Bennett. The various incidents will now fit themselves easily intothe general scheme. The dog, of course, was aware of the changefar more quickly than you. His smell would insure that. It was themonkey, not the professor, whom Roy attacked, just as it was themonkey who teased Roy. Climbing was a joy to the creature, andwas a mere chance, I take it, that the pastime brought him tothe young lady’s window. There is an early train to town, Watson,but I think we shall just have time for a cup of tea at the Chequersbefore we catch it.”
The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane
It is a most singular thing that a problem which was certainlyas abstruse and unusual as any which I have faced in my longprofessional career should have come to me after my retirement,and be brought, as it were, to my very door. It occurred after mywithdrawal to my little Sussex home, when I had given myself upentirely to that soothing life of Nature for which I had so oftenyearned during the long years spent amid the gloom of London. Atthis period of my life the good Watson had passed almost beyondmy ken. An occasional week-end visit was the most that I eversaw of him. Thus I must act as my own chronicler. Ah! had he butbeen with me, how much he might have made of so wonderful ahappening 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 laybefore 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 coastlineis entirely of chalk cliffs, which can only be descended bysingle, long, tortuous path, which is steep and slippery. At thebottom of the path lie a hundred yards of pebbles and shingle,even when the tide is at full. Here and there, however, there arecurves and hollows which make splendid swimming-pools filledThe Case Book of Sherlock Holmes 1363
afresh with each flow. This admirable beach extends for somemiles in each direction, save only at one point where the littlecove and village of Fulworth break the line.
My house is lonely. I, my old housekeeper, and my bees havethe estate all to ourselves. Half a mile off, however, is HaroldStackhurst’s well-known coaching establishment, The Gables,quite a large place, which contains some score of young fellowspreparing for various professions, with a staff of several masters.
Stackhurst himself was a well-known rowing Blue in his day, andan excellent all-round scholar. He and I were always friendly fromthe day I came to the coast, and he was the one man who was onsuch terms with me that we could drop in on each other in theevenings without an invitation.
Towards the end of July, 1907, there was a severe gale, the windblowing up-channel, heaping the seas to the base of the cliffs andleaving a lagoon at the turn of the tide. On the morning of whichI speak the wind had abated, and all Nature was newly washedand fresh. It was impossible to work upon so delightful a day, andI strolled out before breakfast to enjoy the exquisite air. I walkedalong the cliff path which led to the steep descent to the beach.
As I walked I heard a shout behind me, and there was HaroldStackhurst 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 upstandingyoung fellow whose life had been crippled by heart troublefollowing rheumatic fever. He was a natural athlete, however, andexcelled in every game which did not throw too great a strainupon him. Summer and winter he went for his swim, and, as I ama swimmer myself, I have often joined him.
At this moment we saw the man himself. His head showedabove the edge of the cliff where the path ends. Then his wholefigure appeared at the top, staggering like a drunken man. Thenext instant he threw up his hands and, with a terrible cry, fellupon his face. Stackhurst and I rushed forward—it may have beenfifty yards—and turned him on his back. He was obviously dying.
Those glazed sunken eyes and dreadful livid cheeks could meannothing 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.” Itwas utterly irrelevant and unintelligible, and yet I could twist thesound into no other sense. Then he half raised himself from the1364 The Complete Sherlock Holmes
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 hadneed, for it was speedily evident that we were in the presence ofan extraordinary case. The man was dressed only in his Burberryovercoat, his trousers, and an unlaced pair of canvas shoes. Ashe fell over, his Burberry, which had been simply thrown roundhis shoulders, slipped off, exposing his trunk. We stared at it inamazement. His back was covered with dark red lines as though hehad been terribly flogged by a thin wire scourge. The instrumentwith which this punishment had been inflicted was clearlyflexible, for the long, angry weals curved round his shoulders andribs. There was blood dripping down his chin, for he had bittenthrough his lower lip in the paroxysm of his agony. His drawn anddistorted face told how terrible that agony had been.
