The Datafile PD-CD 5/DATAFILE_PDCD5.iso/utilities/c/crstrip/BLAZE

Text File | 1991-04-14 | 52.6 KB | 903 lines

                                 SILVER BLAZE

     "I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go," said Holmes as we
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 had not
already been mixed up in this extraordinary case, which was the one
topic of conversation through the length and breadth of England.  For
a whole day my companion had rambled about the 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.  Fresh editions of every paper had been sent up
by our news agent, only to be glanced over and tossed down into a
corner.  Yet, silent as he was, I knew perfectly well what it was over
which he was brooding.  There was but one problem before the public
which could challenge his powers of analysis, and that was the
singular disappearance of the favourite for the Wessex Cup, and the
tragic murder of its trainer.  When, therefore, he suddenly announced
his intention of setting out for the scene of the drama, it was only
what I had both expected and hoped for.
     "I should be most happy to go down with you if I should not be in
the way," said I.
     "My dear Watson, you would confer a great favour upon me by
coming.  And I think that your time will not be misspent, for there
are points about the case which promise to make it an absolutely
unique one.  We have, I think, just time to catch our train at
Paddington, and I will go further into the matter upon our journey.
You would oblige me by bringing with you your very excellent
field-glass."
     And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself in the
corner of a first-class carriage flying along en route for Exeter,
while Sherlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face framed in his
ear-flapped travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle of fresh
papers which he had procured at Paddington.  We had left Reading far
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 of the window and
glancing at his watch.  "Our rate at present is fifty-three and a half
miles an hour."
     "I have not observed the quarter-mile posts," said I.
     "Nor have I.  But the telegraph posts upon this line are sixty
yards apart, and the calculation is a simple one.  I presume that you
have looked into this matter of the murder of John Straker and the
disappearance 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 should be
used rather for the sifting of details than for the acquiring of fresh
evidence.  The tragedy has been so uncommon, so complete, and of such
personal importance to so many people that we are suffering from a
plethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis.  The difficulty is to
detach the framework of fact -- of absolute undeniable fact -- from
the embellishments of theorists and reporters.  Then, having
established ourselves upon this sound basis, it is our duty to see
what inferences may be drawn and what are the special points upon
which the whole mystery turns.  On Tuesday evening I received
telegrams from both Colonel Ross, the owner of the horse, and from
Inspector Gregory, who is looking after the case, inviting my
cooperation."
     "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 am
afraid, a more common occurrence than anyone would think who only knew
me through your memoirs.  The fact is that I could not believe it
possible that the most remarkable horse in England could long remain
concealed, especially in so sparsely inhabited a place as the north of
Dartmoor.  From hour to hour yesterday I expected to hear that he had
been found, and that his abductor was the murderer of John Straker.
When, however, another morning had come and I found that beyond the
arrest of young Fitzroy Simpson nothing had been done, I felt that it
was time for me to take action.  Yet in some ways I feel that
yesterday has not been wasted."
     "You have formed a theory, then?"
     "At least I have got a grip of the essential facts of the case.
I shall enumerate them to you, for nothing clears up a case so much as
stating it to another person, and I can hardly expect your cooperation
if I do not show you the position from which we start."
     I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar, while
Holmes, leaning forward, with his long, thin forefinger checking off
the points upon the palm of his left hand, gave me a sketch of the
events which had led to our journey.
     "Silver Blaze," said he, "is from the Somomy stock and holds as
brilliant 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 Colonel
Ross, his fortunate owner.  Up to the time of the catastrophe he was
the first favourite for the Wessex Cup, the betting being three to one
on him.  He has always, however, been a prime favourite with the
racing public and has never yet disappointed them, so that even at
those odds enormous sums of money have been laid upon him.  It is
obvious, therefore, that there were many people who had the strongest
interest in preventing Silver Blaze from being there at the fall of
the flag next Tuesday.
     "The fact was, of course, appreciated at King's Pyland, where the
colonel's training-stable is situated.  Every precaution was taken to
guard the favourite.  The trainer, John Straker, is a retired jockey
who rode in Colonel Ross's colours before he became too heavy for the
weighing-chair.  He has served the colonel for five years as jockey
and for seven as trainer, and has always shown himself to be a zealous
and honest servant.  Under him were three lads, for the establishment
was a small one, containing only four horses in all.  One of these
lads sat up each night in the stable, while the others slept in the
loft.  All three bore excellent characters.  John Straker, who is a
married man, lived in a small villa about two hundred yards from the
stables.  He has no children, keeps one maidservant, and is
comfortably off.  The country round is very lonely, but about half a
mile to the north there is a small cluster of villas which have been
built by a Tavistock contractor for the use of invalids and others who
may wish to enjoy the pure Dartmoor air.  Tavistock itself lies two
miles to the west, while across the moor, also about two miles
distant, is the larger training establishment of Mapleton, which
belongs to Lord Backwater and is managed by Silas Brown.  In every
other direction the moor is a complete wilderness, inhabited only by a
few roaming gypsies.  Such was the general situation last Monday night
when the catastrophe occurred.
     "On that evening the horses had been exercised and watered as
usual, and the stables were locked up at nine o'clock.  Two of the
lads walked up to the trainer's house, where they had supper in the
kitchen, while the third, Ned Hunter, remained on guard.  At a few
minutes after nine the maid, Edith Baxter, carried down to the stables
his supper, which consisted of a dish of curried mutton.  She took no
liquid, as there was a water-tap in the stables, and it was the rule
that the lad on duty should drink nothing else.  The maid carried a
lantern with her, as it was very dark and the path ran across the open
moor.
     "Edith Baxter was within thirty yards of the stables when a man
appeared out of the darkness and called to her to stop.  As she
stepped into the circle of yellow light thrown by the lantern she saw
that he was a person of gentlemanly bearing, dressed in a gray suit of
tweeds, with a cloth cap.  He wore gaiters and carried a heavy stick
with a knob to it.  She was most impressed, however, by the extreme
pallor of his face and by the nervousness of his manner.  His age, she
thought, would be rather over thirty than under it.
     "'Can you tell me where I am?' he asked.  'I had almost made up
my mind to sleep on the moor when I saw the light of your lantern.'
     "'You are close to the King's Pyland training stables,' said
she.
     "'Oh, indeed!  What a stroke of luck!' he cried.  'I understand
that a stable-boy sleeps there alone every night.  Perhaps that is his
supper which you are carrying to him.  Now I am sure that you would
not be too proud to earn the price of a new dress, would you?'  He
took a piece of white paper folded up out of his waistcoat pocket.
'See that the boy has this to-night, and you shall have the prettiest
frock that money can buy.'
     "She was frightened by the earnestness of his manner and ran past
him to the window through which she was accustomed to hand the meals.
It was already opened, and Hunter was seated at the small table
inside.  She had begun to tell him of what had happened when the
stranger came up again.
     "'Good-evening,' said he, looking through the window.  'I wanted
to have a word with you.'  The girl has sworn that as he spoke she
noticed the corner of the little paper packet protruding from his
closed hand.
     "'What business have you here?' asked the lad.
     "'It's business that may put something into your pocket,' said
the other.  'You've two horses in for the Wessex Cup -- Silver Blaze
and Bayard.  Let me have the straight tip and you won't be a loser.
Is it a fact that at the weights Bayard could give the other a hundred
yards in five furlongs, and that the stable have put their money on
him?'
     "'So, you're one of those damned touts!' cried the lad.  'I'll
show you how we serve them in King's Pyland.'  He sprang up and rushed
across the stable to unloose the dog.  The girl fled away to the
house, but as she ran she looked back and saw that the stranger was
leaning through the window.  A minute later, however, when Hunter
rushed out with the hound he was gone, and though he ran all round the
buildings he failed to find any trace of him."
     "One moment," I asked.  "Did the stable-boy, when he ran out with
the dog, leave the door unlocked behind him?"
     "Excellent, Watson, excellent!" murmured my companion.  "The
importance of the point struck me so forcibly that I sent a special
wire to Dartmoor yesterday to clear the matter up.  The boy locked the
door before he left it.  The window, I may add, was not large enough
for a man to get through.
     "Hunter waited until his fellow-grooms had returned, when he sent
a message to the trainer and told him what had occurred.  Straker was
excited at hearing the account, although he does not seem to have
quite realized its true significance.  It left him, however, vaguely
uneasy, and Mrs. Straker, waking at one in the morning, found that he
was dressing.  In reply to her inquiries, he said that he could not
sleep on account of his anxiety about the horses, and that he intended
to walk down to the stables to see that all was well.  She begged him
to remain at home, as she could hear the rain pattering against the
window, but in spite of her entreaties he pulled on his large
mackintosh and left the house.
     "Mrs. Straker awoke at seven in the morning to find that her
husband had not yet returned.  She dressed herself hastily, called the
maid, and set off for the stables.  The door was open; inside, huddled
together upon a chair, Hunter was sunk in a state of absolute stupor,
the favourite's stall was empty, and there were no signs of his
trainer.
     "The two lads who slept in the chaff-cutting loft above the
harness-room were quickly aroused.  They had heard nothing during the
night, for they are both sound sleepers.  Hunter was obviously under
the influence of some powerful drug, and as no sense could be got out
of him, he was left to sleep it off while the two lads and the two
women ran out in search of the absentees.  They still had hopes that
the trainer had for some reason taken out the horse for early
exercise, but on ascending the knoll near the house, from which all
the neighbouring moors were visible, they not only could see no signs
of the missing favourite, but they perceived something which warned
them that they were in the presence of a tragedy.
     "About a quarter of a mile from the stables John Straker's
overcoat was flapping from a furze-bush.  Immediately beyond there was
a bowl-shaped depression in the moor, and at the bottom of this was
found the dead body of the unfortunate trainer.  His head had been
shattered by a savage blow from some heavy weapon, and he was wounded
on the thigh, where there was a long, clean cut, inflicted evidently
by some very sharp instrument.  It was clear, however, that Straker
had defended himself vigorously against his assailants, for in his
right hand he held a small knife, which was clotted with blood up to
the handle, while in his left he clasped a red and black silk cravat,
which was recognized by the maid as having been worn on the preceding
evening by the stranger who had visited the stables.  Hunter, on
recovering from his stupor, was also quite positive as to the
ownership of the cravat.  He was equally certain that the same
stranger had, while standing at the window, drugged his curried
mutton, and so deprived the stables of their watchman.  As to the
missing horse, there were abundant proofs in the mud which lay at the
bottom of the fatal hollow that he had been there at the time of the
struggle.  But from that morning he has disappeared, and although a
large reward has been offered, and all the gypsies of Dartmoor are on
the alert, no news has come of him.  Finally, an analysis has shown
that the remains of his supper left by the stable-lad contained an
appreciable quantity of powdered opium, while the people at the house
partook of the same dish on the same night without any ill effect.
     "Those are the main facts of the case, stripped of all surmise,
and stated as baldly as possible.  I shall now recapitulate what the
police have done in the matter.
     "Inspector Gregory, to whom the case has been committed, is an
extremely competent officer.  Were he but gifted with imagination he
might rise to great heights in his profession.  On his arrival he
promptly found and arrested the man upon whom suspicion naturally
rested.  There was little difficulty in finding him, for he inhabited
one of those villas which I have mentioned.  His name, it appears, was
Fitzroy Simpson.  He was a man of excellent birth and education, who
had squandered a fortune upon the turf, and who lived now by doing a
little quiet and genteel book-making in the sporting clubs of London.
An examination of his betting-book shows that bets to the amount of
five thousand pounds had been registered by him against the favourite.
On being arrested he volunteered the statement that he had come down
to Dartmoor in the hope of getting some information about the King's
Pyland horses, and also about Desborough, the second favourite, which
was in charge of Silas Brown at the Mapleton stables.  He did not
attempt to deny that he had acted as described upon the evening
before, but declared that he had no sinister designs and had simply
wished to obtain first-hand information.  When confronted with his
cravat he turned very pale and was utterly unable to account for its
presence in the hand of the murdered man.  His wet clothing showed
that he had been out in the storm of the night before, and his stick,
which was a penang-lawyer weighted with lead, was just such a weapon
as might, by repeated blows, have inflicted the terrible injuries to
which the trainer had succumbed.  On the other hand, there was no
wound upon his person, while the state of Straker's knife would show
that one at least of his assailants must bear his mark upon him.
There you have it all in a nutshell, Watson, and if you can give me
any light I shall be infinitely obliged to you."
     I had listened with the greatest interest to the statement which
Holmes, with characteristic clearness, had laid before me.  Though
most of the facts were familiar to me, I had not sufficiently
appreciated their relative importance, nor their connection to each
other.
     "Is it not possible," I suggested, "that the incised wound upon
Straker may have been caused by his own knife in the convulsive
struggles which follow any brain injury?"
     "It is more than possible; it is probable," said Holmes.  "In
that case one of the main points in favour of the accused
disappears."
     "And yet," said I, "even now I fail to understand what the theory
of the police can be."
     "I am afraid that whatever theory we state has very grave
objections to it," returned my companion.  "The police imagine, I take
it, that this Fitzroy Simpson, having drugged the lad, and having in
some way obtained a duplicate key, opened the stable door and took out
the horse, with the intention, apparently, of kidnapping him
altogether.  His bridle is missing, so that Simpson must have put this
on.  Then, having left the door open behind him, he was leading the
horse away over the moor when he was either met or overtaken by the
trainer.  A row naturally ensued.  Simpson beat out the trainer's
brains with his heavy stick without receiving any injury from the
small knife which Straker used in self-defence, and then the thief
either led the horse on to some secret hiding-place, or else it may
have bolted during the struggle, and be now wandering out on the
moors.  That is the case as it appears to the police, and improbable
as it is, all other explanations are more improbable still.  However,
I shall very quickly test the matter when I am once upon the spot, and
until then I cannot really see how we can get much further than our
present position."
     It was evening before we reached the little town of Tavistock,
which lies, like the boss of a shield, in the middle of the huge
circle of Dartmoor.  Two gentlemen were awaiting us in the station --
the one a tall, fair man with lion-like hair and beard and curiously
penetrating light blue eyes; the other a small, alert person, very
neat and dapper, in a frock-coat and gaiters, with trim little
side-whiskers and an eyeglass.  The latter was Colonel Ross, the
well-known sportsman; the other, Inspector Gregory; a man who was
rapidly making his name in the English detective service.
     "I am delighted that you have come down, Mr. Holmes," said the
colonel.  "The inspector here has done all that could possibly be
suggested, but I wish to leave no stone unturned in trying to avenge
poor Straker and in recovering my horse."
     "Have there been any fresh developments?" asked Holmes.
     "I am sorry to say that we have made very little progress," said
the inspector.  "We have an open carriage outside, and as you would no
doubt like to see the place before the light fails, we might talk it
over as we drive."
     A minute later we were all seated in a comfortable landau and
were rattling through the quaint old Devonshire city.  Inspector
Gregory was full of his case and poured out a stream of remarks, while
Holmes threw in an occasional question or interjection.  Colonel Ross
leaned back with his arms folded and his hat tilted over his eyes,
while I listened with interest to the dialogue of the two detectives.
Gregory was formulating his theory, which was almost exactly what
Holmes had foretold in the train.
     "The net is drawn pretty close round Fitzroy Simpson," he
remarked, "and I believe myself that he is our man.  At the same time
I recognize that the evidence is purely circumstantial, and that some
new development may upset it."
     "How about Straker's knife?"
     "We have quite come to the conclusion that he wounded himself in
his fall."
     "My friend Dr. Watson made that suggestion to me as we came down.
If so, it would tell against this man Simpson."
     "Undoubtedly.  He has neither a knife nor any sign of a wound.
The evidence against him is certainly very strong.  He had a great
interest in the disappearance of the favourite.  He lies under
suspicion of having poisoned the stable-boy; he was undoubtedly out in
the storm; he was armed with a heavy stick, and his cravat was found
in the dead man's hand.  I really think we have enough to go before a
jury."
     Holmes shook his head.  "A clever counsel would tear it all to
rags," said he.  "Why should he take the horse out of the stable?  If
he wished to injure it, why could he not do it there?  Has a duplicate
key been found in his possession?  What chemist sold him the powdered
opium?  Above all, where could he, a stranger to the district, hide a
horse, and such a horse as this?  What is his own explanation as to
the paper which he wished the maid to give to the stable-boy?"
     "He says that it was a ten-pound note.  One was found in his
purse.  But your other difficulties are not so formidable as they
seem.  He is not a stranger to the district.  He has twice lodged at
Tavistock in the summer.  The opium was probably brought from London.
The key, having served its purpose, would be hurled away.  The horse
may be at the bottom of one of the pits or old mines upon the moor."
     "What does he say about the cravat?"
     "He acknowledges that it is his and declares that he had lost it.
But a new element has been introduced into the case which may account
for his leading the horse from the stable."
     Holmes pricked up his ears.
     "We have found traces which show that a party of gypsies encamped
on Monday night within a mile of the spot where the murder took place.
On Tuesday they were gone.  Now, presuming that there was some
understanding between Simpson and these gypsies, might he not have
been leading the horse to them when he was overtaken, and may they not
have him now?"
     "It is certainly possible."
     "The moor is being scoured for these gypsies.  I have also
examined every stable and outhouse in Tavistock, and for a radius of
ten miles."
     "There is another training-stable quite close, I understand?"
     "Yes, and that is a factor which we must certainly not neglect.
As Desborough, their horse, was second in the betting, they had an
interest in the disappearance of the favourite.  Silas Brown, the
trainer, is known to have had large bets upon the event, and he was no
friend to poor Straker.  We have, however, examined the stables, and
there is nothing to connect him with the affair."
     "And nothing to connect this man Simpson with the interests of
the Mapleton stables?"
     "Nothing at all."
     Holmes leaned back in the carriage, and the conversation ceased.
A few minutes later our driver pulled up at a neat little red-brick
villa with overhanging eaves which stood by the road.  Some distance
off, across a paddock, lay a long gray-tiled outbuilding.  In every
other direction the low curves of the moor, bronze-coloured from the
fading ferns, stretched away to the sky-line, broken only by the
steeples of Tavistock, and by a cluster of houses away to the westward
which marked the Mapleton stables.  We all sprang out with the
exception of Holmes, who continued to lean back with his eyes fixed
upon the sky in front of him, entirely absorbed in his own thoughts.
It was only when I touched his arm that he roused himself with a
violent start and stepped out of the carriage.
     "Excuse me," said he, turning to Colonel Ross, who had looked at
him in some surprise.  "I was day-dreaming."  There was a gleam in his
eyes and a suppressed excitement in his manner which convinced me,
used as I was to his ways, that his hand was upon a clue, though I
could not imagine where he had found it.
     "Perhaps you would prefer at once to go on to the scene of the
crime, Mr. Holmes?" said Gregory.
     "I think that I should prefer to stay here a little and go into
one or two questions of detail.  Straker was brought back here, I
presume?"
     "Yes, he lies upstairs.  The inquest is to-morrow."
     "He has been in your service some years, Colonel Ross?"
     "I have always found him an excellent servant."
     "I presume that you made an inventory of what he had in his
pockets at the time of his death, Inspector?"
     "I have the things themselves in the sitting-room if you would
care to see them."
     "I should be very glad."  We all filed into the front room and
sat round the central table while the inspector unlocked a square tin
box and laid a small heap of things before us.  There was a box of
vestas, two inches of tallow candle, an A D P brier-root pipe, a pouch
of sealskin with half an ounce of long-cut Cavendish, a silver watch
with a gold chain, five sovereigns in gold, an aluminum pencil-case, a
few papers, and an ivory-handled knife with a very delicate,
inflexible blade marked Weiss & Co., London.
     "This is a very singular knife," said Holmes, lifting it up and
examining it minutely.  "I presume, as I see blood-stains upon it,
that it is the one which was found in the dead man's grasp.  Watson,
this knife is surely in your line?"
     "It is what we call a cataract knife," said I.
     "I thought so.  A very delicate blade devised for very delicate
work.  A strange thing for a man to carry with him upon a rough
expedition, especially as it would not shut in his pocket."
     "The tip was guarded by a disc of cork which we found beside his
body," said the inspector.  "His wife tells us that the knife had lain
upon the dressing-table, and that he had picked it up as he left the
room.  It was a poor weapon, but perhaps the best that he could lay
his hands on at the moment."
     "Very possibly.  How about these papers?"
     "Three of them are receipted hay-dealers' accounts.  One of them
is a letter of instructions from Colonel Ross.  This other is a
milliner's account for thirty-seven pounds fifteen made out by Madame
Lesurier, of Bond Street, to William Derbyshire.  Mrs. Straker tells
us that Derbyshire was a friend of her husband's, and that
occasionally his letters were addressed here."
     "Madame Derbyshire had somewhat expensive tastes," remarked
Holmes, glancing down the account.  "Twenty-two guineas is rather
heavy for a single costume.  However, there appears to be nothing more
to learn, and we may now go down to the scene of the crime."
     As we emerged from the sitting-room a woman, who had been waiting
in the passage, took a step forward and laid her hand upon the
inspector's sleeve.  Her face was haggard and thin and eager, stamped
with the print of a recent horror.
     "Have you got them?  Have you found them?" she panted.
     "No, Mrs. Straker.  But Mr. Holmes here has come from London to
help us, and we shall do all that is possible."
     "Surely I met you in Plymouth at a garden-party some little time
ago, Mrs. Straker?" said Holmes.
     "No, sir; you are mistaken."
     "Dear me!  Why, I could have sworn to it.  You wore a costume of
dove-coloured silk with ostrich-feather trimming."
     "I never had such a dress, sir," answered the lady.
     "Ah, that quite settles it," said Holmes.  And with an apology he
followed the inspector outside.  A short walk across the moor took us
to the hollow in which the body had been found.  At the brink of it
was the furze-bush upon which the coat had been hung.
     "There was no wind that night, I understand," said Holmes.
     "None, but very heavy rain."
     "In that case the overcoat was not blown against the furze-bush,
but placed there."
     "Yes, it was laid across the bush."
     "You fill me with interest.  I perceive that the ground has been
trampled up a good deal.  No doubt many feet have been here since
Monday night."
     "A piece of matting has been laid here at the side, and we have
all stood upon that."
     "Excellent."
     "In this bag I have one of the boots which Straker wore, one of
Fitzroy Simpson's shoes, and a cast horseshoe of Silver Blaze."
     "My dear Inspector, you surpass yourself!"  Holmes took the bag,
and, descending into the hollow, he pushed the matting into a more
central position.  Then stretching himself upon his face and leaning
his chin upon his hands, he made a careful study of the trampled mud
in front of him.  "Hullo!" said he suddenly.  "What's this?"  It was a
wax vesta, half burned, which was so coated with mud that it looked at
first like a little chip of wood.
     "I cannot think how I came to overlook it," said the inspector
with an expression of annoyance.
     "It was invisible, buried in the mud.  I only saw it because I
was looking for it."
     "What! you expected to find it?"
     "I thought it not unlikely."
     He took the boots from the bag and compared the impressions of
each of them with marks upon the ground.  Then he clambered up to the
rim of the hollow and crawled about among the ferns and bushes.
     "I am afraid that there are no more tracks," said the inspector.
"I have examined the ground very carefully for a hundred yards in each
direction."
     "Indeed!" said Holmes, rising.  "I should not have the
impertinence to do it again after what you say.  But I should like to
take a little walk over the moor before it grows dark that I may know
my ground to-morrow, and I think that I shall put this horseshoe into
my pocket for luck."
     Colonel Ross, who had shown some signs of impatience at my
companion's quiet and systematic method of work, glanced at his watch.
"I wish you would come back with me, Inspector," said he.  "There are
several points on which I should like your advice, and especially as
to whether we do not owe it to the public to remove our horse's name
from the entries for the cup."
     "Certainly not," cried Holmes with decision.  "I should let the
name stand."
     The colonel bowed.  "I am very glad to have had your opinion,
sir," said he.  "You will find us at poor Straker's house when you
have finished your walk, and we can drive together into Tavistock."
     He turned back with the inspector, while Holmes and I walked
slowly across the moor.  The sun was beginning to sink behind the
stable of Mapleton, and the long, sloping plain in front of us was
tinged with gold, deepening into rich, ruddy browns where the faded
ferns and brambles caught the evening light.  But the glories of the
landscape were all wasted upon my companion, who was sunk in the
deepest thought.
     "It's this way, Watson," said he at last.  "We may leave the
question of who killed John Straker for the instant and confine
ourselves to finding out what has become of the horse.  Now, supposing
that he broke away during or after the tragedy, where could he have
gone to?  The horse is a very gregarious creature.  If left to himself
his instincts would have been either to return to King's Pyland or go
over to Mapleton.  Why should he run wild upon the moor?  He would
surely have been seen by now.  And why should gypsies kidnap him?
These people always clear out when they hear of trouble, for they do
not wish to be pestered by the police.  They could not hope to sell
such a horse.  They would run a great risk and gain nothing by taking
him.  Surely that is clear."
     "Where is he, then?"
     "I have already said that he must have gone to King's Pyland or
to Mapleton.  He is not at King's Pyland.  Therefore he is at
Mapleton.  Let us take that as a working hypothesis and see what it
leads us to.  This part of the moor, as the inspector remarked, is
very hard and dry.  But it falls away towards Mapleton, and you can
see from here that there is a long hollow over yonder, which must have
been very wet on Monday night.  If our supposition is correct, then
the horse must have crossed that, and there is the point where we
should look for his tracks."
     We had been walking briskly during this conversation, and a few
more minutes brought us to the hollow in question.  At Holmes's
request I walked down the bank to the right, and he to the left, but I
had not taken fifty paces before I heard him give a shout and saw him
waving his hand to me.  The track of a horse was plainly outlined in
the soft earth in front of him, and the shoe which he took from his
pocket exactly fitted the impression.
     "See the value of imagination," said Holmes.  "It is the one
quality which Gregory lacks.  We imagined what might have happened,
acted upon the supposition, and find ourselves justified.  Let us
proceed."
     We crossed the marshy bottom and passed over a quarter of a mile
of dry, hard turf.  Again the ground sloped, and again we came on the
tracks.  Then we lost them for half a mile, but only to pick them up
once more quite close to Mapleton.  It was Holmes who saw them first,
and he stood pointing with a look of triumph upon his face.  A man's
track was visible beside the horse's.
     "The horse was alone before," I cried.
     "Quite so.  It was alone before.  Hullo, what is this?"
     The double track turned sharp off and took the direction of
King's Pyland.  Holmes whistled, and we both followed along after it.
His eyes were on the trail, but I happened to look a little to one
side and saw to my surprise the same tracks coming back again in the
opposite direction.
     "One for you, Watson," said Holmes when I pointed it out.  "You
have saved us a long walk, which would have brought us back on our own
traces.  Let us follow the return track."
     We had not to go far.  It ended at the paving of asphalt which
led up to the gates of the Mapleton stables.  As we approached, a
groom ran out from them.
     "We don't want any loiterers about here," said he.
     "I only wished to ask a question," said Holmes, with his finger
and thumb in his waistcoat pocket.  "Should I be too early to see your
master, Mr. Silas Brown, if I were to call at five o'clock to-morrow
morning?"
     "Bless you, sir, if anyone is about he will be, for he is always
the first stirring.  But here he is, sir, to answer your questions for
himself.  No, sir, no, it is as much as my place is worth to let him
see me touch your money.  Afterwards, if you like."
     As Sherlock Holmes replaced the half-crown which he had drawn
from his pocket, a fierce-looking elderly man strode out from the gate
with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand.
     "What's this, Dawson!" he cried.  "No gossiping!  Go about your
business!  And you, what the devil do you want here?"
     "Ten minutes' talk with you, my good sir," said Holmes in the
sweetest of voices.
     "I've no time to talk to every gadabout.  We want no strangers
here.  Be off, or you may find a dog at your heels."
     Holmes leaned forward and whispered something in the trainer's
ear.  He started violently and flushed to the temples.
     "It's a lie!" he shouted.  "An infernal lie!"
     "Very good.  Shall we argue about it here in public or talk it
over in your parlour?"
     "Oh, come in if you wish to."
     Holmes smiled.  "I shall not keep you more than a few minutes,
Watson," said he.  "Now, Mr. Brown, I am quite at your disposal."
     It was twenty minutes, and the reds had all faded into grays
before Holmes and the trainer reappeared.  Never have I seen such a
change as had been brought about in Silas Brown in that short time.
His face was ashy pale, beads of perspiration shone upon his brow, and
his hands shook until the hunting-crop wagged like a branch in the
wind.  His bullying, overbearing manner was all gone too, and he
cringed along at my companion's side like a dog with its master.
     "Your instructions will be done.  It shall all be done," said
he.
     "There must be no mistake," said Holmes, looking round at him.
The other winced as he read the menace in his eyes.
     "Oh, no, there shall be no mistake.  It shall be there.  Should I
change it first or not?"
     Holmes thought a little and then burst out laughing.  "No,
don't," said he, "I shall write to you about it.  No tricks, now, or
--"
     "Oh, you can trust me, you can trust me!"
     "Yes, I think I can.  Well, you shall hear from me to-morrow."
He turned upon his heel, disregarding the trembling hand which the
other held out to him, and we set off for King's Pyland.
     "A more perfect compound of the bully, coward, and sneak than
Master Silas Brown I have seldom met with," remarked Holmes as we
trudged along together.
     "He has the horse, then?"
     "He tried to bluster out of it, but I described to him so exactly
what his actions had been upon that morning that he is convinced that
I was watching him.  Of course you observed the peculiarly square toes
in the impressions, and that his own boots exactly corresponded to
them.  Again, of course no subordinate would have dared to do such a
thing.  I described to him how, when according to his custom he was
the first down, he perceived a strange horse wandering over the moor.
How he went out to it, and his astonishment at recognizing, from the
white forehead which has given the favourite its name, that chance had
put in his power the only horse which could beat the one upon which he
had put his money.  Then I described how his first impulse had been to
lead him back to King's Pyland, and how the devil had shown him how he
could hide the horse until the race was over, and how he had led it
back and concealed it at Mapleton.  When I told him every detail he
gave it up and thought only of saving his own skin."
     "But his stables had been searched?"
     "Oh, an old horse-faker like him has many a dodge."
     "But are you not afraid to leave the horse in his power now,
since he has every interest in injuring it?"
     "My dear fellow, he will guard it as the apple of his eye.  He
knows that his only hope of mercy is to produce it safe."
     "Colonel Ross did not impress me as a man who would be likely to
show much mercy in any case."
     "The matter does not rest with Colonel Ross.  I follow my own
methods and tell as much or as little as I choose.  That is the
advantage of being unofficial.  I don't know whether you observed it,
Watson, but the colonel's manner has been just a trifle cavalier to
me.  I am inclined now to have a little amusement at his expense.  Say
nothing to him about the horse."
     "Certainly not without your permission."
     "And of course this is all quite a minor point compared to the
question of who killed John Straker."
     "And you will devote yourself to that?"
     "On the contrary, we both go back to London by the night train."
     I was thunderstruck by my friend's words.  We had only been a few
hours in Devonshire, and that he should give up an investigation which
he had begun so brilliantly was quite incomprehensible to me.  Not a
word more could I draw from him until we were back at the trainer's
house.  The colonel and the inspector were awaiting us in the
parlour.
     "My friend and I return to town by the night-express," said
Holmes.  "We have had a charming little breath of your beautiful
Dartmoor air."
     The inspector opened his eyes, and the colonel's lip curled in a
sneer.
     "So you despair of arresting the murderer of poor Straker," said
he.
     Holmes shrugged his shoulders.  "There are certainly grave
difficulties in the way," said he.  "I have every hope, however, that
your horse will start upon Tuesday, and I beg that you will have your
jockey in readiness.  Might I ask for a photograph of Mr. John
Straker?"
     The inspector took one from an envelope and handed it to him.
     "My dear Gregory, you anticipate all my wants.  If I might ask
you to wait here for an instant, I have a question which I should like
to put to the maid."
     "I must say that I am rather disappointed in our London
consultant," said Colonel Ross bluntly as my friend left the room.  "I
do not see that we are any further than when he came."
     "At least you have his assurance that your horse will run," said
I.
     "Yes, I have his assurance," said the colonel with a shrug of his
shoulders.  "I should prefer to have the horse."
     I was about to make some reply in defence of my friend when he
entered the room again.
     "Now, gentlemen," said he, "I am quite ready for Tavistock."
     As we stepped into the carriage one of the stable-lads held the
door open for us.  A sudden idea seemed to occur to Holmes, for he
leaned forward and touched the lad upon the sleeve.
     "You have a few sheep in the paddock," he said.  "Who attends to
them?"
     "I do, sir."
     "Have you noticed anything amiss with them of late?"
     "Well, sir, not of much account, but three of them have gone
lame, sir."
     I could see that Holmes was extremely pleased, for he chuckled
and rubbed his hands together.
     "A long shot, Watson, a very long shot," said he, pinching my
arm.  "Gregory, let me recommend to your attention this singular
epidemic among the sheep.  Drive on, coachman!"
     Colonel Ross still wore an expression which showed the poor
opinion which he had formed of my companion's ability, but I saw by
the inspector's face that his attention had been keenly aroused.
     "You consider that to be important?" he asked.
     "Exceedingly so."
     "Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my
attention?"
     "To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time."
     "The dog did nothing in the night-time."
     "That was the curious incident," remarked Sherlock Holmes.

     Four days later Holmes and I were again in the train, bound for
Winchester to see the race for the Wessex Cup.  Colonel Ross met us by
appointment outside the station, and we drove in his drag to the
course beyond the town.  His face was grave, and his manner was cold
in the extreme.
     "I have seen nothing of my horse," said he.
     "I suppose that you would know him when you saw him?" asked
Holmes.
     The colonel was very angry.  "I have been on the turf for twenty
years and never was asked such a question as that before," said he.
"A child would know Silver Blaze with his white forehead and his
mottled off-foreleg."
     "How is the betting?"
     "Well, that is the curious part of it.  You could have got
fifteen to one yesterday, but the price has become shorter and
shorter, until you can hardly get three to one now."
     "Hum!" said Holmes.  "Somebody knows something, that is clear."
     As the drag drew up in the enclosure near the grandstand I
glanced at the card to see the entries.

   Wessex Plate it ran] 50 sovs. each h ft with 1000 sovs. added, for
four and five year olds.  Second, L300.  Third, L200.  New course (one
mile and five furlongs).
1. Mr. Heath Newton's The Negro.  Red cap.  Cinnamon jacket.
2. Colonel Wardlaw's Pugilist.  Pink cap.  Blue and black jacket.
3. Lord Backwater's Desborough.  Yellow cap and sleeves.
4. Colonel Ross's Silver Blaze.  Black cap.  Red jacket.
5. Duke of Balmoral's Iris.  Yellow and black stripes.
6. Lord Singleford's Rasper.  Purple cap.  Black sleeves.

     "We scratched our other one and put all hopes on your word," said
the colonel.  "Why, what is that?  Silver Blaze favourite?"
     "Five to four against Silver Blaze!" roared the ring.  "Five to
four against Silver Blaze!  Five to fifteen against Desborough!  Five
to four on the field!"
     "There are the numbers up," I cried.  "They are all six there."
     "All six there?  Then my horse is running," cried the colonel in
great agitation.  "But I don't see him.  My colours have not passed."
     "Only five have passed.  This must be he."
     As I spoke a powerful bay horse swept out from the weighing
enclosure and cantered past us, bearing on its back the well-known
black and red of the colonel.
     "That's not my horse," cried the owner.  "That beast has not a
white hair upon its body.  What is this that you have done, Mr.
Holmes?"
     "Well, well, let us see how he gets on," said my friend
imperturbably.  For a few minutes he gazed through my field-glass.
"Capital!  An excellent start!" he cried suddenly.  "There they are,
coming round the curve!"
     From our drag we had a superb view as they came up the straight.
The six horses were so close together that a carpet could have covered
them, but halfway up the yellow of the Mapleton stable showed to the
front.  Before they reached us, however, Desborough's bolt was shot,
and the colonel's horse, coming away with a rush, passed the post a
good six lengths before its rival, the Duke of Balmoral's Iris making
a bad third.
     "It's my race, anyhow," gasped the colonel, passing his hand over
his eyes.  "I confess that I can make neither head nor tail of it.
Don't you think that you have kept up your mystery long enough, Mr.
Holmes?"
     "Certainly, Colonel, you shall know everything.  Let us all go
round and have a look at the horse together.  Here he is," he
continued as we made our way into the weighing enclosure, where only
owners and their friends find admittance.  "You have only to wash his
face and his leg in spirits of wine, and you will find that he is the
same old Silver Blaze as ever."
     "You take my breath away!"
     "I found him in the hands of a faker and took the liberty of
running him just as he was sent over."
     "My dear sir, you have done wonders.  The horse looks very fit
and well.  It never went better in its life.  I owe you a thousand
apologies for having doubted your ability.  You have done me a great
service by recovering my horse.  You would do me a greater still if
you could lay your hands on the murderer of John Straker."
     "I have done so," said Holmes quietly.
     The colonel and I stared at him in amazement.  "You have got him!
Where is he, then?"
     "He is here."
     "Here!  Where?"
     "In my company at the present moment."
     The colonel flushed angrily.  "I quite recognize that I am under
obligations to you, Mr. Holmes," said he, "but I must regard what you
have just said as either a very bad joke or an insult."
     Sherlock Holmes laughed.  "I assure you that I have not
associated you with the crime, Colonel," said he.  "The real murderer
is standing immediately behind you."  He stepped past and laid his
hand upon the glossy neck of the thoroughbred.
     "The horse!" cried both the colonel and myself.
     "Yes, the horse.  And it may lessen his guilt if I say that it
was done in self-defence, and that John Straker was a man who was
entirely unworthy of your confidence.  But there goes the bell, and as
I stand to win a little on this next race, I shall defer a lengthy
explanation until a more fitting time."

     We had the corner of a Pullman car to ourselves that evening as
we whirled back to London, and I fancy that the journey was a short
one to Colonel Ross as well as to myself as we listened to our
companion's narrative of the events which had occurred at the Dartmoor
training-stables upon that Monday night, and the means by which he had
unravelled them.
     "I confess," said he, "that any theories which I had formed from
the newspaper reports were entirely erroneous.  And yet there were
indications there, had they not been overlaid by other details which
concealed their true import.  I went to Devonshire with the conviction
that Fitzroy Simpson was the true culprit, although, of course, I saw
that the evidence against him was by no means complete.  It was while
I was in the carriage, just as we reached the trainer's house, that
the immense significance of the curried mutton occurred to me.  You
may remember that I was distrait and remained sitting after you had
all alighted.  I was marvelling in my own mind how I could possibly
have overlooked so obvious a clue."
     "I confess," said the colonel, "that even now I cannot see how it
helps us."
     "It was the first link in my chain of reasoning.  Powdered opium
is by no means tasteless.  The flavour is not disagreeable, but it is
perceptible.  Were it mixed with any ordinary dish the eater would
undoubtedly detect it and would probably eat no more.  A curry was
exactly the medium which would disguise this taste.  By no possible
supposition could this stranger, Fitzroy Simpson, have caused curry to
be served in the trainer's family that night, and it is surely too
monstrous a coincidence to suppose that he happened to come along with
powdered opium upon the very night when a dish happened to be served
which would disguise the flavour.  That is unthinkable.  Therefore
Simpson becomes eliminated from the case, and our attention centres
upon Straker and his wife, the only two people who could have chosen
curried mutton for supper that night.  The opium was added after the
dish was set aside for the stable-boy, for the others had the same for
supper with no ill effects.  Which of them, then, had access to that
dish without the maid seeing them?
     "Before deciding that question I had grasped the significance of
the silence of the dog, for one true inference invariably suggests
others.  The Simpson incident had shown me that a dog was kept in the
stables, and yet, though someone had been in and had fetched out a
horse, he had not barked enough to arouse the two lads in the loft.
Obviously the midnight visitor was someone whom the dog knew well.
     "I was already convinced, or almost convinced, that John Straker
went down to the stables in the dead of the night and took out Silver
Blaze.  For what purpose?  For a dishonest one, obviously, or why
should he drug his own stable-boy?  And yet I was at a loss to know
why.  There have been cases before now where trainers have made sure
of great sums of money by laying against their own horses through
agents and then preventing them from winning by fraud.  Sometimes it
is a pulling jockey.  Sometimes it is some surer and subtler means.
What was it here?  I hoped that the contents of his pockets might help
me to form a conclusion.
     "And they did so.  You cannot have forgotten the singular knife
which was found in the dead man's hand, a knife which certainly no
sane man would choose for a weapon.  It was, as Dr. Watson told us, a
form of knife which is used for the most delicate operations known in
surgery.  And it was to be used for a delicate operation that night.
You must know, with your wide experience of turf matters, Colonel
Ross, that it is possible to make a slight nick upon the tendons of a
horse's ham, and to do it subcutaneously, so as to leave absolutely no
trace.  A horse so treated would develop a slight lameness, which
would be put down to a strain in exercise or a touch of rheumatism,
but never to foul play."
     "Villain!  Scoundrel!" cried the colonel.
     "We have here the explanation of why John Straker wished to take
the horse out on to the moor.  So spirited a creature would have
certainly roused the soundest of sleepers when it felt the prick of
the knife.  It was absolutely necessary to do it in the open air."
     "I have been blind!" cried the colonel.  "Of course that was why
he needed the candle and struck the match."
     "Undoubtedly.  But in examining his belongings I was fortunate
enough to discover not only the method of the crime but even its
motives.  As a man of the world, Colonel, you know that men do not
carry other people's bills about in their pockets.  We have most of us
quite enough to do to settle our own.  I at once concluded that
Straker was leading a double life and keeping a second establishment.
The nature of the bill showed that there was a lady in the case, and
one who had expensive tastes.  Liberal as you are with your servants,
one can hardly expect that they can buy twenty-guinea walking dresses
for their ladies.  I questioned Mrs. Straker as to the dress without
her knowing it, and, having satisfied myself that it had never reached
her, I made a note of the milliner's address and felt that by calling
there with Straker's photograph I could easily dispose of the mythical
Derbyshire.
     "From that time on all was plain.  Straker had led out the horse
to a hollow where his light would be invisible.  Simpson in his flight
had dropped his cravat, and Straker had picked it up -- with some
idea, perhaps, that he might use it in securing the horse's leg.  Once
in the hollow, he had got behind the horse and had struck a light; but
the creature, frightened at the sudden glare, and with the strange
instinct of animals feeling that some mischief was intended, had
lashed out, and the steel shoe had struck Straker full on the
forehead.  He had already, in spite of the rain, taken off his
overcoat in order to do his delicate task, and so, as he fell, his
knife gashed his thigh.  Do I make it clear?"
     "Wonderful!" cried the colonel.  "Wonderful!  You might have been
there!"
     "My final shot was, I confess, a very long one.  It struck me
that so astute a man as Straker would not undertake this delicate
tendon-nicking without a little practise.  What could he practise on?
My eyes fell upon the sheep, and I asked a question which, rather to
my surprise, showed that my surmise was correct.
     "When I returned to London I called upon the milliner, who had
recognized Straker as an excellent customer of the name of Derbyshire,
who had a very dashing wife, with a strong partiality for expensive
dresses.  I have no doubt that this woman had plunged him over head
and ears in debt, and so led him into this miserable plot."
     "You have explained all but one thing," cried the colonel.
"Where was the horse?"
     "Ah, it bolted, and was cared for by one of your neighbours.  We
must have an amnesty in that direction, I think.  This is Clapham
Junction, if I am not mistaken, and we shall be in Victoria in less
than ten minutes.  If you care to smoke a cigar in our rooms, Colonel,
I shall be happy to give you any other details which might interest
you."