CONTENTS
Silver Blaze1
The Yellow Face32
The Stock-Broker’s Clerk55
The “Gloria Scott”78
The Musgrave Ritual102
The Reigate Puzzle126
The Crooked Man150
The Resident Patient172
The Greek Interpreter196
The Naval Treaty219
The Final Problem261
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Silver Blaze
“I am afraid, Watson, that I shall
have to go,” said Holmes as we sat down together to our breakfast one morning.
“Go! Where to?”
“ToDartmoor;
to King’s Pyland.”
I was not surprised. Indeed, my only
wonder was that he had not already been mixed up in this extraordinary case,
which was the one topic of conversation through the length and breadth ofEngland. For a
whole day my companion had rambled about the room with his chin upon his chest
and his brows knitted, charging and recharging his pipe with the strongest
black tobacco, and absolutely deaf to any of my questions or remarks. Fresh
editions of every paper had been sent up by our news agent, only to 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 was but one problem before
the public which could challenge his powers of analysis, and that was the
singular disappearance of the favourite for the Wessex Cup, and the tragic
murder of its trainer. When, therefore, he suddenly announced his intention of
setting out for the scene of the drama, 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 the way,” said I.
“My dear Watson, you would confer a
great favour upon me by coming. And I think that your time will not be
misspent, for there are points about the case which promise to make it an
absolutely unique one. We have, I think, just time to catch our train at
Paddington, and I will go further into the matter upon our journey. You would
oblige me by bringing with you your very excellent field-glass.”
And so it happened that an hour or so
later I found myself in the corner of a first-class carriage flying along en
route for Exeter, while Sherlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face framed in
his ear-flapped travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle of fresh papers
which he had procured at Paddington. We had leftReadingfar behind us before he thrust the
last one of them under the seat and offered me his cigar-case.
“We are going well,” said he, looking
out of the window and glancing at his watch. “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 yards apart, and the calculation is a simple one. I
presume that you have looked into this matter of the murder of John Straker and
the disappearance 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 be used rather for the sifting of details than for
the acquiring of fresh evidence. The tragedy has been so uncommon, so complete,
and of such personal importance to so many people that we are suffering from a
plethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis. The difficulty is to detach
the framework of fact—of absolute undeniable fact—from the embellishments of
theorists and reporters. Then, having established ourselves upon this sound
basis, it is our duty to see what inferences may be drawn and what are the
special points upon which the whole mystery turns. On Tuesday evening I
received telegrams from both Colonel Ross, the owner of the horse, and from
Inspector Gregory, who is looking after the case, inviting my coperation.”
“Tuesday evening!” I exclaimed. “And
this is Thursday morning. Why didn’t you go down yesterday?”
“Because I made a blunder, my dear
Watson—which is, I am afraid, a more common occurrence than anyone would think
who only knew me through your memoirs. The fact is that I could not believe it
possible that the most remarkable horse inEnglandcould long remain concealed, especially in so sparsely inhabited a place as the
north ofDartmoor. From hour to hour yesterday
I expected to hear that he had been found, and that his abductor was the
murderer of John Straker. When, however, another morning had come and I found
that beyond the arrest of young Fitzroy Simpson nothing had been done, I felt
that it was time for me to take action. 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 shall enumerate them to you, for nothing clears
up a case so much as stating it to another person, and I can hardly expect your
coperation if I do not 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 points upon the palm of his left hand, gave me a
sketch of the events which had led to our journey.
“Silver Blaze,” said he, “is from the
Somomy stock and holds as brilliant 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
first favourite for the Wessex Cup, the betting being three to one on him. He
has always, however, been a prime favourite with the racing public and has
never yet disappointed them, so that even at those odds enormous sums of money
have been laid upon him. It is obvious, therefore, that there were many people
who had the strongest interest in preventing Silver Blaze from being there at
the fall of the flag next Tuesday.
“The fact was, of course, appreciated
at King’s Pyland, where the colonel’s training-stable is situated. Every precaution
was taken to guard the favourite. The trainer, John Straker, is a retired
jockey who rode in Colonel Ross’ colours before he became too heavy for the
weighing-chair. He has served the colonel for five years as jockey and for
seven as trainer, and has always shown himself to be a zealous and honest
servant. Under him were three lads, for the establishment was a small one,
containing only four horses in all. One of these lads sat up each night in the
stable, while the others slept in the loft. All three bore excellent
characters. John Straker, who is a married man, lived in a small villa about
two hundred yards from the stables. He has no children, keeps one maid-servant,
and is comfortably off. The country round is very lonely, but about half a mile
to the north there is a small cluster of villas which have been built by a
Tavistock contractor for the use of invalids and others who may wish to enjoy
the pure Dartmoor air. Tavistock itself lies two miles to the west, while
across the moor, also about two miles distant, is the larger training
establishment of Mapleton, which belongs to Lord Backwater and is managed by
Silas Brown. In every other direction the moor is a complete wilderness,
inhabited only by a few roaming gypsies. Such was the general situation last
Monday night when the catastrophe occurred.
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