Chapter 1

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THE MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

by Arthur Conan Doyle

Contents

I. Silver Blaze
II. The Adventure of the Cardboard Box
III. The Yellow Face
IV. The Stockbroker’s Clerk
V. The “Gloria Scott”
VI. The Musgrave Ritual
VII. The Reigate Squires
VIII. The Crooked Man
IX. The Resident Patient
X. The Greek Interpreter
XI. The Naval Treaty
XII. The Final Problem

I. Silver Blaze

I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go,” said Holmes, as we
sat down together to our breakfast one morning.

“Go! Where to?”

“To Dartmoor; to King’s Pyland.”

I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that he had not
already been mixed up in this extraordinary case, which was the
one topic of conversation through the length and breadth of
England. For a whole day my companion had rambled about the room
with his chin upon his chest and his brows knitted, charging and
recharging his pipe with the strongest black tobacco, and
absolutely deaf to any of my questions or remarks. Fresh editions
of every paper had been sent up by our news agent, only to be
glanced over and tossed down into a corner. Yet, silent as he
was, I knew perfectly well what it was over which he was
brooding. There was but one problem before the public which could
challenge his powers of analysis, and that was the singular
disappearance of the favourite for the Wessex Cup, and the tragic
murder of its trainer. When, therefore, he suddenly announced his
intention of setting out for the scene of the drama it was only
what I had both expected and hoped for.

“I should be most happy to go down with you if I should not be in
the way,” said I.

“My dear Watson, you would confer a great favour upon me by
coming. And I think that your time will not be misspent, for
there are points about the case which promise to make it an
absolutely unique one. We have, I think, just time to catch our
train at Paddington, and I will go further into the matter upon
our journey. You would oblige me by bringing with you your very
excellent field-glass.”

And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself in the
corner of a first-class carriage flying along en route for
Exeter, while Sherlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face framed
in his ear-flapped travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle
of fresh papers which he had procured at Paddington. We had left
Reading far behind us before he thrust the last one of them under
the seat, and offered me his cigar-case.

“We are going well,” said he, looking out the window and glancing
at his watch. “Our rate at present is fifty-three and a half
miles an hour.”

“I have not observed the quarter-mile posts,” said I.

“Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this line are sixty
yards apart, and the calculation is a simple one. I presume that
you have looked into this matter of the murder of John Straker
and the disappearance of Silver Blaze?”

“I have seen what the _Telegraph_ and the _Chronicle_ have to
say.”

“It is one of those cases where the art of the reasoner should be
used rather for the sifting of details than for the acquiring of
fresh evidence. The tragedy has been so uncommon, so complete and
of such personal importance to so many people, that we are
suffering from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis.
The difficulty is to detach the framework of fact—of absolute
undeniable fact—from the embellishments of theorists and
reporters. Then, having established ourselves upon this sound
basis, it is our duty to see what inferences may be drawn and
what are the special points upon which the whole mystery turns.
On Tuesday evening I received telegrams from both Colonel Ross,
the owner of the horse, and from Inspector Gregory, who is
looking after the case, inviting my co-operation.”

“Tuesday evening!” I exclaimed. “And this is Thursday morning.
Why didn’t you go down yesterday?”

“Because I made a blunder, my dear Watson—which is, I am afraid,
a more common occurrence than any one would think who only knew
me through your memoirs. The fact is that I could not believe it
possible that the most remarkable horse in England could long
remain concealed, especially in so sparsely inhabited a place as
the north of Dartmoor. From hour to hour yesterday I expected to
hear that he had been found, and that his abductor was the
murderer of John Straker. When, however, another morning had
come, and I found that beyond the arrest of young Fitzroy Simpson
nothing had been done, I felt that it was time for me to take
action. Yet in some ways I feel that yesterday has not been
wasted.”

“You have formed a theory, then?”

“At least I have got a grip of the essential facts of the case. I
shall enumerate them to you, for nothing clears up a case so much
as stating it to another person, and I can hardly expect your
co-operation if I do not show you the position from which we
start.”

I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar, while
Holmes, leaning forward, with his long, thin forefinger checking
off the points upon the palm of his left hand, gave me a sketch
of the events which had led to our journey.

“Silver Blaze,” said he, “is from the Isonomy stock, and holds as
brilliant a record as his famous ancestor. He is now in his fifth
year, and has brought in turn each of the prizes of the turf to
Colonel Ross, his fortunate owner. Up to the time of the
catastrophe he was the first favourite for the Wessex Cup, the
betting being three to one on him. He has always, however, been a
prime favourite with the racing public, and has never yet
disappointed them, so that even at those odds enormous sums of
money have been laid upon him. It is obvious, therefore, that
there were many people who had the strongest interest in
preventing Silver Blaze from being there at the fall of the flag
next Tuesday.

“The fact was, of course, appreciated at King’s Pyland, where the
Colonel’s training-stable is situated. Every precaution was taken
to guard the favourite. The trainer, John Straker, is a retired
jockey who rode in Colonel Ross’s colours before he became too
heavy for the weighing-chair. He has served the Colonel for five
years as jockey and for seven as trainer, and has always shown
himself to be a zealous and honest servant. Under him were three
lads; for the establishment was a small one, containing only four
horses in all. One of these lads sat up each night in the stable,
while the others slept in the loft. All three bore excellent
characters. John Straker, who is a married man, lived in a small
villa about two hundred yards from the stables. He has no
children, keeps one maid-servant, and is comfortably off. The
country round is very lonely, but about half a mile to the north
there is a small cluster of villas which have been built by a
Tavistock contractor for the use of invalids and others who may
wish to enjoy the pure Dartmoor air. Tavistock itself lies two
miles to the west, while across the moor, also about two miles
distant, is the larger training establishment of Mapleton, which
belongs to Lord Backwater, and is managed by Silas Brown. In
every other direction the moor is a complete wilderness,
inhabited only by a few roaming gypsies. Such was the general
situation last Monday night when the catastrophe occurred.

“On that evening the horses had been exercised and watered as
usual, and the stables were locked up at nine o’clock. Two of the
lads walked up to the trainer’s house, where they had supper in
the kitchen, while the third, Ned Hunter, remained on guard. At a
few minutes after nine the maid, Edith Baxter, carried down to
the stables his supper, which consisted of a dish of curried
mutton. She took no liquid, as there was a water-tap in the
stables, and it was the rule that the lad on duty should drink
nothing else. The maid carried a lantern with her, as it was very
dark and the path ran across the open moor.

“Edith Baxter was within thirty yards of the stables, when a man
appeared out of the darkness and called to her to stop. As he
stepped into the circle of yellow light thrown by the lantern she
saw that he was a person of gentlemanly bearing, dressed in a
grey suit of tweeds, with a cloth cap. He wore gaiters, and
carried a heavy stick with a knob to it. She was most impressed,
however, by the extreme pallor of his face and by the nervousness
of his manner. His age, she thought, would be rather over thirty
than under it.

“‘Can you tell me where I am?’ he asked. ‘I had almost made up my
mind to sleep on the moor, when I saw the light of your lantern.’

“‘You are close to the King’s Pyland training-stables,’ said she.

“‘Oh, indeed! What a stroke of luck!’ he cried. ‘I understand
that a stable-boy sleeps there alone every night. Perhaps that is
his supper which you are carrying to him. Now I am sure that you
would not be too proud to earn the price of a new dress, would
you?’ He took a piece of white paper folded up out of his
waistcoat pocket. ‘See that the boy has this to-night, and you
shall have the prettiest frock that money can buy.’

“She was frightened by the earnestness of his manner, and ran
past him to the window through which she was accustomed to hand
the meals. It was already opened, and Hunter was seated at the
small table inside. She had begun to tell him of what had
happened, when the stranger came up again.

“‘Good-evening,’ said he, looking through the window. ‘I wanted
to have a word with you.’ The girl has sworn that as he spoke she
noticed the corner of the little paper packet protruding from his
closed hand.

“‘What business have you here?’ asked the lad.

“‘It’s business that may put something into your pocket,’ said
the other. ‘You’ve two horses in for the Wessex Cup—Silver Blaze
and Bayard. Let me have the straight tip and you won’t be a
loser. Is it a fact that at the weights Bayard could give the
other a hundred yards in five furlongs, and that the stable have
put their money on him?’

“‘So, you’re one of those damned touts!’ cried the lad. ‘I’ll
show you how we serve them in King’s Pyland.’ He sprang up and
rushed across the stable to unloose the dog. The girl fled away
to the house, but as she ran she looked back and saw that the
stranger was leaning through the window. A minute later, however,
when Hunter rushed out with the hound he was gone, and though he
ran all round the buildings he failed to find any trace of him.”

“One moment,” I asked. “Did the stable-boy, when he ran out with
the dog, leave the door unlocked behind him?”

“Excellent, Watson, excellent!” murmured my companion. “The
importance of the point struck me so forcibly that I sent a
special wire to Dartmoor yesterday to clear the matter up. The
boy locked the door before he left it. The window, I may add, was
not large enough for a man to get through.

“Hunter waited until his fellow-grooms had returned, when he sent
a message to the trainer and told him what had occurred. Straker
was excited at hearing the account, although he does not seem to
have quite realized its true significance. It left him, however,
vaguely uneasy, and Mrs. Straker, waking at one in the morning,
found that he was dressing. In reply to her inquiries, he said
that he could not sleep on account of his anxiety about the
horses, and that he intended to walk down to the stables to see
that all was well. She begged him to remain at home, as she could
hear the rain pattering against the window, but in spite of her
entreaties he pulled on his large mackintosh and left the house.

“Mrs. Straker awoke at seven in the morning, to find that her
husband had not yet returned. She dressed herself hastily, called
the maid, and set off for the stables. The door was open; inside,
huddled together upon a chair, Hunter was sunk in a state of
absolute stupor, the favourite’s stall was empty, and there were
no signs of his trainer.

“The two lads who slept in the chaff-cutting loft above the
harness-room were quickly aroused. They had heard nothing during
the night, for they are both sound sleepers. Hunter was obviously
under the influence of some powerful drug, and as no sense could
be got out of him, he was left to sleep it off while the two lads
and the two women ran out in search of the absentees. They still
had hopes that the trainer had for some reason taken out the
horse for early exercise, but on ascending the knoll near the
house, from which all the neighbouring moors were visible, they
not only could see no signs of the missing favourite, but they
perceived something which warned them that they were in the
presence of a tragedy.

“About a quarter of a mile from the stables John Straker’s
overcoat was flapping from a furze-bush. Immediately beyond there
was a bowl-shaped depression in the moor, and at the bottom of
this was found the dead body of the unfortunate trainer. His head
had been shattered by a savage blow from some heavy weapon, and
he was wounded on the thigh, where there was a long, clean cut,
inflicted evidently by some very sharp instrument. It was clear,
however, that Straker had defended himself vigorously against his
assailants, for in his right hand he held a small knife, which
was clotted with blood up to the handle, while in his left he
clasped a red and black silk cravat, which was recognised by the
maid as having been worn on the preceding evening by the stranger
who had visited the stables.

“Hunter, on recovering from his stupor, was also quite positive
as to the ownership of the cravat. He was equally certain that
the same stranger had, while standing at the window, drugged his
curried mutton, and so deprived the stables of their watchman.

“As to the missing horse, there were abundant proofs in the mud
which lay at the bottom of the fatal hollow that he had been
there at the time of the struggle. But from that morning he has
disappeared, and although a large reward has been offered, and
all the gypsies of Dartmoor are on the alert, no news has come of
him. Finally, an analysis has shown that the remains of his
supper left by the stable-lad contain an appreciable quantity of
powdered opium, while the people at the house partook of the same
dish on the same night without any ill effect.

“Those are the main facts of the case, stripped of all surmise,
and stated as baldly as possible. I shall now recapitulate what
the police have done in the matter.

“Inspector Gregory, to whom the case has been committed, is an
extremely competent officer. Were he but gifted with imagination
he might rise to great heights in his profession. On his arrival
he promptly found and arrested the man upon whom suspicion
naturally rested. There was little difficulty in finding him, for
he inhabited one of those villas which I have mentioned. His
name, it appears, was Fitzroy Simpson. He was a man of excellent
birth and education, who had squandered a fortune upon the turf,
and who lived now by doing a little quiet and genteel book-making
in the sporting clubs of London. An examination of his
betting-book shows that bets to the amount of five thousand
pounds had been registered by him against the favourite.

“On being arrested he volunteered the statement that he had come
down to Dartmoor in the hope of getting some information about
the King’s Pyland horses, and also about Desborough, the second
favourite, which was in charge of Silas Brown at the Mapleton
stables. He did not attempt to deny that he had acted as
described upon the evening before, but declared that he had no
sinister designs, and had simply wished to obtain first-hand
information. When confronted with his cravat, he turned very
pale, and was utterly unable to account for its presence in the
hand of the murdered man. His wet clothing showed that he had
been out in the storm of the night before, and his stick, which
was a Penang-lawyer weighted with lead, was just such a weapon as
might, by repeated blows, have inflicted the terrible injuries to
which the trainer had succumbed.

“On the other hand, there was no wound upon his person, while the
state of Straker’s knife would show that one at least of his
assailants must bear his mark upon him. There you have it all in
a nutshell, Watson, and if you can give me any light I shall be
infinitely obliged to you.”

I had listened with the greatest interest to the statement which
Holmes, with characteristic clearness, had laid before me. Though
most of the facts were familiar to me, I had not sufficiently
appreciated their relative importance, nor their connection to
each other.

“Is it not possible,” I suggested, “that the incised wound upon
Straker may have been caused by his own knife in the convulsive
struggles which follow any brain injury?”

“It is more than possible; it is probable,” said Holmes. “In that
case one of the main points in favour of the accused disappears.”

“And yet,” said I, “even now I fail to understand what the theory
of the police can be.”

“I am afraid that whatever theory we state has very grave
objections to it,” returned my companion. “The police imagine, I
take it, that this Fitzroy Simpson, having drugged the lad, and
having in some way obtained a duplicate key, opened the stable
door and took out the horse, with the intention, apparently, of
kidnapping him altogether. His bridle is missing, so that Simpson
must have put this on. Then, having left the door open behind
him, he was leading the horse away over the moor, when he was
either met or overtaken by the trainer. A row naturally ensued.
Simpson beat out the trainer’s brains with his heavy stick
without receiving any injury from the small knife which Straker
used in self-defence, and then the thief either led the horse on
to some secret hiding-place, or else it may have bolted during
the struggle, and be now wandering out on the moors. That is the
case as it appears to the police, and improbable as it is, all
other explanations are more improbable still. However, I shall
very quickly test the matter when I am once upon the spot, and
until then I cannot really see how we can get much further than
our present position.”

It was evening before we reached the little town of Tavistock,
which lies, like the boss of a shield, in the middle of the huge
circle of Dartmoor. Two gentlemen were awaiting us in the
station—the one a tall, fair man with lion-like hair and beard
and curiously penetrating light blue eyes; the other a small,
alert person, very neat and dapper, in a frock-coat and gaiters,
with trim little side-whiskers and an eye-glass. The latter was
Colonel Ross, the well-known sportsman; the other, Inspector
Gregory, a man who was rapidly making his name in the English
detective service.

“I am delighted that you have come down, Mr. Holmes,” said the
Colonel. “The Inspector here has done all that could possibly be
suggested, but I wish to leave no stone unturned in trying to
avenge poor Straker and in recovering my horse.”

“Have there been any fresh developments?” asked Holmes.

“I am sorry to say that we have made very little progress,” said
the Inspector. “We have an open carriage outside, and as you
would no doubt like to see the place before the light fails, we
might talk it over as we drive.”

A minute later we were all seated in a comfortable landau, and
were rattling through the quaint old Devonshire city. Inspector
Gregory was full of his case, and poured out a stream of remarks,
while Holmes threw in an occasional question or interjection.
Colonel Ross leaned back with his arms folded and his hat tilted
over his eyes, while I listened with interest to the dialogue of
the two detectives. Gregory was formulating his theory, which was
almost exactly what Holmes had foretold in the train.

“The net is drawn pretty close round Fitzroy Simpson,” he
remarked, “and I believe myself that he is our man. At the same
time I recognise that the evidence is purely circumstantial, and
that some new development may upset it.”

“How about Straker’s knife?”

“We have quite come to the conclusion that he wounded himself in
his fall.”

“My friend Dr. Watson made that suggestion to me as we came down.
If so, it would tell against this man Simpson.”

“Undoubtedly. He has neither a knife nor any sign of a wound. The
evidence against him is certainly very strong. He had a great
interest in the disappearance of the favourite. He lies under
suspicion of having poisoned the stable-boy, he was undoubtedly
out in the storm, he was armed with a heavy stick, and his cravat
was found in the dead man’s hand. I really think we have enough
to go before a jury.”

Holmes shook his head. “A clever counsel would tear it all to
rags,” said he. “Why should he take the horse out of the stable?
If he wished to injure it why could he not do it there? Has a
duplicate key been found in his possession? What chemist sold him
the powdered opium? Above all, where could he, a stranger to the
district, hide a horse, and such a horse as this? What is his own
explanation as to the paper which he wished the maid to give to
the stable-boy?”

“He says that it was a ten-pound note. One was found in his
purse. But your other difficulties are not so formidable as they
seem. He is not a stranger to the district. He has twice lodged
at Tavistock in the summer. The opium was probably brought from
London. The key, having served its purpose, would be hurled away.
The horse may be at the bottom of one of the pits or old mines
upon the moor.”

“What does he say about the cravat?”

“He acknowledges that it is his, and declares that he had lost
it. But a new element has been introduced into the case which may
account for his leading the horse from the stable.”

Holmes pricked up his ears.

“We have found traces which show that a party of gypsies encamped
on Monday night within a mile of the spot where the murder took
place. On Tuesday they were gone. Now, presuming that there was
some understanding between Simpson and these gypsies, might he
not have been leading the horse to them when he was overtaken,
and may they not have him now?”

“It is certainly possible.”

“The moor is being scoured for these gypsies. I have also
examined every stable and out-house in Tavistock, and for a
radius of ten miles.”

“There is another training-stable quite close, I understand?”

“Yes, and that is a factor which we must certainly not neglect.
As Desborough, their horse, was second in the betting, they had
an interest in the disappearance of the favourite. Silas Brown,
the trainer, is known to have had large bets upon the event, and
he was no friend to poor Straker. We have, however, examined the
stables, and there is nothing to connect him with the affair.”

“And nothing to connect this man Simpson with the interests of
the Mapleton stables?”

“Nothing at all.”

Holmes leaned back in the carriage, and the conversation ceased.
A few minutes later our driver pulled up at a neat little
red-brick villa with overhanging eaves which stood by the road.
Some distance off, across a paddock, lay a long grey-tiled
out-building. In every other direction the low curves of the
moor, bronze-coloured from the fading ferns, stretched away to
the sky-line, broken only by the steeples of Tavistock, and by a
cluster of houses away to the westward which marked the Mapleton
stables. We all sprang out with the exception of Holmes, who
continued to lean back with his eyes fixed upon the sky in front
of him, entirely absorbed in his own thoughts. It was only when I
touched his arm that he roused himself with a violent start and
stepped out of the carriage.

“Excuse me,” said he, turning to Colonel Ross, who had looked at
him in some surprise. “I was day-dreaming.” There was a gleam in
his eyes and a suppressed excitement in his manner which
convinced me, used as I was to his ways, that his hand was upon a
clue, though I could not imagine where he had found it.

“Perhaps you would prefer at once to go on to the scene of the
crime, Mr. Holmes?” said Gregory.

“I think that I should prefer to stay here a little and go into
one or two questions of detail. Straker was brought back here, I
presume?”

“Yes; he lies upstairs. The inquest is to-morrow.”

“He has been in your service some years, Colonel Ross?”

“I have always found him an excellent servant.”

“I presume that you made an inventory of what he had in his
pockets at the time of his death, Inspector?”

“I have the things themselves in the sitting-room, if you would
care to see them.”

“I should be very glad.” We all filed into the front room and sat
round the central table while the Inspector unlocked a square tin
box and laid a small heap of things before us. There was a box of
vestas, two inches of tallow candle, an A.D.P. briar-root pipe, a
pouch of seal-skin with half an ounce of long-cut Cavendish, a
silver watch with a gold chain, five sovereigns in gold, an
aluminium pencil-case, a few papers, and an ivory-handled knife
with a very delicate, inflexible blade marked Weiss & Co.,
London.

“This is a very singular knife,” said Holmes, lifting it up and
examining it minutely. “I presume, as I see blood-stains upon it,
that it is the one which was found in the dead man’s grasp.
Watson, this knife is surely in your line?”

“It is what we call a cataract knife,” said I.

“I thought so. A very delicate blade devised for very delicate
work. A strange thing for a man to carry with him upon a rough
expedition, especially as it would not shut in his pocket.”

“The tip was guarded by a disk of cork which we found beside his
body,” said the Inspector. “His wife tells us that the knife had
lain upon the dressing-table, and that he had picked it up as he
left the room. It was a poor weapon, but perhaps the best that he
could lay his hands on at the moment.”

“Very possible. How about these papers?”

“Three of them are receipted hay-dealers’ accounts. One of them
is a letter of instructions from Colonel Ross. This other is a
milliner’s account for thirty-seven pounds fifteen made out by
Madame Lesurier, of Bond Street, to William Derbyshire. Mrs.
Straker tells us that Derbyshire was a friend of her husband’s
and that occasionally his letters were addressed here.”

“Madam Derbyshire had somewhat expensive tastes,” remarked
Holmes, glancing down the account. “Twenty-two guineas is rather
heavy for a single costume. However there appears to be nothing
more to learn, and we may now go down to the scene of the crime.”

As we emerged from the sitting-room a woman, who had been waiting
in the passage, took a step forward and laid her hand upon the
Inspector’s sleeve. Her face was haggard and thin and eager,
stamped with the print of a recent horror.

“Have you got them? Have you found them?” she panted.

“No, Mrs. Straker. But Mr. Holmes here has come from London to
help us, and we shall do all that is possible.”

“Surely I met you in Plymouth at a garden-party some little time
ago, Mrs. Straker?” said Holmes.

“No, sir; you are mistaken.”

“Dear me! Why, I could have sworn to it. You wore a costume of
dove-coloured silk with ostrich-feather trimming.”

“I never had such a dress, sir,” answered the lady.

“Ah, that quite settles it,” said Holmes. And with an apology he
followed the Inspector outside. A short walk across the moor took
us to the hollow in which the body had been found. At the brink
of it was the furze-bush upon which the coat had been hung.

“There was no wind that night, I understand,” said Holmes.

“None; but very heavy rain.”

“In that case the overcoat was not blown against the furze-bush,
but placed there.”

“Yes, it was laid across the bush.”

“You fill me with interest, I perceive that the ground has been
trampled up a good deal.