The woman’s answer was a terrible one. She raised her veil andstepped forward into the light.
“I wonder if you would bear it,” she said.
It was horrible. No words can describe the framework of a facewhen the face itself is gone. Two living and beautiful brown eyeslooking sadly out from that grisly ruin did but make the view moreawful. Holmes held up his hand in a gesture of pity and protest,and together we left the room.
Two days later, when I called upon my friend, he pointed withsome pride to a small blue bottle upon his mantelpiece. I pickedit up. There was a red poison label. A pleasant almondy odour rosewhen I opened it.
“Prussic acid?” said I.
“Exactly. It came by post. ‘I send you my temptation. I willfollow your advice.’ That was the message. I think, Watson, we canguess the name of the brave woman who sent it.”
The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place Sherlock Holmes had been bending for a long time over a lowpowermicroscope. Now he straightened himself up and lookedround at me in triumph.
“It is glue, Watson,” said he. “Unquestionably it is glue. Have alook at these scattered objects in the field!”
I stooped to the eyepiece and focussed for my vision.
“Those hairs are threads from a tweed coat. The irregular graymasses are dust. There are epithelial scales on the left. Thosebrown blobs in the centre are undoubtedly glue.”
“Well,” I said, laughing, “I am prepared to take your word for it.
Does anything depend upon it?”
“It is a very fine demonstration,” he answered. “In the St. Pancrascase you may remember that a cap was found beside the deadpoliceman. The accused man denies that it is his. But he is apicture-frame maker who habitually handles glue.”
“Is it one of your cases?”
“No; my friend, Merivale, of the Yard, asked me to look into thecase. Since I ran down that coiner by the zinc and copper filings inthe seam of his cuff they have begun to realize the importance ofthe microscope.” He looked impatiently at his watch. “I had a newclient calling, but he is overdue. By the way, Watson, you knowsomething of racing?”
“I ought to. I pay for it with about half my wound pension.”
“Then I’ll make you my ‘Handy Guide to the Turf.’ What aboutSir Robert Norberton? Does the name recall anything?”
“Well, I should say so. He lives at Shoscombe Old Place, andI know it well, for my summer quarters were down there once.
Norberton nearly came within your province once.”
“How was that?”
“It was when he horsewhipped Sam Brewer, the well-knownCurzon Street money-lender, on Newmarket Heath. He nearlykilled the man.”
“Ah, he sounds interesting! Does he often indulge in that way?”
“Well, he has the name of being a dangerous man. He is aboutthe most daredevil rider in England—second in the Grand Nationala few years back. He is one of those men who have overshot theirtrue generation. He should have been a buck in the days of theRegency—a boxer, an athlete, a plunger on the turf, a lover of fairladies, and, by all account, so far down Queer Street that he maynever find his way back again.”
“Capital, Watson! A thumb-nail sketch. I seem to know theman. Now, can you give me some idea of Shoscombe Old Place?”
“Only that it is in the centre of Shoscombe Park, and that thefamous Shoscombe stud and training quarters are to be found there.”
“And the head trainer,” said Holmes, “is John Mason. You neednot look surprised at my knowledge, Watson, for this is a letterfrom him which I am unfolding. But let us have some more aboutShoscombe. I seem to have struck a rich vein.”
“There are the Shoscombe spaniels,” said I. “You hear of themat every dog show. The most exclusive breed in England. They arethe special pride of the lady of Shoscombe Old Place.”
“Sir Robert Norberton’s wife, I presume!”
“Sir Robert has never married. Just as well, I think, consideringhis prospects. He lives with his widowed sister, Lady BeatriceFalder.”
“You mean that she lives with him?”
“No, no. The place belonged to her late husband, Sir James.
Norberton has no claim on it at all. It is only a life interest andreverts to her husband’s brother. Meantime, she draws the rentsevery year.”
“And brother Robert, I suppose, spends the said rents?”
“That is about the size of it. He is a devil of a fellow and mustlead her a most uneasy life. Yet I have heard that she is devoted tohim. But what is amiss at Shoscombe?”
“Ah, that is just what I want to know. And here, I expect, is theman who can tell us.”
The door had opened and the page had shown in a tall, cleanshavenman with the firm, austere expression which is only seenupon those who have to control horses or boys. Mr. John Masonhad many of both under his sway, and he looked equal to the task.
He bowed with cold self-possession and seated himself upon thechair to which Holmes had waved him.
“You had my note, Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes, but it explained nothing.”
“It was too delicate a thing for me to put the details on paper.
And too complicated. It was only face to face I could do it.”
“Well, we are at your disposal.”
“First of all, Mr. Holmes, I think that my employer, Sir Robert,has gone mad.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows. “This is Baker Street, not HarleyStreet,” said he. “But why do you say so?”
“Well, sir, when a man does one queer thing, or two queerthings, there may be a meaning to it, but when everything he doesis queer, then you begin to wonder. I believe Shoscombe Princeand the Derby have turned his brain.”
“That is a colt you are running?”
“The best in England, Mr. Holmes. I should know, if anyonedoes. Now, I’ll be plain with you, for I know you are gentlemenof honour and that it won’t go beyond the room. Sir Robert hasgot to win this Derby. He’s up to the neck, and it’s his last chance.
Everything he could raise or borrow is on the horse—and at fineodds, too! You can get forties now, but it was nearer the hundredwhen he began to back him.”
“But how is that if the horse is so good?”
“The public don’t know how good he is. Sir Robert has been tooclever for the touts. He has the Prince’s half-brother out for spins.
