mutilated by an expanding revolver bullet, but no weapon of
any sort was to be found in the room. On the table lay two
bank-notes for ten pounds each and seventeen pounds ten in
silver and gold, the money arranged in little piles of
varying amount. There were some figures also upon a sheet
of paper with the names of some club friends opposite to
them, from which it was conjectured that before his death
he was endeavouring to make out his losses or winnings at
cards.
A minute examination of the circumstances served only to
make the case more complex. In the first place, no reason
could be given why the young man should have fastened the
door upon the inside. There was the possibility that the
murderer had done this and had afterwards escaped by the
window. The drop was at least twenty feet, however, and a
bed of crocuses in full bloom lay beneath. Neither the
flowers nor the earth showed any sign of having been
disturbed, nor were there any marks upon the narrow strip
of grass which separated the house from the road.
Apparently, therefore, it was the young man himself who had
fastened the door. But how did he come by his death? No
one could have climbed up to the window without leaving
traces. Suppose a man had fired through the window, it
would indeed be a remarkable shot who could with a revolver
inflict so deadly a wound. Again, Park Lane is a
frequented thoroughfare, and there is a cab-stand within
a hundred yards of the house. No one had heard a shot.
And yet there was the dead man, and there the revolver bullet,
which had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bullets will, and
so inflicted a wound which must have caused instantaneous
death. Such were the circumstances of the Park Lane
Mystery, which were further complicated by entire absence
of motive, since, as I have said, young Adair was not known
to have any enemy, and no attempt had been made to remove
the money or valuables in the room.
All day I turned these facts over in my mind, endeavouring
to hit upon some theory which could reconcile them all, and
to find that line of least resistance which my poor friend
had declared to be the starting-point of every investigation.
I confess that I made little progress. In the evening I
strolled across the Park, and found myself about six o'clock
at the Oxford Street end of Park Lane. A group of loafers
upon the pavements, all staring up at a particular window,
directed me to the house which I had come to see. A tall,
thin man with coloured glasses, whom I strongly suspected
of being a plain-clothes detective, was pointing out some
theory of his own, while the others crowded round to listen
to what he said. I got as near him as I could, but his
observations seemed to me to be absurd, so I withdrew again
in some disgust. As I did so I struck against an elderly
deformed man, who had been behind me, and I knocked down
several books which he was carrying. I remember that as I
picked them up I observed the title of one of them,
"The Origin of Tree Worship," and it struck me that the
fellow must be some poor bibliophile who, either as a trade
or as a hobby, was a collector of obscure volumes.
I endeavoured to apologize for the accident, but it was
evident that these books which I had so unfortunately
maltreated were very precious objects in the eyes of their
owner. With a snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel,
and I saw his curved back and white side-whiskers disappear
among the throng.
My observations of No. 427, Park Lane, did little to clear
up the problem in which I was interested. The house was
separated from the street by a low wall and railing, the
whole not more than five feet high. It was perfectly easy,
therefore, for anyone to get into the garden, but the
window was entirely inaccessible, since there was no
water-pipe or anything which could help the most active man
to climb it. More puzzled than ever I retraced my steps to
Kensington. I had not been in my study five minutes when
the maid entered to say that a person desired to see me.
To my astonishment it was none other than my strange old
book-collector, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a
frame of white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of
them at least, wedged under his right arm.
"You're surprised to see me, sir," said he, in a strange,
croaking voice.
I acknowledged that I was.
"Well, I've a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see
you go into this house, as I came hobbling after you,
I thought to myself, I'll just step in and see that kind
gentleman, and tell him that if I was a bit gruff in my
manner there was not any harm meant, and that I am much
obliged to him for picking up my books."
"You make too much of a trifle," said I. "May I ask how
you knew who I was?"
"Well, sir, if it isn't too great a liberty, I am a
neighbour of yours, for you'll find my little bookshop at
the corner of Church Street, and very happy to see you,
I am sure. Maybe you collect yourself, sir; here's 'British
Birds,' and 'Catullus,' and 'The Holy War' -- a bargain
every one of them. With five volumes you could just fill
that gap on that second shelf. It looks untidy, does it
not, sir?"
I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I
turned again Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me
across my study table. I rose to my feet, stared at him
for some seconds in utter amazement, and then it appears
that I must have fainted for the first and the last time
in my life. Certainly a grey mist swirled before my eyes,
and when it cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the
tingling after-taste of brandy upon my lips. Holmes was
bending over my chair, his flask in his hand.
"My dear Watson," said the well-remembered voice, "I owe
you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be
so affected."
I gripped him by the arm.
"Holmes!" I cried. "Is it really you? Can it indeed be
that you are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in
climbing out of that awful abyss?"
"Wait a moment," said he. "Are you sure that you are
really fit to discuss things? I have given you a serious
shock by my unnecessarily dramatic reappearance."
"I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe
my eyes. Good heavens, to think that you -- you of all men
-- should be standing in my study!" Again I gripped him
by the sleeve and felt the thin, sinewy arm beneath it.
"Well, you're not a spirit, anyhow," said I. "My dear chap,
I am overjoyed to see you. Sit down and tell me how you came
alive out of that dreadful chasm."
He sat opposite to me and lit a cigarette in his old
nonchalant manner. He wa
s dressed in the seedy frock-coat
of the book merchant, but the rest of that individual lay
in a pile of white hair and old books upon the table.
Holmes looked even thinner and keener than of old, but
there was a dead-white tinge in his aquiline face which
told me that his life recently had not been a healthy one.
"I am glad to stretch myself, Watson," said he. "It is no
joke when a tall man has to take a foot off his stature for
several hours on end. Now, my dear fellow, in the matter
of these explanations we have, if I may ask for your
co-operation, a hard and dangerous night's work in front
of us. Perhaps it would be better if I gave you an account
of the whole situation when that work is finished."
"I am full of curiosity. I should much prefer to hear
now."
"You'll come with me to-night?"
"When you like and where you like."
"This is indeed like the old days. We shall have time for
a mouthful of dinner before we need go. Well, then, about
that chasm. I had no serious difficulty in getting out of
it, for the very simple reason that I never was in it."
"You never were in it?"
"No, Watson, I never was in it. My note to you was
absolutely genuine. I had little doubt that I had come to
the end of my career when I perceived the somewhat sinister
figure of the late Professor Moriarty standing upon the
narrow pathway which led to safety. I read an inexorable
purpose in his grey eyes. I exchanged some remarks with
him, therefore, and obtained his courteous permission to
write the short note which you afterwards received. I left
it with my cigarette-box and my stick and I walked along
the pathway, Moriarty still at my heels. When I reached
the end I stood at bay. He drew no weapon, but he rushed
at me and threw his long arms around me. He knew that his
own game was up, and was only anxious to revenge himself
upon me. We tottered together upon the brink of the fall.
I have some knowledge, however, of baritsu, or the Japanese
system of wrestling, which has more than once been very
useful to me. I slipped through his grip, and he with a
horrible scream kicked madly for a few seconds and clawed
the air with both his hands. But for all his efforts he
could not get his balance, and over he went. With my face
over the brink I saw him fall for a long way. Then he
struck a rock, bounded off, and splashed into the water."
I listened with amazement to this explanation, which Holmes
delivered between the puffs of his cigarette.
"But the tracks!" I cried. "I saw with my own eyes that
two went down the path and none returned."
"It came about in this way. The instant that the Professor
had disappeared it struck me what a really extraordinarily
lucky chance Fate had placed in my way. I knew that
Moriarty was not the only man who had sworn my death.
There were at least three others whose desire for vengeance
upon me would only be increased by the death of their
leader. They were all most dangerous men. One or other
would certainly get me. On the other hand, if all the
world was convinced that I was dead they would take
liberties, these men, they would lay themselves open, and
sooner or later I could destroy them. Then it would be
time for me to announce that I was still in the land of the
living. So rapidly does the brain act that I believe I had
thought this all out before Professor Moriarty had reached
the bottom of the Reichenbach Fall.
"I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me. In your
picturesque account of the matter, which I read with great
interest some months later, you assert that the wall was
sheer. This was not literally true. A few small footholds
presented themselves, and there was some indication of a
ledge. The cliff is so high that to climb it all was an
obvious impossibility, and it was equally impossible to
make my way along the wet path without leaving some tracks.
I might, it is true, have reversed my boots, as I have done
on similar occasions, but the sight of three sets of tracks
in one direction would certainly have suggested a
deception. On the whole, then, it was best that I should
risk the climb. It was not a pleasant business, Watson.
The fall roared beneath me. I am not a fanciful person,
but I give you my word that I seemed to hear Moriarty's
voice screaming at me out of the abyss. A mistake would
have been fatal. More than once, as tufts of grass came
out in my hand or my foot slipped in the wet notches of the
rock, I thought that I was gone. But I struggled upwards,
and at last I reached a ledge several feet deep and covered
with soft green moss, where I could lie unseen in the most
perfect comfort. There I was stretched when you, my dear
Watson, and all your following were investigating in the
most sympathetic and inefficient manner the circumstances
of my death.
"At last, when you had all formed your inevitable and
totally erroneous conclusions, you departed for the hotel
and I was left alone. I had imagined that I had reached
the end of my adventures, but a very unexpected occurrence
showed me that there were surprises still in store for me.
A huge rock, falling from above, boomed past me, struck the
path, and bounded over into the chasm. For an instant I
thought that it was an accident; but a moment later,
looking up, I saw a man's head against the darkening sky,
and another stone struck the very ledge upon which I was
stretched, within a foot of my head. Of course, the
meaning of this was obvious. Moriarty had not been alone.
A confederate -- and even that one glance had told me how
dangerous a man that confederate was -- had kept guard
while the Professor had attacked me. From a distance,
unseen by me, he had been a witness of his friend's death
and of my escape. He had waited, and then, making his
way round to the top of the cliff, he had endeavoured to
succeed where his comrade had failed.
"I did not take long to think about it, Watson. Again I
saw that grim face look over the cliff, and I knew that it
was the precursor of another stone. I scrambled down on
to the path. I don't think I could have done it in cold
blood. It was a hundred times more difficult than getting
up. But I had no time to think of the danger, for another
stone sang past me as I hung by my hands from the edge of
the ledge. Halfway down I slipped, but by the blessing of
God I landed, torn and bleeding, upon the path. I took to
my heels, did ten miles over the mountains in the darkness,
and a week later I found myself in Florence with the
certainty that no one in the world knew what had become of
me.
"I had only one confidant -- my brother Myc
roft. I owe you
many apologies, my dear Watson, but it was all-important
that it should be thought I was dead, and it is quite
certain that you would not have written so convincing an
account of my unhappy end had you not yourself thought that
it was true. Several times during the last three years I
have taken up my pen to write to you, but always I feared
lest your affectionate regard for me should tempt you to
some indiscretion which would betray my secret. For that
reason I turned away from you this evening when you upset
my books, for I was in danger at the time, and any show of
surprise and emotion upon your part might have drawn
attention to my identity and led to the most deplorable and
irreparable results. As to Mycroft, I had to confide in
him in order to obtain the money which I needed. The
course of events in London did not run so well as I had
hoped, for the trial of the Moriarty gang left two of its
most dangerous members, my own most vindictive enemies, at
liberty. I travelled for two years in Tibet, therefore,
and amused myself by visiting Lhassa and spending some days
with the head Llama. You may have read of the remarkable
explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am sure
that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news
of your friend. I then passed through Persia, looked in at
Mecca, and paid a short but interesting visit to the
Khalifa at Khartoum, the results of which I have
communicated to the Foreign Office. Returning to France
I spent some months in a research into the coal-tar
derivatives, which I conducted in a laboratory at
Montpelier, in the South of France. Having concluded this
to my satisfaction, and learning that only one of my
enemies was now left in London, I was about to return
when my movements were hastened by the news of this very
remarkable Park Lane Mystery, which not only appealed to
me by its own merits, but which seemed to offer some most
peculiar personal opportunities. I came over at once to
London, called in my own person at Baker Street, threw Mrs.
Hudson into violent hysterics, and found that Mycroft had
preserved my rooms and my papers exactly as they had always
been. So it was, my dear Watson, that at two o'clock
to-day I found myself in my old arm-chair in my own old
room, and only wishing that I could have seen my old friend
Watson in the other chair which he has so often adorned."
Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened on
that April evening -- a narrative which would have been
utterly incredible to me had it not been confirmed by the
actual sight of the tall, spare figure and the keen, eager
face, which I had never thought to see again. In some
manner he had learned of my own sad bereavement, and his
sympathy was shown in his manner rather than in his words.
"Work is the best antidote to sorrow, my dear Watson," said
he, "and I have a piece of work for us both to-night which,
if we can bring it to a successful conclusion, will in
itself justify a man's life on this planet." In vain I
begged him to tell me more. "You will hear and see enough
before morning," he answered. "We have three years of the
past to discuss. Let that suffice until half-past nine,
when we start upon the notable adventure of the empty house."
It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found
myself seated beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my
pocket and the thrill of adventure in my heart. Holmes was
cold and stern and silent. As the gleam of the
street-lamps flashed upon his austere features I saw that
his brows were drawn down in thought and his thin lips
compressed. I knew not what wild beast we were about to
hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal London, but I was
well assured from the bearing of this master huntsman that
the adventure was a most grave one, while the sardonic
smile which occasionally broke through his ascetic gloom
boded little good for the object of our quest.
I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, but
Holmes stopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square.