The Curious Incident of the Goat-Cart Man

It is sometimes easier to believe a man from Bedlam than in coincidence. In the case of the following narrative, my friend Sherlock Holmes and I believed both.

Like his older brother Mycroft, whose great mind served as something of a great clearinghouse for the various departments of Her Majesty’s Government, Sherlock Holmes had created a special and unique niche for himself, acting as a resource for those in need, while forever seeking to improve and increase his knowledge and awareness of crime in the great tapestry that is London. He liked to believe in the order of his system, as reflected by the hard work that he put into it. It is certain that without his specialized knowledge, allowing him to make connections from one disparate set of events to another, the curious incident of the Goat-Cart Man of Meadcroft might have gone forever unresolved, or at least it might have concluded in a more tragic manner. And yet, it was only through coincidence, which Holmes was always loathe to credit, that the matter was placed before him at all.

In recording these varied sketches, I have attempted to balance the fantastic with the prosaic, relying neither upon the involvement of important and well-known figures, nor upon the rehashing of events that are already familiar to readers of the daily press. Rather, I have tried to present those matters that best illustrate the gifts and skills of my friend. This particular adventure occurred as something of a pause or detour in the midst of a larger investigation, taking only an hour or so. However, no record of my friend’s activities would be complete without it.

It was on the last Saturday in September of 1890, only a day or so after Holmes and I had returned from Dartmoor, and specifically King’s Pyland. We had journeyed there regarding the matter of a missing race horse and its murdered trainer, whose body had been found on the Moor. Our return to London had followed Holmes’s confident assurance to the horse’s owner, Colonel Ross, that the great beast would be found in time to participate in the Wessex Cup, to be run on the subsequent Tuesday. Colonel Ross had seemed less than confident in Holmes’s assurances as we departed, but had reluctantly agreed not to withdraw the horse’s name from competition. Although I had been privy to Holmes’s masterful discovery of the horse’s true location, and his reluctance to share it with Colonel Ross, I did not as yet know the murderer’s identity. However, I was certain that the matter would be resolved to everyone’s satisfaction, having seen Mr. Sherlock Holmes do this sort of thing before.

Early in the afternoon of that particular day, I had been finishing my lunch with my wife, following a light morning of rounds and seeing patients. I think that neither of us was surprised when the abrupt ringing of our bell led to the maid’s announcement that Holmes was calling.

He refused anything to eat, as was to be expected, but he did agree to a hurried cup of black coffee. He was there to request my assistance on what he described as a “long shot.” After a concise explanation, I made to get my coat and hat. Holmes graciously and sincerely thanked Mary for sharing me in this way, to which she simply smiled and laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder.

The matter which required my participation that afternoon is neither here nor there in relation to the events that I propose to recount. They simply served to place us where the current narrative began. At that time, Holmes was engaged in following the series of steps that would culminate the next spring at the top of Reichenbach Falls. Holmes had finally managed to find a narrow crack in the armor of that master criminal, Professor Moriarty, and had slowly been wedging it wider as the weeks and months progressed. That day, he had learned of a diary that was supposed to contain incriminating information of an explosive nature, and was to be carried back to London from Exeter by one of the Professor’s lieutenants, whereupon it would be delivered to the Professor himself. Holmes and I, along with Inspector Patterson and a number of plain-clothed detectives and constables, had made every effort to track the diary and arrest the courier, but alas, on this day, it was not meant to be. The identified courier was successfully followed and detained, but when the trap was sprung, on one of the platforms in Paddington Station, no diary was to be found.

After it was clear that there would be no victory on this occasion, most of the Yarders had dispersed from the station, while Holmes and Patterson remained in quiet conversation to one side of the great and noisy waiting room. I was standing beside them, watching the ebb and flow of the crowds as trains arrived and departed. It was then that I noticed one of the porters talking to two men and pointing them in Holmes’s direction. They nodded to him and then began to walk our way.

Interrupting Holmes’s conversation, I spoke in a low voice and made him aware of the approaching men. He and Patterson turned, and we all separated slightly, almost instinctively, in case either of the strangers should pose some threat.

It was quickly obvious that neither man presented any sort of danger. The man to my left was tall and fit, wearing a fine overcoat, perhaps a little heavy for the unseasonable warmth of the evening. He kept one arm protectively about the other, a smaller fellow, draped in clothing that was more worn than that of his companion, but still thoroughly respectable.

I could see that the second man had recently been ill, and possibly ill-used as well. His face was pale, with bruised-looking smudges under his deep-set eyes. An unsuccessful effort had been made to comb his hair, and there were stains upon the knees of his trousers. His shirt was pulled to, but a few of the buttons were missing. I could see the outline, barely visible underneath his hair, of a contusion above his left temple. He carried himself with that pulled-in and self-aware look that illness brings to a man, when he evaluates every movement to see if it will be tolerated, or if it will worsen whatever condition is being suffered.

“Mr. Holmes?” asked the stronger of the two men, instinctively facing my friend. Holmes nodded his head, and the other continued. “My name is Walter Forsythe, and this is my brother, Henry. We were walking down the street outside just now, arguing whether to continue onward to my home or instead seek medical attention for my brother nearby at St. Mary’s, when we heard a group of departing constables mention your name. I was for continuing on, but my brother, as weak as he is, insisted that we come inside to see if we could find you in the station.”

Patterson had looked surprised, and then angry, when he heard that Holmes’s name was being discussed by his men out in the street. “This was supposed to remain confidential,” he muttered, before turning to Holmes. “If I may, I will call upon you later in your rooms to discuss our strategy, Mr. Holmes.” Then, without waiting for Holmes’s response, he turned and made for the exit, in that peculiar gait when a man wants to run but is forcing himself to remain at a dignified, although accelerated, walking speed instead.

“Really, Henry,” said Walter Forsythe, turning to the other man as Patterson departed, “we should not bother Mr. Holmes. After all, you’ve been ill. What you recall may not have really happened at all!”

Henry Forsythe flashed an angry glance toward his brother.

“I am a doctor,” I interrupted. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance.”

“We will be fine,” replied Walter. “My brother simply had a fit last night. I just need to see him home. Please excuse our imposition.”

“Hearing your name mentioned outside seemed like a sign, Mr. Holmes,” said Henry, in a weak voice. “You are just the man to get to the bottom of this situation. But we must be quick about it. The old man may already be dead!”

Holmes glanced at me with a flash in his eyes, as if to cry, “The Game is afoot!” Then he turned toward Patterson, who was just disappearing out of the station and into the sunlit afternoon. “Perhaps,” said Holmes, “you would be more comfortable relating your story while we sit. With a cup of tea? Or would you rather return with us to my rooms in Baker Street, to share the details of your recent travails?”

“Let us be on our way!” cried Henry, a shrill tone rising in his voice and attracting the judgmental notice of a pinch-faced matron passing by.

Holmes nodded, and spoke to me. “I will get a four-wheeler. Can you help our new acquaintances outside?” And then he was off in that way of his that never seemed hurried but covered ground at an incredible pace when he wished.

As Holmes walked away, Walter continued to insist that none of this was necessary, and that he should not have indulged his brother’s whim to enter the station after hearing Holmes’s name. Nevertheless, Walter Forsythe assisted me as we maneuvered his brother out of the station to the street. Henry seemed quite weak from whatever he had experienced. I began to ask a few general questions, in order to ascertain the nature of his condition, but Henry stopped me, explaining that it would become known what had happened to him when he could tell his story to Holmes.

Outside, there was no sign of Patterson or the loose-lipped Yarders. Holmes was standing with his hand upon the door of a four-wheeler. Up top, I could see the grinning face of our old friend, Bert Deacon, the former Houndsditch ramper who had been falsely accused of a particularly brutal murder, back in ’82. Holmes had proven his innocence, based on the reversed obverse of a shilling found clutched in the dead man’s hand, as well as the inward twist of Deacon’s left foot. Holmes had then found him steady work as a cab driver, much to the relief of Deacon’s wife and six children. His former line of work had not paid nearly as steadily as driving a cab.

I nodded at Deacon, and we boarded the growler. I noticed an odd alertness had come into Holmes’s eyes, but I did not presume to question him about it in front of the two brothers. We all settled back as the cab lurched into motion without any instructions having been given as to our destination, and I realized that Holmes must have already told Deacon to take us to Baker Street.

“Where are we going?” cried Henry Forsythe, sitting up abruptly, looking from side to side. I could tell that his nerves were stretched to the limit, and I was concerned that the mere effort of telling his story might propel him into brain fever. “We must go back to Meadcroft! The old man may already be dead!”

“Calm yourself, sir, and you may tell us of the danger to this old man,” said Holmes, in the soothing tone that worked so well in situations of this type. I was amazed yet again to see the hypnotic affect that Holmes’s voice could have on someone. While he often insisted that the problem itself was his only interest, and that people were simply factors in the equation, he had an amazing ability to empathize with their troubles when needed. “We are going to my rooms in Baker Street,” he said softly, “where you can tell your story. Then we shall decide upon a course of action.”

“We should get you home, Henry,” said Walter, but in a resigned way, as he realized that his brother was set on relating his story.

“My tale is easily told right now, here in this cab,” Henry replied. “Once you hear it you will agree that we should make our way to Meadcroft at once.”

“Henry,” interrupted Walter, “all of this may have just been the result of your fit last night. There is no need to take any more of Mr. Holmes’s time.”

Ignoring him, Holmes said, “My knowledge of London is fairly exact. Is that the Meadcroft that is located by Kennington Park, on the South Side?”

“It is,” said Henry. Holmes’s display of omniscience seemed to calm him further. “It is where I have leased a house since early this year, attempting to improve my craft.”

“You are a writer, then?” asked Holmes. I glanced at the man’s hands and sleeves, and could see, from the collection of unique callosities and shiny right cuff, the source of Holmes’s deduction.

“Yes,” he said. “My stories are in the manner of Sir Walter Scott’s, although I have not yet duplicated his mastery of the form, or believability. I must admit, I’m afraid, that I have also yet to duplicate his ability to have anything published. Perhaps, if I went out and experienced life, rather than simply trying to write about it-”

“Now, now,” said Walter Forsythe, “you will achieve your goal! I am certain of it. But you do not have to live apart from your brother to do so.”

We were traveling down Praed Street, nearing the Edgware Road crossing. I glanced up and to my right. I did not know if Mary would be watching as we passed, but I looked forward, as always, to telling her of the day’s events. Hopefully this new and unexpected adventure would have a better and more successful conclusion than that upon which Holmes had initially summoned me.

“In January,” said Henry, shifting in his seat to a more upright position, “I had resolved, with the turning of the new year, to move out of my brother’s home, where I had lived for the past two years, and find a place of my own.”

“You were no bother to me at all, Henry,” interjected Walter. “You are my brother.” He glanced at me, and whispered, for no reason, “I have a position in the City.”

Henry continued as if he had not been interrupted. “I intended to give myself a year in which either to master my craft, or abandon it. My brother and I have both inherited money, and I could afford to indulge in this quest - or folly - for a little while. I found a small house of rather new construction in Meadcroft, arranged terms with the landlord, and settled in to my routine.

“In case you don’t know it, doctor,” said Henry, shifting to address me, “Meadcroft is a new set of houses by Kennington Park, east of The Oval. It was once part of a larger estate of several acres, but eight or ten years ago, the owner, Sir Giles Gidley-Hall, was forced to sell everything but the main house to cover some long-standing debts, after some mysterious circumstances depleted his funds.”

“The Threadneedle Scandal,” interrupted Holmes. “I was able to satisfy myself at the time that Sir Giles had no part in the matter, although his own personal honor compelled him to make restitution.” Turning to me, he said, “It was before your time, Watson.”

Holmes looked back at Henry, and said, “You were telling us about the construction of Meadcroft? I assume that it is relevant to your story?”

Henry Forsythe nodded. “New houses were built in rows stretching out to the left and right from the front of the main house, and a large open area in the front center was left as something of a park for the residents.

“It was into one of these houses, near the main house, that I moved last winter. And it was not long before I became aware of Sir Giles’s strange eccentricity, which has become a source of great amusement - and sometimes irritation - to the entire neighborhood.

“You must know then that Sir Giles, after being forced to sell the land adjacent to his house, became something of an eccentric recluse. It is rumored that he has still managed to retain quite a bit of money, but he released all of his staff, and lives alone in the big house, making do for himself. At night, one can see that the entire building remains dark, but for one room on the front right corner of the ground floor.

“Although the grounds stretching in front of the house serve as the common park for the new houses, Sir Giles still seems to feel some attachment for them. During the daylight hours, when people make use of this open area, Sir Giles ventures forth from the house on a regular basis, approaching his neighbors in a manner stopping just short of harassment. What makes this situation almost comical, rather than criminal, is that Sir Giles’s defense of the common green is done from atop a small wagon, pulled by a large goat.”

Holmes’s eyes twinkled at this revelation, and I felt a smile tug at my mouth at this ludicrous image. Even Walter Forsythe, concerned for his brother as he was, smiled as well.

“If just hearing about him makes you smile, imagine actually seeing him as he charges his way across the green, with a thin cane rod held high overhead, serving to encourage the goat if it slows down. I must admit that the first time I saw him, I thought I was dreaming, or going mad.” He paused, and the humor which had lightened his face for a moment and seemed to chase away his illness drained away. “After last night, however, I should never joke about my sanity again.”

He fell silent for a moment. Traffic was thick during that time of the afternoon, and our progress was slow, even with Bert Deacon’s best efforts. Still, I wondered if Henry’s tale would be completed before we reached Baker Street.

As if reading my thought, Henry continued. “Sir Giles is a small, withered old fellow, and the burly beast does not seem to strain at the burden, although it certainly displays no enthusiasm for it, either. Sir Giles harnesses it each morning, leaving it tied by the front door with something to eat and drink. As the day progresses, he will burst out of his front door and sally forth whenever he sees someone enter the park, riding toward them as fast as he can go, before suddenly reining in the goat and then pausing to examine the trespassers critically. Then he will circle away, before returning again, sometimes approaching three or four times before he is satisfied. I do not know if he is trying to intimidate them, or simply to examine them for some unknown reason at close range. He doesn’t speak, and the residents are tolerant of him, even the mothers with their young children.

“I cannot tell you the number of days when I have been distracted from my writing as I would look up and see Sir Giles go flying this way and that across the green. And I myself have not been ignored by him, either, during my times outside. Perhaps this is what led to my unfortunate experience. If I had not repeatedly encountered him, then he and I might not have formed a wary friendship, if I may call it that, and his disappearance would not have mattered to me one way or the other. Certainly, I would never have ended up here today, or where I found myself this morning after the events of last night.

“Sir Giles and I met in this way. One day a month or so ago, in the hottest part of summer, I had taken myself outside to walk and think my way through a point in my plot. It was then that I became aware of the unsurprising approach of Sir Giles. He circled me once, and again, when finally I impertinently asked him the name of his goat.

“I cannot believe that no one had asked him that before, but he seemed surprised that anyone would speak to him. Not as surprised as I, however, when he replied back to me that the goat’s name was Tommy.

“ ‘Not Billy?’ I returned with a smile.

“He started to scowl, and then chose to reply instead. ‘Tommy after my dead brother,’ he said. ‘He was my only family. He’s gone now, and he looked like the goat.’ And then he laughed, a harsh bark of a laugh, and I could not help but join him.

“After that, we would talk sometimes when I was taking a stroll. It was not every day, by any means, and it never progressed to the point where we socialized in each other’s homes. I suppose that I cannot even say that we were any more than passing acquaintances, rather than friends. But I think that he enjoyed the experience of our occasional conversations, as did I, and when I would appear on the green, his charge toward me on the goat-cart did not seem as aggressive as it must have appeared to others who were his targets.

“I have never spoken to any of my other neighbors during the entire time that I have lived there, and have in fact never revealed any of my reasons for choosing to live in the neighborhood to Sir Giles. I did not explain about my labors to become a better writer, and I never mentioned any of my family to him. From small things that he said, as we stood and talked for odd random moments on the green, I believe that Sir Giles was alone in the world, and certainly he must have believed that of me as well.

“Several days ago, when I went out for my afternoon constitutional, I was mildly surprised when Sir Giles did not appear. This led me to observe that, over the next day or so, he and the goat did not make their usual inspections whenever anyone else walked the green. I did notice, however, that the usual light was showing in the front corner room of his house at night. Unusually, however, there were also lights burning in other parts of the building, something that had never happened during the time that I have lived there.

“Finally, the day before yesterday, my concern grew, and at dusk, I hesitantly made my way over to Sir Giles’s front door, with the intent of checking to see if he was all right. I knocked, and after long quiet moments, hearing nothing but the wind sighing in the great trees behind me surrounding the green, I knocked again.

“As I was looking back toward the green, and thinking how abandoned it was at that time of night, I heard footsteps within, and then the door opened. Two men faced me, one tall and heavy-set, about forty years of age, and the other a decade or so older, with a pointed beard and a sharp expression.

“ ‘Well?’ said the younger man.

“I explained my concern for Sir Giles, as he had not been seen in the last few days. The younger man gruffly replied, ‘I’m his brother. He’s been ill, and I’ve come to take care of him. This other man here is a doctor. Now clear off!’ And he slammed the door in my face!

“I made my way back home, puzzled by this encounter, and trying to reconcile the idea that the man, clearly much younger than Sir Giles, could be his brother, when Sir Giles had intimated to me that his only brother, Tommy (who had looked like the goat) was dead. I continued to brood over the matter, and by the next evening, yesterday, I had decided to go back and inquire more forcefully as to Sir Giles’s condition. We were not truly friends, you understand, but I felt some responsibility for him, as I was obviously the only person in the neighborhood that ever had any true interaction with him.

“Knocking as I had during my previous visit, I realized that it was later in the evening than when I had been here the day before. In the distance toward the Park, the gaslights were already lit, but they had always been markedly absent around the green, having been left out by the builders when the place was constructed. My surroundings were quite dark.

“When the door unexpectedly opened, this time without the necessity of me knocking a second time, the light from the inside hall momentarily blinded me. I had the impression that the same two men were standing there. Events subsequently proved this to be true. This time, however, there was no conversation between us whatsoever. The younger man simply reached forward, grabbing my arm and pulling me inside.

“The door slammed shut behind me, and there was a muffled thud as my head was hit with a hard object. That is how I received this.” He lifted a hand to his left temple, gingerly brushing back his hair to reveal the contusion that I had noticed earlier.

“This served to further obscure my vision, as my eyes had not yet adjusted to the bright lights in the entrance hall. Still trying to regain my balance, I was shocked when my coat was roughly pulled down from behind, thus trapping my arms at my sides. Then, as I was completely pinned from behind by the younger man, the older man stepped forward into the blurred field of my vision and pulled open my shirt, baring my shoulder. He stepped back for a moment, fumbling with something on a side table, as I uselessly struggled against my larger captor. Then the older man returned into my line of sight, holding a hypodermic needle before him, reflecting the lamplight.

“ ‘Are you sure,’ asked the man who had been identified the previous night as the doctor, ‘that he is alone and has no family?’ His accent was unusual. It was American, but in a flat way that I have never heard before. ‘This could be a mistake, and we’re not ready to move on yet.’

“ ‘That’s what the old man said,’ replied the younger man. ‘He lives alone across the green, and never has any visitors.’

“ ‘Then,’ said the older man, ‘let the doctor take care of this.’ And he plunged the hypodermic needle into my arm.”

We crossed Upper Montagu Street, and Henry Forsythe took a moment as he breathed deeply and recalled the next portion of his story.

“I cannot say for certain what happened next. I recall the impression of swirling colored lights, and having difficulties breathing, and hearing loud noises that seemed as if they almost made sense as words, but were beyond my comprehension. I sometimes felt that I was hanging suspended above the earth, with a weightless sensation that I have never experienced before. I also had the sense of motion, and long periods of darkness when all that I could hear were the sounds of my own pulse in my head. It would get louder and louder until it sounded like the roar of a cataract, before I would suddenly be plunged into stretches of stark silence, the loneliest emptiness I have ever experienced.

“I had no idea how long this went on. I could not have told you anything about myself if you had asked me. The next thing that I knew for certain was when I awoke this morning and was being examined by a stranger who subsequently identified himself as a doctor, asking me if I knew my name.

“I did not know the time or even the day or year when I first recovered. It was only when my senses had cleared that I finally realized I had only suffered from my breakdown for only a single night.

“ ‘Where am I?’ I asked, ignoring the doctor’s question.

“ ‘You’re in Bethlem Royal Hospital,’ ” he replied.

“His response puzzled me for a moment, as I attempted to reconcile the pieces of my memory that were trying to stitch themselves back into a whole cloth. Finally, the meaning of his answer seemed to resonate somehow with more meaning.

“ ‘Bedlam,’ I whispered.

“ ‘We don’t like to call it that,’ the doctor said. ‘You were brought here last night by two men after you went mad in the street and became a danger to passers-by. You continued to exhibit the symptoms that your rescuers reported for several hours after your arrival here. You broke an orderly’s arm, and ruined the night director’s coat in a way that I do not wish to describe. This evaluation is to determine if you are any further danger to yourself or others.

“ ‘Now,’ he asked again, ‘what is your name?’

“I told him, and he began to question me more closely. I could tell that he did not believe my story at first, of the attack and the use of the hypodermic syringe, thinking instead that I was suffering from a delusional episode. As my mind cleared, however, and I was able to consistently provide further details that matched my basic story, he admitted the possibility that what I was saying was true.

“The doctor indicated to me that my admission by the two strangers from off the street was unofficial, and that there was no reason that he could keep me here without further orders. He finally decided that, except for my disheveled condition, I appeared to be functionally sane, and he agreed to send a message to my brother, who obtained my release.”

“The least I could do,” murmured Walter. “We should get you home, Henry.”

“The doctor offered to summon the police to hear my story,” continued Henry, ignoring Walter’s latest interruption, “but Walter refused. We were making our way to Walter’s home when we heard your name mentioned outside the railway station. Having heard of you before, and your ability to bring light where there has been only darkness, I insisted that we find you inside the station and relate my story, in the hopes that you will return with us and help rescue Sir Giles, should he still be alive.

“I believe,” said Holmes, “that he was probably still alive as late as yesterday, at least. Otherwise, how would the younger man have known from him that you had no family, as he mentioned when you were attacked? Obviously, they had questioned Sir Giles after your first visit to obtain information as to your identity.”

Henry nodded, and Holmes continued, “Did you happen to ask the doctor at Bethlem if the two men who brought you in for admission matched the descriptions of your attackers?”

“I did,” replied Henry. “He did not know, but he asked an orderly at the front and confirmed, at least superficially, that they were in fact the same men. They did not leave their names, simply saying that they were concerned citizens who had discovered me nearby in the street.”

“Describe these two men in Sir Giles’s house in more detail, if you please.”

As Henry closed his eyes for a moment, the growler lurched, turning into Baker Street. Finally, Henry looked up and said, “The younger man was wearing a plaid waistcoat, which seemed rather gaudy. He has a long head, wide at the bottom as if he habitually clenches his jaws, and rather narrow at the top. His hair, what there is of it, is cut quite short and parted in the middle.”

“Did he have a mole on his right temple?” asked Holmes.

Henry stared straight ahead for a moment, and then looked surprised. “Why, yes he did! I recall being surprised by it on that first night, when he turned his head while shutting the door and the light caught it just so.”

“And the second man,” said Holmes. “Was he rather short and narrow, with thin legs, and an unnaturally substantial paunch that stretches his waistcoat? And does he have sandy hair that is combed straight forward onto his forehead, and trimmed across in a straight line an inch or so above his eyes?”

“Why, Mr. Holmes, it is as if you know them already! But how could you describe them so well?”

“Because I have been expecting them to arrive back in London for some time,” Holmes replied. “I just did not know exactly when or where they would wash up.”

“Two-twenty-one, Mr. Holmes,” growled Bert Deacon from atop the four-wheeler.

“Wait here, Bert,” said Holmes, jumping down. He leaned back into the vehicle and said, “I will only be a moment.” Then he dashed inside, leaving the door ajar as he went.

After a moment, Mrs. Hudson leaned out, looking left and right before spotting our cab. I waved from within, and she wearily smiled and shook her head knowingly. As she started to close the door, I could hear Holmes return as he descended the seventeen steps from the sitting room, crashing down two at a time. He danced around Mrs. Hudson, said something to her that I could not hear, and climbed back into the cab.

“Scotland Yard, Bert, if you don’t mind.”

“Right, Mr. Holmes,” Bert replied, and we made a lurch into motion, heading south.

“Is this really necessary?” asked Walter, only to receive a glare from Henry.

Holmes did not reply to Walter’s question. He was holding a small clutch of papers, which he proceeded to sort on his lap, keeping some of them carefully hidden. I could see that it was a mixture of cables and photographs, as well as a large envelope holding additional sheets. Finally, he held up two of the sheets, both photographs, and asked, “Are these your attackers, Mr. Forsythe?”

I could see that the images were of the two men that Holmes had previously described while questioning Henry, who simply nodded wordlessly as the memory of the attack was obviously replaying itself in his mind.

“The younger of the two,” said Holmes, glancing at one of the cables in his other hand, “is named Jack Gables, a career criminal and most recently a bank robber, originally from Manchester. The other is known as Layton Carr, which may or may not be his real name. He is an American, and originally from Chicago, which may explain the flat American accent which seemed unfamiliar to you. Carr is often a crony of Gables, and he fancies himself a doctor. I believe that he did have a form of medical training at one time in his life, but not to any meaningful completion. This has not prevented him from making dangerous use of the little knowledge that he has.

“I received a notification regarding Gables and Carr several months ago from my friend Wilson Hargreaves, of the New York Police Bureau, following a violent bank robbery that the two men had pulled off there. Both of them managed to gain illegal entrance to one of the larger New York banks, and using a chemical devised by Carr, overpower the guards. Things were touch-and-go, as they were discovered during the robbery, but they managed to escape, and haven’t been seen in the United States, or anywhere else for that matter, since. Hargreave believed that they would make their way to England, and his initial message notifying me to keep my ear to the ground, as they say in America, was followed by this more extensive packet of information including these photographs. Hargreaves has also notified Scotland Yard, in case the two fugitives are spotted here, but he also wanted me to be on the lookout, as he put it.”

“These men did make their way to England, as Hargreaves suspected they might, and for some reason have gone to ground in Sir Giles’s home. Gables may be related to Sir Giles in some way, in spite of your impression that the old gentleman had no family. There may be some other connection of which we are as yet unaware. In any case, they must have decided to hide out there, thinking that Sir Giles had no friends or family to inquire after him. Your return on the second night must have prompted them to take action.”

“I’m lucky that I was not killed, then, I suppose,” said Henry.

Holmes shook his head. “They are not killers, at least so far. Even during the American bank robbery, when it would have been far easier for them to kill the bank guards who interfered with them, they took great effort simply to bind them, in spite of the fact their identification was assured, and also that it delayed and nearly ruined their escape. But,” he added, “you have been lucky, nonetheless. Their decision to place you in Bedlam is unique in my experience, and could have been disastrous for you, if a different doctor there had decided to keep you for further evaluation, believing that your story was part of some greater delusion. No doubt Carr, the amateur doctor, assumed that the effects of the drug that he administered to you would last much longer, and that your incarceration in the asylum would be of an indefinite duration, rather than just for one night.”

Traffic had thinned as the afternoon waned, and we were soon rounding Trafalgar Square and approaching Scotland Yard. Upon our arrival, Holmes decided that we should wait in the four-wheeler while he went inside, rather than waste the time it would take for all of us to go in and explain our purpose. With a bound, he carried his documents within.

It was less than ten minutes later, as I was wishing that we had all chosen to evacuate the hot cab and wait inside the imposing building, that Holmes returned to the pavement with Inspector Youghal and three burly constables. Youghal nodded toward me, and then raised his arm, summoning a second four-wheeler from a short way up the street. When everyone was aboard both cabs, we set out.

Crossing Westminster Bridge, we turned along the south side of the river, before making a series of turns, working our way ever closer to Kennington Park. “It is fortunate that Youghal was at the Yard this afternoon. He has a particular interest in renewing his acquaintance with Gables. Watson, have you ever noticed that reddish scar across the back of Youghal’s left hand?”

“From an old knife wound, I think he said,” I replied. “Did he get that from Gables?”

Holmes nodded. “Years ago, back when Gables was just beginning his illustrious criminal career. Gables escaped, and he has since risen to greater heights, within certain circles. Youghal is anxious to congratulate him.”

The distance to our destination shortened rapidly, Holmes changed the subject entirely, discussing our planned excursion to the Wessex Cup on the following Tuesday. Without mentioning specifics about either the missing race horse or our client, he speculated as to what set of circumstances during a horse race could cause an owner to be permanently warned off the turf for life. Neither Walter nor Henry Forsythe felt the need to contribute to this conversation.

Soon we were pulling up at one of the outer boundaries of the Park. Henry indicated with a gesture that Meadcroft was not far away, but our current location was not in direct sight of Sir Giles’s home. The Scotland Yard men emptied from their four-wheeler, and Youghal dispersed his troops in different directions to surround the house.

There was still an hour or so of sunshine left in the sky, so our approach could not be entirely hidden. Walter and Henry stayed with the cabs, while Holmes, Youghal, another plain-clothed detective named Benton, and I walked down the side of the green, showing no interest in the great house that stretched across one end of the common.

The old house was a big and double-fronted affair, gone to seed. However, it had been built in a time when workmanship was solid, and it might still remain standing when the newer houses around it have fallen into decay.

As we neared the old house, having been walking in an oblique and indirect way toward it, we abruptly changed direction and mounted the steps. Standing to one side, in case someone fired a weapon through it, Youghal pounded upon the door with all the authority of the Yard behind him, demanding that the occupants open in the name of the law. After a few seconds of silence, he pounded again with a bellow. In a moment, we heard scrabbling sounds from the right side of the house, followed by a blow and a cry. Leaving Benton at the front door, we ran to the side to find both Gables and Carr, struggling in the hands of some of Youghal’s men after their unsuccessful and awkward attempt to exit a side window.

The matter was quickly sorted out. A search of the house found the bulk of the New York bank robbery loot, still packed in the men’s cases. More importantly, we discovered Sir Giles Gidley-Hall, gagged and bound hand and foot on a sofa in one of the interior ground floor rooms. I ordered that he be carried out into the fresh air, where I began to administer what aid that I thought necessary. He was a tough old man, and was soon on his feet, as mad as blazes, although he seemed to calm himself when one of Youghal’s men reported that Tommy, the goat, had been discovered well-fed and watered in his shed behind the house.

While I was assisting Sir Giles, I was unable to hear the exact exchange between Youghal and Gables, but I did see that Youghal was holding his scarred hand in front of Gables’s face and explaining something in a very precise manner. Gables, who had attempted a belligerent attitude up to that point, seemed to collapse when he realized that his story was completely known, and that there would be no escape this time.

Holmes asked a few questions of Gables and Carr, chiefly to confirm his explanation of the events. It was revealed that Gables was a distant cousin of Sir Giles, and he had long been aware of the old man’s hermit-like existence. Upon his and Carr’s return to England, the house in Meadcroft had seemed like a good place in which to hide. They had initially been left alone there, waiting until they deemed it safe to move on, but then Henry Forsythe’s concerns had led him to check on his neighbor, thus causing the fugitives to become irrationally fearful of discovery.

Neither man had wanted to kill Henry Forsythe, but they had not wanted to have him remain as a captive in Sir Giles’s house either. They believed that if someone had arrived and had insisted on examining Sir Giles, they could have drugged the old man and explained that he was under a doctor’s care. But a persistent neighbor was another matter. He might talk, and then more people might investigate. It was decided to do something about Henry Forsythe, sooner rather than later. Keeping Henry there in the house, along with Sir Giles, was deemed too great a risk, as Henry might escape, or someone might have seen him visiting the house on two successive nights and suggest that as a location to examine if someone noticed that he was missing as well.

It was Carr who decided that they should drug Henry and have him hospitalized in the Bethlem Asylum. He had mistakenly believed that his concoction would last for much longer than it had, and that Henry would be held incommunicado at the hospital until long after Gables and Carr were gone. It was much better, in their opinion, than drugging him and simply leaving him to be found in the street. After Henry’s capture, they had made sure that Sir Giles was adequately bound, and then they had taken Henry to Bedlam, telling the cab driver that they were transporting a sick friend.

After Gables and Carr had been taken away, Walter and Henry were brought up to the house, where Henry and Sir Giles were able to speak to one another. It was difficult for the old hermit, but he managed to express his thanks to Henry in a gruff way. Henry then introduced the old man to his brother, Walter, who seemed relieved that the whole matter was at an end.

As Youghal was making motions that he was prepared to depart, Holmes spoke. “By, the way, Youghal, there is one other little matter that should be taken care of while we have the opportunity.”

“And that would be?” asked Youghal, in a jovial tone.

“Would you mind having a couple of your men take Mr. Walter Forsythe into custody?”

A shocked silence fell upon the group for just a moment, before Walter bolted. Youghal’s men were not close enough to make any sort of attempt to stop him, although there is no doubt that they could have soon run him down. Walter made as if to dash toward the open green, in a perpendicular path away from the front of the great house where we stood. As no one else was in a position to intervene, I stuck out my right leg into Walter’s path. He tumbled and fell hard, skidding into a pile of autumn leaves. Youghal’s men were on him in an instant, dragging him to his feet.

“Well done, Watson,” murmured Holmes

Gone was the mild older brother. Instead, a raging, foul-mouthed beast stood between the two officers, cursing Holmes in every way imaginable. Henry Forsythe seemed to shrink within himself, and took a step backward. Sir Giles, without thought, put a fatherly hand on Henry’s shoulder to calm him.

“Well, we’ve got him,” said Youghal. “Now can you tell me why?”

“Certainly,” said Holmes, reaching into his coat and pulling out the sheaf of papers that he had brought from Baker Street. As he thumbed through them, pulling previously hidden sheets from the envelope, he said to Benton, who was one of the men holding Walter, “Would you mind pulling back his left sleeve to expose the inside of his wrist?”

Walter began to struggle all the harder, but to no avail. Benton roughly pulled back the sleeve and turned Walter’s hand to reveal a tattoo. It was about two inches long, blue, and rough-looking and faded. It was a short, segmented serpent, and each of the three segments contained a number: 7, 4, and 2. The number seven was crossed in the Continental manner.

Holmes plucked out two sheets from his bundle and held them out for Youghal. I stepped over so as to observe them as well. The first was a document, dated nearly a decade before, from the Manchester police, describing the activities of a sophisticated gang of thieves. A sketch of the same tattoo was included on the sheet.

“It is a gang symbol,” said Holmes. “An amateur tattoo. It is the house number on the street in Manchester where they were initiated. This other sheet from my scrapbooks,” he said, holding out the second piece of paper, “is more specific.”

It was written in Holmes’s close script, describing one Walter Forsythe, late of Manchester, and now a mid-level cog in the machine of Professor James Moriarty. “I noticed the tattoo when Walter’s sleeve pulled up, as he was helping Henry into the cab. I verified it when I went into my rooms to retrieve Hargreave’s information about Gables and Carr.

Holmes faced Walter, who had slightly calmed himself as the evidence against him was revealed. He kept looking toward Henry, whose head was down and would not look back.

“Did you come to London after the Portland Street robbery in Manchester turned into a hanging job?”

Youghal looked up from the paper. “He was involved in that one? Then we’re very glad to find him, and make no mistake about that!”

“I do not know if Moriarty planned the Portland Street business, and made a place for Walter Forsythe and the others after they had to flee Manchester when it went wrong, or if he came to the Professor’s attention after he arrived in London. Nevertheless, he has been an important and rising part of the Professor’s organization since then. From his position in the City, obtained for him by the Professor, he has been able to carry out all sorts of interesting chores.” Holmes tapped the second sheet of paper. “This is a partial list of some of Walter’s activities since he came to London, on behalf of his employer. I was not planning to try to land him yet, as I was waiting to net all the fish in one great haul, but as Walter has placed himself unavoidably on my hook this afternoon, the opportunity was too great to ignore, and I reeled him in.”

“Well, to extend your metaphor, we’ll fillet him and learn all about what he’s been up to, and more, I assure you,” said Youghal. “Take him away.”

Walter kept trying to turn back and look at his brother as he was walked down the green and out toward the cabs. Henry would never glance his way. Sir Giles’s hand had remained on Henry’s shoulder throughout, and finally I heard him say, “Come inside with me, son. We’ll have a little something.” They turned and went into the great house.

Holmes and I were left standing alone on the green. The sun was finally dropping behind the surrounding houses, and shadows were rapidly lengthening from west to east.

“You know,” I said, as we began to stroll back toward Bert Deacons’s four-wheeler, “I have often heard you deride coincidence, but today had several of them. If you had not noticed Walter’s tattoo-”

“That was not coincidence,” interrupted Holmes. “That was observation.”

“All right then,” I countered. “If circumstances had not conspired to place Walter’s tattoo before you, where it could be observed, and if the Forsythes had not been walking down Praed Street, and if Henry had not heard your name mentioned indiscreetly by one of Patterson’s men outside the station, they would have never come inside and involved you, the one man in England with knowledge of these varied and wide-spread crimes at his fingertips, in these events. It is undeniably coincidence.”

“Coincidence, Watson?” said Holmes. “Perhaps. But is it possible that it was simply an adjustment on the great scale of life in order to keep things in balance? We, on the side of good, were denied a victory today with Patterson and the matter of the diary. Score one for Moriarty. But perhaps it was only fitting that we then be allowed to achieve something on our side in order to keep things in equilibrium.”

“It is a chess game, and you have taken one of Moriarty’s pieces!” I cried.

“A pawn, possibly. But this is not a chess game where one player takes his turn, and then sits and waits patiently for his opponent to plan strategy before responding in kind. One does not wait for the other side to take its turn in this game. You can be sure that Moriarty will already be thinking of his next move, and the next. So it is up to me to plan my next move as well, and the next, and for three moves past that, and so on, until the end of the game.”

“A game you will win,” I said.

“That is my plan, Watson,” said Holmes. “But I must have time - I must have time!”

We strolled together in silence back to the cab as the sun set and the wind picked up.