Gladstone bag were scattered about the room in his customary untidy fashion.

  He stood at his desk, his back towards me, and the light of the green-shaded desk-lamp falling over him as he ripped open envelopes in a small pile of correspondence. At the opening of the door he turned round, but his face fell.

  "Ah, Watson, it is you. I had hoped to see Miss Forsythe. She is late."

  "By heaven, Holmes! If those scoundrels have harmed the young lady, I swear they shall answer to me!"

  "Scoundrels?"

  "I refer to Mr. Charles Hendon, and, though it grieves me to say as much about a woman, to Lady Mayo as well."

  The harsh, eager lines of his face softened. "Good old Watson!" said he. "Always hurrying to the rescue of beauty in distress. And a pretty hash you have made of it, upon occasion."

  "Then I trust," I replied with dignity, "that your own mission on the Continent was a success?"

  "A touch, Watson! Pray forgive my outburst of nerves. No, my mission was not a success. It seemed to me that I had a direct summons to a certain European city whose name you will readily infer. I went there, and returned in what I fancy is record time."

  "Well?"

  "The—Mr. Hendon, Watson, is a badly frightened man. Yet he is not without wit. No sooner had he left Switzerland, than he must have divined that the false letter was a decoy to trap him. But I lost him. Where is he now? And be good enough to explain why you should call him a scoundrel."

  "I spoke, perhaps, in the heat of the moment. Yet I cannot help disliking the fellow."

  "Why?"

  "In one of doubtless exalted position, a certain elaborateness of manner is permissible. But he bows too much! He makes scenes in public. He affects the Continental habit of addressing an English lady as 'madame,' instead of an honest 'madam.' Holmes, it is all confoundedly un-English!"

  My friend regarded me strangely, as though taken aback, and was about to reply when we heard the clatter of a four-wheeler drawing up outside our street-door. Less than a minute later Celia Forsythe was in the room, followed by a small, hard-looking, dogged man in a bowler hat with a curly brim. From his mutton-chop whiskers I deduced him to be Trepley, the manservant.

  Miss Forsythe's face was aglow with the cold. She wore a short fur jacket, and carried a dainty muff. r />
  "Mr. Holmes," she burst out without preamble, "Charles is in England!"

  "So I had already supposed. And where is he?"

  "At Groxton Low Hall. I should have sent a telegram yesterday, save that Lady Mayo forbade me to do so."

  "Fool that I am!" said Holmes, striking his fist upon the desk. "You spoke of its isolation, I think. Watson! Will you oblige me with the large-scale map of Surrey? Thank you." His voice grew more harsh. "What's this, what's this?"