Holmes had read carefully a
note which the last post had brought him. Then, with the dry chuckle which was
his nearest approach to a laugh, he tossed it over to me.
"For a mixture of the modern and the
mediaeval, of the practical and of the wildly fanciful, I think this is surely
the limit," said he. "What do you make of it, Watson?"
I read as follows:
46, OLD JEWRY,
Nov. 19th.
Re Vampires
SIR:
Our client, Mr. Robert Ferguson, of Ferguson and
Muirhead, tea brokers, of Mincing Lane, has made
some
inquiry from us in a communication of even date
concerning
vampires. As our firm specializes entirely upon
the assessment of machinery the matter hardly comes within our
purview, and we have therefore recommended Mr.
Ferguson to call upon you and lay the matter before you. We
have not forgotten your successful action in the
case of
Matilda Briggs.
We are, sir,
Faithfully yours,
MORRISON, MORRISON, AND DODD.
per E. J. C.
"Matilda Briggs was not the name of a young
woman, Watson," said Holmes in a reminiscent voice. "It was a ship
which is associated with the giant rat of Sumatra, a story for which the world
is not yet prepared. But what do we know about vampires? Does it come within
our purview either? Anything is better than stagnation, but really we seem to
have been switched on to a Grimm's fairy tale. Make a long arm, Watson, and see
what V has to say."
I leaned back and took down the great index
volume to which he referred. Holmes balanced it on his knee, and his eyes moved
slowly and lovingly over the record of old cases, mixed with the accumulated
information of a lifetime.
"Voyage of the Gloria Scott," he read.
"That was a bad business. I have some recollection that you made a record
of it, Watson, though I was unable to congratulate you upon the result. Victor
Lynch, the forger. Venomous lizard or gila. Remarkable case, that! Vittoria,
the circus belle. Vanderbilt and the Yeggman. Vipers. Vigor, the Hammersmith
wonder. Hullo! Hullo! Good old index. You can't beat it. Listen to this,
Watson. Vampirism in Hungary. And again, Vampires in Transylvania." He
turned over the pages with eagerness, but after a short intent perusal he threw
down the great book with a snarl of disappointment.
"Rubbish, Watson, rubbish! What have we to
do with walking corpses who can only be held in their grave by stakes driven
through their hearts? It's pure lunacy."
"But surely," said I, "the
vampire was not necessarily a dead man? A living person might have the habit. I
have read, for example, of the old sucking the blood of the young in order to
retain their youth."
"You are right, Watson. It mentions the
legend in one of these references. But are we to give serious attention to such
things? This agency stands flat-footed upon the ground, and there it must
remain. The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply. I fear that we
cannot take Mr. Robert Ferguson very seriously. Possibly this note may be from
him and may throw some light upon what is worrying him."
He took up a second letter which had lain
unnoticed upon the table while he had been absorbed with the first. This he
began to read with a smile of amusement upon his face which gradually faded
away into an expression of intense interest and concentration. When he had
finished he sat for some little time lost in thought with the letter dangling
from his fingers. Finally, with a start, he aroused himself from his reverie.
"Cheeseman's, Lamberley. Where is
Lamberley, Watson?"
"It is in Sussex, South of Horsham."
"Not very far, eh? And Cheeseman's?"
"I know that country, Holmes. It is full of
old houses which are named after the men who built them centuries ago. You get
Odley's and Harvey's and Carriton's — the folk are forgotten but their names
live in their houses."
"Precisely," said Holmes coldly. It
was one of the peculiarities of his proud, self-contained nature that though he
docketed any fresh information very quietly and accurately in his brain, he
seldom made any acknowledgment to the giver. "I rather fancy we shall know
a good deal more about Cheeseman's, Lamberley, before we are through. The
letter is, as I had hoped, from Robert Ferguson. By the way, he claims
acquaintance with you."
"With me!"
"You had better read it."
He handed the letter across. It was headed with
the address quoted.
DEAR MR. HOLMES [it said]:
I have been recommended to you by my lawyers,
but
indeed the matter is so extraordinarily delicate
that it is most
difficult to discuss. It concerns a friend for
whom I am
acting. This gentleman married some five years
ago a Peruvian
lady the daughter of a Peruvian merchant, whom
he had
met in connection with the importation of
nitrates. The lady
was very beautiful, but the fact of her foreign
birth and of
her alien religion always caused a separation of
interests and
of feelings between husband and wife, so that
after a time
his love may have cooled towards her and he may
have
come to regard their union as a mistake. He felt
there were
sides of her character which he could never
explore or
understand. This was the more painful as she was
as loving
a wife as a man could have — to all appearance
absolutely
devoted.
Now for the point which I will make more plain
when we
meet. Indeed, this note is merely to give you a
general idea
of the situation and to ascertain whether you
would care to
interest yourself in the matter. The lady began
to show
some curious traits quite alien to her
ordinarily sweet and
gentle disposition. The gentleman had been
married twice
and he had one son by the first wife. This boy
was now
fifteen, a very charming and affectionate youth,
though
unhappily injured through an accident in
childhood. Twice
the wife was caught in the act of assaulting
this poor lad in
the most unprovoked way. Once she struck him
with a stick
and left a great weal on his arm.
This was a small matter, however, compared with
her
conduct to her own child, a dear boy just under
one year of
age. On one occasion about a month ago this
child had
been left by its nurse for a few minutes. A loud
cry from the
baby, as of pain, called the nurse back. As she
ran into the
room she saw her employer, the lady, leaning
over the baby
and apparently biting his neck. There was a
small wound in
the neck from which a stream of blood had
escaped. The
nurse was so horrified that she wished to call
the husband,
but the lady implored her not to do so and
actually gave her
five pounds as a price for her silence. No
explanation was
ever given, and for the moment the matter was
passed over.
It left, however, a terrible impression upon the
nurse's
mind, and from that time she began to watch her
mistress
closely and to keep a closer guard upon the
baby, whom she
tenderly loved. It seemed to her that even as
she watched
the mother, so the mother watched her, and that
every time
she was compelled to leave the baby alone the
mother was
waiting to get at it. Day and night the nurse
covered the
child, and day and night the silent, watchful
mother seemed
to be lying in wait as a wolf waits for a lamb.
It must read
most incredible to you, and yet I beg you to
take it seriously, for a child's life and a man's sanity may depend
upon it.
At last there came one dreadful day when the
facts could
no longer be concealed from the husband. The
nurse's nerve
had given way; she could stand the strain no
longer, and
she made a clean breast of it all to the man. To
him it
seemed as wild a tale as it may now seem to you.
He knew
his wife to be a loving wife, and, save for the
assaults
upon her stepson, a loving mother. Why, then,
should
she wound her own dear little baby? He told the
nurse that
she was dreaming, that her suspicions were those
of a
lunatic, and that such libels upon her mistress
were not to be
tolerated. While they were talking a sudden cry
of pain was
heard. Nurse and master rushed together to the
nursery.
Imagine his feelings, Mr. Holmes, as he saw his
wife rise
from a kneeling position beside the cot and saw
blood upon
the child's exposed neck and upon the sheet.
With a cry of
horror, he turned his wife's face to the light
and saw blood
all round her lips. It was she — she beyond all
question —
who had drunk the poor baby's blood.
So the matter stands. She is now confined to her
room.
There has been no explanation. The husband is
half demented. He knows, and I know, little of vampirism beyond
the name. We had thought it was some wild tale
of foreign
parts. And yet here in the very heart of the
English Sussex —
well, all this can be discussed with you in the
morning. Will
you see me? Will you use your great powers in
aiding a
distracted man? If so, kindly wire to Ferguson,
Cheeseman's,
Lamberley, and I will be at your rooms by ten
o'clock.
Yours faithfully,
ROBERT FERGUSON.
P. S. I believe your friend Watson played Rugby
for
Blackheath when I was three-quarter for
Richmond. It is the
only personal introduction which I can give.
"Of course I remembered him," said I as I laid down the letter.
"Big Bob Ferguson, the finest three-quarter Richmond ever had. He was
always a good-natured chap. It's like him to be so concerned over a friend's
case."
Holmes looked at me thoughtfully and shook his
head. "I never get your limits, Watson," said he. "There are
unexplored possibilities about you. Take a wire down, like a good fellow. 'Will
examine your case with pleasure.' "
"Your case!"
"We must not let him think that this agency
is a home for the weak-minded. Of course it is his case. Send him that wire and
let the matter rest till morning."
Promptly at ten o'clock next morning Ferguson
strode into our room. I had remembered him as a long, slab-sided man with loose
limbs and a fine turn of speed which had carried him round many an opposing
back. There is surely nothing in life more painful than to meet the wreck of a
fine athlete whom one has known in his prime. His great frame had fallen in,
his flaxen hair was scanty, and his shoulders were bowed. I fear that I roused
corresponding emotions in him.
"Hullo, Watson," said he, and his
voice was still deep and hearty. "You don't look quite the man you did
when I threw you over the ropes into the crowd at the Old Deer Park. I expect I
have changed a bit also. But it's this last day or two that has aged me. I see
by your telegram, Mr. Holmes, that it is no use my pretending to be anyone's
deputy." .
"It is simpler to deal direct," said
Holmes.
"Of course it is. But you can imagine how
difficult it is when you are speaking of the one woman whom you are bound to
protect and help. What can I do? How am I to go to the police with such a
story? And yet the kiddies have got to be protected. Is it madness, Mr. Holmes?
Is it something in the blood? Have you any similar case in your experience? For
God's sake, give me some advice, for I am at my wit's end."
"Very naturally, Mr. Ferguson. Now sit here
and pull yourself together and give me a few clear answers. I can assure you
that I am very far from being at my wit's end, and that I am confident we shall
find some solution. First of all, tell me what steps you have taken. Is your
wife still near the children?"
"We had a dreadful scene. She is a most
loving woman, Mr. Holmes. If ever a woman loved a man with all her heart and
soul, she loves me. She was cut to the heart that I should have discovered this
horrible, this incredible, secret. She would not even speak. She gave no answer
to my reproaches, save to gaze at me with a sort of wild, despairing look in
her eyes. Then she rushed to her room and locked herself in. Since then she has
refused to see me. She has a maid who was with her before her marriage, Dolores
by name — a friend rather than a servant. She takes her food to her."
"Then the child is in no immediate
danger?"
"Mrs. Mason, the nurse, has sworn that she
will not leave it night or day. I can absolutely trust her. I am more uneasy
about poor little Jack, for, as I told you in my note, he has twice been
assaulted by her."
"But never wounded?"
"No, she struck him savagely. It is the
more terrible as he is a poor little inoffensive cripple." Ferguson's
gaunt features softened as he spoke of his boy. "You would think that the
dear lad's condition would soften anyone's heart. A fall in childhood and a
twisted spine, Mr. Holmes. But the dearest, most loving heart within."
Holmes had picked up the letter of yesterday and
was reading it over. "What other inmates are there in your house, Mr.
Ferguson?"
"Two servants who have not been long with
us. One stablehand, Michael, who sleeps in the house. My wife, myself, my boy
Jack, baby, Dolores, and Mrs. Mason. That is all."
"I gather that you did not know your wife
well at the time of your marriage?"
"I had only known her a few weeks."
"How long had this maid Dolores been with
her?"
"Some years."
"Then your wife's character would really be
better known by Dolores than by you?"
"Yes, you may say so."
Holmes made a note. "I fancy," said
he, "that I may be of more use at Lamberley than here. It is eminently a
case for personal investigation. If the lady remains in her room, our presence
could not annoy or inconvenience her. Of course, we would stay at the
inn."
Ferguson gave a gesture of relief. "It is
what I hoped, Mr. Holmes. There is an excellent train at two from Victoria if
you could come."
"Of course we could come. There is a lull
at present. I can give you my undivided energies. Watson, of course, comes with
us. But there are one or two points upon which I wish to be very sure before I
start. This unhappy lady, as I understand it, has appeared to assault both the
children, her own baby and your little son?"
"That is so."
"But the assaults take different forms, do
they not? She has beaten your son."
"Once with a stick and once very savagely
with her hands."
"Did she give no explanation why she struck
him?"
"None save that she hated him. Again and
again she said so."
"Well, that is not unknown among stepmothers.
A posthumous jealousy, we will say. Is the lady jealous by nature?"
"Yes, she is very jealous — jealous with
all the strength of her fiery tropical love."
"But the boy — he is fifteen, I understand,
and probably very developed in mind, since his body has been circumscribed in
action. Did he give you no explanation of these assaults?"
"No, he declared there was no reason."
"Were they good friends at other
times?"
"No, there was never any love between
them."
"Yet you say he is affectionate?"
"Never in the world could there be so
devoted a son. My life is his life. He is absorbed in what I say or do."
Once again Holmes made a note. For some time he
sat lost in thought. "No doubt you and the boy were great comrades before
this second marriage. You were thrown very close together, were you not?"
"Very much so."
"And the boy, having so affectionate a
nature, was devoted, no doubt, to the memory of his mother?"
"Most devoted."
"He would certainly seem to be a most
interesting lad. There is one other point about these assaults. Were the
strange attacks upon the baby and the assaults upon your son at the same
period?"
"In the first case it was so. It was as if
some frenzy had seized her, and she had vented her rage upon both. In the
second case it was only Jack who suffered. Mrs. Mason had no complaint to make
about the baby."
"That certainly complicates matters."
"I don't quite follow you, Mr.
Holmes."
"Possibly not. One forms provisional
theories and waits for time or fuller knowledge to explode them. A bad habit,
Mr. Ferguson, but human nature is weak. I fear that your old friend here has
given an exaggerated view of my scientific methods. However, I will only say at
the present stage that your problem does not appear to me to be insoluble, and
that you may expect to find us at Victoria at two o'clock."
It was evening of a dull, foggy November day
when, having left our bags at the Chequers, Lamberley, we drove through the
Sussex clay of a long winding lane and finally reached the isolated and ancient
farmhouse in which Ferguson dwelt. It was a large, straggling building, very
old in the center, very new at the wings with towering Tudor chimneys and a
lichen-spotted, high-pitched roof of Horsham slabs. The doorsteps were worn
into curves, and the ancient tiles which lined the porch were marked with the
rebus of a cheese and a man after the original builder. Within, the ceilings
were corrugated with heavy oaken beams, and the uneven floors sagged into sharp
curves. An odor of age and decay pervaded the whole crumbling building.
There was one very large central room into which
Ferguson led us. Here, in a huge old-fashioned fireplace with an iron screen
behind it dated 1670, there blazed and spluttered a splendid log fire.
The room, as I gazed round, was a most singular
mixture of dates and of places. The half-panelled walls may well have belonged
to the original yeoman farmer of the seventeenth century. They were ornamented,
however, on the lower part by a line of well-chosen modern watercolors; while
above, where yellow plaster took the place of oak, there was hung a fine
collection of South American utensils and weapons, which had been brought, no
doubt, by the Peruvian lady upstairs. Holmes rose, with that quick curiosity
which sprang from his eager mind, and examined them with some care. He returned
with his eyes full of thought.
"Hullo!" he cried. "Hullo!"
A spaniel had lain in a basket in the corner. It
came slowly forward towards its master, walking with difficulty. Its hind legs
moved irregularly and its tail was on the ground. It licked Ferguson's hand.
"What is it, Mr. Holmes?"
"The dog. What's the matter with it?"
"That's what puzzled the vet. A sort of
paralysis. Spinal meningitis, he thought. But it is passing. He'll be all right
soon — won't you, Carlo?"
A shiver of assent passed through the drooping
tail. The dog's mournful eyes passed from one of us to the other. He knew that
we were discussing his case.
"Did it come on suddenly?"
"In a single night."
"How long ago?"
"It may have been four months ago."
"Very remarkable. Very suggestive."
"What do you see in it, Mr. Holmes?"
"A confirmation of what I had already
thought."
"For God's sake, what do you think, Mr.
Holmes? It may be a mere intellectual puzzle to you, but it is life and death
to me! My wife a would-be murderer — my child in constant danger! Don't play
with me, Mr. Holmes. It is too terribly serious." The big Rugby
three-quarter was trembling all over.
Holmes put his hand soothingly upon his arm.
"I fear that there is pain for you, Mr. Ferguson, whatever the solution
may be," said he. "I would spare you all I can. I cannot say more for
the instant, but before I leave this house I hope I may have something
definite."
"Please God you may! If you will excuse me,
gentlemen, I will go up to my wife's room and see if there has been any
change."
He was away some minutes, during which Holmes
resumed his examination of the curiosities upon the wall. When our host
returned it was clear from his downcast face that he had made no progress. He
brought with him a tall, slim, brown-faced girl. "The tea is ready,
Dolores," said Ferguson. "See that your mistress has everything she
can wish."
"She verra ill," cried the girl,
looking with indignant eyes at her master. "She no ask for food. She verra
ill. She need doctor. I frightened stay alone with her without doctor."
Ferguson looked at me with a question in his
eyes.
"I should be so glad if I could be of
use."
"Would your mistress see Dr. Watson?"
"I take him. I no ask leave. She needs doctor."
"Then I'll come with you at once."
I followed the girl, who was quivering with
strong emotion, up the staircase and down an ancient corridor. At the end was
an iron-clamped and massive door. It struck me as I looked at it that if Ferguson
tried to force his way to his wife he would find it no easy matter. The girl
drew a key from her pocket, and the heavy oaken planks creaked upon their old
hinges. I passed in and she swiftly followed, fastening the door behind her.
On the bed a woman was lying who was clearly in
a high fever. She was only half conscious, but as I entered she raised a pair
of frightened but beautiful eyes and glared at me in apprehension. Seeing a
stranger, she appeared to be relieved and sank back with a sigh upon the
pillow. I stepped up to her with a few reassuring words, and she lay still
while I took her pulse and temperature. Both were high, and yet my impression
was that the condition was rather that of mental and nervous excitement than of
any actual seizure.
"She lie like that one day, two day. I
'fraid she die," said the girl.
The woman turned her flushed and handsome face
towards me. "Where is my husband?"
"He is below and would wish to see
you."
"I will not see him. I will not see
him." Then she seemed to wander off into delirium. "A fiend! A fiend!
Oh, what shall I do with this devil?"
"Can I help you in any way?"
"No. No one can help. It is finished. All
is destroyed. Do what I will, all is destroyed."
The woman must have some strange delusion. I
could not see honest Bob Ferguson in the character of fiend or devil.
"Madame," I said, "your husband
loves you dearly. He is deeply grieved at this happening."
Again she turned on me those glorious eyes.
"He loves me. Yes. But do I not love him? Do I not love him even to
sacrifice myself rather than break his dear heart? That is how I love him. And
yet he could think of me — he could speak of me so."
"He is full of grief, but he cannot understand."
"No, he cannot understand. But he should
trust."
"Will you not see him?" I suggested.
"No, no, I cannot forget those terrible
words nor the look upon his face. I will not see him. Go now. You can do
nothing for me. Tell him only one thing. I want my child. I have a right to my
child. That is the only message I can send him." She turned her face to
the wall and would say no more.
I returned to the room downstairs, where
Ferguson and Holmes still sat by the fire. Ferguson listened moodily to my
account of the interview.
"How can I send her the child?" he
said. "How do I know what strange impulse might come upon her? How can I
ever forget how she rose from beside it with its blood upon her lips?" He
shuddered at the recollection. "The child is safe with Mrs. Mason, and
there he must remain."
A smart maid, the only modern thing which we had
seen in the house, had brought in some tea. As she was serving it the door
opened and a youth entered the room. He was a remarkable lad, pale-faced and
fair-haired, with excitable light blue eyes which blazed into a sudden flame of
emotion and joy as they rested upon his father. He rushed forward and threw his
arms round his neck with the abandon of a loving girl.
"Oh, daddy," he cried, "I did not
know that you were due yet. I should have been here to meet you. Oh, I am so
glad to see you!"
Ferguson gently disengaged himself from the
embrace with some little show of embarrassment. "Dear old chap," said
he, patting the flaxen head with a very tender hand. "I came early because
my friends, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, have been persuaded to come down and
spend an evening with us."
"Is that Mr. Holmes, the detective?"
"Yes."
The youth looked at us with a very penetrating
and, as it seemed to me, unfriendly gaze.
"What about your other child, Mr.
Ferguson?" asked Holmes. "Might we make the acquaintance of the
baby?"
"Ask Mrs. Mason to bring baby down,"
said Ferguson. The boy went off with a curious, shambling gait which told my
surgical eyes that he was suffering from a weak spine. Presently he returned,
and behind him came a tall, gaunt woman bearing in her arms a very beautiful
child, dark-eyed, golden-haired, a wonderful mixture of the Saxon and the
Latin. Ferguson was evidently devoted to it, for he took it into his arms and
fondled it most tenderly.
"Fancy anyone having the heart to hurt
him," he muttered as he glanced down at the small, angry red pucker upon
the cherub throat.
It was at this moment that I chanced to glance
at Holmes and saw a most singular intentness in his expression. His face was as
set as if it had been carved out of old ivory, and his eyes, which had glanced
for a moment at father and child, were now fixed with eager curiosity upon
something at the other side of the room. Following his gaze I could only guess
that he was looking out through the window at the melancholy, dripping garden.
It is true that a shutter had half closed outside and obstructed the view, but
none the less it was certainly at the window that Holmes was fixing his
concentrated attention. Then he smiled, and his eyes came back to the baby. On
its chubby neck there was this small puckered mark. Without speaking, Holmes
examined it with care. Finally he shook one of the dimpled fists which waved in
front of him.
"Good-bye, little man. You have made a
strange start in life. Nurse, I should wish to have a word with you in
private." He took her aside and spoke earnestly for a few minutes. I only
heard the last words, which were: "Your anxiety will soon, I hope, be set
at rest." The woman, who seemed to be a sour, silent kind of creature,
withdrew with the child.
"What is Mrs. Mason like?" asked
Holmes.
"Not very prepossessing externally, as you
can see, but a heart of gold, and devoted to the child."
"Do you like her, Jack?" Holmes turned
suddenly upon the boy. His expressive mobile face shadowed over, and he shook
his head.
"Jacky has very strong likes and dislikes,"
said Ferguson, putting his arm round the boy. "Luckily I am one of his
likes."
The boy cooed and nestled his head upon his
father's breast. Ferguson gently disengaged him. "Run away, little
Jacky," said he, and he watched his son with loving eyes until he
disappeared. "Now, Mr. Holmes," he continued when the boy was gone,
"I really feel that I have brought you on a fool's errand, for what can
you possibly do save give me your sympathy? It must be an exceedingly delicate
and complex affair from your point of view."
"It is certainly delicate," said my
friend with an amused smile, "but I have not been struck up to now with
its complexity. It has been a case for intellectual deduction, but when this
original intellectual deduction is confirmed point by point by quite a number
of independent incidents, then the subjective becomes objective and we can say
confidently that we have reached our goal. I had, in fact, reached it before we
left Baker Street, and the rest has merely been observation and
confirmation."
Ferguson put his big hand to his furrowed
forehead. "For heaven's sake, Holmes," he said hoarsely; "if you
can see the truth in this matter, do not keep me in suspense. How do I stand?
What shall I do? I care nothing as to how you have found your facts so long as
you have really got them."
"Certainly I owe you an explanation, and
you shall have it. But you will permit me to handle the matter in my own way?
Is the lady capable of seeing us, Watson?"
"She is ill, but she is quite
rational."
"Very good. It is only in her presence that
we can clear the matter up. Let us go up to her."
"She will not see me," cried Ferguson.
"Oh, yes, she will," said Holmes. He
scribbled a few lines upon a sheet of paper."You at least have the entrée,
Watson. Will you have the goodness to give the lady this note?"
I ascended again and handed the note to Dolores,
who cautiously opened the door. A minute later I heard a cry from within, a cry
in which joy and surprise seemed to be blended. Dolores looked out. "She
will see them. She will leesten," said she.
At my summons Ferguson and Holmes came up. As we
entered the room Ferguson took a step or two towards his wife, who had raised
herself in the bed, but she held out her hand to repulse him. He sank into an
armchair, while Holmes seated himself beside him, after bowing to the lady, who
looked at him with wide-eyed amazement.
"I think we can dispense with
Dolores," said Holmes. "Oh, very well, Madame, if you would rather
she stayed I can see no objection. Now, Mr. Ferguson, I am a busy man with many
calls, and my methods have to be short and direct. The swiftest surgery is the
least painful. Let me first say what will ease your mind. Your wife is a very good,
a very loving, and a very ill-used woman."
Ferguson sat up with a cry of joy. "Prove
that, Mr. Holmes, and I am your debtor forever."
"I will do so, but in doing so I must wound
you deeply in another direction."
"I care nothing so long as you clear my
wife. Everything on earth is insignificant compared to that."
"Let me tell you, then, the train of
reasoning which passed through my mind in Baker Street. The idea of a vampire
was to me absurd. Such things do not happen in criminal practice in England.
And yet your observation was precise. You had seen the lady rise from beside
the child's cot with the blood upon her lips."
"I did."
"Did it not occur to you that a bleeding
wound may be sucked for some other purpose than to draw the blood from it? Was
there not a queen in English history who sucked such a wound to draw poison
from it?"
"Poison!"
"A South American household. My instinct
felt the presence of those weapons upon the wall before my eyes ever saw them.
It might have been other poison, but that was what occurred to me. When I saw
that little empty quiver beside the small birdbow, it was just what I expected
to see. If the child were pricked with one of those arrows dipped in curare or
some other devilish drug, it would mean death if the venom were not sucked out.
"And the dog! If one were to use such a
poison, would one not try it first in order to see that it had not lost its
power? I did not foresee the dog, but at least I understand him and he fitted
into my reconstruction.
"Now do you understand? Your wife feared
such an attack. She saw it made and saved the child's life, and yet she shrank
from telling you all the truth, for she knew how you loved the boy and feared
lest it break your heart."
"Jacky!"
"I watched him as you fondled the child
just now. His face was clearly reflected in the glass of the window where the
shutter formed a background. I saw such jealousy, such cruel hatred, as I have
seldom seen in a human face."
"My Jacky!"
"You have to face it, Mr. Ferguson. It is
the more painful because it is a distorted love, a maniacal exaggerated love
for you, and possibly for his dead mother, which has prompted his action. His
very soul is consumed with hatred for this splendid child, whose health and
beauty are a contrast to his own weakness."
"Good God! It is incredible!"
"Have I spoken the truth, Madame?"
The lady was sobbing, with her face buried in
the pillows. Now she turned to her husband.
"How could I tell you, Bob? I felt the blow
it would be to you. It was better that I should wait and that it should come
from some other lips than mine. When this gentleman, who seems to have powers
of magic, wrote that he knew all, I was glad."
"I think a year at sea would be my
prescription for Master Jacky," said Holmes, rising from his chair.
"Only one thing is still clouded, Madame We can quite understand your
attacks upon Master Jacky. There is a limit to a mother's patience. But how did
you dare to leave the child these last two days?"
"I had told Mrs. Mason. She knew."
"Exactly. So I imagined."
Ferguson was standing by the bed, choking, his
hands outstretched and quivering.
"This, I fancy, is the time for our exit,
Watson," said Holmes in a whisper. "If you will take one elbow of the
too faithful Dolores, I will take the other. There, now," he added as he
closed the door behind him, "I think we may leave them to settle the rest
among themselves."
I have only one further note of this case. It is
the letter which Holmes wrote in final answer to that with which the narrative
begins. It ran thus:
BAKER STREET,
Nov. 21st.
Re Vampires
SIR:
Referring to your letter of the 19th, I beg to
state that I have looked into the inquiry of your client, Mr. Robert Ferguson,
of Ferguson and Muirhead, tea brokers, of Mincing Lane, and that the matter has
been brought to a satisfactory conclusion. With thanks for your recommendation,
I am, sir,
Faithfully yours,
SHERLOCK HOLMES.
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