Silver Blaze
“I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go,” said Holmes, aswe sat down together to our breakfast one morning.
“Go! Where to?”
“To Dartmoor; to King’s Pyland.”
I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that he hadnot already been mixed up in this extraordinary case, which wasthe one topic of conversation through the length and breadthof England. For a whole day my companion had rambled aboutthe 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. Fresheditions of every paper had been sent up by our news agent, onlyto be glanced over and tossed down into a corner. Yet, silentas he was, I knew perfectly well what it was over which he wasbrooding. There was but one problem before the public whichcould challenge his powers of analysis, and that was the singulardisappearance of the favorite for the Wessex Cup, and the tragicmurder of its trainer. When, therefore, he suddenly announcedhis intention of setting out for the scene of the drama it was onlywhat I had both expected and hoped for.
“I should be most happy to go down with you if I should not bein the way,” said I.
“My dear Watson, you would confer a great favor upon me bycoming. And I think that your time will not be misspent, for thereare points about the case which promise to make it an absolutelyunique one. We have, I think, just time to catch our train atPaddington, and I will go further into the matter upon our journey.
You would oblige me by bringing with you your very excellentfield-glass.”
And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself inthe corner of a first-class carriage flying along en route for Exeter,while Sherlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face framed in hisear-flapped travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle of freshpapers which he had procured at Paddington. We had left Readingfar 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 the window andglancing at his watch. “Our rate at present is fifty-three and a halfmiles an hour.”
“I have not observed the quarter-mile posts,” said I.
“Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this line are sixtyyards apart, and the calculation is a simple one. I presume that youhave looked into this matter of the murder of John Straker and thedisappearance 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 shouldbe used rather for the sifting of details than for the acquiring offresh evidence. The tragedy has been so uncommon, so completeand of such personal importance to so many people, that we aresuffering from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis.
The difficulty is to detach the framework of fact—of absoluteundeniable fact—from the embellishments of theorists andreporters. Then, having established ourselves upon this soundbasis, it is our duty to see what inferences may be drawn and whatare the special points upon which the whole mystery turns. OnTuesday evening I received telegrams from both Colonel Ross, theowner of the horse, and from Inspector Gregory, who is lookingafter the case, inviting my co?peration.”
“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 amafraid, a more common occurrence than any one would think whoonly knew me through your memoirs. The fact is that I could notbelieve it possible that the most remarkable horse in Englandcould long remain concealed, especially in so sparsely inhabiteda place as the north of Dartmoor. From hour to hour yesterday Iexpected to hear that he had been found, and that his abductorwas the murderer of John Straker. When, however, anothermorning had come, and I found that beyond the arrest of youngFitzroy Simpson nothing had been done, I felt that it was time forme to take action. Yet in some ways I feel that yesterday has notbeen wasted.”
“You have formed a theory, then?”
“At least I have got a grip of the essential facts of the case. Ishall enumerate them to you, for nothing clears up a case so muchas stating it to another person, and I can hardly expect your co?perationif I do not show you the position from which we start.”
I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar, whileHolmes, leaning forward, with his long, thin forefinger checkingoff the points upon the palm of his left hand, gave me a sketch ofthe events which had led to our journey.
“Silver Blaze,” said he, “is from the Somomy stock, and holds asbrilliant 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 ColonelRoss, his fortunate owner. Up to the time of the catastrophe hewas the first favorite for the Wessex Cup, the betting being threeto one on him. He has always, however, been a prime favorite withthe racing public, and has never yet disappointed them, so thateven at those odds enormous sums of money have been laid uponhim. It is obvious, therefore, that there were many people whohad the strongest interest in preventing Silver Blaze from beingthere at the fall of the flag next Tuesday.
“The fact was, of course, appreciated at King’s Pyland, wherethe colonel’s training-stable is situated. Every precaution was takento guard the favorite. The trainer, John Straker, is a retired jockeywho rode in Colonel Ross’s colors before he became too heavyfor the weighing-chair. He has served the Colonel for five years asjockey and for seven as trainer, and has always shown himself to bea zealous and honest servant. Under him were three lads; for theestablishment was a small one, containing only four horses in all.