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  #11 in our series by A. Conan Doyle

  Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes

  by Arthur Conan Doyle

  Adventure I

  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 upon 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 favorite 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 favor 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 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 any one would

  think who only knew me through your memoirs. The fact

  is that I could not believe is 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 co-operation 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 favorite for the

  Wessex Cup, the betting being three to one on him. He

  has always, however, been a prime favorite 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

  favorite. The trainer, John Straker, is a retired

  jockey who rode in Colonel Ross's colors 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 tow hundred yards from the

  stables. He has no children, keeps one maid-servant,

  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 be 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 he 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 favorite'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 neighboring moors were visible,

  they not only could see no signs of the missing

  favorite, 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 contain 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 favorite. On being arrested he

  volunteered that 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 favorite, 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 in not possible," I suggested, "that the incised

  would 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 favor

  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