"What can he want?" I ejaculated, as a man stepped out of it.
"Want! He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and cravatsand goloshes, and every aid that man ever invented to fight the weather.Wait a bit, though! There's the cab off again! There's hope yet. He'dhave kept it if he had wanted us to come. Run down, my dear fellow, andopen the door, for all virtuous folk have been long in bed."
When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor I had nodifficulty in recognising him. It was young Stanley Hopkins, a promisingdetective, in whose career Holmes had several times shown a verypractical interest.
"Is he in?" he asked, eagerly.
"Come up, my dear sir," said Holmes's voice from above. "I hope you haveno designs upon us on such a night as this."
The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon his shiningwaterproof. I helped him out of it while Holmes knocked a blaze out ofthe logs in the grate.
"Now, my dear Hopkins, draw up and warm your toes," said he. "Here'sa cigar, and the doctor has a prescription containing hot water and alemon which is good medicine on a night like this. It must be somethingimportant which has brought you out in such a gale."
"It is indeed, Mr. Holmes. I've had a bustling afternoon, I promise you.Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the latest editions?"
"I've seen nothing later than the fifteenth century to-day."
"Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you have notmissed anything. I haven't let the grass grow under my feet. It's downin Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three from the railway line. I waswired for at three-fifteen, reached Yoxley Old Place at five, conductedmy investigation, was back at Charing Cross by the last train, andstraight to you by cab."
"Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your case?"
"It means that I can make neither head nor tail of it. So far as I cansee it is just as tangled a business as ever I handled, and yet at firstit seemed so simple that one couldn't go wrong. There's no motive, Mr.Holmes. That's what bothers me--I can't put my hand on a motive. Here'sa man dead--there's no denying that--but, so far as I can see, no reasonon earth why anyone should wish him harm."
Holmes lit his cigar and leaned back in his chair.
"Let us hear about it," said he.
"I've got my facts pretty clear," said Stanley Hopkins. "All I want nowis to know what they all mean. The story, so far as I can make it out,is like this. Some years ago this country house, Yoxley Old Place, wastaken by an elderly man, who gave the name of Professor Coram. He wasan invalid, keeping his bed half the time, and the other half hobblinground the house with a stick or being pushed about the grounds by thegardener in a bath-chair. He was well liked by the few neighbours whocalled upon him, and he has the reputation down there of being a verylearned man. His household used to consist of an elderly housekeeper,Mrs. Marker, and of a maid, Susan Tarlton. These have both been with himsince his arrival, and they seem to be women of excellent character. TheProfessor is writing a learned book, and he found it necessary abouta year ago to engage a secretary. The first two that he tried werenot successes; but the third, Mr. Willoughby Smith, a very young manstraight from the University, seems to have been just what his employerwanted. His work consisted in writing all the morning to the Professor'sdictation, and he usually spent the evening in hunting up references andpassages which bore upon the next day's work. This Willoughby Smith hasnothing against him either as a boy at Uppingham or as a young man atCambridge. I have seen his testimonials, and from the first he was adecent, quiet, hardworking fellow, with no weak spot in him at all.And yet this is the lad who has met his death this morning in theProfessor's study under circumstances which can point only to murder."
The wind howled and screamed at the windows. Holmes and I drew closer tothe fire while the young inspector slowly and point by point developedhis singular narrative.
"If you were to search all England," said he, "I don't suppose you couldfind a household more self-contained or free from outside influences.Whole weeks would pass and not one of them go past the garden gate. TheProfessor was buried in his work and existed for nothing else. YoungSmith knew nobody in the neighbourhood, and lived very much as hisemployer did. The two women had nothing to take them from thehouse. Mortimer the gardener, who wheels the bath-chair, is an Armypensioner--an old Crimean man of excellent character. He does not livein the house, but in a three-roomed cottage at the other end of thegarden. Those are the only people that you would find within the groundsof Yoxley Old Place. At the same time, the gate of the garden is ahundred yards from the main London to Chatham road. It opens with alatch, and there is nothing to prevent anyone from walking in.
"Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the onlyperson who can say anything positive about the matter. It was in theforenoon, between eleven and twelve. She was engaged at the moment inhanging some curtains in the upstairs front bedroom. Professor Coram wasstill in bed, for when the weather is bad he seldom rises before midday.The housekeeper was busied with some work in the back of thehouse. Willoughby Smith had been in his bedroom, which he uses as asitting-room; but the maid heard him at that moment pass along thepassage and descend to the study immediately below her. She did notsee him, but she says that she could not be mistaken in his quick, firmtread. She did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so laterthere was a dreadful cry in the room below. It was a wild, hoarsescream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come either from aman or a woman. At the same instant there was a heavy thud, which shookthe old house, and then all was silence. The maid stood petrified
for amoment, and then, recovering her courage, she ran downstairs. The studydoor was shut, and she opened it. Inside young Mr. Willoughby Smith wasstretched upon the floor. At first she could see no injury, but as shetried to raise him she saw that blood was pouring from the underside ofhis neck. It was pierced by a very small but very deep wound, which haddivided the carotid artery. The instrument with which the injury hadbeen inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him. It was one of those smallsealing-wax knives to be found on old-fashioned writing-tables, withan ivory handle and a stiff blade. It was part of the fittings of theProfessor's own desk.
"At first the maid thought that young Smith was already dead, but onpouring some water from the carafe over his forehead he opened his eyesfor an instant. 'The Professor,' he murmured--'it was she.' The maid isprepared to swear that those were the exact words. He tried desperatelyto say something else, and he held his right hand up in the air. Then hefell back dead.
"In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived upon the scene, butshe was just too late to catch the young man's dying words. LeavingSusan with the body, she hurried to the Professor's room. He was sittingup in bed horribly agitated, for he had heard enough to convince himthat something terrible had occurred. Mrs. Marker is prepared to swearthat the Professor was still in his night-clothes, and, indeed, it wasimpossible for him to dress without the help of Mortimer, whose orderswere to come at twelve o'clock. The Professor declares that he heard thedistant cry, but that he knows nothing more. He can give no explanationof the young man's last words, 'The Professor--it was she,' but imaginesthat they were the outcome of delirium. He believes that WilloughbySmith had not an enemy in the world, and can give no reason for thecrime. His first action was to send Mortimer the gardener for the localpolice. A little later the chief constable sent for me. Nothing wasmoved before I got there, and strict orders were given that no oneshould walk upon the paths leading to the house. It was a splendidchance of putting your theories into practice, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.There was really nothing wanting."
"Except Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said my companion, with a somewhat bittersmile. "Well, let us hear about it. What sort of job did you make ofit?"
"I must ask you first, Mr. Holmes, to glance at this rough plan, whichwill give you a general idea of the position of the Professor's studyand the various points of the case. It will help you in following myinvestigation."
He unfolded the rough chart, which I here reproduce, and he laid itacross Holmes's knee. I rose, and, standing behind Holmes, I studied itover his shoulder.
GRAPHIC
"It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the pointswhich seem to me to be essential. All the rest you will see later foryourself. Now, first of all, presuming that the assassin entered thehouse, how did he or she come in? Undoubtedly by the garden path and theback door, from which there is direct access to the study. Any other waywould have been exceedingly complicated. The escape must have also beenmade along that line, for of the two other exits from the room one wasblocked by Susan as she ran downstairs and the other leads straight tothe Professor's bedroom. I therefore directed my attention at onceto the garden path, which was saturated with recent rain and wouldcertainly show any footmarks.
"My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and expertcriminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path. There could be noquestion, however, that someone had passed along the grass border whichlines the path, and that he had done so in order to avoid leaving atrack. I could not find anything in the nature of a distinct impression,but the grass was trodden down and someone had undoubtedly passed. Itcould only have been the murderer, since neither the gardener nor anyoneelse had been there that morning and the rain had only begun during thenight."
"One moment," said Holmes. "Where does this path lead to?"
"To the road."
"How long is it?"