“You have clearly gone pretty deeply into my affairs or I shouldnot have found you where I did. Therefore, you know already, inall probability, that I am running a dark horse for the Derby andthat everything depends upon my success. If I win, all is easy. If Ilose—well, I dare not think of that!”
“I understand the position,” said Holmes.
“I am dependent upon my sister, Lady Beatrice, for everything.
But it is well known that her interest in the estate is for her ownlife only. For myself, I am deeply in the hands of the Jews. I havealways known that if my sister were to die my creditors wouldbe on to my estate like a flock of vultures. Everything would beseized—my stables, my horses—everything. Well, Mr. Holmes, mysister did die just a week ago.”
“And you told no one!”
“What could I do? Absolute ruin faced me. If I could stavethings off for three weeks all would be well. Her maid’s husband—this man here—is an actor. It came into our heads—it came intomy head—that he could for that short period personate my sister.
It was but a case of appearing daily in the carriage, for no oneneed enter her room save the maid. It was not difficult to arrange.
My sister died of the dropsy which had long afflicted her.”
“That will be for a coroner to decide.”
“Her doctor would certify that for months her symptoms havethreatened such an end.”
“Well, what did you do?”
“The body could not remain there. On the first night Norlettand I carried it out to the old well-house, which is now never used.
We were followed, however, by her pet spaniel, which yappedcontinually at the door, so I felt some safer place was needed. Igot rid of the spaniel, and we carried the body to the crypt of thechurch. There was no indignity or irreverence, Mr. Holmes. I donot feel that I have wronged the dead.”
“Your conduct seems to me inexcusable, Sir Robert.”
The baronet shook his head impatiently. “It is easy to preach,”
said he. “Perhaps you would have felt differently if you had beenin my position. One cannot see all one’s hopes and all one’s plansshattered at the last moment and make no effort to save them. Itseemed to me that it would be no unworthy resting-place if we puther for the time in one of the coffins of her husband’s ancestorslying in what is still consecrated ground. We opened such a coffin,removed the contents, and placed her as you have seen her. As tothe old relics which we took out, we could not leave them on thefloor of the crypt. Norlett and I removed them, and he descendedat night and burned them in the central furnace. There is my story,Mr. Holmes, though how you forced my hand so that I have to tellit is more than I can say.”
Holmes sat for some time lost in thought.
“There is one flaw in your narrative, Sir Robert,” he said at last.
“Your bets on the race, and therefore your hopes for the future,would hold good even if your creditors seized your estate.”
“The horse would be part of the estate. What do they carefor my bets? As likely as not they would not run him at all. Mychief creditor is, unhappily, my most bitter enemy—a rascallyfellow, Sam Brewer, whom I was once compelled to horsewhipon Newmarket Heath. Do you suppose that he would try to saveme?”
“Well, Sir Robert,” said Holmes, rising, “this matter must, ofcourse, be referred to the police. It was my duty to bring the factsto light, and there I must leave it. As to the morality or decencyof your conduct, it is not for me to express an opinion. It is nearlymidnight, Watson, and I think we may make our way back to ourhumble abode.”
It is generally known now that this singular episode ended upona happier note than Sir Robert’s actions deserved. ShoscombePrince did win the Derby, the sporting owner did net eightythousand pounds in bets, and the creditors did hold their handuntil the race was over, when they were paid in full, and enoughwas left to reestablish Sir Robert in a fair position in life. Bothpolice and coroner took a lenient view of the transaction, andbeyond a mild censure for the delay in registering the lady’sdecease, the lucky owner got away scatheless from this strangeincident in a career which has now outlived its shadows andpromises to end in an honoured old age.
The Adventure of the Retired Colourman
Sherlock Holmes was in a melancholy and philosophic moodthat morning. His alert practical nature was subject to suchreactions.
“Did you see him?” he asked.
“You mean the old fellow who has just gone out?”
“Precisely.”
“Yes, I met him at the door.”
“What did you think of him?”
“A pathetic, futile, broken creature.”
“Exactly, Watson. Pathetic and futile. But is not all life patheticand futile? Is not his story a microcosm of the whole? We reach.
We grasp. And what is left in our hands at the end? A shadow. Orworse than a shadow—misery.”
“Is he one of your clients?”
“Well, I suppose I may call him so. He has been sent on bythe Yard. Just as medical men occasionally send their incurablesto a quack. They argue that they can do nothing more, and thatwhatever happens the patient can be no worse than he is.”
“What is the matter?”
Holmes took a rather soiled card from the table. “JosiahAmberley. He says he was junior partner of Brickfall and Amberley,who are manufacturers of artistic materials. You will see theirnames upon paint-boxes. He made his little pile, retired frombusiness at the age of sixty-one, bought a house at Lewisham,and settled down to rest after a life of ceaseless grind. One wouldthink his future was tolerably assured.”
“Yes, indeed.”
Holmes glanced over some notes which he had scribbled uponthe back of an envelope.
“Retired in 1896, Watson. Early in 1897 he married a womantwenty years younger than himself—a good-looking woman, too, ifthe photograph does not flatter. A competence, a wife, leisure—itseemed a straight road which lay before him. And yet within twoyears he is, as you have seen, as broken and miserable a creature ascrawls beneath the sun.”
“But what has happened?”