“I think that this case is very much in your line. We have everyhope of clearing the matter up, but we find a little difficulty ingetting anything to work upon. We have, of course, wired to theBelfast post-office, but a large number of parcels were handedin upon that day, and they have no means of identifying thisparticular one, or of remembering the sender. The box is a halfpoundbox of honeydew tobacco and does not help us in any way.
The medical student theory still appears to me to be the mostfeasible, but if you should have a few hours to spare I should bevery happy to see you out here. I shall be either at the house or inthe police-station all day.
“What say you, Watson? Can you rise superior to the heat andrun down to Croydon with me on the off chance of a case for yourannals?”
“I was longing for something to do.”
“You shall have it then. Ring for our boots and tell them toorder a cab. I’ll be back in a moment when I have changed mydressing-gown and filled my cigar-case.”
A shower of rain fell while we were in the train, and the heatwas far less oppressive in Croydon than in town. Holmes had senton a wire, so that Lestrade, as wiry, as dapper, and as ferret-like asever, was waiting for us at the station. A walk of five minutes tookus to Cross Street, where Miss Cushing resided.
It was a very long street of two-story brick houses, neat andprim, with whitened stone steps and little groups of apronedwomen gossiping at the doors. Halfway down, Lestrade stoppedand tapped at a door, which was opened by a small servant girl.
Miss Cushing was sitting in the front room, into which we wereushered. She was a placid-faced woman, with large, gentle eyes,and grizzled hair curving down over her temples on each side. Aworked antimacassar lay upon her lap and a basket of colouredsilks stood upon a stool beside her.
“They are in the outhouse, those dreadful things,” said she asLestrade 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 knownothing whatever about it?”
“Quite so, madam,” said Holmes in his soothing way. “I have nodoubt that you have been annoyed more than enough already overthis 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 tofind the police in my house. I won’t have those things in 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 thehouse. Lestrade went in and brought out a yellow cardboard box,with a piece of brown paper and some string. There was a benchat the end of the path, and we all sat down while Homes examinedone by one, the articles which Lestrade had handed to him.
“The string is exceedingly interesting,” he remarked, holding itup to the light and sniffing at it. “What do you make of this string,Lestrade?”
“It has been tarred.”
“Precisely. It is a piece of tarred twine. You have also, no doubt,remarked that Miss Cushing has cut the cord with a scissors, as canbe seen by the double fray on each side. This is of importance.”
“I cannot see the importance,” said Lestrade.
“The importance lies in the fact that the knot is left intact, andthat this knot is of a peculiar character.”
“It is very neatly tied. I had already made a note to that effect,”
said Lestrade complacently.
“So much for the string, then,” said Holmes, smiling, “now forthe box wrapper. Brown paper, with a distinct smell of coffee.
What, did you not observe it? I think there can be no doubtof it. Address printed in rather straggling characters: ‘Miss S.
Cushing, Cross Street, Croydon.’ Done with a broad-pointed pen,probably a J, and with very inferior ink. The word ‘Croydon’ hasbeen originally spelled with an ‘i’, which has been changed to ‘y’.
The parcel was directed, then, by a man--the printing is distinctlymasculine--of limited education and unacquainted with the townof Croydon. So far, so good! The box is a yellow, half-poundhoneydew box, with nothing distinctive save two thumb marksat the left bottom corner. It is filled with rough salt of the qualityused for preserving hides and other of the coarser commercialpurposes. And embedded in it are these very singular enclosures.”
He took out the two ears as he spoke, and laying a board acrosshis knee he examined them minutely, while Lestrade and I,bending forward on each side of him, glanced alternately at thesedreadful relics and at the thoughtful, eager face of our companion.
Finally he returned them to the box once more and sat for a whilein deep meditation.
“You have observed, of course,” said he at last, “that the ears arenot a pair.”
“Yes, I have noticed that. But if this were the practical joke ofsome students from the dissecting-rooms, it would be as easy forthem to send two odd ears as a pair.”
“Precisely. But this is not a practical joke.”
“You are sure of it?”
“The presumption is strongly against it. Bodies in thedissecting-rooms are injected with preservative fluid. Theseears bear no signs of this. They are fresh, too. They have beencut off with a blunt instrument, which would hardly happen if astudent had done it. Again, carbolic or rectified spirits would bethe preservatives which would suggest themselves to the medicalmind, certainly not rough salt. I repeat that there is no practicaljoke here, but that we are investigating a serious crime.”
A vague thrill ran through me as I listened to my companion’swords and saw the stern gravity which had hardened his features.
This brutal preliminary seemed to shadow forth some strange andinexplicable horror in the background. Lestrade, however, shookhis head like a man who is only half convinced.