Black Peter

Arthur Conan Doyle

I have never known my friend to be in better form, both mental and physical, than in the year '95. His increasing fame had brought with it an immense practice, and I should be guilty of an indiscretion if I were even to hint at the identity of some of the illustrious clients who crossed our humble threshold in Baker Street. Holmes, however, like all great artists, lived for his art's sake, and, save in the case of the Duke of Holdernesse, I have seldom known him claim any large reward for his inestimable services. So unworldly was he—or so capricious—that he frequently refused his help to the powerful and wealthy where the problem made no appeal to his sympathies, while he would devote weeks of most intense application to the affairs of some humble client whose case presented those strange and dramatic qualities which appealed to his imagination and challenged his ingenuity.

In this memorable year '95 a curious and incongruous succession of cases had engaged his attention, ranging from his famous investigation of the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca—an inquiry which was carried out by him at the express desire of His Holiness the Pope—down to his arrest of Wilson, the notorious canary-trainer, which removed a plague-spot from the East-End of London. Close on the heels of these two famous cases came the tragedy of Woodman's Lee, and the very obscure circumstances which surrounded the death of Captain Peter Carey. No record of the doings of Mr. Sherlock Holmes would be complete which did not include some account of this very unusual affair.

During the first week of July my friend had been absent so often and so long from our lodgings that I knew he had something on hand. The fact that several rough-looking men called during that time and inquired for Captain Basil made me understand that Holmes was working somewhere under one of the numerous disguises and names with which he concealed his own formidable identity. He had at least five small refuges in different parts of London in which he was able to change his personality. He said nothing of his business to me, and it was not my habit to force a confidence. The first positive sign which he gave me of the direction which his investigation was taking was an extraordinary one. He had gone out before breakfast, and I had sat down to mine, when he strode into the room, his hat upon his head and a huge barbed-headed spear tucked like an umbrella under his arm.

“Good gracious, Holmes!” I cried. “You don't mean to say that you have been walking about London with that thing?”

“I drove to the butcher's and back.”

“The butcher's?”

“And I return with an excellent appetite. There can be no question, my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before breakfast. But I am prepared to bet that you will not guess the form that my exercise has taken.”

“I will not attempt it.”

He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.

“If you could have looked into Allardyce's back shop you would have seen a dead pig swung from a hook in the ceiling, and a gentleman in his shirt-sleeves furiously stabbing at it with this weapon. I was that energetic person, and I have satisfied myself that by no exertion of my strength can I transfix the pig with a single blow. Perhaps you would care to try?”

“Not for worlds. But why were you doing this?”

“Because it seemed to me to have an indirect bearing upon the mystery of Woodman's Lee. Ah, Hopkins, I got your wire last night, and I have been expecting you. Come and join us.”

Our visitor was an exceedingly alert man, thirty years of age, dressed in a quiet tweed suit, but retaining the erect bearing of one who was accustomed to official uniform. I recognised him at once as Stanley Hopkins, a young police inspector for whose future Holmes had high hopes, while he in turn professed the admiration and respect of a pupil for the scientific methods of the famous amateur. Hopkins's brow was clouded, and he sat down with an air of deep dejection.

“No, thank you, sir. I breakfasted before I came round. I spent the night in town, for I came up yesterday to report.”

“And what had you to report?”

“Failure, sir; absolute failure.”

“You have made no progress?”

“None.”

“Dear me! I must have a look at the matter.”

“I wish to heavens that you would, Mr. Holmes. It's my first big chance, and I am at my wit's end. For goodness' sake come down and lend me a hand.”

“Well, well, it just happens that I have already read all the available evidence, including the report of the inquest, with some care. By the way, what do you make of that tobacco-pouch found on the scene of the crime? Is there no clue there?”

Hopkins looked surprised.

“It was the man's own pouch, sir. His initials were inside it. And it was of seal-skin—and he an old sealer.”

“But he had no pipe.”

“No, sir, we could find no pipe; indeed, he smoked very little. And yet he might have kept some tobacco for his friends.”

“No doubt. I only mention it because if I had been handling the case I should have been inclined to make that the starting-point of my investigation. However, my friend Dr. Watson knows nothing of this matter, and I should be none the worse for hearing the sequence of events once more. Just give us some short sketch of the essentials.”

Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.

“I have a few dates here which will give you the career of the dead man, Captain Peter Carey. He was born in '45—fifty years of age. He was a most daring and successful seal and whale fisher. In 1883 he commanded the steam sealer Sea Unicorn, of Dundee. He had then had several successful voyages in succession, and in the following year, 1884, he retired. After that he travelled for some years, and finally he bought a small place called Woodman's Lee, near Forest Row, in Sussex. There he has lived for six years, and there he died just a week ago to-day.

“There were some most singular points about the man. In ordinary life he was a strict Puritan—a silent, gloomy fellow. His household consisted of his wife, his daughter, aged twenty, and two female servants. These last were continually changing, for it was never a very cheery situation, and sometimes it became past all bearing. The man was an intermittent drunkard, and when he had the fit on him he was a perfect fiend. He has been known to drive his wife and his daughter out of doors in the middle of the night, and flog them through the park until the whole village outside the gates was aroused by their screams.

“He was summoned once for a savage assault upon the old vicar, who had called upon him to remonstrate with him upon his conduct. In short, Mr. Holmes, you would go far before you found a more dangerous man than Peter Carey, and I have heard that he bore the same character when he commanded his ship. He was known in the trade as Black Peter, and the name was given him, not only on account of his swarthy features and the colour of his huge beard, but for the humours which were the terror of all around him. I need not say that he was loathed and avoided by every one of his neighbours, and that I have not heard one single word of sorrow about his terrible end.

“You must have read in the account of the inquest about the man's cabin, Mr. Holmes; but perhaps your friend here has not heard of it. He had built himself a wooden outhouse—he always called it ‘the cabin’—a few hundred yards from his house, and it was here that he slept every night. It was a little, single-roomed hut, sixteen feet by ten. He kept the key in his pocket, made his own bed, cleaned it himself, and allowed no other foot to cross the threshold. There are small windows on each side, which were covered by curtains and never opened. One of these windows was turned towards the high road, and when the light burned in it at night the folk used to point it out to each other and wonder what Black Peter was doing in there. That's the window, Mr. Holmes, which gave us one of the few bits of positive evidence that came out at the inquest.

“You remember that a stonemason, named Slater, walking from Forest Row about one o'clock in the morning—two days before the murder—stopped as he passed the grounds and looked at the square of light still shining among the trees. He swears that the shadow of a man's head turned sideways was clearly visible on the blind, and that this shadow was certainly not that of Peter Carey, whom he knew well. It was that of a bearded man, but the beard was short and bristled forwards in a way very different from that of the captain. So he says, but he had been two hours in the public-house, and it is some distance from the road to the window. Besides, this refers to the Monday, and the crime was done upon the Wednesday.

“On the Tuesday Peter Carey was in one of his blackest moods, flushed with drink and as savage as a dangerous wild beast. He roamed about the house, and the women ran for it when they heard him coming. Late in the evening he went down to his own hut. About two o'clock the following morning his daughter, who slept with her window open, heard a most fearful yell from that direction, but it was no unusual thing for him to bawl and shout when he was in drink, so no notice was taken. On rising at seven one of the maids noticed that the door of the hut was open, but so great was the terror which the man caused that it was midday before anyone would venture down to see what had become of him. Peeping into the open door they saw a sight which sent them flying with white faces into the village. Within an hour I was on the spot and had taken over the case.

“Well, I have fairly steady nerves, as you know, Mr. Holmes, but I give you my word that I got a shake when I put my head into that little house. It was droning like a harmonium with the flies and bluebottles, and the floor and walls were like a slaughter-house. He had called it a cabin, and a cabin it was sure enough, for you would have thought that you were in a ship. There was a bunk at one end, a sea-chest, maps and charts, a picture of the Sea Unicorn, a line of log-books on a shelf, all exactly as one would expect to find it in a captain's room. And there in the middle of it was the man himself, his face twisted like a lost soul in torment, and his great brindled beard stuck upwards in his agony. Right through his broad breast a steel harpoon had been driven, and it had sunk deep into the wood of the wall behind him. He was pinned like a beetle on a card. Of course, he was quite dead, and had been so from the instant that he had uttered that last yell of agony.

“I know your methods, sir, and I applied them. Before I permitted anything to be moved I examined most carefully the ground outside, and also the floor of the room. There were no footmarks.”

“Meaning that you saw none?”

“I assure you, sir, that there were none.”

“My good Hopkins, I have investigated many crimes, but I have never yet seen one which was committed by a flying creature. As long as the criminal remains upon two legs so long must there be some indentation, some abrasion, some trifling displacement which can be detected by the scientific searcher. It is incredible that this blood-bespattered room contained no trace which could have aided us. I understand, however, from the inquest that there were some objects which you failed to overlook?”

The young inspector winced at my companion's ironical comments.

“I was a fool not to call you in at the time, Mr. Holmes. However, that's past praying for now. Yes, there were several objects in the room which called for special attention. One was the harpoon with which the deed was committed. It had been snatched down from a rack on the wall. Two others remained there, and there was a vacant place for the third. On the stock was engraved ‘S.S.. Sea Unicorn, Dundee.’ This seemed to establish that the crime had been done in a moment of fury, and that the murderer had seized the first weapon which came in his way. The fact that the crime was committed at two in the morning, and yet Peter Carey was fully dressed, suggested that he had an appointment with the murderer, which is borne out by the fact that a bottle of rum and two dirty glasses stood upon the table.”

“Yes,” said Holmes; “I think that both inferences are permissible. Was there any other spirit but rum in the room?”

“Yes; there was a tantalus containing brandy and whisky on the sea-chest. It is of no importance to us, however, since the decanters were full, and it had therefore not been used.”

“For all that its presence has some significance,” said Holmes. “However, let us hear some more about the objects which do seem to you to bear upon the case.”

“There was this tobacco-pouch upon the table.”

“What part of the table?”

“It lay in the middle. It was of coarse seal-skin—the straight-haired skin, with a leather thong to bind it. Inside was ‘P.C.’ on the flap. There was half an ounce of strong ship's tobacco in it.”

“Excellent! What more?”

Stanley Hopkins drew from his pocket a drab-covered note-book. The outside was rough and worn, the leaves discoloured. On the first page were written the initials “J.H.N.” and the date “1883.” Holmes laid it on the table and examined it in his minute way, while Hopkins and I gazed over each shoulder. On the second page were the printed letters “C.P.R.,” and then came several sheets of numbers. Another heading was Argentine, another Costa Rica, and another San Paulo, each with pages of signs and figures after it.

“What do you make of these?” asked Holmes.

“They appear to be lists of Stock Exchange securities. I thought that ‘J.H.N.’ were the initials of a broker, and that ‘C.P.R.’ may have been his client.”

“Try Canadian Pacific Railway,” said Holmes.

Stanley Hopkins swore between his teeth and struck his thigh with his clenched hand.

“What a fool I have been!” he cried. “Of course, it is as you say. Then ‘J.H.N.’ are the only initials we have to solve. I have already examined the old Stock Exchange lists, and I can find no one in 1883 either in the House or among the outside brokers whose initials correspond with these. Yet I feel that the clue is the most important one that I hold. You will admit, Mr. Holmes, that there is a possibility that these initials are those of the second person who was present—in other words, of the murderer. I would also urge that the introduction into the case of a document relating to large masses of valuable securities gives us for the first time some indication of a motive for the crime.”

Sherlock Holmes's face showed that he was thoroughly taken aback by this new development.

“I must admit both your points,” said he. “I confess that this note-book, which did not appear at the inquest, modifies any views which I may have formed. I had come to a theory of the crime in which I can find no place for this. Have you endeavoured to trace any of the securities here mentioned?”

“Inquiries are now being made at the offices, but I fear that the complete register of the stockholders of these South American concerns is in South America, and that some weeks must elapse before we can trace the shares.”

Holmes had been examining the cover of the note-book with his magnifying lens.

“Surely there is some discolouration here,” said he.

“Yes, sir, it is a blood-stain. I told you that I picked the book off the floor.”

“Was the blood-stain above or below?”

“On the side next the boards.”

“Which proves, of course, that the book was dropped after the crime was committed.”

“Exactly, Mr. Holmes. I appreciated that point, and I conjectured that it was dropped by the murderer in his hurried flight. It lay near the door.”

“I suppose that none of these securities have been found among the property of the dead man?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you any reason to suspect robbery?”

“No, sir. Nothing seemed to have been touched.”

“Dear me, it is certainly a very interesting case. Then there was a knife, was there not?”

“A sheath-knife, still in its sheath. It lay at the feet of the dead man. Mrs. Carey has identified it as being her husband's property.”

Holmes was lost in thought for some time.

“Well,” said he, at last, “I suppose I shall have to come out and have a look at it.”

Stanley Hopkins gave a cry of joy.

“Thank you, sir. That will indeed be a weight off my mind.”

Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.

“It would have been an easier task a week ago,” said he. “But even now my visit may not be entirely fruitless. Watson, if you can spare the time I should be very glad of your company. If you will call a four-wheeler, Hopkins, we shall be ready to start for Forest Row in a quarter of an hour.”

Alighting at the small wayside station, we drove for some miles through the remains of widespread woods, which were once part of that great forest which for so long held the Saxon invaders at bay—the impenetrable “weald,” for sixty years the bulwark of Britain. Vast sections of it have been cleared, for this is the seat of the first iron-works of the country, and the trees have been felled to smelt the ore. Now the richer fields of the North have absorbed the trade, and nothing save these ravaged groves and great scars in the earth show the work of the past. Here in a clearing upon the green slope of a hill stood a long, low stone house, approached by a curving drive running through the fields. Nearer the road, and surrounded on three sides by bushes, was a small outhouse, one window and the door facing in our direction. It was the scene of the murder.

Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced us to a haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man, whose gaunt and deep-lined face, with the furtive look of terror in the depths of her red-rimmed eyes, told of the years of hardship and ill-usage which she had endured. With her was her daughter, a pale, fair-haired girl, whose eyes blazed defiantly at us as she told us that she was glad that her father was dead, and that she blessed the hand which had struck him down. It was a terrible household that Black Peter Carey had made for himself, and it was with a sense of relief that we found ourselves in the sunlight again and making our way along a path which had been worn across the fields by the feet of the dead man.

The outhouse was the simplest of dwellings, wooden-walled, shingle-roofed, one window beside the door and one on the farther side. Stanley Hopkins drew the key from his pocket, and had stooped to the lock, when he paused with a look of attention and surprise upon his face.

“Someone has been tampering with it,” he said.

There could be no doubt of the fact. The woodwork was cut and the scratches showed white through the paint, as if they had been that instant done. Holmes had been examining the window.

“Someone has tried to force this also. Whoever it was has failed to make his way in. He must have been a very poor burglar.”

“This is a most extraordinary thing,” said the inspector; “I could swear that these marks were not here yesterday evening.”

“Some curious person from the village, perhaps,” I suggested.

“Very unlikely. Few of them would dare to set foot in the grounds, far less try to force their way into the cabin. What do you think of it, Mr. Holmes?”

“I think that fortune is very kind to us.”

“You mean that the person will come again?”

“It is very probable. He came expecting to find the door open. He tried to get in with the blade of a very small penknife. He could not manage it. What would he do?”

“Come again next night with a more useful tool.”

“So I should say. It will be our fault if we are not there to receive him. Meanwhile, let me see the inside of the cabin.”

The traces of the tragedy had been removed, but the furniture within the little room still stood as it had been on the night of the crime. For two hours, with most intense concentration, Holmes examined every object in turn, but his face showed that his quest was not a successful one. Once only he paused in his patient investigation.

“Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?”

“No; I have moved nothing.”

“Something has been taken. There is less dust in this corner of the shelf than elsewhere. It may have been a book lying on its side. It may have been a box. Well, well, I can do nothing more. Let us walk in these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few hours to the birds and the flowers. We shall meet you here later, Hopkins, and see if we can come to closer quarters with the gentleman who has paid this visit in the night.”

It was past eleven o'clock when we formed our little ambuscade. Hopkins was for leaving the door of the hut open, but Holmes was of the opinion that this would rouse the suspicions of the stranger. The lock was a perfectly simple one, and only a strong blade was needed to push it back. Holmes also suggested that we should wait, not inside the hut, but outside it among the bushes which grew round the farther window. In this way we should be able to watch our man if he struck a light, and see what his object was in this stealthy nocturnal visit.

It was a long and melancholy vigil, and yet brought with it something of the thrill which the hunter feels when he lies beside the water pool and waits for the coming of the thirsty beast of prey. What savage creature was it which might steal upon us out of the darkness? Was it a fierce tiger of crime, which could only be taken fighting hard with flashing fang and claw, or would it prove to be some skulking jackal, dangerous only to the weak and unguarded?

In absolute silence we crouched amongst the bushes, waiting for whatever might come. At first the steps of a few belated villagers, or the sound of voices from the village, lightened our vigil; but one by one these interruptions died away and an absolute stillness fell upon us, save for the chimes of the distant church, which told us of the progress of the night, and for the rustle and whisper of a fine rain falling amid the foliage which roofed us in.

Half-past two had chimed, and it was the darkest hour which precedes the dawn, when we all started as a low but sharp click came from the direction of the gate. Someone had entered the drive. Again there was a long silence, and I had begun to fear that it was a false alarm, when a stealthy step was heard upon the other side of the hut, and a moment later a metallic scraping and clinking. The man was trying to force the lock! This time his skill was greater or his tool was better, for there was a sudden snap and the creak of the hinges. Then a match was struck, and next instant the steady light from a candle filled the interior of the hut. Through the gauze curtain our eyes were all riveted upon the scene within.

The nocturnal visitor was a young man, frail and thin, with a black moustache which intensified the deadly pallor of his face. He could not have been much above twenty years of age. I have never seen any human being who appeared to be in such a pitiable fright, for his teeth were visibly chattering and he was shaking in every limb. He was dressed like a gentleman, in Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, with a cloth cap upon his head. We watched him staring round with frightened eyes. Then he laid the candle-end upon the table and disappeared from our view into one of the corners. He returned with a large book, one of the log-books which formed a line upon the shelves. Leaning on the table he rapidly turned over the leaves of this volume until he came to the entry which he sought. Then, with an angry gesture of his clenched hand, he closed the book, replaced it in the corner, and put out the light. He had hardly turned to leave the hut when Hopkins's hand was on the fellow's collar, and I heard his loud gasp of terror as he understood that he was taken. The candle was re-lit, and there was our wretched captive shivering and cowering in the grasp of the detective. He sank down upon the sea-chest, and looked helplessly from one of us to the other.

“Now, my fine fellow,” said Stanley Hopkins, “who are you, and what do you want here?”

The man pulled himself together and faced us with an effort at self-composure.

“You are detectives, I suppose?” said he. “You imagine I am connected with the death of Captain Peter Carey. I assure you that I am innocent.”

“We'll see about that,” said Hopkins. “First of all, what is your name?”

“It is John Hopley Neligan.”

I saw Holmes and Hopkins exchange a quick glance.

“What are you doing here?”

“Can I speak confidentially?”

“No, certainly not.”

“Why should I tell you?”

“If you have no answer it may go badly with you at the trial.”

The young man winced.

“Well, I will tell you,” he said. “Why should I not? And yet I hate to think of this old scandal gaining a new lease of life. Did you ever hear of Dawson and Neligan?”

I could see from Hopkins's face that he never had; but Holmes was keenly interested.

“You mean the West-country bankers,” said he. “They failed for a million, ruined half the county families of Cornwall, and Neligan disappeared.”

“Exactly. Neligan was my father.”

At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a long gap between an absconding banker and Captain Peter Carey pinned against the wall with one of his own harpoons. We all listened intently to the young man's words.

“It was my father who was really concerned. Dawson had retired. I was only ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to feel the shame and horror of it all. It has always been said that my father stole all the securities and fled. It is not true. It was his belief that if he were given time in which to realize them all would be well and every creditor paid in full. He started in his little yacht for Norway just before the warrant was issued for his arrest. I can remember that last night when he bade farewell to my mother. He left us a list of the securities he was taking, and he swore that he would come back with his honour cleared, and that none who had trusted him would suffer. Well, no word was ever heard from him again. Both the yacht and he vanished utterly. We believed, my mother and I, that he and it, with the securities that he had taken with him, were at the bottom of the sea. We had a faithful friend, however, who is a business man, and it was he who discovered some time ago that some of the securities which my father had with him have reappeared on the London market. You can imagine our amazement. I spent months in trying to trace them, and at last, after many doublings and difficulties, I discovered that the original seller had been Captain Peter Carey, the owner of this hut.

“Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found that he had been in command of a whaler which was due to return from the Arctic seas at the very time when my father was crossing to Norway. The autumn of that year was a stormy one, and there was a long succession of southerly gales. My father's yacht may well have been blown to the north, and there met by Captain Peter Carey's ship. If that were so, what had become of my father? In any case, if I could prove from Peter Carey's evidence how these securities came on the market it would be a proof that my father had not sold them, and that he had no view to personal profit when he took them.

“I came down to Sussex with the intention of seeing the captain, but it was at this moment that his terrible death occurred. I read at the inquest a description of his cabin, in which it stated that the old log-books of his vessel were preserved in it. It struck me that if I could see what occurred in the month of August, 1883, on board the Sea Unicorn, I might settle the mystery of my father's fate. I tried last night to get at these log-books, but was unable to open the door. To-night I tried again, and succeeded; but I find that the pages which deal with that month have been torn from the book. It was at that moment I found myself a prisoner in your hands.”

“Is that all?” asked Hopkins.

“Yes, that is all.” His eyes shifted as he said it.

“You have nothing else to tell us?”

He hesitated.

“No; there is nothing.”

“You have not been here before last night?”

“No.”

“Then how do you account for that?” cried Hopkins, as he held up the damning note-book, with the initials of our prisoner on the first leaf and the blood-stain on the cover.

The wretched man collapsed. He sank his face in his hands and trembled all over.

“Where did you get it?” he groaned. “I did not know. I thought I had lost it at the hotel.”

“That is enough,” said Hopkins, sternly. “Whatever else you have to say you must say in court. You will walk down with me now to the police-station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am very much obliged to you and to your friend for coming down to help me. As it turns out your presence was unnecessary, and I would have brought the case to this successful issue without you; but none the less I am very grateful. Rooms have been reserved for you at the Brambletye Hotel, so we can all walk down to the village together.”

“Well, Watson, what do you think of it?” asked Holmes, as we travelled back next morning.

“I can see that you are not satisfied.”

“Oh, yes, my dear Watson, I am perfectly satisfied. At the same time Stanley Hopkins's methods do not commend themselves to me. I am disappointed in Stanley Hopkins. I had hoped for better things from him. One should always look for a possible alternative and provide against it. It is the first rule of criminal investigation.”

“What, then, is the alternative?”

“The line of investigation which I have myself been pursuing. It may give us nothing. I cannot tell. But at least I shall follow it to the end.”

Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He snatched one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a triumphant chuckle of laughter.

“Excellent, Watson. The alternative develops. Have you telegraph forms? Just write a couple of messages for me: ‘Sumner, Shipping Agent, Ratcliff Highway. Send three men on, to arrive ten to-morrow morning.—Basil.’ That's my name in those parts. The other is: ‘Inspector Stanley Hopkins, 46, Lord Street, Brixton. Come breakfast to-morrow at nine-thirty. Important. Wire if unable to come.—Sherlock Holmes.’ There, Watson, this infernal case has haunted me for ten days. I hereby banish it completely from my presence. To-morrow I trust that we shall hear the last of it for ever.”

Sharp at the hour named Inspector Stanley Hopkins appeared, and we sat down together to the excellent breakfast which Mrs. Hudson had prepared. The young detective was in high spirits at his success.

“You really think that your solution must be correct?” asked Holmes.

“I could not imagine a more complete case.”

“It did not seem to me conclusive.”

“You astonish me, Mr. Holmes. What more could one ask for?”

“Does your explanation cover every point?”

“Undoubtedly. I find that young Neligan arrived at the Brambletye Hotel on the very day of the crime. He came on the pretence of playing golf. His room was on the ground-floor, and he could get out when he liked. That very night he went down to Woodman's Lee, saw Peter Carey at the hut, quarrelled with him, and killed him with the harpoon. Then, horrified by what he had done, he fled out of the hut, dropping the note-book which he had brought with him in order to question Peter Carey about these different securities. You may have observed that some of them were marked with ticks, and the others—the great majority—were not. Those which are ticked have been traced on the London market; but the others presumably were still in the possession of Carey, and young Neligan, according to his own account, was anxious to recover them in order to do the right thing by his father's creditors. After his flight he did not dare to approach the hut again for some time; but at last he forced himself to do so in order to obtain the information which he needed. Surely that is all simple and obvious?”

Holmes smiled and shook his head.

“It seems to me to have only one drawback, Hopkins, and that is that it is intrinsically impossible. Have you tried to drive a harpoon through a body? No? Tut, tut, my dear sir, you must really pay attention to these details. My friend Watson could tell you that I spent a whole morning in that exercise. It is no easy matter, and requires a strong and practised arm. But this blow was delivered with such violence that the head of the weapon sank deep into the wall. Do you imagine that this anaemic youth was capable of so frightful an assault? Is he the man who hobnobbed in rum and water with Black Peter in the dead of the night? Was it his profile that was seen on the blind two nights before? No, no, Hopkins; it is another and a more formidable person for whom we must seek.”

The detective's face had grown longer and longer during Holmes's speech. His hopes and his ambitions were all crumbling about him. But he would not abandon his position without a struggle.

“You can't deny that Neligan was present that night, Mr. Holmes. The book will prove that. I fancy that I have evidence enough to satisfy a jury, even if you are able to pick a hole in it. Besides, Mr. Holmes, I have laid my hand upon my man. As to this terrible person of yours, where is he?”

“I rather fancy that he is on the stair,” said Holmes, serenely. “I think, Watson, that you would do well to put that revolver where you can reach it.” He rose, and laid a written paper upon a side-table. “Now we are ready,” said he.

There had been some talking in gruff voices outside, and now Mrs. Hudson opened the door to say that there were three men inquiring for Captain Basil.

“Show them in one by one,” said Holmes.

The first who entered was a little ribston-pippin of a man, with ruddy cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers. Holmes had drawn a letter from his pocket.

“What name?” he asked.

“James Lancaster.”

“I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full. Here is half a sovereign for your trouble. Just step into this room and wait there for a few minutes.”

The second man was a long, dried-up creature, with lank hair and sallow cheeks. His name was Hugh Pattins. He also received his dismissal, his half-sovereign, and the order to wait.

The third applicant was a man of remarkable appearance. A fierce bull-dog face was framed in a tangle of hair and beard, and two bold dark eyes gleamed behind the cover of thick, tufted, overhung eyebrows. He saluted and stood sailor-fashion, turning his cap round in his hands.

“Your name?” asked Holmes.

“Patrick Cairns.”

“Harpooner?”

“Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages.”

“Dundee, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And ready to start with an exploring ship?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What wages?”

“Eight pounds a month.”

“Could you start at once?”

“As soon as I get my kit.”

“Have you your papers?”

“Yes, sir.” He took a sheaf of worn and greasy forms from his pocket. Holmes glanced over them and returned them.

“You are just the man I want,” said he. “Here's the agreement on the side-table. If you sign it the whole matter will be settled.”

The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.

“Shall I sign here?” he asked, stooping over the table.

Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over his neck.

“This will do,” said he.

I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull. The next instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the ground together. He was a man of such gigantic strength that, even with the handcuffs which Holmes had so deftly fastened upon his wrists, he would have very quickly overpowered my friend had Hopkins and I not rushed to his rescue. Only when I pressed the cold muzzle of the revolver to his temple did he at last understand that resistance was vain. We lashed his ankles with cord and rose breathless from the struggle.

“I must really apologize, Hopkins,” said Sherlock Holmes; “I fear that the scrambled eggs are cold. However, you will enjoy the rest of your breakfast all the better, will you not, for the thought that you have brought your case to a triumphant conclusion.”

Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.

“I don't know what to say, Mr. Holmes,” he blurted out at last, with a very red face. “It seems to me that I have been making a fool of myself from the beginning. I understand now, what I should never have forgotten, that I am the pupil and you are the master. Even now I see what you have done, but I don't know how you did it, or what it signifies.”

“Well, well,” said Holmes, good-humouredly. “We all learn by experience, and your lesson this time is that you should never lose sight of the alternative. You were so absorbed in young Neligan that you could not spare a thought to Patrick Cairns, the true murderer of Peter Carey.”

The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.

“See here, mister,” said he, “I make no complaint of being man-handled in this fashion, but I would have you call things by their right names. You say I murdered Peter Carey; I say I killed Peter Carey, and there's all the difference. Maybe you don't believe what I say. Maybe you think I am just slinging you a yarn.”

“Not at all,” said Holmes. “Let us hear what you have to say.”

“It's soon told, and, by the Lord, every word of it is truth. I knew Black Peter, and when he pulled out his knife I whipped a harpoon through him sharp, for I knew that it was him or me. That's how he died. You can call it murder. Anyhow, I'd as soon die with a rope round my neck as with Black Peter's knife in my heart.”

“How came you there?” asked Holmes.

“I'll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit me up a little so as I can speak easy. It was in '83 that it happened—August of that year. Peter Carey was master of the Sea Unicorn, and I was spare harpooner. We were coming out of the ice-pack on our way home, with head winds and a week's southerly gale, when we picked up a little craft that had been blown north. There was one man on her—a landsman. The crew had thought she would founder, and had made for the Norwegian coast in the dinghy. I guess they were all drowned. Well, we took him on board, this man, and he and the skipper had some long talks in the cabin. All the baggage we took off with him was one tin box. So far as I know, the man's name was never mentioned, and on the second night he disappeared as if he had never been. It was given out that he had either thrown himself overboard or fallen overboard in the heavy weather that we were having. Only one man knew what had happened to him, and that was me, for with my own eyes I saw the skipper tip up his heels and put him over the rail in the middle watch of a dark night, two days before we sighted the Shetland lights.

“Well, I kept my knowledge to myself and waited to see what would come of it. When we got back to Scotland it was easily hushed up, and nobody asked any questions. A stranger died by an accident, and it was nobody's business to inquire. Shortly after Peter Carey gave up the sea, and it was long years before I could find where he was. I guessed that he had done the deed for the sake of what was in that tin box, and that he could afford now to pay me well for keeping my mouth shut.

“I found out where he was through a sailor man that had met him in London, and down I went to squeeze him. The first night he was reasonable enough, and was ready to give me what would make me free of the sea for life. We were to fix it all two nights later. When I came I found him three parts drunk and in a vile temper. We sat down and we drank and we yarned about old times, but the more he drank the less I liked the look on his face. I spotted that harpoon upon the wall, and I thought I might need it before I was through. Then at last he broke out at me, spitting and cursing, with murder in his eyes and a great clasp-knife in his hand. He had not time to get it from the sheath before I had the harpoon through him. Heavens! what a yell he gave; and his face gets between me and my sleep! I stood there, with his blood splashing round me, and I waited for a bit; but all was quiet, so I took heart once more. I looked round, and there was the tin box on a shelf. I had as much right to it as Peter Carey, anyhow, so I took it with me and left the hut. Like a fool I left my baccy-pouch upon the table.

“Now I'll tell you the queerest part of the whole story. I had hardly got outside the hut when I heard someone coming, and I hid among the bushes. A man came slinking along, went into the hut, gave a cry as if he had seen a ghost, and legged it as hard as he could run until he was out of sight. Who he was or what he wanted is more than I can tell. For my part I walked ten miles, got a train at Tunbridge Wells, and so reached London, and no one the wiser.

“Well, when I came to examine the box I found there was no money in it, and nothing but papers that I would not dare to sell. I had lost my hold on Black Peter, and was stranded in London without a shilling. There was only my trade left. I saw these advertisements about harpooners and high wages, so I went to the shipping agents, and they sent me here. That's all I know, and I say again that if I killed Black Peter the law should give me thanks, for I saved them the price of a hempen rope.”

“A very clear statement,” said Holmes, rising and lighting his pipe. “I think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time in conveying your prisoner to a place of safety. This room is not well adapted for a cell, and Mr. Patrick Cairns occupies too large a proportion of our carpet.”

“Mr. Holmes,” said Hopkins, “I do not know how to express my gratitude. Even now I do not understand how you attained this result.”

“Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue from the beginning. It is very possible if I had known about this note-book it might have led away my thoughts, as it did yours. But all I heard pointed in the one direction. The amazing strength, the skill in the use of the harpoon, the rum and water, the seal-skin tobacco-pouch, with the coarse tobacco—all these pointed to a seaman, and one who had been a whaler. I was convinced that the initials ‘P.C.’ upon the pouch were a coincidence, and not those of Peter Carey, since he seldom smoked, and no pipe was found in his cabin. You remember that I asked whether whisky and brandy were in the cabin. You said they were. How many landsmen are there who would drink rum when they could get these other spirits? Yes, I was certain it was a seaman.”

“And how did you find him?”

“My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If it were a seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with him on the Sea Unicorn. So far as I could learn he had sailed in no other ship. I spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the end of that time I had ascertained the names of the crew of the Sea Unicorn in 1883. When I found Patrick Cairns among the harpooners my research was nearing its end. I argued that the man was probably in London, and that he would desire to leave the country for a time. I therefore spent some days in the East-end, devised an Arctic expedition, put forth tempting terms for harpooners who would serve under Captain Basil—and behold the result!”

“Wonderful!” cried Hopkins. “Wonderful!”

“You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as possible,” said Holmes. “I confess that I think you owe him some apology. The tin box must be returned to him, but, of course, the securities which Peter Carey has sold are lost for ever. There's the cab, Hopkins, and you can remove your man. If you want me for the trial, my address and that of Watson will be somewhere in Norway—I'll send particulars later.”

黑彼得

我从来没有看见过我的朋友福尔摩斯象在一八九五年那样一精一神振奋，身一体健壮。他与日俱增的声望使他有无数的案件要办理，到我们贝克街的简陋住宅来的有不少著名人物。哪怕只暗示一下他们中的一两个人是谁，我也会受到责备，被人认为不够慎重。正象所有的伟大艺术家都是为艺术而生活一样，福尔摩斯一向不因他的无法估量的功绩而索取优厚的报酬，只有霍尔得芮斯公爵一案是个例外。他是那样清高，也可以说是那样任一性一，要是当事人得不到他的同情，那么，即使他有钱有势，福尔摩斯也会拒绝他的。可是有时为了一个普普通通的当事人，他却可以一连用上几个星期的时间，专心致志地研究案情，只要案件离奇动人，能够发挥他的想象力和智谋。

在一八九五年这难忘的一年中，有一系列奇怪的、矛盾百出的案件占去了他的全部一精一力，其中有按照神圣教皇的特别指示进行的、对红衣主教托斯卡突然死亡的绝妙侦查，还有劣迹昭彰的养金丝雀的威尔逊的被捕，这为伦敦东区除掉一个祸根。接着以上两桩奇异案件的有屋得曼李庄园的惨案，这是关于彼得·加里船长之死的离奇案件。要是不记述一下这件离奇的案子，歇洛克·福尔摩斯先生的破案记录就会不够完美。

七月份的第一周，我的朋友常常不在我们的住处，并且出去的时间较长，所以我知道他有个案件要办理。在此期间有几个粗俗的人来访，并且询问巴斯尔上尉，这使我了解到他正用假名在某处工作。他有许多假名，以便隐瞒他的使人生畏的身分。他在伦敦各处至少有五个临时住所，在每个住所各使用不同的姓名和职业。至于他正在调查什么事情，他没有对我说，我也不一习一惯于追问他。可是看起来，他这回调查的案子是非常特殊的。吃早饭以前他就出去了，我坐下来吃饭的时候，他迈着大步回到屋内，戴着帽子，腋下丧着一根有倒刺的象伞似的短矛。

我喊道：“天啊！埃尔摩斯，你没有带着这个东西在伦敦到处走吧？”

“我跑到一家肉店又回来了。”

“肉店？”

“现在我胃口好极了。亲一爱一的华生，早饭前锻炼身一体的意义是不容置疑的。可是你猜不出我进行了什么运动，我敢打赌你猜不出来。”

“我并不想猜。”

他一面倒咖啡一面低声地笑着。

“要是你刚才到阿拉尔代斯肉店的后面，你会看到一头死猪挂在天花板下摆来摆去，还有一位绅士穿着衬衣用这件武器奋力地戳它。这个很有力气的人就是我，我很高兴我没有用多大力气一下子就把猪刺穿了。也许你想试试？”

“绝对不想试。你为什么要做这种事呢？”

“因为这可能和屋得曼李庄园的神秘案件多少有关。啊，霍普金，我昨天晚上收到你的电报，我一直盼望见到你。请来一起吃早饭吧。”

我们的客人是位非常机智的人，大约三十岁，穿着素雅的花呢衣服，但是还带有惯于穿官方制一服的那种笔挺的风度。我立刻认出他就是年轻的警长斯坦莱·霍普金。福尔摩斯认为他是一个大有前途的青年，而这位青年由于福尔摩斯运用科学方法进行侦破，对于这位著名侦探家怀着学生般的仰慕和尊重。霍普金的眉梢露出愁容，带着十分沮丧的样子坐下来。

“先生，谢谢您。我来之前已经吃过早饭，我在市内过的夜。我昨天来汇报。”

“你汇报什么呢？”

“失败，先生，彻底的失败。”

“一点没有进展吗？”

“没有。”

“哎呀，我倒要来侦查一下这个案件。”

“福尔摩斯先生，我巴不得您这样做。这是我所遇到的第一个重大案件，可是我却毫无办法。看在上帝的面上，请您去帮助一下吧。”

“好，好，我刚好仔细读过目前所有的材料，包括那份侦查报告。顺便问一下，你怎样看待那个在犯罪现场发现的烟丝袋？那上面有没有线索呢？”

霍普金好象吃了一惊。

“先生，那是那个人自己的烟丝袋。袋子的里面有他姓名的第一个字母。是用海豹皮做的，因为他是一个捕海豹的老手。”

“可是他没有烟斗吧？”

“没有，先生，我们没有找到烟斗。他确实很少一抽一烟，他或许会为他的朋友准备一点烟。”

“有这种可能一性一的。我之所以提到烟丝袋，是因为如果我来处理这个案件，我倾向于把这个袋子做为侦查的开始。我的朋友华生大夫对于此案一无所知，至于我，再听一次事件的经过并无坏处，所以请你给我们简短地叙述一下主要情况。”

斯坦莱·霍普金从口袋中拿出一张纸条。

“我这里有份年谱说明彼得·加里船长一生做了什么事。他生于一八四五年，现年五十岁。他善于捕海豹和鲸鱼。一八八三年他当了丹迪港的捕海豹船'海上独角兽'号的船①长。他连续出航了数次，全很有成绩。在第二年，一八八四年，他退休了。他旅行了几年，最后他在苏塞克斯郡，靠近弗里斯特住宅区，买了一小块地方，叫屋得曼李。在这里他住了六年，在上周被害死——

①苏格兰东部的一个海港。——译者注

“这个人有一些很特殊的地方。在日常生活中他过的是严格的清教徒式的生活，他是一个沉默、一一郁的人。他家中有妻子，一个二十多岁的女儿，还有两个女佣人。佣人常常更换，因为环境使人感到不愉快，有时使人不能忍受。这个人时常喝醉，一喝醉就成了一个地地道道的恶魔。人们都知道他有时半夜把妻子和女儿赶出屋门，打得她们满园子跑，直到全村的人被尖一叫一声惊醒。

“有一次教区牧师到他家中指责他行为不一良，他大骂这位老牧师，因而被传讯。简而言之，福尔摩斯先生，你要想找一个比彼得·加里更蛮横的人是不容易的，我听说他当船长的时候一性一格也是这样的。海员们都叫他黑彼得。给他起这个名字，不仅因为他的面孔以及大一胡一子是黑色的，而且因为他周围的人都怕他的坏脾气。不用说，每个邻居都憎恶他，避开他，他悲惨地死了以后，我没有听到过有谁说过一句表示惋惜的话。

“福尔摩斯先生，您一定在那份调查报告中读到过，这个人有一间小木屋；或许您的这位朋友还没有听说过这点。他在他家的外面造了一间木头小屋，他总叫它'小船舱'，离开他家有几百码远，他每天晚上在这儿睡觉。这是一个单间小房，长十六英尺宽十英尺。钥匙放在自己的口袋里，被褥自己收拾自己洗，从来不准许任何人迈进他的门槛。屋子每面都有小窗户，上面挂着窗帘，窗户从来不打开。有一个窗户对着大路，每当夜晚小屋里点上灯的时候，人们常望着这间小房，并且猜想他在做什么。福尔摩斯先生，调查所能得到的，不过是这间小房的窗户所提供的几点情况。

“您还会记得，在出事前两天，清晨一点钟的时候，有个叫斯雷特的石匠，从弗里斯特住宅区走来，路过这个小房，他停下来看了一下，窗户内的灯光照在外面的几棵树上。石匠发誓说：

'从窗帘上清楚地看见有一个人的头左右摆一动，并且这个影子一定不是彼得·加里的，因为他很熟悉彼得。这是一个长满一胡一须的人头，但是和这位船长的一胡一须大不一样，这人的一胡一须是短的，并且向前翘着。'石匠是这样说的，他在小酒店待了两个小时，酒店设在大路上，离开木屋的窗户有一段距离。这是星期一的事，谋杀是在星期三发生的。

“星期二彼得·加里又大闹起来，喝得醉醺醺的，凶暴得象一头吃人的野兽，他在他家的周围徘徊，他的妻女听到他来了便急忙跑了。晚上很晚的时候，他回到他的小屋。第二天清晨约在两点钟的时候，他的女儿听到小屋的方向传来吓人的惨叫，因为他女儿总是开着窗户睡觉。他喝醉的时候常常大喊大叫，所以没有人注意。一个女佣人在七点起来的时候，看到小屋的门开着，但是黑彼得让人害怕得太厉害了，所以直到中午才有人敢去看看他怎样了。人们站在开着的门那儿向里看，那个景象吓得他们面色苍白，急忙跑回村去。不到一小时我到了现场接过这个案件。

“福尔摩斯先生，您知道我的神经是相当坚强的，但是我跟您说，当我把头探进这个小屋的时候，我也吓了一跳。成群的苍蝇、绿豆蝇嗡嗡叫个不停，地上和墙上看上去简直象个屠宰场。他叫这间房屋小船舱，那确是象一间小船舱，因为在这里你会感到自己象是在船上。屋子的一头儿有一个一床一铺，一个贮物箱，地图和图表，一张'海上独角兽'号的油画，在一个架子上还有一排航海日志，完全象是我们在船长的舱中所看到的那样。他本人就在屋子里墙的正中间，他的面孔带着人在痛苦中死去的那种扭歪的样子，他的斑白的大一胡一子由于痛苦往上一翘着。一支捕鱼钢叉一直穿过他宽阔的胸膛，深深地叉入他背后的木墙上。他象是在硬纸板上钉着的一个甲虫。显然他发出了那声痛苦的吼叫便死去了。

“先生，我知道您的方法，也用了这些方法。我仔细地检查过屋外的地面以及屋内的地板以后，才允许移动东西。没有足迹。”

“你的意思是没有看见足迹？”

“先生，肯定根本没有足迹。”

“我的好霍普金，我侦破过许多案件，可是我从来没有看见过飞行的动物作案。只要罪犯生有两条腿，就一定有踩下的痕迹、蹭过的痕迹以及不明显的移动痕迹，一个运用科学方法的侦探全可以看得出来。使人难以相信的是一个溅满血迹的屋子竟会找不到帮助我们破案的痕迹。从你的调查我可以看出，有些东西你没有仔细检查过。”

这位年轻的警长听到我朋友的这番讽刺的话以后有些发窘。

“福尔摩斯先生，我那时没有请您去是太傻了，可是这无法挽回了。屋子里还有一些物品值得特别注意。一件是那把谋杀用的鱼叉。当时凶手是从墙上的工具架上抓到的。还有两把仍然在那儿，有一个位置是空的。这把鱼叉的木一柄一上刻有'ＳＳ，海上独角兽号，丹迪。'可以断定凶杀是在愤怒之下发生的，杀人犯是顺手抓到了这个武器。凶杀是在早晨两点钟发生的，而且彼得·加里是穿好衣服的，这说明他和杀人犯有约会，桌子上还有一瓶罗姆酒和两个用过的杯子也可以证明这一点。”

福尔摩斯说：“我想这两个推论都是合情理的。屋子里除去罗姆酒外还有别的酒吗？”

“有的，在贮物箱上有个小酒柜，摆着白兰地和威士忌。可是这对于我们说来并不重要，因为细颈其中盛满了酒，柜子中的酒没有动过。”

福尔摩斯说：“尽避这样，柜子中的酒还是有意义的。不过先请你讲讲你认为和案件有关的其他物品的情况。”

“桌子上有那个烟丝袋。”

“桌子上的哪一部分？”

“在桌子的中间。烟丝袋是用海豹皮，未加工的带一毛一的海豹皮做的，有个皮绳可以捆住。烟丝袋盖儿的里边有'Ｐ．Ｃ．'字样。袋里有半盎斯强烈的海员用的烟丝。”

“很好！还有什么吗？”

斯坦莱·霍普金从他的口袋里拿出一本有黄褐色外皮的笔记本，外表很粗很旧，边缘有点脏。第一页写有字首"Ｊ．Ｈ．Ｎ．"及日期"一八八三"。福尔摩斯把笔记本放在桌子上，进行仔细检查，霍普金和我站在他身后从两边看着。在第二页上有印刷体字母”Ｃ．Ｐ．Ｒ．"，以后的几页全是数字。接着有

“阿根廷"，"哥斯达黎加"，"圣保罗"等标题，每项之后均有几页符号和数字。

福尔摩斯问道：“这些说明什么问题吗？”

“这些象是一交一易所证券的表报。我想'Ｊ．Ｈ．Ｎ．'是经纪人的名字的字首，'Ｃ．Ｐ．Ｒ．'可能是他的顾客。”

福尔摩斯说：“你看'Ｃ．Ｐ．Ｒ．'是不是加拿大太平洋铁路？”

斯坦莱·霍普金一面用拳头敲着大一腿，一面低声责骂自己。

霍普金接着喊道：“我太笨了！你说的当然是对的。那么只有'Ｊ．Ｈ．Ｎ．'这几个字首是我们要解决的了。我检查过这些证券一交一易所的旧表报，在一八八三年我找不到所内或所外任何经纪人名字的字首和它一样。可是我觉得这是我全部线索中最重要的。福尔摩斯先生，您也许承认有这样的可能一性一，这几个字首是现场的第二个人名字的缩写，换句话说是杀人犯的。我还认为，记载着大笔值钱证券的笔记本的发现，正好给我们指出了谋杀的动机。”

歇洛克·福尔摩斯的面部表情说明案件的这一新发展完全出乎他的意料。

他说：“我完全同意你的两个论点。我承认这本在最初调查中没有提到的笔记改变了我原来的看法。我对于这一案件的推论没有考虑到这本笔记的内容。你有没有设法调查笔记本中提到的证券？”

“正在一交一易所调查，但是我想这些南美康采恩的股票持有者的全部名单多半在南美。必须过几周后我们才能查清这些股份。”

福尔摩斯用放大镜检查笔记本的外皮。

他说：“这儿有点弄脏了。”

“是的，先生，那是血迹。我告诉过您我是从地上捡起来的。”

“血点是在本子的上面呢？还是下面？”

“是在挨着地板的那一面。”

“这当然证明笔记本是在谋杀以后掉的。”

“福尔摩斯先生，正是这样，我理解这一点。我猜想是杀人犯在匆忙逃跑时掉的，就掉在门的旁边。”

“我想这些证券里没有一份是死者的财产，对吗？”

“没有，先生。”

“你有没有依据可以认为这是抢劫杀人案呢？”

“没有，先生。象是没有动过什么东西。”

“啊，这是件很有意思的案子，那儿有一把刀，是吗？”

“有一把带鞘的刀，刀还在刀鞘里，摆在死者的脚旁。加里太太证明那是她丈夫的东西。”

福尔摩斯沉思了一会儿。

他终于开口说：“我想我必须亲自去检查一下。”

斯坦莱·霍普金高兴地喊出声来。

“谢谢您，先生。这的确会减轻我心中的负担。”

福尔摩斯对着这位警长摆摆手。

他说：“一周以前这本来是件容易的工作。现在去，可能还不会完全无补于事。华生，如果你能腾出时间，我很高兴你同我一起去。霍普金，请你叫一辆四轮马车，我们过一刻钟就出发到弗里斯特住宅区。”

在路旁的一个小驿站我们下了马车，匆忙穿过一片广阔森林的遗址。这片森林有几英里长，是阻挡了萨克逊侵略者有六十年之久的大森林——不可入侵的"森林地带"，英国的堡垒——的一部分。森林的大部分已经砍伐，因为这里是英国第一个钢铁厂的厂址，伐树去炼铁。现在钢铁厂已经移到北部的矿产丰富的地区，只有这些荒凉的小树林和坑洼不平的地面还能表明这里有过钢铁厂。在一座小山绿色斜坡上的空旷处，有一所长而低的石头房屋，从那里延伸出一条小道弯弯曲曲地穿过田野。靠近大路有一间小屋，三面被矮树丛围着，屋门和一扇窗户对着我们。这就是谋杀的现场。

斯坦莱·霍普金领着我们走进这所房子，把我们介绍给一位面容憔悴、灰色头发的妇女——被害人的孀妇。她的面孔削瘦，皱纹很深，眼圈发红，眼睛的深处仍然潜藏着恐惧的目光，这说明她长年经受苦难和虐一待。陪着她的是她的女儿，一个面色苍白、头发金黄的姑一娘一。谈到她父亲的死，她很高兴，当她说到要祝福那个把她父亲戳死的人的时候，她的眼睛闪耀着反抗的光芒。黑彼得把他的家弄得很不象样子，我们走出他家来到日光下时，有重新获释之感。然后我们沿着一条穿过田野的小路向前走，这条小路是死者用脚踩出来的。

这小房是间最简单的住房，四周是木板墙，房顶也是木头的，靠