"DEAR INSPECTOR MACDONALD [said the letter which he read to us]:
"Official requisition for your services is in separate envelope. Thisis for your private eye. Wire me what train in the morning you can getfor Birlstone, and I will meet it--or have it met if I am toooccupied. This case is a snorter. Don't waste a moment in gettingstarted. If you can bring Mr. Holmes, please do so; for he will findsomething after his own heart. We would think the whole thing had beenfixed up for theatrical effect if there wasn't a dead man in the middleof it. My word! it is a snorter."
"Your friend seems to be no fool," remarked Holmes.
"No, sir, White Mason is a very live man, if I am any judge."
"Well, have you anything more?"
"Only that he will give us every detail when we meet."
"Then how did you get at Mr. Douglas and the fact that he had beenhorribly murdered?"
"That was in the enclosed official report. It didn't say 'horrible':that's not a recognized official term. It gave the name John Douglas.It mentioned that his injuries had been in the head, from the dischargeof a shotgun. It also mentioned the hour of the alarm, which was closeon to midnight last night. It added that the case was undoubtedly oneof murder, but that no arrest had been made, and that the case was onewhich presented some very perplexing and extraordinary features. That'sabsolutely all we have at present, Mr. Holmes."
"Then, with your permission, we will leave it at that, Mr. Mac. Thetemptation to form premature theories upon insufficient data is thebane of our profession. I can see only two things for certain atpresent--a great brain in London, and a dead man in Sussex. It's thechain between that we are going to trace."
Chapter 3
The Tragedy of Birlstone
Now for a moment I will ask leave to remove my own insignificantpersonality and to describe events which occurred before we arrivedupon the scene by the light of knowledge which came to us afterwards.Only in this way can I make the reader appreciate the people concernedand the strange setting in which their fate was cast.
The village of Birlstone is a small and very ancient cluster ofhalf-timbered cottages on the northern border of the county of Sussex.For centuries it had remained unchanged; but within the last few yearsits picturesque appearance and situation have attracted a number ofwell-to-do residents, whose villas peep out from the woods around.These woods are locally supposed to be the extreme fringe of the greatWeald forest, which thins away until it reaches the northern chalkdowns. A number of small shops have come into being to meet the wantsof the increased population; so there seems some prospect thatBirlstone may soon grow from an ancient village into a modern town. Itis the centre for a considerable area of country, since TunbridgeWells, the nearest place of importance, is ten or twelve miles to theeastward, over the borders of Kent.
About half a mile from the town, standing in an old park famous for itshuge beech trees, is the ancient Manor House of Birlstone. Part of thisvenerable building dates back to the time of the first crusade, whenHugo de Capus built a fortalice in the centre of the estate, which hadbeen granted to him by the Red King. This was destroyed by fire in1543, and some of its smoke-blackened corner stones were used when, inJacobean times, a brick country house rose upon the ruins of the feudalcastle.
The Manor House, with its many gables and its small diamond-panedwindows, was still much as the builder had left it in the earlyseventeenth century. Of the double moats which had guarded its morewarlike predecessor, the outer had been allowed to dry up, and servedthe humble function of a kitchen garden. The inner one was still there,and lay forty feet in breadth, though now only a few feet in depth,round the whole house. A small stream fed it and continued beyond it,so that the sheet of water, though turbid, was never ditch-like orunhealthy. The ground floor windows were within a foot of the surfaceof the water.
The only approach to the house was over a drawbridge, the chains andwindlass of which had long been rusted and broken. The latest tenantsof the Manor House had, however, with characteristic energy, set thisright, and the drawbridge was not only capable of being raised, butactually was raised every evening and lowered every morning. By thusrenewing the custom of the old feudal days the Manor House wasconverted into an island during the night--a fact which had a verydirect bearing upon the mystery which was soon to engage the attentionof all England.
The house had been untenanted for some years and was threatening tomoulder into a picturesque decay when the Douglases took possession ofit. This family consisted of only two individuals--John Douglas and hiswife. Douglas was a remarkable man, both in character and in person. Inage he may have been about fifty, with a strong-jawed, rugged face, agrizzling moustache, peculiarly keen gray eyes, and a wiry, vigorousfigure which had lost nothing of the strength and activity of youth. Hewas cheery and genial to all, but somewhat offhand in his manners,giving the impression that he had seen life in social strata on somefar lower horizon than the county society of Sussex.
Yet, though looked at with some curiosity and reserve by his morecultivated neighbours, he soon acquired a great popularity among thevillagers, subscribing handsomely to all local objects, and attendingtheir smoking concerts and other functions, where, having a remarkablyrich tenor voice, he was always ready to oblige with an excellent song.He appeared to have plenty of money, which was said to have been gainedin the California gold fields, and it was clear from his own talk andthat of his wife that he had spent a part of his life in America.
The good impression which had been produced by his generosity and byhis democratic manners was increased by a reputation gained for utterindifference to danger. Though a wretched rider, he turned out at everymeet, and took the most amazing falls in his determination to hold hisown with the best. When the vicarage caught fire he distinguishedhimself also by the fearlessness with which he reentered the buildingto save property, after the local fire brigade had given it up asimpossible. Thus it came about that John Douglas of the Manor House hadwithin five years won himself quite a reputation in Birlstone.
His wife, too, was popular with those who had made her acquaintance;though, after the English fashion, the callers upon a stranger whosettled in the county without introductions were few and far between.This mattered the less to her, as she was retiring by disposition, andvery much absorbed, to all appearance, in her husband and her domesticduties. It was known that she was an English lady who had met Mr.Douglas in London, he being at that time a widower. She was a beautifulwoman, tall, dark, and slender, some twenty years younger than herhusband, a disparity which seemed in no wise to mar the contentment oftheir family life.
It was remarked sometimes, however, by those who knew them best, thatthe confidence between the two did not appear to be complete, since thewife was either very reticent about her husband's past life, or else,as seemed more likely, was imperfectly informed about it. It had alsobeen noted and commented upon by a few observant people that there weresigns sometimes of some nerve-strain upon the part of Mrs. Douglas, andthat she would display acute uneasiness if her absent husband shouldever be particularly late in his return. On a quiet countryside, whereall gossip is welcome, this weakness of the lady of the Manor House didnot pass without remark, and it bulked larger upon people's memory whenthe events arose which gave it a very special significance.
There was yet another individual whose residence under that roof was,it is true, only an intermittent one, but whose presence at the time ofthe strange happenings which will now be narrated brought his nameprominently before the public. This was Cecil James Barker, of HalesLodge, Hampstead.
Cecil Barker's tall, loose-jointed figure was a familiar one in themain street of Birlstone village; for he was a frequent and welcomevisitor at the Manor House. He was the more noticed as being the onlyfriend of the past unknown life of Mr. Douglas who was ever seen in hisnew English surroundings. Barker was himself an undoubted Englishman;but by his remarks it was clear that he had first known Douglas inAmerica and had there lived on intimate terms with him. He appeared tobe a man of considerable wealth, and was reputed to be a bachelor.
In age he was rather younger than Douglas--forty-five at the most--atall, straight, broad-chested fellow with a clean-shaved, prize-fighterface, thick, strong, black eyebrows, and a pair of masterful black eyeswhich might, even without the aid of his very capable hands, clear away for him through a hostile crowd. He neither rode nor shot, butspent his days in wandering round the old village with his pipe in hismouth, or in driving with his host, or in his absence with his hostess,over the beautiful countryside. "An easy-going, free-handed gentleman,"said Ames, the butler. "But, my word! I had rather not be the man thatcrossed him!" He was cordial and intimate with Douglas, and he was noless friendly with his wife--a friendship which more than once seemedto cause some irritation to the husband, so that even the servants wereable to perceive his annoyance. Such was the third person who was oneof the family when the catastrophe occurred.
As to the other denizens of the old building, it will suffice out of alarge household to mention the prim, respectable, and capable Ames, andMrs. Allen, a buxom and cheerful person, who relieved the lady of someof her household cares. The other six servants in the house bear norelation to the events of the night of January 6th.
It was at eleven forty-five that the first alarm reached the smalllocal police station, in charge of Sergeant Wilson of the SussexConstabulary. Cecil Barker, much excited, had rushed up to the door andpealed furiously upon the bell. A terrible tragedy had occurred at theManor House, and John Douglas had been murdered. That was thebreathless burden of his message. He had hurried back to the house,followed within a few minutes by the police sergeant, who ar
rived atthe scene of the crime a little after twelve o'clock, after takingprompt steps to warn the county authorities that something serious wasafoot.
On reaching the Manor House, the sergeant had found the drawbridgedown, the windows lighted up, and the whole household in a state ofwild confusion and alarm. The white-faced servants were huddlingtogether in the hall, with the frightened butler wringing his hands inthe doorway. Only Cecil Barker seemed to be master of himself and hisemotions; he had opened the door which was nearest to the entrance andhe had beckoned to the sergeant to follow him. At that moment therearrived Dr. Wood, a brisk and capable general practitioner from thevillage. The three men entered the fatal room together, while thehorror-stricken butler followed at their heels, closing the door behindhim to shut out the terrible scene from the maid servants.
The dead man lay on his back, sprawling with outstretched limbs in thecentre of the room. He was clad only in a pink dressing gown, whichcovered his night clothes. There were carpet slippers on his bare feet.The doctor knelt beside him and held down the hand lamp which had stoodon the table. One glance at the victim was enough to show the healerthat his presence could be dispensed with. The man had been horriblyinjured. Lying across his chest was a curious weapon, a shotgun withthe barrel sawed off a foot in front of the triggers. It was clear thatthis had been fired at close range and that he had received the wholecharge in the face, blowing his head almost to pieces. The triggers hadbeen wired together, so as to make the simultaneous discharge moredestructive.
The country policeman was unnerved and troubled by the tremendousresponsibility which had come so suddenly upon him. "We will touchnothing until my superiors arrive," he said in a hushed voice, staringin horror at the dreadful head.