A Study in Terror

Chapter II The Castle on the Moor

In his later life, as I have recorded elsewhere, my friend Sherlock Holmes retired from the feverish pace of London to keep bees, of all things, on the South Downs. He thus terminated his career with no regret whatever, turning to that husbandman’s activity with the same single-mindedness that had enabled him to track down so many of the world’s cleverest criminals.

But at the time Jack the Ripper stalked London’s streets and by-ways, Holmes was a whole-hearted creature of urban life. His every faculty was keyed to the uncertainties of London’s dawns and dusks. The sinister stench of a Soho alley could set his nostrils a-quiver, whilst the scent of spring stirring a rural countryside might well put him a-dozing.

It was therefore with surprise and pleasure that I witnessed his interest in the passing scene as the express hurtled us towards Devonshire that morning. He gazed through the window with a concentrated air, then suddenly straightened his thin shoulders.

“Ah, Watson! The sharp air of approaching winter. It is invigorating.”

I for one found it not so at the moment, an atrocious cigar between the teeth of a dour old Scot, who had boarded with us, befouling the compartment. But Holmes seemed not to notice the reek. Outside, the leaves were turning, and flashes of autumnal colour streamed past.

“This England, Watson. This other Eden, demi-Paradise.”

I recognised the near-quotation and was doubly surprised. I knew, certainly, of the sentimental streak in my friend, but he rarely allowed it to show through the fabric of his scientific nature. Yet, pride of birthright in the Briton is a national trait, and Holmes had not escaped it.

As our journey neared its destination, his cheerful mien vanished; he became pensive. We were on the moors, those broad stretches of mire and morass that cling like a great scab to England’s face. As if Nature insisted upon a proper setting, the sun had vanished behind thick cloud-banks, and we seemed to have been plunged into a place of eternal twilight.

We soon found ourselves upon the platform of a small country station, where Holmes thrust his hands deep into his pockets, his deep-set eyes kindled, as they so often did when he was beset by a problem.

“Do you recall the affair of the Baskervilles, Watson, and the curse that darkened their lives?”

“Well do I!”

“We are not far from their holdings. But of course we go in the opposite direction.”

“And just as well. That hound of Hell still haunts my dreams.”

I was puzzled. Ordinarily, when Holmes was involved in a case, he viewed his surroundings single-mindedly, sharply aware of a bruised twig while remaining oblivious of the landscape in which it lay. At such times, reminiscence was no part of it. Now he stirred restlessly, as though he regretted having allowed impulse to send him upon our journey.

“Watson,” said he, “let us arrange for the rental of a dog-cart, and get this business over with.”

The pony we procured no doubt had relations among the ones that ran wild on the moors, but the little beast was tractable enough, and it clipped steadily away at the road between the village and the Shires land-hold.

After a time, the turrets of Shires Castle came into view, adding their tone of melancholy to the scene.

“The game-preserves are beyond,” said Holmes. “The Duke has a variegated terrain.” He scanned the country before us and added, “I doubt, Watson, that we shall find a jolly, red-cheeked host in that forbidding pile.”

“Why do you say that?”

“People of long blood-lines tend to reflect the colour of their surroundings. You will recall that there was not a single cheerful face at Baskervillc Hall.”

I did not dispute this, my attention being fixed upon the scowling grey of Shires Castle. It had once been complete with moat and draw-bridge. However, more modern generations had come to depend for defence of life and limb upon the local constabulary. The moat had been filled in, and the bridge-chains had not creaked for many a year.

We were ushered into a cold and cavernous drawing-room by a butler who took our names like Charon checking our passage across the Styx. I soon learned that Holmes’s prediction had been accurate. The Duke of Shires was as icily forbidding a man as ever I had met.

He was of slight stature and gave the impression of being phthisical. It was an illusion. Upon closer inspection I saw a well-blooded face, and I sensed a wiry strength in his frail-appearing body.

The Duke did not invite us to be seated. Instead, he stated abruptly, “You were fortunate in finding me here. Another hour, and I should have been on my way to London. I spend little time here in the country. What is your business?”

Holmes’s tone in no way reflected the ill-manners of the nobleman. “We will intrude upon your time no longer than is necessary, your Grace. We came merely to bring you this.”

He proffered the surgeon’s-kit, which we had wrapped in plain brown paper and secured with sealing-wax.

“What is it?” said the Duke, not stirring.

“I suggest, your Grace,” replied Holmes, “that you open it and discover for yourself.”

With a frown, the Duke of Shires stripped off the wrappings. “Where did you get this?”

“I regret that I must first ask your Grace to identify it as your property.”

“I have never seen it before. What earthly reason had you for bringing it to me?” The Duke had raised the lid and was staring at the instruments with what certainly appeared to be genuine bewilderment.

“If you will draw down the lining, you will find our reason imprinted upon the leather underneath.”

The Duke followed Holmes’s suggestion, still frowning. I was watching closely as he stared at the coat of arms, and it was my turn to feel bewilderment. His expression changed. The palest of smiles touched his thin lips, his eyes brightened, and he regarded the case with a look I can only describe as one of intense satisfaction, almost of triumph. Then, as quickly, the look vanished.

I glanced at Holmes in search of some explanation, knowing that he would not have missed the nobleman’s reaction. But the sharp eyes were hooded, the familiar face a mask. “I am sure your Grace’s question is now answered,” said Holmes.

“Of course,” replied the Duke in casual tones, as though brushing the matter aside as of no consequence. “The case does not belong to me.”

“Then perhaps your Grace could direct us to the owner?”

“My son, I presume. It no doubt belonged to Michael.”

“It came from a London pawn-shop.”

The Duke’s lips curled in a cruel sneer. “I do not doubt it.”

“Then if you will give us your son’s address―”

“The son I refer to, Mr. Holmes, is dead. My younger, sir.”

Holmes spoke gently. “I am indeed sorry to hear that, your Grace. Did he succumb to an illness?”

“A very great illness. He has been dead for six months.”

The emphasis put by the nobleman upon the word “dead” struck me as odd. “Was your son a physician?” I inquired.

“He studied for the profession, but he failed at it, as he failed at everything. Then he died.”

Again that strange emphasis. I glanced at Holmes, but he seemed more interested in the ponderous furnishings of the vaulted room, his glance darting here and there, his thin, muscular hands clasped behind his back.

The Duke of Shires held forth the case. “As this is not my property, sir, I return it to you. And now, if you will excuse me, I must prepare for my journey.”

I was puzzled by Holmes’s behaviour. He had accepted the Duke’s cavalier treatment without rancour. Holmes was not in the habit of allowing people to walk over him with hob-nail boots. His bow was deferential as he said, “We shall detain you no longer, your Grace.”

The Duke’s rude behaviour was consistent. He made no move to reach for the bell-rope that would have summoned the butler. Thus, we were compelled to find our way out as best we could, under his stare.

This proved a stroke of good fortune. We were crossing the baronial hall towards the outer portal, when two persons appeared through a side-entrance, a man and a child.

In contrast to the Duke, they did not seem at all hostile.

The child, a girl of nine or ten years of age, smiled as brightly as her little pallid face would permit. The man, like the Duke, was of slender build. His quick, liquid eyes, although they questioned, were merely curious. His dark resemblance to the Duke of Shires left room for but one conclusion. This was the other son.

It did not seem to me that their arrival was particularly startling, but it appeared to disconcert my friend Holmes. He came to a jerky halt, and the surgeon’s-kit that he was carrying fell to the floor with a clatter of steel against stone that echoed through the great hall.

“How clumsy of me!” he exclaimed, and then proceeded to be even clumsier by blocking me off as I attempted to retrieve the instruments.

The man, with a smile, sprang into the breach. “Allow me, sir,” said he, and went to his knees.

The child reacted almost as quickly. “Let me help you, Papa.”

The man’s smile glowed. “So you shall, my dear. We’ll help the gentleman together. You may hand me the instruments. But carefully, lest you cut yourself.”

We watched in silence as the little girl handed the shining implements to her father, one by one. His affection for her was touchingly apparent, his dark eyes hardly bearing to leave her as he swiftly returned the instruments to their proper niches.

When the business was finished, the man arose. But the little girl continued to scan the flag-stones upon which we stood. “The last one, Papa. Where did it go?”

“It appears to have been missing, dearest. I don’t think it fell from the case.” He glanced questioningly at Holmes, who came out of the brown study into which he contrived to have fallen.

“Indeed it was missing, sir. Thank you, and pardon my clumsiness.”

“No harm done, I trust the instruments were not damaged.” He handed the case to Holmes, who took it with a smile.

“Have I, perchance, the honour of addressing Lord Carfax?”

“Yes,” the dark man said, pleasantly. “This is my daughter, Deborah.”

“Allow me to present my colleague, Dr. Watson; I am Sherlock Holmes.”

The name seemed to impress Lord Carfax; his eyes widened in surprise. “Dr. Watson,” he murmured in acknowledgement, but his eyes remained on Holmes. “And you, sir―I am honoured indeed. I have read of your exploits.”

“Your Lordship is too kind,” replied Holmes.

Deborah’s eyes sparkled. She curtsied and said, “I am honoured to meet you, too, sirs.” She spoke with a sweetness that was touching. Lord Carfax looked on proudly. Yet I sensed a sadness in his manner.

“Deborah,” said he, gravely, “you must mark this as an event in your life, the day you met two famous gentlemen.”

“Indeed I shall, Papa,” replied the little girl, solemnly dutiful. She had heard of neither of us, I was quite certain.

Holmes concluded the amenities by saying, “We called, your Lordship, to return this case to the Duke of Shires, whom I believed to be its rightful owner.”

“And you discovered that you were in error.”

“Quite. His Grace thought that it had possibly belonged to your deceased brother, Michael Osbourne.”

“Deceased?” It was more of a tired comment than a question.

“That was what we were given to understand.”

Sadness appeared clearly in Lord Carfax’s face. “That may or may not be true. My father, Mr. Holmes, is a stern and unforgiving man, which you no doubt surmised. To him, the good name of Osbourne stands above all else. Keeping the Shires escutcheon free of blemish is a passion with him. When he disowned my younger brother some six months ago, he pronounced Michael dead.” He paused to sigh. “I fear Michael will remain dead, so far as Father is concerned, even though he may still live.”

“Are you yourself aware,” asked Holmes, “whether your brother is alive or dead?”

Lord Carfax frowned, looking remarkably like the Duke. When he spoke, I thought I detected evasiveness in his voice. “Let me say, sir, that I have no actual proof of his death.”

“I see,” replied Holmes. Then he looked down at Deborah Osbourne and smiled. The little girl came forward and put her hand into his.

“I like you very much, sir,” said she, gravely.

It was a charming moment. Holmes appeared embarrassed by this open-hearted confession. Her small hand remained in his as he said, “Granted, Lord Carfax, that your father is an unbending man. Still, to disown a son! A decision such as that is not made lightly. Your brother’s transgression must indeed have been a serious one.”

“Michael married against my father’s wishes.” Lord Carfax shrugged his shoulders.

“I am not in the habit, Mr. Holmes, of discussing my family’s affairs with strangers, but―” and he touched his daughter’s shining head “―Deborah is my barometer of character.” I thought his Lordship was going to ask what Holmes’s interest in Michael Osbourne was based upon, but he did not.

Holmes, too, appeared to have expected such a question. When it did not come, he extended the surgical-case. “Perhaps you would like to have this, your Lordship.”

Lord Carfax took the case with a silent bow.

“And now―our train will not wait, I fear―we must be off.” Holmes looked down from his great height. “Good-bye, Deborah. Meeting you is the most agreeable thing that has happened to Dr. Watson and me in a very long time.”

“I hope you will come again, sir,” replied the child. “It gets so lonely here when Papa is away.”

Holmes said little as we drove back to the village. He scarcely replied to my comments, and it was not until we were flying back towards London that he invited conversation. His lean features set in that abstracted look I knew so well, he said, “An interesting man, Watson.”

“Perhaps,” I replied, tartly. “But also as repulsive a one as ever I care to meet. It is men of his calibre―they are few, thank heaven!―who stain the reputation of the British nobility.”

My indignation amused Holmes. “I was referring to filius rather thanpater.”

“The son? I was touched by Lord Carfax’s evident love for his daughter, of course―”

“But you felt he was too informative?”

“That was exactly my impression, Holmes, although I don’t see how you became aware of it. I did not enter into the conversation.”

“Your face is like a mirror, my dear Watson,” said he.

“Even he admitted that he talked too freely about his family’s personal affairs.”

“But did he? Let us assume him, first, to be a stupid man. In that case he becomes a loving father with an overly-large oral cavity.”

“But if we assume him, with more difficulty, to be not stupid at all?”

“Then he created precisely the image he wished to, which I incline to believe. He knew me by name and reputation, and you, Watson. I strongly doubt that he accepted us as mere Good Samaritans, come all this way to restore an old surgeon’s-kit to its rightful owner.”

“Should that necessarily loose his tongue?”

“My dear fellow, he told us nothing that I did not already know, or could not have discovered with ease in the files of any London daily.”

“Then what was it that he did not reveal?”

“Whether his brother Michael is dead or alive. Whether he is in contact with his brother.”

“I assumed, from what he said, that he does not know.”

“That, Watson, may have been what he wished you to assume.” Before I could reply, Holmes went on. “As it happens, I did not go to Shires uninformed. Kenneth Osbourne, the lineal Duke, had two sons. Michael, the younger, of course inherited no title. Whether or not this instilled jealousy in him I do not know, but he so conducted himself thenceforward as to earn the sobriquet, from the journalists of London, of The Wild One. You spoke of his father’s brutal sternness, Watson. To the contrary, the record reveals the Duke as having been amazingly lenient with his younger son. The boy finally tried his father’s patience too far when he married a woman of the oldest profession; in fine, a prostitute.”

“I begin to see,” muttered I. “Out of spite, or hatred, to besmirch the title he could not inherit.”

“Perhaps,” said Holmes. “In any case, it would have been difficult for the Duke to assume otherwise.”

“I did not know,” said I, humbly.

“It is human, my dear Watson, to side with the under-dog. But it is wise to discover beforehand exactly who the under-dog is. In the case of the Duke, I grant that he is a difficult man, but he bears a cross.”

I replied, with some despair, “Then I suppose my evaluation of Lord Carfax is faulty, also.”

“I do not know, Watson. We have very little data. However, he did fail on two counts.”

“I was not aware of it.”

“Nor was he.”

My mind was centred upon a broader prospect. “Holmes,” said I, “this whole affair is curiously unsatisfactory. Surely this journey was not motivated by a simple desire on your part to restore lost property?”

He gazed out the carriage-window. “The surgeon’s-kit was delivered to our door. I doubt we were mistaken for a lost-and-found bureau.”

“But by whom was it sent?”

“By someone who wished us to have it.”

“Then we can only wait.”

“Watson, to say that I smell a devious purpose here is no doubt fanciful. But the stench is strong. Perhaps you will get your wish.”

“My wish?”

“I believe you recently suggested that I give the Yard some assistance in the case of Jack the Ripper.”

“Holmes―!”

“Of course there is no evidence to connect the Ripper with the surgeon’s-kit. But the postmortem knife is missing.”

“The implication has not escaped me. Why, this very night it may be plunged into the body of some unfortunate!”

“A possibility, Watson. The removal of the scalpel may have been symbolical, a subtle allusion to the fiendish stalker.”

“Why did the sender not come forward?”

“There could be any number of reasons. I should put fear high on the list. In time, I think, we shall know the truth.”

Holmes lapsed into the preoccupation I knew so well. Further probing on my part, I knew, would have been useless. I sat back and stared gloomily out the window as the train sped towards Paddington.