It is a most singular thing that a problem which was certainly as
abstruse and unusual as any which I have faced in my long professional
career should have come to me after my retirement, and be brought, as it
were, to my very door. It occurred after my withdrawal to my little Sussex
home, when I had given myself up entirely to that soothing life of Nature
for which I had so often yearned during the long years spent amid the
gloom of London. At this period of my life the good Watson had passed
almost beyond my ken. An occasional week-end visit was the most that I
ever saw of him. Thus I must act as my own chronicler. Ah! had he but been
with me, how much he might have made of so wonderful a happening and of my
eventual triumph against every difficulty! As it is, however, I must needs
tell my tale in my own plain way, showing by my words each step upon the
difficult road which lay before me as I searched for the mystery of the
Lion's Mane.
My villa is situated upon the southern slope of the downs, commanding
a great view of the Channel. At this point the coast-line is entirely of
chalk cliffs, which can only be descended by a single, long, tortuous
path, which is steep and slippery. At the bottom of the path lie a hundred
yards of pebbles and shingle, even when the tide is at full. Here and
there, however, there are curves and hollows which make splendid
swimming-pools filled afresh with each flow. This admirable beach extends for some
miles in each direction, save only at one point where the little cove and
village of Fulworth break the line.
My house is lonely. I, my old housekeeper, and my bees have the
estate all to ourselves. Half a mile off, however, is Harold Stackhurst's
well-known coaching establishment, The Gables, quite a large place, which
contains some score of young fellows preparing for various professions,
with a staff of several masters. Stackhurst himself was a well-known
rowing Blue in his day, and an excellent all-round scholar. He and I were
always friendly from the day I came to the coast, and he was the one man
who was on such terms with me that we could drop in on each other in the
evenings without an invitation.
Towards the end of July, 1907, there was a severe gale, the wind
blowing up-channel, heaping the seas to the base of the cliffs and leaving
a lagoon at the turn of the tide. On the morning of which I speak the wind
had abated, and all Nature was newly washed and fresh. It was impossible
to work upon so delightful a day, and I strolled out before breakfast to
enjoy the exquisite air. I walked along the cliff path which led to the
steep descent to the beach. As I walked I heard a shout behind me, and
there was Harold Stackhurst waving his hand in cheery greeting.
"What a morning, Mr. Holmes! I thought I should see you out."
"Going for a swim, I see."
"At your old tricks again," he laughed, patting his bulging pocket.
"Yes. McPherson started early, and I expect I may find him there."
Fitzroy McPherson was the science master, a fine upstanding young
fellow whose life had been crippled by heart trouble following rheumatic
fever. He was a natural athlete, however, and excelled in every game which
did not throw too great a strain upon him. Summer and winter he went for
his swim, and, as I am a swimmer myself, I have often joined him.
At this moment we saw the man himself. His head showed above the edge
of the cliff where the path ends. Then his whole figure appeared at the
top, staggering like a drunken man. The next instant he threw up his hands
and, with a terrible cry, fell upon his face. Stackhurst and I rushed
forward –– it may have been fifty yards –– and turned him on his back. He
was obviously dying. Those glazed sunken eyes and dreadful livid cheeks
could mean nothing else. One glimmer of life came into his face for an
instant, and he uttered two or three words with an eager air of warning.
They were slurred and indistinct, but to my ear the last of them, which
burst in a shriek from his lips, were "the Lion's Mane." It was utterly
irrelevant and unintelligible, and yet I could twist the sound into no
other sense. Then he half raised himself from the ground, threw his arms
into the air, and fell forward on his side. He was dead.
My companion was paralyzed by the sudden horror of it, but I, as may
well be imagined, had every sense on the alert. And I had need, for it was
speedily evident that we were in the presence of an extraordinary case.
The man was dressed only in his Burberry overcoat, his trousers, and an
unlaced pair of canvas shoes. As he fell over, his Burberry, which had
been simply thrown round his shoulders, slipped off, exposing his trunk.
We stared at it in amazement. His back was covered with dark red lines as
though he had been terribly flogged by a thin wire scourge. The instrument
with which this punishment had been inflicted was clearly flexible, for
the long, angry weals curved round his shoulders and ribs. There was blood
dripping down his chin, for he had bitten through his lower lip in the
paroxysm of his agony. His drawn and distorted face told how terrible that
agony had been.
I was kneeling and Stackhurst standing by the body when a shadow fell
across us, and we found that Ian Murdoch was by our side. Murdoch was the
mathematical coach at the establishment, a tall, dark, thin man, so
taciturn and aloof that none can be said to have been his friend. He
seemed to live in some high abstract region of surds and conic sections,
with little to connect him with ordinary life. He was looked upon as an
oddity by the students, and would have been their butt, but there was some
strange outlandish blood in the man, which showed itself not only in his
coal-black eyes and swarthy face but also in occasional outbreaks of
temper, which could only be described as ferocious. On one occasion, being
plagued by a little dog belonging to McPherson, he had caught the creature
up and hurled it through the plate-glass window, an action for which
Stackhurst would certainly have given him his dismissal had he not been a
very valuable teacher. Such was the strange complex man who now appeared
beside us. He seemed to be honestly shocked at the sight before him,
though the incident of the dog may show that there was no great sympathy
between the dead man and himself.
"Poor fellow! Poor fellow! What can I do? How can I help?"
"Were you with him? Can you tell us what has happened?"
"No, no, I was late this morning. I was not on the beach at all. I
have come straight from The Gables. What can I do?"
"You can hurry to the police-station at Fulworth. Report the matter
at once."
Without a word he made off at top speed, and I proceeded to take the
matter in hand, while Stackhurst, dazed at this tragedy, remained by the
body. My first task naturally was to note who was on the beach. From the
top of the path I could see the whole sweep of it, and it was absolutely
deserted save that two or three dark figures could be seen far away moving
towards the village of Fulworth. Having satisfied myself upon this point,
I walked slowly down the path. There was clay or soft marl mixed with the
chalk, and every here and there I saw the same footstep, both ascending
and descending. No one else had gone down to the beach by this track that
morning. At one place I observed the print of an open hand with the
fingers towards the incline. This could only mean that poor McPherson had
fallen as he ascended. There were rounded depressions, too, which
suggested that he had come down upon his knees more than once. At the
bottom of the path was the considerable lagoon left by the retreating
tide. At the side of it McPherson had undressed, for there lay his towel
on a rock. It was folded and dry, so that it would seem that, after all,
he had never entered the water. Once or twice as I hunted round amid the
hard shingle I came on little patches of sand where the print of his
canvas shoe, and also of his naked foot, could be seen. The latter fact
proved that he had made all ready to bathe, though the towel indicated
that he had not actually done so.
And here was the problem clearly defined –– as strange a one as had
ever confronted me. The man had not been on the beach more than a quarter
of an hour at the most. Stackhurst had followed him from The Gables, so
there could be no doubt about that. He had gone to bathe and had stripped,
as the naked foot-steps showed. Then he had suddenly huddled on his
clothes again –– they were all dishevelled and unfastened –– and he had
returned without bathing, or at any rate without drying himself. And the
reason for his change of purpose had been that he had been scourged in
some savage, inhuman fashion, tortured until he bit his lip through in his
agony, and was left with only strength enough to crawl away and to die.
Who had done this barbarous deed? There were, it is true, small grottos
and caves in the base of the cliffs, but the low sun shone directly into
them, and there was no place for concealment. Then, again, there were
those distant figures on the beach. They seemed too far away to have been
connected with the crime, and the broad lagoon in which McPherson had
intended to bathe lay between him and them, lapping up to the rocks. On
the sea two or three fishing-boats were at no great distance. Their
occupants might be examined at our leisure. There were several roads for
inquiry, but none which led to any very obvious goal.
When I at last returned to the body I found that a little group of
wondering folk had gathered round it. Stackhurst was, of course, still
there, and Ian Murdoch had just arrived with Anderson, the village
constable, a big, ginger-moustached man of the slow, solid Sussex breed ––
a breed which covers much good sense under a heavy, silent exterior. He
listened to everything, took note of all we said, and finally drew me
aside.
"I'd be glad of your advice, Mr. Holmes. This is a big thing for me
to handle, and I'll hear of it from Lewes if I go wrong."
I advised him to send for his immediate superior, and for a doctor;
also to allow nothing to be moved, and as few fresh footmarks as possible
to be made, until they came. In the meantime I searched the dead man's
pockets. There were his handkerchief, a large knife, and a small folding
card-case. From this projected a slip of paper, which I unfolded and
handed to the constable. There was written on it in a scrawling, feminine
hand:
I will be there, you may be sure.
MAUDIE.
It read like a love affair, an assignation, though when and where
were a blank. The constable replaced it in the card-case and returned it
with the other things to the pockets of the Burberry. Then, as nothing
more suggested itself, I walked back to my house for breakfast, having
first arranged that the base of the cliffs should be thoroughly searched.
Stackhurst was round in an hour or two to tell me that the body had
been removed to The Gables, where the inquest would be held. He brought
with him some serious and definite news. As I expected, nothing had been
found in the small caves below the cliff, but he had examined the papers
in McPherson's desk and there were several which showed an intimate
correspondence with a certain Miss Maud Bellamy, of Fulworth. We had then
established the identity of the writer of the note.
"The police have the letters," he explained. "I could not bring them.
But there is no doubt that it was a serious love affair. I see no reason,
however, to connect it with that horrible happening save, indeed, that the
lady had made an appointment with him."
"But hardly at a bathing-pool which all of you were in the habit of
using," I remarked.
"It is mere chance," said he, "that several of the students were not
with McPherson."
"Was it mere chance?"
Stackhurst knit his brows in thought.
"Ian Murdoch held them back," said he. "He would insist upon some
algebraic demonstration before breakfast. Poor chap, he is dreadfully cut
up about it all."
"And yet I gather that they were not friends."
"At one time they were not. But for a year or more Murdoch has been
as near to McPherson as he ever could be to anyone. He is not of a very
sympathetic disposition by nature."
"So I understand. I seem to remember your telling me once about a
quarrel over the ill-usage of a dog."
"That blew over all right."
"But left some vindictive feeling, perhaps."
"No, no, I am sure they were real friends."
"Well, then, we must explore the matter of the girl. Do you know
her?"
"Everyone knows her. She is the beauty of the neighbourhood –– a real
beauty, Holmes, who would draw attention everywhere. I knew that McPherson
was attracted by her, but I had no notion that it had gone so far as these
letters would seem to indicate."
"But who is she?"
"She is the daughter of old Tom Bellamy who owns all the boats and
bathing-cots at Fulworth. He was a fisherman to start with, but is now a
man of some substance. He and his son William run the business."
"Shall we walk into Fulworth and see them?"
"On what pretext?"
"Oh, we can easily find a pretext. After all, this poor man did not
ill-use himself in this outrageous way. Some human hand was on the handle
of that scourge, if indeed it was a scourge which inflicted the injuries.
His circle of acquaintances in this lonely place was surely limited. Let
us follow it up in every direction and we can hardly fail to come upon the
motive, which in turn should lead us to the criminal."
It would have been a pleasant walk across the thyme-scented downs had
our minds not been poisoned by the tragedy we had witnessed. The village
of Fulworth lies in a hollow curving in a semicircle round the bay. Behind
the old-fashioned hamlet several modern houses have been built upon the
rising ground. It was to one of these that Stackhurst guided me.
"That's The Haven, as Bellamy called it. The one with the corner
tower and slate roof. Not bad for a man who started with nothing but –– By
Jove, look at that!"
The garden gate of The Haven had opened and a man had emerged. There
was no mistaking that tall, angular, straggling figure. It was Ian
Murdoch, the mathematician. A moment later we confronted him upon the
road.
"Hullo!" said Stackhurst. The man nodded, gave us a side-ways glance
from his curious dark eyes, and would have-passed us, but his principal
pulled him up.
"What were you doing there?" he asked.
Murdoch's face flushed with anger. "I am your subordinate, sir, under
your roof. I am not aware that I owe you any account of my private
actions."
Stackhurst's nerves were near the surface after all he had endured.
Otherwise, perhaps, he would have waited. Now he lost his temper
completely.
"In the circumstances your answer is pure impertinence, Mr. Murdoch."
"Your own question might perhaps come under the same heading."
"This is not the first time that I have had to overlook your
insubordinate ways. It will certainly be the last. You will kindly make
fresh arrangements for your future as speedily as you can."
"I had intended to do so. I have lost to-day the only person who made
The Gables habitable."
He strode off upon his way, while Stackhurst, with angry eyes, stood
glaring after him. "Is he not an impossible, intolerable man?" he cried.
The one thing that impressed itself forcibly upon my mind was that
Mr. Ian Murdoch was taking the first chance to open a path of escape from
the scene of the crime. Suspicion, vague and nebulous, was now beginning
to take outline in my mind. Perhaps the visit to the Bellamys might throw
some further light upon the matter. Stackhurst pulled himself together,
and we went forward to the house.
Mr. Bellamy proved to be a middle-aged man with a flaming red beard.
He seemed to be in a very angry mood, and his face was soon as florid as
his hair.
"No, sir, I do not desire any particulars. My son here" –– indicating
a powerful young man, with a heavy, sullen face, in the corner of the
sitting-room –– "is of one mind with me that Mr. McPherson's attentions to
Maud were insulting. Yes, sir, the word 'marriage' was never mentioned,
and yet there were letters and meetings, and a great deal more of which
neither of us could approve. She has no mother, and we are her only
guardians. We are determined ––"
But the words were taken from his mouth by the appearance of the lady
herself. There was no gainsaying that she would have graced any assembly
in the world. Who could have imagined that so rare a flower would grow
from such a root and in such an atmosphere? Women have seldom been an
attraction to me, for my brain has always governed my heart, but I could
not look upon her perfect clear-cut face, with all the soft freshness of
the downlands in her delicate colouring, without realizing that no young
man would cross her path unscathed. Such was the girl who had pushed open
the door and stood now, wide-eyed and intense, in front of Harold
Stackhurst.
"I know already that Fitzroy is dead," she said. "Do not be afraid to
tell me the particulars."
"This other gentleman of yours let us know the news," explained the
father.
"There is no reason why my sister should be brought into the matter,"
growled the younger man.
The sister turned a sharp, fierce look upon him. "This is my
business, William. Kindly leave me to manage it in my own way. By all
accounts there has been a crime committed. If I can help to show who did
it, it is the least I can do for him who is gone."
She listened to a short account from my companion, with a composed
concentration which showed me that she possessed strong character as well
as great beauty. Maud Bellamy will always remain in my memory as a most
complete and remark-able woman. It seems that she already knew me by
sight, for she turned to me at the end.
"Bring them to justice, Mr. Holmes. You have my sympathy and my help,
whoever they may be." It seemed to me that she glanced defiantly at her
father and brother as she spoke.
"Thank you," said I. "I value a woman's instinct in such matters. You
use the word 'they.' You think that more than one was concerned?"
"I knew Mr. McPherson well enough to be aware that he was a brave and
a strong man. No single person could ever have inflicted such an outrage
upon him."
"Might I have one word with you alone?"
"I tell you, Maud, not to mix yourself up in the matter," cried her
father angrily.
She looked at me helplessly. "What can I do?"
"The whole world will know the facts presently, so there can be no
harm if I discuss them here," said I. "I should have preferred privacy,
but if your father will not allow it he must share the deliberations."
Then I spoke of the note which had been found in the dead man's pocket.
"It is sure to be produced at the inquest. May I ask you to throw any
light upon it that you can?"
"I see no reason for mystery," she answered. "We were engaged to be
married, and we only kept it secret because Fitzroy's uncle, who is very
old and said to be dying, might have disinherited him if he had married
against his wish. There was no other reason."
"You could have told us," growled Mr. Bellamy.
"So I would, father, if you had ever shown sympathy."
"I object to my girl picking up with men outside her own station."
"It was your prejudice against him which prevented us from telling
you. As to this appointment" –– she fumbled in her dress and produced a
crumpled note –– "it was in answer to this."
DEAREST [ran the message]:
The old place on the beach just after sunset on Tuesday. It is the only time I can get away.
F.M.
"Tuesday was to-day, and I had meant to meet him to-night."
I turned over the paper. "This never came by post. How did you get
it?"
"I would rather not answer that question. It has really nothing to do
with the matter which you are investigating. But anything which bears upon
that I will most freely answer."
She was as good as her word, but there was nothing which was helpful
in our investigation. She had no reason to think that her fiance had any
hidden enemy, but she admitted that she had had several warm admirers.
"May I ask if Mr. Ian Murdoch was one of them?"
She blushed and seemed confused.
"There was a time when I thought he was. But that was all changed
when he understood the relations between Fitzroy and myself."
Again the shadow round this strange man seemed to me to be taking
more definite shape. His record must be examined. His rooms must be
privately searched. Stackhurst was a willing collaborator, for in his mind
also suspicions were forming. We returned from our visit to The Haven with
the hope that one free end of this tangled skein was already in our hands.
A week passed. The inquest had thrown no light upon the matter and
had been adjourned for further evidence. Stackhurst had made discreet
inquiry about his subordinate, and there had been a superficial search of
his room, but without result. Personally, I had gone over the whole ground
again, both physically and mentally, but with no new conclusions. In all
my chronicles the reader will find no case which brought me so completely
to the limit of my powers. Even my imagination could conceive no solution
to the mystery. And then there came the incident of the dog.
It was my old housekeeper who heard of it first by that strange
wireless by which such people collect the news of the countryside.
"Sad story this, sir, about Mr. McPherson's dog," said she one
evening.
I do not encourage such conversations, but the words arrested my
attention.
"What of Mr. McPherson's dog?"
"Dead, sir. Died of grief for its master."
"Who told you this?"
"Why, sir, everyone is talking of it. It took on terrible, and has
eaten nothing for a week. Then to-day two of the young gentlemen from The
Gables found it dead –– down on the beach, sir, at the very place where
its master met his end."
"At the very place." The words stood out clear in my memory. Some dim
perception that the matter was vital rose in my mind. That the dog should
die was after the beautiful, faithful nature of dogs. But "in the very
place"! Why should this lonely beach be fatal to it? Was it possible that
it also had been sacrificed to some revengeful feud? Was it possible ––?
Yes, the perception was dim, but already something was building up in my
mind. In a few minutes I was on my way to The Gables, where I found
Stackhurst in his study. At my request he sent for Sudbury and Blount, the
two students who had found the dog.
"Yes, it lay on the very edge of the pool," said one of them. "It
must have followed the trail of its dead master."
I saw the faithful little creature, an Airedale terrier, laid out
upon the mat in the hall. The body was stiff and rigid, the eyes
projecting, and the limbs contorted. There was agony in every line of it.
From The Gables I walked down to the bathing-pool. The sun had sunk
and the shadow of the great cliff lay black across the water, which
glimmered dully like a sheet of lead. The place was deserted and there was
no sign of life save for two sea-birds circling and screaming overhead. In
the fading light I could dimly make out the little dog's spoor upon the
sand round the very rock on which his master's towel had been laid. For a
long time I stood in deep meditation while the shadows grew darker around
me. My mind was filled with racing thoughts. You have known what it was to
be in a nightmare in which you feel that there is some all-important thing
for which you search and which you know is there, though it remains
forever just beyond your reach. That was how I felt that evening as I
stood alone by that place of death. Then at last I turned and walked
slowly homeward.
I had just reached the top of the path when it came to me. Like a
flash, I remembered the thing for which I had so eagerly and vainly
grasped. You will know, or Watson has written in vain, that I hold a vast
store of out-of-the-way knowledge without scientific system, but very
available for the needs of my work. My mind is like a crowded box-room
with packets of all sorts stowed away therein –– so many that I may well
have but a vague perception of what was there. I had known that there was
something which might bear upon this matter. It was still vague, but at
least I knew how I could make it clear. It was monstrous, incredible, and
yet it was always a possibility. I would test it to the full.
There is a great garret in my little house which is stuffed with
books. It was into this that I plunged and rummaged for an hour. At the
end of that time I emerged with a little chocolate and silver volume.
Eagerly I turned up the chapter of which I had a dim remembrance. Yes, it
was indeed a far-fetched and unlikely proposition, and yet I could not be
at rest until I had made sure if it might, indeed, be so. It was late when
I retired, with my mind eagerly awaiting the work of the morrow.
But that work met with an annoying interruption. I had hardly
swallowed my early cup of tea and was starting for the beach when_ I had a
call from Inspector Bardle of the Sussex Constabulary –– a steady, solid,
bovine man with thoughtful eyes, which looked at me now with a very
troubled expression.
"I know your immense experience, sir," said he. "This is quite
unofficial, of course, and need go no farther. But I am fairly up against
it in this McPherson case. The question is, shall I make an arrest, or
shall I not?"
"Meaning Mr. Ian Murdoch?"
"Yes, sir. There is really no one else when you come to think of it.
That's the advantage of this solitude. We narrow it down to a very small
compass. If he did not do it, then who did?"
"What have you against him?"
He had gleaned along the same furrows as I had. There was Murdoch's
character and the mystery which seemed to hang round the man. His furious
bursts of temper, as shown in the incident of the dog. The fact that he
had quarrelled with McPherson in the past, and that there was some reason
to think that he might have resented his attentions to Miss Bellamy. He
had all my points, but no fresh ones, save that Murdoch seemed to be
making every preparation for departure.
"What would my position be if I let him slip away with all this
evidence against him?" The burly, phlegmatic man was sorely troubled in
his mind.
"Consider," I said, "all the essential gaps in your case. On the
morning of the crime he can surely prove an alibi. He had been with his
scholars till the last moment, and within a few minutes of McPherson's
appearance he came upon us from behind. Then bear in mind the absolute
impossibility that he could single-handed have inflicted this outrage upon
a man quite as strong as himself. Finally, there is this question of the
instrument with which these injuries were inflicted."
"What could it be but a scourge or flexible whip of some sort?"
"Have you examined the marks?" I asked.
"I have seen them. So has the doctor."
"But I have examined them very carefully with a lens. They have
peculiarities."
"What are they, Mr. Holmes?"
I stepped to my bureau and brought out an enlarged photograph. "This
is my method in such cases," I explained.
"You certainly do things thoroughly, Mr. Holmes."
"I should hardly be what I am if I did not. Now let us consider this
weal which extends round the right shoulder. Do you observe nothing
remarkable?"
"I can't say I do."
"Surely it is evident that it is unequal in its intensity. There is a
dot of extravasated blood here, and another there. There are similar
indications in this other weal down here. What can that mean?"
"I have no idea. Have you?"
"Perhaps I have. Perhaps I haven't. I may be able to say more soon.
Anything which will define what made that mark will bring us a long way
towards the criminal."
"It is, of course, an absurd idea," said the policeman, "but if a
red-hot net of wire had been laid across the back, then these better
marked points would represent where the meshes crossed each other."
"A most ingenious comparison. Or shall we say a very stiff
cat-o'-nine-tails with small hard knots upon it?"
"By Jove, Mr. Holmes, I think you have hit it."
"Or there may be some very different cause, Mr. Bardle. But your case
is far too weak for an arrest. Besides, we have those last words –– the
'Lion's Mane.' "
"I have wondered whether Ian ––"
"Yes, I have considered that. If the second word had borne any
resemblance to Murdoch –– but it did not. He gave it almost in a shriek. I
am sure that it was 'Mane.' "
"Have you no alternative, Mr. Holmes?"
"Perhaps I have. But I do not care to discuss it until there is
something more solid to discuss."
"And when will that be?"
"In an hour –– possibly less."
The inspector rubbed his chin and looked at me with dubious eyes.
"I wish I could see what was in your mind, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps it's
those fishing-boats."
"No, no, they were too far out."
"Well, then, is it Bellamy and that big son of his? They were not too
sweet upon Mr. McPherson. Could they have done him a mischief?"
"No, no, you won't draw me until I am ready," said I with a smile.
"Now, Inspector, we each have our own work to do. Perhaps if you were to
meet me here at midday ––"
So far we had got when there came the tremendous interruption which
was the beginning of the end.
My outer door was flung open, there were blundering foot-steps in the
passage, and Ian Murdoch staggered into the room, pallid, dishevelled, his
clothes in wild disorder, clawing with his bony hands at the furniture to
hold himself erect. "Brandy! Brandy!" he gasped, and fell groaning upon
the sofa.
He was not alone. Behind him came Stackhurst, hatless and panting,
almost as distrait as his companion.
"Yes, yes, brandy!" he cried. "The man is at his last gasp. It was
all I could do to bring him here. He fainted twice upon the way."
Half a tumbler of the raw spirit brought about a wondrous change. He
pushed himself up on one arm and swung his coat from his shoulders. "For
God's sake oil, opium, morphia!" he cried. "Anything to ease this infernal
agony!"
The inspector and I cried out at the sight. There, crisscrossed upon
the man's naked shoulder, was the same strange reticulated pattern of red,
inflamed lines which had been the death-mark of Fitzroy McPherson.
The pain was evidently terrible and was more than local, for the
sufferer's breathing would stop for a time, his face would turn black, and
then with loud gasps he would clap his hand to his heart, while his brow
dropped beads of sweat. At any moment he might die. More and more brandy
was poured down his throat, each fresh dose bringing him back to life.
Pads of cotton-wool soaked in salad-oil seemed to take the agony from the
strange wounds. At last his head fell heavily upon the cushion. Exhausted
Nature had taken refuge in its last storehouse of vitality. It was half a
sleep and half a faint, but at least it was ease from pain.
To question him had been impossible, but the moment we were assured
of his condition Stackhurst turned upon me.
"My God!" he cried, "what is it, Holmes? What is it?"
"Where did you find him?"
"Down on the beach. Exactly where poor McPherson met his end. If this
man's heart had been weak as McPherson's was, he would not be here now.
More than once I thought he was gone as I brought him up. It was too far
to The Gables, so I made for you."
"Did you see him on the beach?"
"I was walking on the cliff when I heard his cry. He was at the edge
of the water, reeling about like a drunken man. I ran down, threw some
clothes about him, and brought him up. For heaven's sake, Holmes, use all
the powers you have and spare no pains to lift the curse from this place,
for life is becoming unendurable. Can you, with all your world-wide
reputation, do nothing for us?"
"I think I can, Stackhurst. Come with me now! And you, Inspector,
come along! We will see if we cannot deliver this murderer into your
hands."
Leaving the unconscious man in the charge of my house-keeper, we all
three went down to the deadly lagoon. On the shingle there was piled a
little heap of towels and clothes left by the stricken man. Slowly I
walked round the edge of the water, my comrades in Indian file behind me.
Most of the pool was quite shallow, but under the cliff where the beach
was hollowed out it was four or five feet deep. It was to this part that a
swimmer would naturally go, for it formed a beautiful pellucid green pool
as clear as crystal. A line of rocks lay above it at the base of the
cliff, and along this I led the way, peering eagerly into the depths
beneath me. I had reached the deepest and stillest pool when my eyes
caught that for which they were searching, and I burst into a shout of
triumph.
"Cyanea!" I cried. "Cyanea! Behold the Lion's Mane!"
The strange object at which I pointed did indeed look like a tangled
mass torn from the mane of a lion. It lay upon a rocky shelf some three
feet under the water, a curious waving, vibrating, hairy creature with
streaks of silver among its yellow tresses. It pulsated with a slow, heavy
dilation and contraction.
"It has done mischief enough. Its day is over!" I cried. "Help me,
Stackhurst! Let us end the murderer forever."
There was a big boulder just above the ledge, and we pushed it until
it fell with a tremendous splash into the water. When the ripples had
cleared we saw that it had settled upon the ledge below. One flapping edge
of yellow membrane showed that our victim was beneath it. A thick oily
scum oozed out from below the stone and stained the water round, rising
slowly to the surface.
"Well, this gets me!" cried the inspector. "What was it, Mr. Holmes?
I'm born and bred in these parts, but I never saw such a thing. It don't
belong to Sussex."
"Just as well for Sussex," I remarked. "It may have been the
southwest gale that brought it up. Come back to my house, both of you, and
I will give you the terrible experience of one who has good reason to
remember his own meeting with the same peril of the seas."
When we reached my study we found that Murdoch was so far recovered
that he could sit up. He was dazed in mind, and every now and then was
shaken by a paroxysm of pain. In broken words he explained that he had no
notion what had occurred to him, save that terrific pangs had suddenly
shot through him, and that it had taken all his fortitude to reach the
bank.
"Here is a book," I said, taking up the little volume, "which first
brought light into what might have been forever dark. It is Out of Doors,
by the famous observer, J. G. Wood. Wood himself very nearly perished from
contact with this vile creature, so he wrote with a very full knowledge.
Cyanea capillata is the miscreant's full name, and he can be as dangerous
to life as, and far more painful than, the bite of the cobra. Let me
briefly give this extract.
"If the bather should see a loose roundish mass of tawny
membranes and fibres, something like very large handfuls
of lion's mane and silver paper, let him beware, for this is
the fearful stinger, Cyanea capillata.
Could our sinister acquaintance be more clearly described?
"He goes on to tell of his own encounter with one when swimming off
the coast of Kent. He found that the creature radiated almost invisible
filaments to the distance of fifty feet, and that anyone within that
circumference from the deadly centre was in danger of death. Even at a
distance the effect upon Wood was almost fatal.
"The multitudinous threads caused light scarlet lines upon the
skin which on closer examination resolved into minute dots or
pustules, each dot charged as it were with a red-hot needle making
its way through the nerves.
"The local pain was, as he explains, the least part of the exquisite
torment.
"Pangs shot through the chest, causing me to fall as if struck by
a bullet. The pulsation would cease, and then the heart would give
six or seven leaps as if it would force its way through the chest.
"It nearly killed him, although he had only been exposed to it in the
disturbed ocean and not in the narrow calm waters of a bathing-pool. He
says that he could hardly recognize himself afterwards, so white, wrinkled
and shrivelled was his face. He gulped down brandy, a whole bottleful, and
it seems to have saved his life. There is the book, Inspector. I leave it
with you, and you cannot doubt that it contains a full explanation of the
tragedy of poor McPherson."
"And incidentally exonerates me," remarked Ian Murdoch with a wry
smile. "I do not blame you, Inspector, nor you, Mr. Holmes, for your
suspicions were natural. I feel that on the very eve of my arrest I have
only cleared myself by sharing the fate of my poor friend."
"No, Mr. Murdoch. I was already upon the track, and had I been out as
early as I intended I might well have saved you from this terrific
experience."
"But how did you know, Mr. Holmes?"
"I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for
trifles. That phrase 'the Lion's Mane' haunted my mind. I knew that I had
seen it somewhere in an unexpected context. You have seen that it does
describe the creature. I have no doubt that it was floating on the water
when McPherson saw it, and that this phrase was the only one by which he
could convey to us a warning as to the creature which had been his death."
"Then I, at least, am cleared," said Murdoch, rising slowly to his
feet. "There are one or two words of explanation which I should give, for
I know the direction in which your inquiries have run. It is true that I
loved this lady, but from the day when she chose my friend McPherson my
one desire was to help her to happiness. I was well content to stand aside
and act as their go-between. Often I carried their messages, and it was
because I was in their confidence and because she was so dear to me that I
hastened to tell her of my friend's death, lest someone should forestall
me in a more sudden and heartless manner. She would not tell you, sir, of
our relations lest you should disapprove and I might suffer. But with your
leave I must try to get back to The Gables, for my bed will be very
welcome."
Stackhurst held out his hand. "Our nerves have all been at
concert-pitch," said he. "Forgive what is past, Murdoch. We shall
understand each other better in the future." They passed out together with
their arms linked in friendly fashion. The
inspector remained, staring at me in silence with his ox-like eyes.
"Well, you've done it!" he cried at last. "I had read of you, but I
never believed it. It's wonderful!"
I was forced to shake my head. To accept such praise was to lower
one's own standards.
"I was slow at the outset –– culpably slow. Had the body been found
in the water I could hardly have missed it. It was the towel which misled
me. The poor fellow had never thought to dry himself, and so I in turn was
led to believe that he had never been in the water. Why, then, should the
attack of any water creature suggest itself to me? That was where I went
astray. Well, well, Inspector, I often ventured to chaff you gentlemen of
the police force, but Cyanea capillata very nearly avenged Scotland Yard."
