
                       THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
                          The Boscombe Valley Mystery
      We are seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the
      maid brought in a telegram.  It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran
      in this way:

              Have you a couple of days to spare?  Have just been wired
          for from the west of England in connection with Boscombe
          Valley tragedy.  Shall be glad if you will come with me.  Air
          and scenery perfect.  Leave Paddington by the 11:15.

          "What do you say, dear?" said my wife, looking across at me.
      "Will you go?"

          "I really don't know what to say.  I have a fairly long list
      at present."

          "Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you.  You have been
      looking a little pale lately.  I think that the change would do
      you good, and you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock
      Holmes's cases."

          "I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained
      through one of them," I answered.  "But if I am to go, I must pack
      at once, for I have only half an hour."

          My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the
      effect of making me a prompt and ready traveller.  My wants were
      few and simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a
      cab with my valise, rattling away to Paddington Station.  Sherlock
      Holmes was pacing up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt figure
      made even gaunter and taller by his long gray travelling-cloak and
      close-fitting cloth cap.

          "It is really very good of you to come, Watson," said he.  "It
      makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on
      whom I can thoroughly rely.  Local aid is always either worthless
      or else biassed.  If you will keep the two corner seats I shall
      get the tickets."

          We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of
      papers which Holmes had brought with him.  Among these he rummaged
      and read, with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until
      we were past Reading.  Then he suddenly rolled them all into a
      gigantic ball and tossed them up onto the rack.

          "Have you heard anything of the case?" he asked.

          "Not a word.  I have not seen a paper for some days."

          "The London press has not had very full accounts.  I have just
      been looking through all the recent papers in order to master the
      particulars.  It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those
      simple cases which are so extremely difficult."

          "That sounds a little paradoxical."

          "But it is profoundly true.  Singularity is almost invariably
      a clue.  The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more
      difficult it is to bring it home.  In this case, however, they
      have established a very serious case against the son of the
      murdered man."

          "It is a murder, then?"

          "Well, it is conjectured to be so.  I shall take nothing for
      granted until I have the opportunity of looking personally into
      it.  I will explain the state of things to you, as far as I have
      been able to understand it, in a very few words.

          "Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross,
      in Herefordshire.  The largest landed proprietor in that part is a
      Mr. John Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned some
      years ago to the old country.  One of the farms which he held,
      that of Hatherley, was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also
      an ex-Australian.  The men had known each other in the colonies,
      so that it was not unnatural that when they came to settle down
      they should do so as near each other as possible.  Turner was
      apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his tenant but still
      remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect equality, as they were
      frequently together.  McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen, and
      Turner had an only daughter of the same age, but neither of them
      had wives living.  They appear to have avoided the society of the
      neighbouring English families and to have led retired lives,
      though both the McCarthys were fond of sport and were frequently
      seen at the race-meetings of the neighbourhood.  McCarthy kept two
      servants--a man and a girl.  Turner had a considerable household,
      some half-dozen at the least.  That is as much as I have been able
      to gather about the families.  Now for the facts.

          "On June 3d, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house
      at Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the
      Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out
      of the stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley.  He had been
      out with his serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told
      the man that he must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance
      to keep at three.  From that appointment he never came back alive.

          "From Hatherley Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of
      a mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground.  One
      was an old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was
      William Crowder, a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner.  Both
      these witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone.  The
      game-keeper adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr.
      McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the
      same way with a gun under his arm.  To the best of his belief, the
      father was actually in sight at the time, and the son was
      following him.  He thought no more of the matter until he heard in
      the evening of the tragedy that had occurred.

          "The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William
      Crowder, the game-keeper, lost sight of them.  The Boscombe Pool
      is thickly wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds
      round the edge.  A girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the
      daughter of the lodge-keeper of the Boscombe Valley estate, was in
      one of the woods picking flowers.  She states that while she was
      there she saw, at the border of the wood and close by the lake,
      Mr. McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared to be having a
      violent quarrel.  She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using very
      strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his
      hand as if to strike his father.  She was so frightened by their
      violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached
      home that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling near Boscombe
      Pool, and that she was afraid that they were going to fight.  She
      had hardly said the words when young Mr. McCarthy came running up
      to the lodge to say that he had found his father dead in the wood,
      and to ask for the help of the lodge-keeper.  He was much excited,
      without either his gun or his hat, and his right hand and sleeve
      were observed to be stained with fresh blood.  On following him
      they found the dead body stretched out upon the grass beside the
      pool.  The head had been beaten in by repeated blows of some heavy
      and blunt weapon.  The injuries were such as might very well have
      been inflicted by the butt-end of his son's gun, which was found
      lying on the grass within a few paces of the body.  Under these
      circumstances the young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict
      of `wilful murder' having been returned at the inquest on Tuesday,
      he was on Wednesday brought before the magistrates at Ross, who
      have referred the case to the next Assizes.  Those are the main
      facts of the case as they came out before the coroner and the
      police-court."

          "I could hardly imagine a more damning case," I remarked.  "If
      ever circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so
      here."

          "Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing," answered
      Holmes thoughtfully.  "It may seem to point very straight to one
      thing, but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may
      find it pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something
      entirely different.  It must be confessed, however, that the case
      looks exceedingly grave against the young man, and it is very
      possible that he is indeed the culprit.  There are several people
      in the neighbourhood, however, and among them Miss Turner, the
      daughter of the neighbouring landner, who believe in his
      innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you may recollect
      in connection with `A Study in Scarlet', to work out the case in
      his interest.  Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the
      case to me, and hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are
      flying westward at fifty miles an hour instead of quietly
      digesting their breakfasts at home."

          "I am afraid," said I, "that the facts are so obvious that you
      will find little credit to be gained out of this case."

          "There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact," he
      answered, laughing.  "Besides, we may chance to hit upon some
      other obvious facts which may have been by no means obvious to Mr.
      Lestrade.  You know me too well to think that I am boasting when I
      say that I shall either confirm or destroy his theory by means
      which he is quite incapable of employing, or even of
      understanding.  To take the first example to hand, I very clearly
      perceive that in your bedroom the window is upon the right-hand
      side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade would have noted
      even so self-evident a thing as that."

          "How on earth--"

          "My dear fellow, I know you well.  I know the military
      neatness which characterizes you.  You shave every morning, and in
      this season you shave by the sunlight; but since your shaving is
      less and less complete as we get farther back on the left side,
      until it becomes positively slovenly as we get round the angle of
      the jaw, it is surely very clear that that side is less
      illuminated than the other.  I could not imagine a man of your
      habits looking at himself in an equal light and being satisfied
      with such a result.  I only quote this as a trivial example of
      observation and inference.  Therein lies my metier, and it is just
      possible that it may be of some service in the investigation which
      lies before us.  There are one or two minor points which were
      brought out in the inquest, and which are worth considering."

          "What are they?"

          "It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but
      after the return to Hatherley Farm.  On the inspector of
      constabulary informing him that he was a prisoner, he remarked
      that he was not surprised to hear it, and that it was no more than
      his deserts.  This observation of his had the natural effect of
      removing any traces of doubt which might have remained in the
      minds of the coroner's jury."

          "It was a confession," I ejaculated.

          "No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence."

          "Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was
      at least a most suspicious remark."

          "On the contrary," said Holmes, "it is the brightest rift
      which I can at present see in the clouds.  However innocent he
      might be, he could not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see
      that the circumstances were very black against him.  Had he
      appeared surprised at his own arrest, or feigned indignation at
      it, I should have looked upon it as highly suspicious, because
      such surprise or anger would not be natural under the
      circumstances, and yet might appear to be the best policy to a
      scheming man.  His frank acceptance of the situation marks him as
      either an innocent man, or else as a man of considerable
      self-restraint and firmness.  As to his remark about his deserts,
      it was also not unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the
      dead body of his father, and that there is no doubt that he had
      that very day so far forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words
      with him, and even, according to the little girl whose evidence is
      so important, to raise his hand as if to strike him.  The
      self-reproach and contrition which are displayed in his remark
      appear to me to be the signs of a healthy mind rather than of a
      guilty one."

          I shook my head.  "Many men have been hanged on far slighter
      evidence," I remarked.

          "So they have.  And many men have been wrongfully hanged."

          "What is the young man's own account of the matter?"

          "It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters,
      though there are one or two points in it which are suggestive.
      You will find it here, and may read it for yourself."

          He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local
      Herefordshire paper, and having turned down the sheet he pointed
      out the paragraph in which the unfortunate young man had given his
      own statement of what had occurred.  I settled myself down in the
      corner of the carriage and read it very carefully.  It ran in this
      way:

              Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then
          called and gave evidence as follows:  "I had been away from
          home for three days at Bristol, and had only just returned
          upon the morning of last Monday, the 3d.  My father was absent
          from home at the time of my arrival, and I was informed by the
          maid that he had driven over to Ross with John Cobb, the
          groom.  Shortly after my return I heard the wheels of his trap
          in the yard, and, looking out of my window, I saw him get out
          and walk rapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware in
          which direction he was going.  I then took my gun and strolled
          out in the direction of the Boscombe Pool, with the intention
          of visiting the rabbit-warren which is upon the other side.
          On my way I saw William Crowder, the game-keeper, as he had
          stated in his evidence; but he is mistaken in thinking that I
          was following my father.  I had no idea that he was in front
          of me.  When about a hundred yards from the pool I heard a cry
          of `Cooee!' which was a usual signal between my father and
          myself.  I then hurried forward, and found him standing by the
          pool.  He appeared to be much surprised at seeing me and asked
          me rather roughly what I was doing there.  A conversation
          ensued which led to high words and almost to blows, for my
          father was a man of a very violent temper.  Seeing that his
          passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him and returned
          towards Hatherley Farm.  I had not gone more than 150 yards,
          however, when I heard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused
          me to run back again.  I found my father expiring upon the
          ground, with his head terribly injured.  I dropped my gun and
          held him in my arms, but he almost instantly expired.  I knelt
          beside him for some minutes, and then made my way to Mr.
          Turner's lodge-keeper, his house being the nearest, to ask for
          assistance.  I saw no one near my father when I returned, and
          I have no idea how he came by his injuries.  He was not a
          popular man, being somewhat cold and forbidding in his
          manners; but he had, as far as I know, no active enemies.  I
          know nothing further of the matter."

              The Coroner:  Did your father make any statement to you
          before he died?

              Witness:  He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch
          some allusion to a rat.

              The Coroner:  What did you understand by that?

              Witness:  It conveyed no meaning to me.  I thought that he
          was delirious.

              The Coroner:  What was the point upon which you and your
          father had this final quarrel?

              Witness:  I should prefer not to answer.

              The Coroner:  I am afraid that I must press it.

              Witness:  It is really impossible for me to tell you.  I
          can assure you that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy
          which followed.

              The Coroner:  That is for the court to decide.  I need not
          point out to you that your refusal to answer will prejudice
          your case considerably in any future proceedings which may
          arise.

              Witness:  I must still refuse.

              The Coroner:  I understand that the cry of "Cooee" was a
          common signal between you and your father?

              Witness:  It was.

              The Coroner:  How was it, then, that he uttered it before
          he saw you, and before he even knew that you had returned from
          Bristol?

              Witness (with considerable confusion):  I do not know.

              A Juryman:  Did you see nothing which aroused your
          suspicions when you returned on hearing the cry and found your
          father fatally injured?

              Witness:  Nothing definite.

              The Coroner:  What do you mean?

              Witness:  I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out
          into the open, that I could think of nothing except of my
          father.  Yet I have a vague impression that as I ran forward
          something lay upon the ground to the left of me.  It seemed to
          me to be something gray in colour, a coat of some sort, or a
          plaid perhaps.  When I rose from my father I looked round for
          it, but it was gone.

              "Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for
          help?"

              "Yes, it was gone."

              "You cannot say what it was?"

              "No, I had a feeling something was there."

              "How far from the body?"

              "A dozen yards or so."

              "And how far from the edge of the wood?"

              "About the same."

              "Then if it was removed it was while you were within a
          dozen yards of it?"

              "Yes, but with my back towards it."

              This concluded the examination of the witness.

          "I see," said I as I glanced down the column, "that the
      coroner in his concluding remarks was rather severe upon young
      McCarthy.  He calls attention, and with reason, to the discrepancy
      about his father having signalled to him before seeing him, also
      to his refusal to give details of his conversation with his
      father, and his singular account of his father's dying words.
      They are all, as he remarks, very much against the son."

          Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out
      upon the cushioned seat.  "Both you and the coroner have been at
      some pains," said he, "to single out the very strongest points in
      the young man's favour.  Don't you see that you alternately give
      him credit for having too much imagination and too little?  Too
      little, if he could not invent a cause of quarrel which would give
      him the sympathy of the jury; too much, if he evolved from his own
      inner consciousness anything so outre as a dying reference to a
      rat, and the incident of the vanishing cloth.  No, sir, I shall
      approach this case from the point of view that what this young man
      says is true, and we shall see whither that hypothesis will lead
      us.  And now here is my pocket Petrarch, and not another word
      shall I say of this case until we are on the scene of action.  We
      lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall be there in twenty
      minutes."

          It was nearly four o'clock when we at last, after passing
      through the beautiful Stroud Valley, and over the broad gleaming
      Severn, found ourselves at the pretty little country-town of Ross.
      A lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for
      us upon the platform.  In spite of the light brown dustcoat and
      leather-leggings which he wore in deference to his rustic
      surroundings, I had no difficulty in recognizing Lestrade, of
      Scotland Yard.  With him we drove to the Hereford Arms where a
      room had already been engaged for us.

          "I have ordered a carriage," said Lestrade as we sat over a
      cup of tea.  "I knew your energetic nature, and that you would not
      be happy until you had been on the scene of the crime."

          "It was very nice and complimentary of you," Holmes answered.
      "It is entirely a question of barometric pressure."

          Lestrade looked startled.  "I do not quite follow," he said.

          "How is the glass?  Twenty-nine, I see.  No wind, and not a
      cloud in the sky.  I have a caseful of cigarettes here which need
      smoking, and the sofa is very much superior to the usual country
      hotel abomination.  I do not think that it is probable that I
      shall use the carriage to-night."

          Lestrade laughed indulgently.  "You have, no doubt, already
      formed your conclusions from the newspapers," he said.  "The case
      is as plain as a pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the
      plainer it becomes.  Still, of course, one can't refuse a lady,
      and such a very positive one, too.  She had heard of you, and
      would have your opinion, though I repeatedly told her that there
      was nothing which you could do which I had not already done.  Why,
      bless my soul! here is her carriage at the door."

          He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of
      the most lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life.  Her
      violet eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her
      cheeks, all thought of her natural reserve lost in her
      overpowering excitement and concern.

          "Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" she cried, glancing from one to the
      other of us, and finally, with a woman's quick intuition,
      fastening upon my companion, "I am so glad that you have come.  I
      have driven down to tell you so.  I know that James didn't do it.
      I know it, and I want you to start upon your work knowing it, too.
      Never let yourself doubt upon that point.  We have known each
      other since we were little children, and I know his faults as no
      one else does; but he is too tenderhearted to hurt a fly.  Such a
      charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him."

          "I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner," said Sherlock Holmes.
      "You may rely upon my doing all that I can."

          "But you have read the evidence.  You have formed some
      conclusion?  Do you not see some loophole, some flaw?  Do you not
      yourself think that he is innocent?"

          "I think that it is very probable."

          "There, now!" she cried, throwing back her head and looking
      defiantly at Lestrade.  "You hear!  He gives me hopes."

          Lestrade shrugged his shoulders.  "I am afraid that my
      colleague has been a little quick in forming his conclusions," he
      said.

          "But he is right.  Oh!  I know that he is right.  James never
      did it.  And about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the
      reason why he would not speak about it to the coroner was because
      I was concerned in it."

          "In what way?" asked Holmes.

          "It is no time for me to hide anything.  James and his father
      had many disagreements about me.  Mr. McCarthy was very anxious
      that there should be a marriage between us.  James and I have
      always loved each other as brother and sister; but of course he is
      young and has seen very little of life yet, and--and--well, he
      naturally did not wish to do anything like that yet.  So there
      were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one of them."

          "And your father?" asked Holmes.  "Was he in favour of such a
      union?"

          "No, he was averse to it also.  No one but Mr. McCarthy was in
      favour of it."  A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as
      Holmes shot one of his keen, questioning glances at her.

          "Thank you for this information," said he.  "May I see your
      father if I call tomorrow?"

          "I am afraid the doctor won't allow it."

          "The doctor?"

          "Yes, have you not heard?  Poor father has never been strong
      for years back, but this has broken him down completely.  He has
      taken to his bed, and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and
      that his nervous system is shattered.  Mr. McCarthy was the only
      man alive who had known dad in the old days in Victoria."

          "Ha!  In Victoria!  That is important."

          "Yes, at the mines."

          "Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr.
      Turner made his money."

          "Yes, certainly."

          "Thank you, Miss Turner.  You have been of material assistance
      to me."

          "You will tell me if you have any news tomorrow.  No doubt you
      will go to the prison to see James.  Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do
      tell him that I know him to be innocent."

          "I will, Miss Turner."

          "I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so
      if I leave him.  Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking."
      She hurried from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and
      we heard the wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street.

          "I am ashamed of you, Holmes," said Lestrade with dignity
      after a few minutes' silence.  "Why should you raise up hopes
      which you are bound to disappoint?  I am not over-tender of heart,
      but I call it cruel."

          "I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy," said
      Holmes.  "Have you an order to see him in prison?"

          "Yes, but only for you and me."

          "Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out.  We
      have still time to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?"

          "Ample."

          "Then let us do so.  Watson, I fear that you will find it very
      slow, but I shall only be away a couple of hours."

          I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered
      through the streets of the little town, finally returning to the
      hotel, where I lay upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a
      yellow-backed novel.  The puny plot of the story was so thin,
      however, when compared to the deep mystery through which we were
      groping, and I found my attention wander so continually from the
      fiction to the fact, that I at last flung it across the room and
      gave myself up entirely to a consideration of the events of the
      day.  Supposing that this unhappy young man's story were
      absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely
      unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between
      the time when he parted from his father, and the moment when,
      drawn back by his screams, he rushed into the glade?  It was
      something terrible and deadly.  What could it be?  Might not the
      nature of the injuries reveal something to my medical instincts?
      I rang the bell and called for the weekly county paper, which
      contained a verbatim account of the inquest.  In the surgeon's
      deposition it was stated that the posterior third of the left
      parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone had been
      shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon.  I marked the spot
      upon my own head.  Clearly such a blow must have been struck from
      behind.  That was to some extent in favour of the accused, as when
      seen quarrelling he was face to face with his father.  Still, it
      did not go for very much, for the older man might have turned his
      back before the blow fell.  Still, it might be worth while to call
      Holmes's attention to it.  Then there was the peculiar dying
      reference to a rat.  What could that mean?  It could not be
      delirium.  A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become
      delirious.  No, it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how
      he met his fate.  But what could it indicate?  I cudgelled my
      brains to find some possible explanation.  And then the incident
      of the gray cloth seen by young McCarthy.  If that were true the
      murderer must have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his
      overcoat, in his flight, and must have had the hardihood to return
      and to carry it away at the instant when the son was kneeling with
      his back turned not a dozen paces off.  What a tissue of mysteries
      and improbabilities the whole thing was!  I did not wonder at
      Lestrade's opinion, and yet I had so much faith in Sherlock
      Holmes's insight that I could not lose hope as long as every fresh
      fact seemed to strengthen his conviction of young McCarthy's
      innocence.

          It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned.  He came back
      alone, for Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.

          "The glass still keeps very high," he remarked as he sat down.
      "It is of importance that it should not rain before we are able to
      go over the ground.  On the other hand, a man should be at his
      very best and keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not
      wish to do it when fagged by a long journey.  I have seen young
      McCarthy."

          "And what did you learn from him?"

          "Nothing."

          "Could he throw no light?"

          "None at all.  I was inclined to think at one time that he
      knew who had done it and was screening him or her, but I am
      convinced now that he is as puzzled as everyone else.  He is not a
      very quick-witted youth, though comely to look at and, I should
      think, sound at heart."

          "I cannot admire his taste," I remarked, "if it is indeed a
      fact that he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young
      lady as this Miss Turner."

          "Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale.  This fellow is
      madly, insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he
      was only a lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been
      away five years at a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but
      get into the clutches of a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a
      registry office?  No one knows a word of the matter, but you can
      imagine how maddening it must be to him to be upbraided for not
      doing what he would give his very eyes to do, but what he knows to
      be absolutely impossible.  It was sheer frenzy of this sort which
      made him throw his hands up into the air when his father, at their
      last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss Turner.  On
      the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself, and his
      father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would have thrown
      him over utterly had he known the truth.  It was with his barmaid
      wife that he had spent the last three days in Bristol, and his
      father did not know where he was.  Mark that point.  It is of
      importance.  Good has come out of evil, however, for the barmaid,
      finding from the papers that he is in serious trouble and likely
      to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly and has written to him
      to say that she has a husband already in the Bermuda Dockyard, so
      that there is really no tie between them.  I think that that bit
      of news has consoled young McCarthy for all that he has suffered."

          "But if he is innocent, who has done it?"

          "Ah! who?  I would call your attention very particularly to
      two points.  One is that the murdered man had an appointment with
      someone at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his
      son, for his son was away, and he did not know when he would
      return.  The second is that the murdered man was heard to cry
      `Cooee!' before he knew that his son had returned.  Those are the
      crucial points upon which the case depends.  And now let us talk
      about George Meredith, if you please, and we shall leave all minor
      matters until to-morrow."

          There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning
      broke bright and cloudless.  At nine o'clock Lestrade called for
      us with the carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the
      Boscombe Pool.

          "There is serious news this morning," Lestrade observed.  "It
      is said that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is
      despaired of."

          "An elderly man, I presume?" said Holmes.

          "About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his
      life abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time.
      This business has had a very bad effect upon him.  He was an old
      friend of McCarthy's, and, I may add, a great benefactor to him,
      for I have learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm rent free."

          "Indeed!  That is interesting," said Holmes.

          "Oh, yes!  In a hundred other ways he has helped him.
      Everybody about here speaks of his kindness to him."

          "Really!  Does it not strike you as a little singular that
      this McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to
      have been under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of
      marrying his son to Turner's daughter, who is, presumably, heiress
      to the estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner, as if it
      were merely a case of a proposal and all else would follow?  It is
      the more strange, since we know that Turner himself was averse to
      the idea.  The daughter told us as much.  Do you not deduce
      something from that?"

          "We have got to the deductions and the inferences," said
      Lestrade, winking at me.  "I find it hard enough to tackle facts,
      Holmes, without flying away after theories and fancies."

          "You are right," said Holmes demurely; "you do find it very
      hard to tackle the facts."

          "Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it
      difficult to get hold of," replied Lestrade with some warmth.

          "And that is--"

          "That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and
      that all theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine."

          "Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog," said Holmes,
      laughing.  "But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley
      Farm upon the left."

          "Yes, that is it."  It was a widespread, comfortable-looking
      building, two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of
      lichen upon the gray walls.  The drawn blinds and the smokeless
      chimneys, however, gave it a stricken look, as though the weight
      of this horror still lay heavy upon it.  We called at the door,
      when the maid, at Holmes's request, showed us the boots which her
      master wore at the time of his death, and also a pair of the
      son's, though not the pair which he had then had.  Having measured
      these very carefully from seven or eight different points, Holmes
      desired to be led to the court-yard, from which we all followed
      the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.

          Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a
      scent as this.  Men who had only known the quiet thinker and
      logician of Baker Street would have failed to recognize him.  His
      face flushed and darkened.  His brows were drawn into two hard
      black lines, while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a
      steely glitter.  His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed,
      his lips compressed, and the veins stood out like whipcord in his
      long, sinewy neck.  His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely
      animal lust for the chase, and his mind was so absolutely
      concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or remark
      fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a
      quick, impatient snarl in reply.  Swiftly and silently he made his
      way along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by way
      of the woods to the Boscombe Pool.  It was damp, marshy ground, as
      is all that district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon
      the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on either side.
      Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he
      made quite a little detour into the meadow.  Lestrade and I walked
      behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while I
      watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the
      conviction that every one of his actions was directed towards a
      definite end.

          The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water
      some fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the
      Hatherley Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner.
      Above the woods which lined it upon the farther side we could see
      the red, jutting pinnacles which marked the site of the rich
      landowner's dwelling.  On the Hatherley side of the pool the woods
      grew very thick, and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass
      twenty paces across between the edge of the trees and the reeds
      which lined the lake.  Lestrade showed us the exact spot at which
      the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was the ground,
      that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by the
      fall of the stricken man.  To Holmes, as I could see by his eager
      face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read upon
      the trampled grass.  He ran round, like a dog who is picking up a
      scent, and then turned upon my companion.

          "What did you go into the pool for?" he asked.

          "I fished about with a rake.  I thought there might be some
      weapon or other trace.  But how on earth--"

          "Oh, tut, tut!  I have no time!  That left foot of yours with
      its inward twist is all over the place.  A mole could trace it,
      and there it vanishes among the reeds.  Oh, how simple it would
      all have been had I been here before they came like a herd of
      buffalo and wallowed all over it.  Here is where the party with
      the lodge-keeper came, and they have covered all tracks for six or
      eight feet round the body.  But here are three separate tracks of
      the same feet."  He drew out a lens and lay down upon his
      waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time rather to
      himself than to us.  "These are young McCarthy's feet.  Twice he
      was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are deeply
      marked and the heels hardly visible.  That bears out his story.
      He ran when he saw his father on the ground.  Then here are the
      father's feet as he paced up and down.  What is this, then?  It is
      the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening.  And this?
      Ha, ha!  What have we here?  Tiptoes!  tiptoes!  Square, too,
      quite unusual boots!  They come, they go, they come again--of
      course that was for the cloak.  Now where did they come from?"  He
      ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track
      until we were well within the edge of the wood and under the
      shadow of a great beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood.
      Holmes traced his way to the farther side of this and lay down
      once more upon his face with a little cry of satisfaction.  For a
      long time he remained there, turning over the leaves and dried
      sticks, gathering up what seemed to me to be dust into an envelope
      and examining with his lens not only the ground but even the bark
      of the tree as far as he could reach.  A jagged stone was lying
      among the moss, and this also he carefully examined and retained.
      Then he followed a pathway through the wood until he came to the
      highroad, where all traces were lost.

          "It has been a case of considerable interest," he remarked,
      returning to his natural manner.  "I fancy that this gray house on
      the right must be the lodge.  I think that I will go in and have a
      word with Moran, and perhaps write a little note.  Having done
      that, we may drive back to our luncheon.  You may walk to the cab,
      and I shall be with you presently."

          It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove
      back into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he
      had picked up in the wood.

          "This may interest you, Lestrade," he remarked, holding it
      out.  "The murder was done with it."

          "I see no marks."

          "There are none."

          "How do you know, then?"

          "The grass was growing under it.  It had only lain there a few
      days.  There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken.  It
      corresponds with the injuries.  There is no sign of any other
      weapon."

          "And the murderer?"

          "Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears
      thick-soled shooting-boots and a gray cloak, smokes Indian cigars,
      uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket.
      There are several other indications, but these may be enough to
      aid us in our search."

          Lestrade laughed.  "I am afraid that I am still a sceptic," he
      said. "Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a
      hard-headed British jury."

          "Mous verrons," answered Holmes calmly.  "You work your own
      method, and I shall work mine.  I shall be busy this afternoon,
      and shall probably return to London by the evening train."

          "And leave your case unfinished?"

          "No, finished."

          "But the mystery?"

          "It is solved."

          "Who was the criminal, then?"

          "The gentleman I describe."

          "But who is he?"

          "Surely it would not be difficult to find out.  This is not
      such a populous neighbourhood."

          Lestrade shrugged his shoulders.  "I am a practical man," he
      said, "and I really cannot undertake to go about the country
      looking for a left-handed gentleman with a game-leg.  I should
      become the laughing-stock of Scotland Yard."

          "All right," said Holmes quietly.  "I have given you the
      chance.  Here are your lodgings.  Good-bye.  I shall drop you a
      line before I leave."

          Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel,
      where we found lunch upon the table.  Holmes was silent and buried
      in thought with a pained expression upon his face, as one who
      finds himself in a perplexing position.

          "Look here, Watson," he said when the cloth was cleared; "just
      sit down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little.  I
      don't know quite what to do, and I should value your advice.
      Light a cigar and let me expound."

          "Pray do so."

          "Well, now, in considering this case there are two points
      about young McCarthy's narrative which struck us both instantly,
      although they impressed me in his favour and you against him.  One
      was the fact that his father should, according to his account, cry
      `Cooee!' before seeing him.  The other was his singular dying
      reference to a rat.  He mumbled several words, you understand, but
      that was all that caught the son's ear.  Now from this double
      point our research must commence, and we will begin it by
      presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true."

          "What of this `Cooee!' then?"

          "Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son.
      The son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol.  It was mere chance
      that he was within earshot.  The `Cooee!' was meant to attract the
      attention of whoever it was that he had the appointment with.  But
      `Cooee' is a distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used
      between Australians.  There is a strong presumption that the
      person whom McCarthy expected to meet him at Boscombe Pool was
      someone who had been in Australia."

          "What of the rat, then?"

          Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and
      flattened it out on the table.  "This is a map of the Colony of
      Victoria," he said.  "I wired to Bristol for it last night."  He
      put his hand over part of the map.  "What do you read?"

          "ARAT," I read.

          "And now?"  He raised his hand.

          "BALLARAT."

          "Quite so.  That was the word the man uttered, and of which
      his son only caught the last two syllables.  He was trying to
      utter the name of his murderer.  So and so, of Ballarat."

          "It is wonderful!" I exclaimed.

          "It is obvious.  And now, you see, I had narrowed the field
      down considerably.  The possession of a gray garment was a third
      point which, granting the son's statement to be correct, was a
      certainty.  We have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite
      conception of an Australian from Ballarat with a gray cloak."

          "Certainly."

          "And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can
      only be approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers
      could hardly wander."

          "Quite so."

          "Then comes our expedition of to-day.  By an examination of
      the ground I gained the trifling details which I gave to that
      imbecile Lestrade, as to the personality of the criminal."

          "But how did you gain them?"

          "You know my method.  It is founded upon the observation of
      trifles."

          "His height I know that you might roughly judge from the
      length of his stride.  His boots, too, might be told from their
      traces."

          "Yes, they were peculiar boots."

          "But his lameness?"

          "The impression of his right foot was always less distinct
      than his left.  He put less weight upon it.  Why?  Because he
      limped--he was lame."

          "But his left-handedness."

          "You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as
      recorded by the surgeon at the inquest.  The blow was struck from
      immediately behind, and yet was upon the left side.  Now, how can
      that be unless it were by a left-handed man?  He had stood behind
      that tree during the interview between the father and son.  He had
      even smoked there.  I found the ash of a cigar, which my special
      knowledge of tobacco ashes enables me to pronounce as an Indian
      cigar.  I have, as you know, devoted some attention to this, and
      written a little monograph on the ashes of 14 different varieties
      of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco.  Having found the ash, I
      then looked round and discovered the stump among the moss where he
      had tossed it.  It was an Indian cigar, of the variety which are
      rolled in Rotterdam."

          "And the cigar-holder?"

          "I could see that the end had not been in his mouth.
      Therefore he used a holder.  The tip had been cut off, not bitten
      off, but the cut was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt
      pen-knife."

          "Holmes," I said, "you have drawn a net round this man from
      which he cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life
      as truly as if you had cut the cord which was hanging him.  I see
      the direction in which all this points.  The culprit is--"

          "Mr. John Turner," cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of
      our sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.

          The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure.  His
      slow, limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of
      decrepitude, and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and
      his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual
      strength of body and of character.  His tangled beard, grizzled
      hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows combined to give an air
      of dignity and power to his appearance, but his face was of an
      ashen white, while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were
      tinged with a shade of blue.  It was clear to me at a glance that
      he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic disease.

          "Pray sit down on the sofa," said Holmes gently.  "You had my
      note?"

          "Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up.  You said that you
      wished to see me here to avoid scandal."

          "I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall."

          "And why did you wish to see me?"  He looked across at my
      companion with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question
      was already answered.

          "Yes," said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words.
      "It is so.  I know all about McCarthy."

          The old man sank his face in his hands.  "God help me!" he
      cried.  "But I would not have let the young man come to harm.  I
      give you my word that I would have spoken out if it went against
      him at the Assizes."

          "I am glad to hear you say so," said Holmes gravely.

          "I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl.  It
      would break her heart--it will break her heart when she hears that
      I am arrested."

          "It may not come to that," said Holmes.

          "What?"

          "I am no official agent.  I understand that it was your
      daughter who required my presence here, and I am acting in her
      interests.  Young McCarthy must be got off, however."

          "I am a dying man," said old Turner.  "I have had diabetes for
      years.  My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a
      month.  Yet I would rather die under my own roof than in a jail."

          Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand
      and a bundle of paper before him.  "Just tell us the truth," he
      said.  "I shall jot down the facts.  You will sign it, and Watson
      here can witness it.  Then I could produce your confession at the
      last extremity to save young McCarthy.  I promise you that I shall
      not use it unless it is absolutely needed."

          "Its as well," said the old man; "it's a question whether I
      shall live to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I
      should wish to spare Alice the shock.  And now I will make the
      thing clear to you; it has been a long time in the acting, but
      will not take me long to tell.

          "You didn't know this dead man, McCarthy.  He was a devil
      incarnate.  I tell you that.  God keep you out of the clutches of
      such a man as he.  His grip has been upon me these twenty years,
      and he has blasted my life.  I'll tell you first how I came to be
      in his power.

          "It was in the early '60's at the diggings.  I was a young
      chap then, hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at
      anything; I got among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck
      with my claim, took to the bush, and in a word became what you
      would call over here a highway robber.  There were six of us, and
      we had a wild, free life of it, sticking up a station from time to
      time, or stopping the wagons on the road to the diggings.  Black
      Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under, and our party is still
      remembered in the colony as the Ballarat Gang.

          "One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne,
      and we lay in wait for it and attacked it.  There were six
      troopers and six of us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied
      four of their saddles at the first volley.  Three of our boys were
      killed, however, before we got the swag.  I put my pistol to the
      head of the wagon-driver, who was this very man McCarthy.  I wish
      to the Lord that I had shot him then, but I spared him, though I
      saw his wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as though to remember
      every feature.  We got away with the gold, became wealthy men, and
      made our way over to England without being suspected.  There I
      parted from my old pals and determined to settle down to a quiet
      and respectable life.  I bought this estate, which chanced to be
      in the market, and I set myself to do a little good with my money,
      to make up for the way in which I had earned it.  I married, too,
      and though my wife died young she left me my dear little Alice.
      Even when she was just a baby her wee hand seemed to lead me down
      the right path as nothing else had ever done.  In a word, I turned
      over a new leaf and did my best to make up for the past.  All was
      going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon me.

          "I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in
      Regent Street with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his
      foot.

          "`Here we are, Jack,' says he, touching me on the arm; `we'll
      be as good as a family to you.  There's two of us, me and my son,
      and you can have the keeping of us.  If you don't--it's a fine,
      law-abiding country is England, and there's always a policeman
      within hail.'

          "Well, down they came to the west country, there was no
      shaking them off, and there they have lived rent free on my best
      land ever since.  There was no rest for me, no peace, no
      forgetfulness; turn where I would, there was his cunning, grinning
      face at my elbow.  It grew worse as Alice grew up, for he soon saw
      I was more afraid of her knowing my past than of the police.
      Whatever he wanted he must have, and whatever it was I gave him
      without question, land, money, houses, until at last he asked a
      thing which I could not give.  He asked for Alice.

          "His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I
      was known to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him
      that his lad should step into the whole property.  But there I was
      firm.  I would not have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that
      I had any dislike to the lad, but his blood was in him, and that
      was enough.  I stood firm.  McCarthy threatened.  I braved him to
      do his worst.  We were to meet at the pool midway between our
      houses to talk it over.

          "When I went down there I found him talking with his son, so I
      smoked a cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone.
      But as I listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in me
      seemed to come uppermost.  He was urging his son to marry my
      daughter with as little regard for what she might think as if she
      were a slut from off the streets.  It drove me mad to think that I
      and all that I held most dear should be in the power of such a man
      as this.  Could I not snap the bond?  I was already a dying and a
      desperate man.  Though clear of mind and fairly strong of limb, I
      knew that my own fate was sealed.  But my memory and my girl!
      Both could be saved if I could but silence that foul tongue.  I
      did it, Mr. Holmes.  I would do it again.  Deeply as I have
      sinned, I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it.  But that
      my girl should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was
      more than I could suffer.  I struck him down with no more
      compunction than if he had been some foul and venomous beast.  His
      cry brought back his son; but I had gained the cover of the wood,
      though I was forced to go back to fetch the cloak which I had
      dropped in my flight.  That is the true story, gentlemen, of all
      that occurred."

          "Well, it is not for me to judge you," said Holmes as the old
      man signed the statement which had been drawn out.  "I pray that
      we may never be exposed to such a temptation."

          "I pray not, sir.  And what do you intend to do?"

          "In view of your health, nothing.  You are yourself aware that
      you will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than
      the Assizes.  I will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is
      condemned I shall be forced to use it.  If not, it shall never be
      seen by mortal eye; and your secret, whether you be alive or dead,
      shall be safe with us."

          "Farewell, then," said the old man solemnly.  "Your own
      deathbeds, when they come, will be the easier for the thought of
      the peace which you have given to mine."  Tottering and shaking in
      all his giant frame, he stumbled slowly from the room.

          "God help us!" said Holmes after a long silence.  "Why does
      fate play such tricks with poor, helpless worms?  I never hear of
      such a case as this that I do not think of Baxter's words, and
      say, `There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.'"

          James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of
      a number of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and
      submitted to the defending counsel.  Old Turner lived for seven
      months after our interview, but he is now dead; and there is every
      prospect that the son and daughter may come to live happily
      together in ignorance of the black cloud which rests upon their
      past.

