Adventure I. Silver Blaze
"I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go," said Holmes, as we satdown together to our breakfast one morning.
"Go! Where to?"
"To Dartmoor; to King's Pyland."
I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that he had not alreadybeen mixed up in this extraordinary case, which was the one topic ofconversation through the length and breadth of England. For a whole daymy companion had rambled about the room with his chin upon his chest andhis brows knitted, charging and recharging his pipe with the strongestblack tobacco, and absolutely deaf to any of my questions or remarks.Fresh editions of every paper had been sent up by our news agent, onlyto be glanced over and tossed down into a corner. Yet, silent as he was,I knew perfectly well what it was over which he was brooding. There wasbut one problem before the public which could challenge his powers ofanalysis, and that was the singular disappearance of the favorite forthe Wessex Cup, and the tragic murder of its trainer. When, therefore,he suddenly announced his intention of setting out for the scene of thedrama it was only what I had both expected and hoped for.
"I should be most happy to go down with you if I should not be in theway," said I.
"My dear Watson, you would confer a great favor upon me by coming. AndI think that your time will not be misspent, for there are points aboutthe case which promise to make it an absolutely unique one. We have, Ithink, just time to catch our train at Paddington, and I will go furtherinto the matter upon our journey. You would oblige me by bringing withyou your very excellent field-glass."
And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself in thecorner of a first-class carriage flying along en route for Exeter, whileSherlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face framed in his ear-flappedtravelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle of fresh papers which hehad procured at Paddington. We had left Reading far behind us beforehe thrust the last one of them under the seat, and offered me hiscigar-case.
"We are going well," said he, looking out the window and glancing at hiswatch. "Our rate at present is fifty-three and a half miles an hour."
"I have not observed the quarter-mile posts," said I.
"Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this line are sixty yardsapart, and the calculation is a simple one. I presume that youhave looked into this matter of the murder of John Straker and thedisappearance of Silver Blaze?"
"I have seen what the Telegraph and the Chronicle have to say."
"It is one of those cases where the art of the reasoner should beused rather for the sifting of details than for the acquiring of freshevidence. The tragedy has been so uncommon, so complete and of suchpersonal importance to so many people, that we are suffering from aplethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis. The difficulty is todetach the framework of fact--of absolute undeniable fact--from theembellishments of theorists and reporters. Then, having establishedourselves upon this sound basis, it is our duty to see what inferencesmay be drawn and what are the special points upon which the wholemystery turns. On Tuesday evening I received telegrams from both ColonelRoss, the owner of the horse, and from Inspector Gregory, who is lookingafter the case, inviting my cooperation."
"Tuesday evening!" I exclaimed. "And this is Thursday morning. Whydidn't you go down yesterday?"
"Because I made a blunder, my dear Watson--which is, I am afraid, a morecommon occurrence than any one would think who only knew me through yourmemoirs. The fact is that I could not believe it possible that the mostremarkable horse in England could long remain concealed, especially inso sparsely inhabited a place as the north of Dartmoor. From hour tohour yesterday I expected to hear that he had been found, and thathis abductor was the murderer of John Straker. When, however, anothermorning had come, and I found that beyond the arrest of young FitzroySimpson nothing had been done, I felt that it was time for me to takeaction. Yet in some ways I feel that yesterday has not been wasted."
"You have formed a theory, then?"
"At least I have got a grip of the essential facts of the case. I shallenumerate them to you, for nothing clears up a case so much as statingit to another person, and I can hardly expect your co-operation if I donot show you the position from which we start."
I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar, while Holmes,leaning forward, with his long, thin forefinger checking off the pointsupon the palm of his left hand, gave me a sketch of the events which hadled to our journey.
"Silver Blaze," said he, "is from the Somomy stock, and holds asbrilliant a record as his famous ancestor. He is now in his fifth year,and has brought in turn each of the prizes of the turf to Colonel Ross,his fortunate owner. Up to the time of the catastrophe he was the firstfavorite for the Wessex Cup, the betting being three to one on him. Hehas always, however, been a prime favorite with the racing public, andhas never yet disappointed them, so that even at those odds enormoussums of money have been laid upon him. It is obvious, therefore, thatthere were many people who had the strongest interest in preventingSilver Blaze from being there at the fall of the flag next Tuesday.
"The fact was, of course, appreciated at King's Pyland, where theColonel's training-stable is situated. Every precaution was taken toguard the favorite. The trainer, John Straker, is a retired jockeywho rode in Colonel Ross's colors before he became too heavy for theweighing-chair. He has served the Colonel for five years as jockey andfor seven as trainer, and has always shown himself to be a zealous andhonest servant. Under him were three lads; for the establishment was asmall one, containing only four horses in all. One of these lads sat upeach night in the stable, while the others slept in the loft. All threebore excellent characters. John Straker, who is a married man, livedin a small villa about two hundred yards from the stables. He has nochildren, keeps one maid-servant, and is comfortably off. The countryround is very lonely, but about half a mile to the north there is asmall cluster of villas which have been built by a Tavistock contractorfor the use of invalids and others who may wish to enjoy the pureDartmoor air. Tavistock itself lies two miles to the west, whileacross the moor, also about two miles distant, is the larger trainingestablishment of Mapleton, which belongs to Lord Backwater, and ismanaged by Silas Brown. In every other direction the moor is a completewilderness, inhabited only by a few roaming gypsies. Such was thegeneral situation last Monday night when the catastrophe occurred.
"On that evening the horses had been exercised and watered as usual, andthe stables were locked up at nine o'clock. Two of the lads walked upto the trainer's house, where they had supper in the kitchen, while thethird, Ned Hunter, remained on guard. At a few minutes after ninethe maid, Edith Baxter, carried down to the stables his supper, whichconsisted of a dish of curried mutton. She took no liquid, as there wasa water-tap in the stables, and it was the rule that the lad on dutyshould drink nothing else. The maid carried a lantern with her, as itwas very dark and the path ran across the open moor.
"Edith Baxter was within thirty yards of the stables, when a manappeared out of the darkness and called to her to stop. As he steppedinto the circle of yellow light thrown by the lantern she saw that hewas a person of gentlemanly bearing, dressed in a gray suit of tweeds,with a cloth cap. He wore gaiters, and carried a heavy stick with a knobto it. She was most impressed, however, by the extreme pallor of hisface and by the nervousness of his manner. His age, she thought, wouldbe rather over thirty than under it.
"'Can you tell me where I am?' he asked. 'I had almost made up my mindto sleep on the moor, when I saw the light of your lantern.'
"'You are close to the King's Pyland training-stables,' said
she.
"'Oh, indeed! What a stroke of luck!' he cried. 'I understand that astable-boy sleeps there alone every night. Perhaps that is his supperwhich you are carrying to him. Now I am sure that you would not be tooproud to earn the price of a new dress, would you?' He took a piece ofwhite paper folded up out of his waistcoat pocket. 'See that the boyhas this to-night, and you shall have the prettiest frock that money canbuy.'
"She was frightened by the earnestness of his manner, and ran past himto the window through which she was accustomed to hand the meals. It wasalready opened, and Hunter was seated at the small table inside. She hadbegun to tell him of what had happened, when the stranger came up again.