Holmes opened the case, and moistening his finger he passed italong the shoe. A thin film of recent mud was left upon his skin.
“Thank you,” said he, as he replaced the glass. “It is the secondmost interesting object that I have seen in the North.”
“And the first?”
Holmes folded up his check and placed it carefully in hisnotebook. “I am a poor man,” said he, as he patted it affectionately,and thrust it into the depths of his inner pocket.
The Adventure of Black Peter
I have never known my friend to be in better form, bothmental and physical, than in the year ‘95. His increasing fame hadbrought with it an immense practice, and I should be guilty ofan indiscretion if I were even to hint at the identity of some ofthe illustrious clients who crossed our humble threshold in BakerStreet. Holmes, however, like all great artists, lived for his art’ssake, and, save in the case of the Duke of Holdernesse, I haveseldom known him claim any large reward for his inestimableservices. So unworldly was he—or so capricious—that hefrequently refused his help to the powerful and wealthy where theproblem made no appeal to his sympathies, while he would devoteweeks of most intense application to the affairs of some humbleclient whose case presented those strange and dramatic qualitieswhich appealed to his imagination and challenged his ingenuity.
In this memorable year ‘95, a curious and incongruoussuccession of cases had engaged his attention, ranging from hisfamous investigation of the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca—aninquiry which was carried out by him at the express desire of HisHoliness the Pope—down to his arrest of Wilson, the notoriouscanary-trainer, which removed a plague-spot from the East End ofLondon. Close on the heels of these two famous cases came thetragedy of Woodman’s Lee, and the very obscure circumstanceswhich surrounded the death of Captain Peter Carey. No record ofthe doings of Mr. Sherlock Holmes would be complete which didnot include some account of this very unusual affair.
During the first week of July, my friend had been absent sooften and so long from our lodgings that I knew he had somethingon hand. The fact that several rough-looking men called duringthat time and inquired for Captain Basil made me understandthat Holmes was working somewhere under one of the numerousdisguises and names with which he concealed his own formidableidentity. He had at least five small refuges in different parts ofLondon, in which he was able to change his personality. He saidnothing of his business to me, and it was not my habit to forcea confidence. The first positive sign which he gave me of thedirection which his investigation was taking was an extraordinaryone. He had gone out before breakfast, and I had sat down tomine when he strode into the room, his hat upon his head and ahuge barbed-headed spear tucked like an umbrella under his arm.
“Good gracious, Holmes!” I cried. “You don’t mean to say thatyou have been walking about London with that thing?”
“I drove to the butcher’s and back.”
“The butcher’s?”
“And I return with an excellent appetite. There can be noquestion, my dear Watson, of the value of exercise before breakfast.
But I am prepared to bet that you will not guess the form that myexercise has taken.”
“I will not attempt it.”
He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.
“If you could have looked into Allardyce’s back shop, you wouldhave seen a dead pig swung from a hook in the ceiling, and agentleman in his shirt sleeves furiously stabbing at it with thisweapon. I was that energetic person, and I have satisfied myselfthat by no exertion of my strength can I transfix the pig with asingle blow. Perhaps you would care to try?”
“Not for worlds. But why were you doing this?”
“Because it seemed to me to have an indirect bearing upon themystery of Woodman’s Lee. Ah, Hopkins, I got your wire lastnight, and I have been expecting you. Come and join us.”
Our visitor was an exceedingly alert man, thirty years of age,dressed in a quiet tweed suit, but retaining the erect bearing ofone who was accustomed to official uniform. I recognized himat once as Stanley Hopkins, a young police inspector, for whosefuture Holmes had high hopes, while he in turn professed theadmiration and respect of a pupil for the scientific methods of thefamous amateur. Hopkins’s brow was clouded, and he sat downwith an air of deep dejection.
“No, thank you, sir. I breakfasted before I came round. I spentthe night in town, for I came up yesterday to report.”
“And what had you to report?”
“Failure, sir, absolute failure.”
“You have made no progress?”
“None.”
“Dear me! I must have a look at the matter.”
“I wish to heavens that you would, Mr. Holmes. It’s my first bigchance, and I am at my wit’s end. For goodness’ sake, come downand lend me a hand.”
“Well, well, it just happens that I have already read all theavailable evidence, including the report of the inquest, with somecare. By the way, what do you make of that tobacco pouch, foundon the scene of the crime? Is there no clue there?”
Hopkins looked surprised.
“It was the man’s own pouch, sir. His initials were inside it. Andit was of sealskin—and he was an old sealer.”
“But he had no pipe.”
“No, sir, we could find no pipe. Indeed, he smoked very little,and yet he might have kept some tobacco for his friends.”
“No doubt. I only mention it because, if I had been handlingthe case, I should have been inclined to make that the startingpointof my investigation. However, my friend, Dr. Watson,knows nothing of this matter, and I should be none the worse forhearing the sequence of events once more. Just give us some shortsketches of the essentials.”
Stanley Hopkins drew a slip of paper from his pocket.
“I have a few dates here which will give you the career of thedead man, Captain Peter Carey. He was born in ‘45—fifty yearsof age. He was a most daring and successful seal and whale fisher.