"I have done so," said Holmes quietly.
The Colonel and I stared at him in amazement. "You have got him! Whereis he, then?"
"He is here."
"Here! Where?"
"In my company at the present moment."
The Colonel flushed angrily. "I quite recognize that I am underobligations to you, Mr. Holmes," said he, "but I must regard what youhave just said as either a very bad joke or an insult."
Sherlock Holmes laughed. "I assure you that I have not associatedyou with the crime, Colonel," said he. "The real murderer is standingimmediately behind you." He stepped past and laid his hand upon theglossy neck of the thoroughbred.
"The horse!" cried both the Colonel and myself.
"Yes, the horse. And it may lessen his guilt if I say that it wasdone in self-defence, and that John Straker was a man who was entirelyunworthy of your confidence. But there goes the bell, and as I standto win a little on this next race, I shall defer a lengthy explanationuntil a more fitting time."
We had the corner of a Pullman car to ourselves that evening as wewhirled back to London, and I fancy that the journey was a short oneto Colonel Ross as well as to myself, as we listened to ourcompanion's narrative of the events which had occurred at the Dartmoortraining-stables upon the Monday night, and the means by which he hadunravelled them.
"I confess," said he, "that any theories which I had formed fromthe newspaper reports were entirely erroneous. And yet there wereindications there, had they not been overlaid by other details whichconcealed their true import. I went to Devonshire with the convictionthat Fitzroy Simpson was the true culprit, although, of course, I sawthat the evidence against him was by no means complete. It was while Iwas in the carriage, just as we reached the trainer's house, that theimmense significance of the curried mutton occurred to me. You mayremember that I was distrait, and remained sitting after you had allalighted. I was marvelling in my own mind how I could possibly haveoverlooked so obvious a clue."
"I confess," said the Colonel, "that even now I cannot see how it helpsus."
"It was the first link in my chain of reasoning. Powdered opium is by nomeans tasteless. The flavor is not disagreeable, but it is perceptible.Were it mixed with any ordinary dish the eater would undoubtedly detectit, and would probably eat no more. A curry was exactly the mediumwhich would disguise this taste. By no possible supposition couldthis stranger, Fitzroy Simpson, have caused curry to be served inthe trainer's family that night, and it is surely too monstrous acoincidence to suppose that he happened to come along with powderedopium upon the very night when a dish happened to be served which woulddisguise the flavor. That is unthinkable. Therefore Simpson becomeseliminated from the case, and our attention centers upon Straker andhis wife, the only two people who could have chosen curried mutton forsupper that night. The opium was added after the dish was set asidefor the stable-boy, for the others had the same for supper with no illeffects. Which of them, then, had access to that dish without the maidseeing them?
"Before deciding that question I had grasped the significance of thesilence of the dog, for one true inference invariably suggests others.The Simpson incident had shown me that a dog was kept in the stables,and yet, though some one had been in and had fetched out a horse, hehad not barked enough to arouse the two lads in the loft. Obviously themidnight visitor was some one whom the dog knew well.
"I was already convinced, or almost convinced, that John Straker wentdown to the stables in the dead of the night and took out Silver Blaze.For what purpose? For a dishonest one, obviously, or why should he drughis own stable-boy? And yet I was at a loss to know why. There have beencases before now where trainers have made sure of great sums of moneyby laying against their own horses, through agents, and then preventingthem from winning by fraud. Sometimes it is a pulling jockey. Sometimesit is some surer and subtler means. What was it here? I hoped that thecontents of his pockets might help me to form a conclusion.
"And they did so. You cannot have forgotten the singular knife which wasfound in the dead man's hand, a knife which certainly no sane man wouldchoose for a weapon. It was, as Dr. Watson told us, a form of knifewhich is used for the most delicate operations known in surgery. And itwas to be used for a delicate operation that night. You must know, withyour wide experience of turf matters, Colonel Ross, that it is possibleto make a slight nick upon the tendons of a horse's ham, and to do itsubcutaneously, so as to leave absolutely no trace. A horse so treatedwould develop a slight lameness, which would be put down to a strain inexercise or a touch of rheumatism, but never to foul play."
"Villain! Scoundrel!" cried the Colonel.
"We have here the explanation of why John Straker wished to take thehorse out on to the moor. So spirited a creature would have certainlyroused the soundest of sleepers when it felt the prick of the knife. Itwas absolutely necessary to do it in the open air."
"I have been blind!" cried the Colonel. "Of course that was why heneeded the candle, and struck the match."
"Undoubtedly. But in examining his belongings I was fortunate enough todiscover not only the method of the crime, but even its motives. As aman of the world, Colonel, you know that men do not carry other people'sbills about in their pockets. We have most of us quite enough to do tosettle our own. I at once concluded that Straker was leading a doublelife, and keeping a second establishment. The nature of the bill showedthat there was a lady in the case, and one who had expensive tastes.Liberal as you are with your servants, one can hardly expect that theycan buy twenty-guinea walking dresses for their ladies. I questionedMrs. Straker as to the dress without her knowing it, and havingsatisfied myself that it had never reached her, I made a note of themilliner's address, and felt that by calling there with Straker'sphotograph I could easily dispose of the mythical Derbyshire.
"From that time on all was plain. Straker had led out the horse to ahollow where his light would be invisible. Simpson in his flight haddropped his cravat, and Straker had picked it up--with some idea,perhaps, that he might use it in securing the horse's leg. Once in thehollow, he had got behind the horse and had struck a light; but thecreature frightened at the sudden glare, and with the strange instinctof animals feeling that some mischief was intended, had lashed out, andthe steel shoe had struck Straker full on the forehead. He had already,in spite of the rain, taken off his overcoat in order to do his delicatetask, and so, as he fell, his knife gashed his thigh. Do I make itclear?"
"Wonderful!" cried the Colonel. "Wonderful! You might have been there!"
"My final shot was, I confess a very long one. It struck me that soastute a man as Straker would not undertake this delicate tendon-nickingwithout a little practice. What could he practice on? My eyes fell uponthe sheep, and I asked a question which, rather to my surprise, showedthat my surmise was correct.
"When I returned to London I called upon the milliner, who hadrecognized Straker as an excellent customer of the name of Derbyshire,who had a very dashing wife, with a strong partiality for expensivedresses. I have no doubt that this woman had plunged him over head andears in debt, and so led him into this miserable plot."
"You have explained all but one thing," cried the Colonel. "Where wasthe horse?"
"Ah, it bolted, and was cared for by one of your neighbors. We must havean amnesty in that direction, I think. This is Clapham Junction, if I amnot mistaken, and we shall be in Victoria in less than ten minutes. Ifyou care to smoke a cigar in our rooms, Colonel, I shall be happy togive you any other details which might interest you."
Adventure II. The Yellow Face
[In publishing these short sketches based upon the numerous cases inwhich my companion's singular gifts have made us the listeners to, andeventually the actors in, some strange drama, it is only natural that Ishould dwell rather upon his successes than upon his failures. And thisnot so much for the sake of his reputation--for, indeed, it was whenhe was at his wits' end that his energy and his versatility were mostadmirable--but because where he failed it happened too often that no oneelse succeeded, and that the tale was left forever without a conclusion.Now and again, however, it chanced that even when he erred, the truthwas still discovered. I have noted of some half-dozen cases of thekind; the Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual and that which I am about torecount are the two which present the strongest features of interest.]
Sherlock Holmes was a man who seldom took exercise for exercise's sake.Few men were capable of greater muscular effort, and he was undoubtedlyone of the finest boxers of his weight that I have ever seen; but helooked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste of energy, and he seldombestirred himself save when there was some professional object to beserved. Then he was absolutely untiring and indefatigable. That heshould have kept himself in training under such circumstances isremarkable, but his diet was usually of the sparest, and his habitswere simple to the verge of austerity. Save for the occasional use ofcocaine, he had no vices, and he only turned to the drug as a protestagainst the monotony of existence when cases were scanty and the papersuninteresting.
One day in early spring he had so far relaxed as to go for a walk withme in the Park, where the first faint shoots of green were breaking outupon the elms, and the sticky spear-heads of the chestnuts were justbeginning to burst into their five-fold leaves. For two hours we rambledabout together, in silence for the most part, as befits two men who knoweach other intimately. It was nearly five before we were back in BakerStreet once more.