His Last Bow - Arthur Conan Doyle (classic books for 12 year olds txt) 📗

trained me to stand heat better than

cold, and a thermometer at ninety was no hardship. But the

morning paper was uninteresting. Parliament had risen.

Everybody was out of town, and I yearned for the glades of the

New Forest or the shingle of Southsea. A depleted bank account

had caused me to postpone my holiday, and as to my companion,

neither the country nor the sea presented the slightest

attraction to him. He loved to lie in the very center of five

millions of people, with his filaments stretching out and running

through them, responsive to every little rumour or suspicion of

unsolved crime. Appreciation of nature found no place among his

many gifts, and his only change was when he turned his mind from

the evil-doer of the town to track down his brother of the

country.

 

Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation I had

tossed side the barren paper, and leaning back in my chair I fell

into a brown study. Suddenly my companion’s voice broke in upon

my thoughts:

 

“You are right, Watson,” said he. “It does seem a most

preposterous way of settling a dispute.”

 

“Most preposterous!” I exclaimed, and then suddenly realizing how

he had echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair

and stared at him in blank amazement.

 

“What is this, Holmes?” I cried. “This is beyond anything which

I could have imagined.”

 

He laughed heartily at my perplexity.

 

“You remember,” said he, “that some little time ago when I read

you the passage in one of Poe’s sketches in which a close

reasoner follows the unspoken thoughts of his companion, you were

inclined to treat the matter as a mere tour-de-force of the

author. On my remarking that I was constantly in the habit of

doing the same thing you expressed incredulity.”

 

“Oh, no!”

 

“Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with

your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter

upon a train of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity

of reading it off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof

that I had been in rapport with you.”

 

But I was still far from satisfied. “In the example which you

read to me,” said I, “the reasoner drew his conclusions from the

actions of the man whom he observed. If I remember right, he

stumbled over a heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so

on. But I have been seated quietly in my chair, and what clues

can I have given you?”

 

“You do yourself an injustice. The features are given to man as

the means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are

faithful servants.”

 

“Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my

features?”

 

“Your features and especially your eyes. Perhaps you cannot

yourself recall how your reverie commenced?”

 

“No, I cannot.”

 

“Then I will tell you. After throwing down your paper, which was

the action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a

minute with a vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves

upon your newly framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by

the alteration in your face that a train of thought had been

started. But it did not lead very far. Your eyes flashed across

to the unframed portrait of Henry Ward Beecher which stands upon

the top of your books. Then you glanced up at the wall, and of

course your meaning was obvious. You were thinking that if the

portrait were framed it would just cover that bare space and

correspond with Gordon’s picture there.”

 

“You have followed me wonderfully!” I exclaimed.

 

“So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughts

went back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were

studying the character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to

pucker, but you continued to look across, and your face was

thoughtful. You were recalling the incidents of Beecher’s

career. I was well aware that you could not do this without

thinking of the mission which he undertook on behalf of the North

at the time of the Civil War, for I remember your expressing your

passionate indignation at the way in which he was received by the

more turbulent of our people. You felt so strongly about it that

I knew you could not think of Beecher without thinking of that

also. When a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the

picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned to the Civil

War, and when I observed that your lips set, your eyes sparkled,

and your hands clenched I was positive that you were indeed

thinking of the gallantry which was shown by both sides in that

desperate struggle. But then, again, your face grew sadder, you

shook your head. You were dwelling upon the sadness and horror

and useless waste of life. Your hand stole towards your own old

wound and a smile quivered on your lips, which showed me that the

ridiculous side of this method of settling international

questions had forced itself upon your mind. At this point I

agreed with you that it was preposterous and was glad to find

that all my deductions had been correct.”

 

“Absolutely!” said I. “And now that you have explained it, I

confess that I am as amazed as before.”

 

“It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should

not have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some

incredulity the other day. But I have in my hands here a little

problem which may prove to be more difficult of solution than my

small essay I thought reading. Have you observed in the paper a

short paragraph referring to the remarkable contents of a packet

sent through the post to Miss Cushing, of Cross Street, Croydon?”

 

“No, I saw nothing.”

 

“Ah! then you must have overlooked it. Just toss it over to me.

Here it is, under the financial column. Perhaps you would be

good enough to read it aloud.”

 

I picked up the paper which he had thrown back to me and read the

paragraph indicated. It was headed, “A Gruesome Packet.”

 

“Miss Susan Cushing, living at Cross Street, Croydon, has been

made the victim of what must be regarded as a peculiarly

revolting practical joke unless some more sinister meaning should

prove to be attached to the incident. At two o’clock yesterday

afternoon a small packet, wrapped in brown paper, was handed in

by the postman. A cardboard box was inside, which was filled

with coarse salt. On emptying this, Miss Cushing was horrified to

find two human ears, apparently quite freshly severed. The box

had been sent by parcel post from Belfast upon the morning

before. There is no indication as to the sender, and the matter

is the more mysterious as Miss Cushing, who is a maiden lady of

fifty, has led a most retired life, and has so few acquaintances

or correspondents that it is a rare event for her to receive

anything through the post. Some years ago, however, when she

resided at Penge, she let apartments in her house to three young

medical students, whom she was obliged to get rid of on account

of their noisy and irregular habits. The police are of opinion

that this outrage may have been perpetrated upon Miss Cushing by

these youths, who owed her a grudge and who hoped to frighten her

by sending her these relics of the dissecting-rooms. Some

probability is lent to the theory by the fact that one of these

students came from the north of Ireland, and, to the best of Miss

Cushing’s belief, from Belfast. In the meantime, the matter is

being actively investigated, Mr. Lestrade, one of the very

smartest of our detective officers, being in charge of the case.”

 

“So much for the Daily Chronicle,” said Holmes as I finished

reading. “Now for our friend Lestrade. I had a note from him

this morning, in which he says:

 

“I think that this case is very much in your line. We have every

hope of clearing the matter up, but we find a little difficulty

in getting anything to work upon. We have, of course, wired to

the Belfast post-office, but a large number of parcels were

handed in upon that day, and they have no means of identifying

this particular one, or of remembering the sender. The box is a

half-pound box of honeydew tobacco and does not help us in any

way. The medical student theory still appears to me to be the

most feasible, but if you should have a few hours to spare I

should be very happy to see you out here. I shall be either at

the house or in the police-station all day.

 

“What say you, Watson? Can you rise superior to the heat and run

down to Croydon with me on the off chance of a case for your

annals?”

 

“I was longing for something to do.”

 

“You shall have it then. Ring for our boots and tell them to

order a cab. I’ll be back in a moment when I have changed my

dressing-gown and filled my cigar-case.”

 

A shower of rain fell while we were in the train, and the heat

was far less oppressive in Croydon than in town. Holmes had sent

on a wire, so that Lestrade, as wiry, as dapper, and as ferret-like as ever, was waiting for us at the station. A walk of five

minutes took us to Cross Street, where Miss Cushing resided.

 

It was a very long street of two-story brick houses, neat and

prim, with whitened stone steps and little groups of aproned

women gossiping at the doors. Halfway down, Lestrade stopped and

tapped at a door, which was opened by a small servant girl. Miss

Cushing was sitting in the front room, into which we were

ushered. She was a placid-faced woman, with large, gentle eyes,

and grizzled hair curving down over her temples on each side. A

worked antimacassar lay upon her lap and a basket of coloured

silks stood upon a stool beside her.

 

“They are in the outhouse, those dreadful things,” said she as

Lestrade entered. “I wish that you would take them away

altogether.”

 

“So I shall, Miss Cushing. I only kept them here until my

friend, Mr. Holmes, should have seen them in your presence.”

 

“Why in my presence, sir?”

 

“In case he wished to ask any questions.”

 

“What is the use of asking me questions when I tell you I know

nothing whatever about it?”

 

“Quite so, madam,” said Holmes in his soothing way. “I have no

doubt that you have been annoyed more than enough already over

this business.”

 

“Indeed I have, sir. I am a quiet woman and live a retired life.

It is something new for me to see my name in the papers and to

find the police in my house. I won’t have those things I here,

Mr. Lestrade. If you wish to see them you must go to the

outhouse.”

 

It was a small shed in the narrow garden which ran behind the

house. Lestrade went in and brought out a yellow cardboard box,

with a piece of brown paper and some string. There was a bench

at the end of the path, and we all sat down while Homes examined

one by one, the articles which Lestrade had handed to him.

 

“The string is exceedingly interesting,” he remarked, holding it

up to the light and sniffing at it. “What do you make of this

string, Lestrade?”

 

“It