The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (80 page)

“Staunton possessed the three most dangerous qualities of the criminal,” continued
Holmes; “cunning, resourcefulness, and daring. And, I might add, used them effectively.”

“Then why did he not destroy that infernal comb?” I asked. “Surely self-preservation alone ought to have dictated so obvious a course.”

“That, my dear fellow, was one of the very questions I asked myself when reviewing the case. How could a man of Staunton's calibre have overlooked so incriminating a piece of evidence? What had impelled this crafty schemer to make use of that strange and terrible matacalda twice in rapid succession—an obvious and fatal blunder?”

Holmes stopped to knock out the cold ashes from his pipe. Then he refilled it slowly, deep in thought, his brows drawn low, his eyes half closed.

“I could not reconcile these two facts,” he resumed, “with Staunton's crafty and ingenious mind. Twist and turn them as I might, they refused to fit into an otherwise orderly pattern.” He frowned. “Something was wrong, Watson. Instinctively I felt that somewhere in my chain of reasoning lay a defective link. By a process of elimination I succeeded in discovering my error. It lay in having until now gone along on the assumption that, having killed Arnold Foote, Staunton, of necessity, had also murdered his wife. But, I reasoned, if he had indeed committed both crimes, was it conceivable that he should bungle the second after having so cunningly covered up his tracks in the first? It was illogical, hence inadmissible.

“Confronted with this misconception, I began to cast about for an alternative theory, one which, while retaining the known facts, would enable me to reach a totally different conclusion. In view of the lapse of time, this could no longer be reached by the ordinary methods of observation and confirmation; only analytical deductions from these facts could give me the correct interpretation of them. Feverishly I began to go over my notes, sensing that somewhere among them was the answer I sought.”

“You were successful?” I asked quickly.

“Beyond expectation,” he replied, then relapsed once more into a deep thoughtful silence, his arms propped up on his knees, holding his pipe between his hands, contemplating the glowing sea-coals.

“Were I the ideal reasoner you so often have made me out to be,” he began, after a long interval of silence, “I should have quickly perceived the significance underlying the Staunton maid's replies to my questions as to why she had replaced the comb.”

“But what possible connection could there be between her replies and the solution to the death of Mrs. Staunton?”

“Do you recall her words?” he asked, countering my question with one of his own.

“Vaguely,” I answered. “Was it not something about the ‘poor lass lying dead on the floor'?”

“Good old Watson!” he said, with a dry chuckle.

“Well, she also referred to her mistress's fondness for that particular comb, and to the fact—and this is noteworthy—that she always took it with her wherever she went. We know that Mrs. Staunton, following the last quarrel with her husband, had packed a few things and had then fled from the house.”

“Swearing never to return,” I put in, as some of the details returned to me.

“Quite so. Now, at such moments of stress, a woman's instinct is to carry away her most cherished and useful possessions, is it not?”

“You mean…,” I began.

“I am prepared to stake my reputation on it,” he put in, anticipating my question, “that when she left Oakley Crescent, the tortoise-shell comb was in her possession!”

I stared at him in blank surprise. “But if that is the case, how could Staunton have poisoned it?”

“Since he did not have access to the comb at any time during the three days which preceded her death, it was utterly impossible for him to have done so,” he replied quietly.

“Really, Holmes,” I cried, lifting my hands in a helpless gesture, “I am now more confused than ever. Would it not be better if you revealed
the steps you took to unravel this intricate puzzle? How did you eventually solve it?”

“Simply by applying my oft-repeated formula. Having eliminated the impossible—that is, Staunton's complicity in the death of his wife—I had now to contend with whatever remained, however improbable, in order to arrive at the truth. No sooner had I reached this conclusion than the facts began to arrange themselves in their proper order. The old conceptions had perforce to give way to the new. Viewed thus from an entirely different angle, the true elements in the case now assumed their rightful perspective. The answer, of course, lay with the poisoned comb. Its very presence at the side of Mrs. Staunton's body finally suggested the true, the only possible solution.

“I make some claim to belated credit,” he went on, “for remembering Mrs. Grant's words in connection with the poisoned instrument. But the truth is that I was woefully lacking in the mixture of imagination and exact knowledge which you are so fond of depicting. I also claim extenuating circumstances—for what man can cope with the warped mind of a vindictive woman, consumed by a hatred beyond description and a terrible sense of loss?”

I drew a deep breath. “Holmes,” I begged, “who poisoned the comb? Who brought it back to the house?”

“Is it not obvious that it was—that it could only have been—Mrs. Staunton herself?”

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed aghast, staring wildly at his set features, my mind in a turmoil. “Do you mean to say that she…she actually committed suicide in that terrible fashion?”

“The facts speak for themselves, Watson. No other interpretation is possible.”

“But why on earth could she not have gone to the police?” I asked, more calmly, now that the first shock had passed. “If she suspected, or knew, that her husband had murdered her lover, why could she not have brought the matter to their attention by less involved means? Why not a direct accusation?”

“And have the facts of her adulterous relationship aired in open court, to be later blazoned upon every newspaper in the kingdom?” he inquired sardonically. “Really, Watson,” he went on, shaking his head in a puzzled manner, “I never quite get your limitations. Do you still fail to grasp the fact that her suicide, as you call it—that her self-murder, rather—was purely incidental to her scheme of revenge? That by purposely using the same poison—thereby attracting the attention of the police—she sent to the scaffold the man who had destroyed her lover?”

“Then Staunton's reiterated denials of all complicity in her death were justified?” I said, musingly.

“Entirely so,” he replied. “Yet who believed him? Did not counsel for the prosecution stress the fact that Staunton, by insisting that his wife had committed suicide, hoped to escape the extreme penalty? It was futile effort, for without any doubt her violent death swayed the jury when they rendered their verdict.”

“I wonder how she learned about the poison and its fearful properties?” I said, after a spell of silence. “Any theories, Holmes?”

He moved his head dubiously. “There, my dear Watson, we trespass into the field of surmise and conjecture. A wife has her own methods of finding out her husband's secrets. An unguarded word, a threat from him, perhaps even a boast as to the manner in which he had removed his young rival—any of these may have given her an inkling of the truth. The fact that she made use of it with such telling effect amply proves that she was fully aware of its potentialities. We shall have to be content with that.”

“It was a fearful revenge, Holmes,” I said, breaking into the long silence which followed his last words. “Yet, somehow, I cannot find it in my heart to condemn her too bitterly.”

“And I,” said my friend, reaching out for his pouch, “find that for the third time in my career, I have been beaten by a woman. Yet I cannot say that I shall ever begrudge Mrs. Staunton her triumph!”

(Writing as Luke Sharp)

BORN IN SCOTLAND
, Robert Barr (1850–1912) moved to Canada with his family when he was four years old. While a teacher and later headmaster of the Central School of Windsor, Ontario, he wrote short stories that he placed with the
Detroit Free Press
. When he was twenty-six, he decided to devote himself full-time to writing and moved to Detroit to become a staff writer on that paper, eventually becoming its news editor.

His contributions to the newspaper were published under the pseudonym Luke Sharp, an amusing name but not one that Barr invented. As a schoolboy in Canada, he had regularly passed a storefront sign that proclaimed “Luke Sharpe, Undertaker,” which he found too memorable to resist.

Barr's first Sherlock Holmes parody, “Detective Stories Gone Wrong: The Adventures of Sherlaw Kombs,” published in May 1892, is often described as the first Holmes parody (it is early, yes, but not the first) and has been often anthologized, including in this collection. However, the present story, published more than a decade later and far more obscure, is an even funnier send-up of the great detective.

“The Adventure of the Second Swag” was first published in the December 1904 issue of
The Idler Magazine
; its first book appearance was as a chapbook limited to two hundred copies,
The Adventure of the Second Swag
(London, Ferret Fantasy, 1990).

THE TIME WAS
Christmas Eve, 1904. The place was an ancient, secluded manor house, built so far back in the last century as 1896. It stood at the head of a profound valley; a valley clothed in ferns waist deep, and sombrely guarded by ancient trees, the remnants of a primeval forest. From this mansion no other human habitation could be seen. The descending road which connected the king's highway with the stronghold was so sinuous and precipitate that more than once the grim baronet who owned it had upset his automobile in trying to negotiate the dangerous curves. The isolated situation and gloomy architecture of this venerable mansion must have impressed the most casual observer with the thought that here was the spot for the perpetration of dark deeds, were it not for the fact that the place was brilliantly illumined with electricity, while the silence was emphasised rather than disturbed by the monotonous, regular thud of an accumulator pumping the subtle fluid into a receptive dynamo situated in an outhouse to the east.

The night was gloomy and lowering after a day of rain, but the very sombreness of the scene made the brilliant stained glass windows stand out like the radiant covers of a Christmas number. Such was the appearance presented by “Undershaw,” the home of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, situated among the wilds of Hindhead, some forty or fifty miles from London. Is it any wonder that at a spot so remote from civilisation law should be set at defiance, and that the one lone policeman who perambulates the district should tremble as he passed the sinister gates of “Undershaw”?

In a large room of this manor house, furnished with a luxuriant elegance one would not have expected in a region so far from humanising influences, sat two men. One was a giant in stature, whose broad brow and smoothly shaven strong chin gave a look of determination to his countenance, which was further enhanced by the heavy black moustache which covered his upper lip. There was something of the dragoon in his upright and independent bearing. He had, in fact, taken part in more than one fiercely-fought battle, and was a member of several military clubs; but it was plain to be seen that his ancestors had used war clubs, and had transmitted to him the physique of a Hercules. One did not need to glance at the Christmas number of the
Strand
, which he held in his hand, nor read the name printed there in large letters, to know that he was face to face with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

His guest, an older man, yet still in the prime of life, whose beard was tinged with grey, was of less warlike bearing than the celebrated novelist, belonging, as he evidently did, to the civil and not the military section of life. He had about him the air of a prosperous man of affairs, shrewd, good-natured, conciliatory, and these two strongly contrasting personages are types of the men to whom England owes her greatness. The reader of the Christmas number will very probably feel disappointed when he finds, as he supposes, merely two old friends sitting amicably in a country
house after dinner. There seems, to his jaded taste, no element of tragedy in such a situation. These two men appear comfortable enough, and respectable enough. It is true that there is whisky and soda at hand, and the box of cigars is open, yet there are latent possibilities of passion under the most placid natures, revealed only to writers of fiction in our halfpenny Press. Let the reader wait, therefore, till he sees these two men tried as by fire under a great temptation, and then let him say whether even the probity of Sir George Newnes comes scatheless from the ordeal.

“Have you brought the swag, Sir George?” asked the novelist, with some trace of anxiety in his voice.

“Yes,” replied the great publisher; “but before proceeding to the count would it not be wise to give orders that will insure our being left undisturbed?”

“You are right,” replied Doyle, pressing an electric button.

When the servant appeared he said: “I am not at home to anyone. No matter who calls, or what excuse is given, you must permit none to approach this room.”

When the servant had withdrawn, Doyle took the further precaution of thrusting in place one of the huge bolts which ornamented the massive door studded with iron knobs. Sir George withdrew from the tail pocket of his dress coat two canvas bags, and, untying the strings, poured the rich red gold on the smooth table.

“I think you will find that right,” he said; “six thousand pounds in all.”

The writer dragged his heavy chair nearer the table, and began to count the coins two by two, withdrawing each pair from the pile with his extended forefingers in the manner of one accustomed to deal with great treasure. For a time the silence was unbroken, save by the chink of gold, when suddenly a high-keyed voice outside penetrated even the stout oak of the huge door. The shrill exclamation seemed to touch a chord of remembrance in the mind of Sir George Newnes. Nervously he grasped the arms of his chair, sitting very bolt upright, muttering:—

“Can it be he, of all persons, at this time, of all times?”

Doyle glanced up with an expression of annoyance on his face, murmuring, to keep his memory green:—

“A hundred and ten, a hundred and ten, a hundred and ten.”

“Not at home?” cried the vibrant voice. “Nonsense! Everybody is at home on Christmas Eve!”

“You don't seem to be,” he heard the servant reply.

“Me? Oh, I have no home, merely rooms in Baker Street. I must see your master, and at once.”

“Master left in his motor car half an hour ago to attend the county ball, given tonight, at the Royal Huts Hotel, seven miles away,” answered the servant, with that glib mastery of fiction which unconsciously comes to those who are members, even in a humble capacity, of a household devoted to the production of imaginative art.

“Nonsense, I say again,” came the strident voice. “It is true that the tracks of an automobile are on the ground in front of your door, but if you will notice the markings of the puncture-proof belt, you will see that the automobile is returning and not departing. It went to the station before the last shower to bring back a visitor, and since its arrival there has been no rain. That suit of armour in the hall spattered with mud shows it to be the casing the visitor wore. The blazonry upon it of a pair of scissors above an open book resting upon a printing press, indicates that the wearer is first of all an editor; second, a publisher; and third, a printer. The only baronet in England whose occupation corresponds with his heraldic device is Sir George Newnes.”

“You forget Sir Alfred Harmsworth,” said the servant, whose hand held a copy of Answers.

If the insistent visitor was taken aback by this unlooked-for rejoinder, his manner showed no trace of embarrassment, and he went on unabashed.

“As the last shower began at ten minutes to
six, Sir George must have arrived at Haslemere station on the 6:19 from Waterloo. He has had dinner, and at this moment is sitting comfortably with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, doubtless in the front room, which I see is so brilliantly lighted. Now, if you will kindly take in my card—”

“But I tell you,” persisted the perplexed servant, “that the master left in his motor car for the county ball at the Royal—”

“Oh, I know, I know. There stands his suit of armour, too, newly black-leaded, whose coat of arms is a couchant typewriter on an automobile rampant.”

“Great heavens!” cried Sir George, his eyes brightening with the light of unholy desire, “you have material enough there, Doyle, for a story in our January number. What do you say?”

A deep frown marred the smoothness of the novelist's brow.

“I say,” he replied sternly, “that this man has been sending threatening letters to me. I have had enough of his menaces.”

“Then triply bolt the door,” advised Newnes, with a sigh of disappointment, leaning back in his chair.

“Do you take me for a man who bolts when his enemy appears?” asked Doyle fiercely, rising to his feet. “No, I will unbolt. He shall meet the Douglas in his hall!”

“Better have him in the drawing-room, where it's warm,” suggested Sir George, with a smile, diplomatically desiring to pour oil on the troubled waters.

The novelist, without reply, spread a copy of that evening's
Westminster Gazette
over the pile of gold, strode to the door, threw it open, and said coldly:—

“Show the gentleman in, please.”

There entered to them a tall, self-possessed, calm man, with clean-shaven face, eagle eye, and inquisitive nose.

Although the visit was most embarrassing at that particular juncture, the natural courtesy of the novelist restrained him from giving utterance to his resentment of the intrusion, and he proceeded to introduce the bidden to the unbidden guest as if each were equally welcome.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, permit me to present to you Sir George—”

“It is quite superfluous,” said the newcomer, in an even voice of exasperating tenor, “for I perceive at once that one who wears a green waistcoat must be a Liberal of strong Home Rule opinions, or the editor of several publications wearing covers of emerald hue. The shamrock necktie, in addition to the waistcoat, indicates that the gentleman before me is both, and so I take it for granted that this is Sir George Newnes. How is your circulation, Sir George?”

“Rapidly rising,” replied the editor.

“I am glad of that,” asserted the intruder, suavely, “and can assure you that the temperature outside is as rapidly falling.”

The great detective spread his hands before the glowing electric fire, and rubbed them vigorously together.

“I perceive through that evening paper the sum of six thousand pounds in gold.”

Doyle interrupted him with some impatience.

“You didn't see it through the paper; you saw it in the paper. Goodness knows, it's been mentioned in enough of the sheets.”

“As I was about to remark,” went on Sherlock Holmes imperturbably, “I am amazed that a man whose time is so valuable should waste it in counting the money. You are surely aware that a golden sovereign weighs 123.44 grains, therefore, if I were you, I should have up the kitchen scales, dump in the metal, and figure out the amount with a lead pencil. You brought the gold in two canvas bags, did you not, Sir George?”

“In the name of all that's wonderful, how do you know that?” asked the astonished publisher.

Sherlock Holmes, with a superior smile, casually waved his hand toward the two bags which still lay on the polished table.

“Oh, I'm tired of this sort of thing,” said Doyle wearily, sitting down in the first chair that presented itself. “Can't you be honest, even on Christmas Eve? You know the oracles of old did not try it on with each other.”

“That is true,” said Sherlock Holmes. “The fact is, I followed Sir George Newnes into the Capital and Counties Bank this afternoon, where he demanded six thousand pounds in gold; but when he learned this would weigh ninety-six pounds seven ounces avoirdupois weight, and that even troy weight would make the sum no lighter, he took two small bags of gold and the rest in Bank of England notes. I came from London on the same train with him, but he was off in the automobile before I could make myself known, and so I had to walk up. I was further delayed by taking the wrong turning on the top and finding myself at that charming spot in the neighbourhood where a sailor was murdered by two ruffians a century or so ago.”

There was a note of warning in Doyle's voice when he said:—

“Did that incident teach you no lesson? Did you not realise that you are in a dangerous locality?”

“And likely to fall in with two ruffians?” asked Holmes, slightly elevating his eyebrows, while the same sweet smile hovered round his thin lips. “No; the remembrance of the incident encouraged me. It was the man who had the money that was murdered. I brought no coin with me, although I expect to bear many away.”

“Would you mind telling us, without further circumlocation, what brings you here so late at night?”

Sherlock Holmes heaved a sigh, and mournfully shook his head very slowly.

“After all the teaching I have bestowed upon you, Doyle, is it possible that you cannot deduce even so simple a thing as that? Why am I here? Because Sir George made a mistake about those bags. He was quite right in taking one of them to “Undershaw,” but he should have left the other at 221
B
, Baker Street. I call this little trip ‘The Adventure of the Second Swag.' Here is the second swag on the table. The first swag you received long ago, and all I had for my share was some honeyed words of compliment in the stories you wrote. Now, it is truly said that soft words butter no parsnips, and, in this instance, they do not even turn away wrath. So far as the second swag is concerned, I have come to demand half of it.”

“I am not so poor at deduction as you seem to imagine,” said Doyle, apparently nettled at the other's slighting reference to his powers. “I was well aware, when you came in, what your errand was. I deduced further that if you saw Sir George withdraw gold from the bank, you also followed him to Waterloo station.”

“Quite right.”

“When he purchased his ticket for Haslemere, you did the same.”

“I did.”

“When you arrived at Haslemere, you sent a telegram to your friend, Dr. Watson, telling him of your whereabouts.”

“You are wrong there; I ran after the motor car.”

“You certainly sent a telegram from somewhere, to someone, or at least dropped a note in the post-box. There are signs, which I need not mention, that point irrevocably to such a conclusion.”

The doomed man, ruined by his own self-complacency, merely smiled in his superior manner, not noticing the eager look with which Doyle awaited his answer.

“Wrong entirely. I neither wrote any telegram, nor spoke any message, since I left London.”

“Ah, no,” cried Doyle. “I see where I went astray. You merely inquired the way to my house.”