APPENDIX

The Girl and the Gold Watches

by John H. Watson

It was April 1890 (and not 1892 as some accounts would have it), as the debilitating bone-chill of a lengthy winter had finally begun to relax its grip on the metropolis, when my friend Sherlock Holmes turned his attention to what the daily press were calling The Rugby Mystery and some others The Girl and the Gold Watches. Holmes had recently completed his investigation into a most gruesome business, involving jealousy and murder. The solution to the case had put him in a rather sombre mood. ‘What is the meaning of it, Watson?’ he had exclaimed, not for the first time. Peering into the darkest corners of the human soul often caused him to recoil in revulsion at the depravity of his fellow man. ‘What object is served by this circle of misery and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what end? There is the great standing perennial problem to which human reason is as far from an answer as ever!’

That resultant brown study, a cloud of melancholia that wrapped itself around him like a winter fog, persisted for some weeks, to the point where I feared he might reach for solace once more in the seven per cent solution. I sought permission – freely granted – from my wife to move back to our old rooms in Baker Street that I might keep an eye on him until the black dog was driven away. And sure enough, as the thermometer rose on a certain bright Monday morning, Holmes stirred himself from his regular position, curled on the sofa with a newspaper, and began to pace the floor of our Baker Street lodgings, a practice I knew sometimes drove Mrs Hudson on the floor below us to distraction, for it could last many hours.

I lowered my own newspaper – I was studying an article about the recent rash of card-sharping incidents across the city and the methods the fraudsters preferred – and peered at him. He looked like a freshly coiled spring and something burned in his eyes. I knew that look of old and it warmed my heart. ‘Yes, Watson, you are thinking that my hibernation is at an end.’

I felt a surge of relief course through me. ‘You don’t have to be the world’s only Consulting Detective to deduce that, Holmes.’

‘Quite so. But, as your faculties are in such good order, you’ll be well aware that we are about to have a visitor.’

I listened for a footfall on the stairs, but could hear nothing. And as he had not been near the bow window that overlooked Baker Street and often provided him with an early indication of our visitors – not to mention their profession, history, dietary preferences, whether or not they owned a dog and were married or no – I was perplexed as to how he could be so certain our morning reading would be interrupted. Holmes frowned, as if his timing was a little off, and then smiled when there was a ring at the bell.

‘Well, Holmes,’ I said, with, I admit, a little sarcasm in my voice, ‘are you going to tell me anything about our visitor, even before he enters the room?’

‘Well, he came to London by train, arriving at Euston, of that much I am certain. He will be smartly, but quite cheaply attired. Prominent whiskers, probably in his thirties, I would surmise, and a little portly for his age—’

‘Holmes,’ I said. ‘Really. It’s too much.’

‘You know of The Girl and the Gold Watches Mystery?’

‘Of course,’ I said. The singular events on the Manchester-bound express train had been the subject of much speculation in the press for weeks. ‘The Rugby Mystery. In fact, I do believe I first brought it to your attention.’

‘In the hope of arousing my curiosity.’

‘Indeed,’ I confessed.

He snatched up the folded newspaper from the couch and waved it at me, as if trying to shake the newsprint loose. ‘But I knew that, should no solution present itself, the case would eventually find itself at the door of this very building. And so it has proved, if somewhat tardily. It says in here that the railway authorities and the police are seeking outside help this very week.’

‘And you have assumed this outside help is you?’

Holmes rose to his full height and peered down that thin, hawk-like nose of his. ‘My dear Watson, who else is there to turn to?’ The slightest of twinkles in his eye served to undercut the arrogance of his remark. But not the truth of it.

Mrs Hudson showed our visitor into the sitting room. He was indeed in his thirties, ruddy faced and stout, with mutton-chop whiskers and wearing a suit that, although clean and pressed, was not of the best quality. He already had his bowler in his hands. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, looking from one to the other of us. ‘Excuse my calling without an appointment.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Holmes, beckoning him to a chair. ‘You gave more than adequate notice of your arrival, Mr Henderson.’ He gave the newspaper a tap and tossed it aside.

‘I assume I am addressing Mr Sherlock Holmes?’ the man said, unperturbed that Holmes already knew his name. Perhaps, in no small part to my writings, the public had come to expect him to be something of a mind-reader. If so, it was his own fault. For my part, I could only assume that Henderson was mentioned in the newspaper account, that Holmes had deduced that a railway police inspector – for that was what I assumed he was – from Rugby would not be a young man nor, being a policeman and a provincial, particularly smartly dressed. (The whiskers comment baffled me, although I wouldn’t admit it; it was only much later that I discovered the newspaper in question had published one of the new experimental half-tone photographs of Henderson, which I thought was a shabby trick on Holmes’s part.)

‘You are correct. And this is my friend and companion, Dr Watson. Now, what can we do for the railways?’

‘I am employed by several railway companies in the role of detective. I do have police training, you understand, but I am engaged in a private capacity as an investigator.’

So not a police inspector. ‘And for your discretion, I would imagine.’

Henderson sat down. ‘It is true that many cases are resolved without recourse to the civilian police. But not the matter I have come to consult you about. I am sure you are familiar with the facts regarding The Rugby Mystery.’

Holmes now folded his frame down onto the sofa, one arm running along the back. ‘I know of the case, but the facts . . . no. I know only what I read in the daily press, which, as you appreciate more than most, Inspector, hardly amounts to the same thing. Facts are often smothered by speculation and innuendo, not to mention mischief and prejudice.’

Henderson smiled knowingly, showing yellowed teeth. ‘Quite so, Mr Holmes.’

‘As Watson will no doubt point out, I have said on previous occasions that it is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly, one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. It bears repeating, Watson.’ The detective twirled a hand in my direction. ‘Now, Mr Henderson, I have but the vaguest grasp of the details, so assume we know nothing. Lay out the relevant facts as if to a jury. I will only interrupt to clarify a point. Should I ask Mrs Hudson to fetch you some tea before you begin?’

‘No, thank you, Mr Holmes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The known facts of the case begin on the 18th of March. That is, almost a month ago.’

Holmes made a slight sucking sound, which I assumed was displeasure at the length of time it had taken to consult him. The crime scene would be very, very cold ground at this remove.

‘There is a five o’clock train to Manchester every weekday evening from Euston Station.’

‘I know it from Bradshaw’s,’ said Holmes. ‘Just three stoppages and an approximate travelling time of four hours and twenty minutes. Very popular with businessmen from the North who wish to save the expense of a hotel in London. The weather?’

‘Inclement. Squally, I would say.’

‘Yes,’ I began, ‘wasn’t the 18th the day we spent the night watching for—’

Holmes shot me a glance that pierced me like a jezail bullet. At first I thought he was annoyed at the interruption (even though he had hardly stayed true to his statement of not interjecting unless to clarify a point). Then I realized he did not want me to mention the persons at the heart of the case to which I referred. It was still to reach the divorce courts. ‘We were soaked through,’ I finished feebly.

‘Despite the poor conditions, the train was fairly well filled,’ continued Henderson. ‘The guard on the train was a tried-and-trusted servant of the company. His name was John Palmer and he had worked for the railway for twenty-two years, without a blemish or a complaint. The station clock was upon the stroke of five and Palmer was about to give the customary signal to his driver, when he noticed two belated passengers. A man and a woman.’

‘The guard furnished a description, I believe.’

‘Indeed he did. The man was exceptionally tall, dressed in a long black overcoat with astrakhan collar and cuffs. As I have already said, the evening was an inclement one, and the tall traveller had the high, warm collar turned up to protect his throat against the bitter March wind. He appeared, as far as the guard could judge, to be between fifty and sixty years of age. But vigorous with it. In one hand he carried a brown leather Gladstone bag.’

‘But no other distinguishing features?’ asked Holmes. I must admit I was watching my friend as much as the policeman. It warmed my heart to see him so engaged.

The railway detective shook his head. ‘No. Palmer said, had he known what was about to happen, he would have studied every aspect of the man. But as it was, he simply thought him one more passenger among the hundred or more he would see that evening.’

‘Quite so. And the lady?’

‘No fuller a picture, I fear. Tall and erect, walking with a vigorous step, which outpaced the gentleman beside her. She wore a long, fawn-coloured dust-cloak, a black, close-fitting toque, and a dark veil which concealed the greater part of her face. The two might very well have passed as father and daughter. They walked swiftly down the line of carriages, glancing in at the windows, until Palmer overtook them.’ At this point the policeman fetched a notebook from his pocket and flicked the pages until he found the desired passage. ‘“Now then, sir, look sharp, the train is going,” he said to them. “We’ll have First Class,” the man answered.’

Now Holmes’s fingers were pressed together, forming a pyramid, and his lips were pursed. I could almost hear the great brain humming like a dynamo as he conjured the scene of steam and haste. ‘Proceed.’

Henderson looked down at the notes once more. ‘The nearest carriage, which Palmer opened, was occupied by a small man with a cigar in his mouth. Now this man’s appearance seems to have impressed itself upon the guard’s memory, for he was prepared, afterwards, to describe or to identify him. He was a man of thirty-four or thirty-five years of age, dressed in some grey material, sharp-nosed, alert, with a ruddy, weather-beaten face, and a small, closely cropped, black beard.’

‘That is a very precise description for such a fleeting contact,’ I said, gratified when Holmes nodded that the same thought had occurred to him, ‘especially when he was so vague on the other players.’

‘But he swears those are the facts.’

‘Then we should give him the benefit of the doubt,’ said Holmes.

‘The gentleman with the astrakhan coat was not happy. “This is a smoking compartment. The lady dislikes smoke,” he said. Now Palmer, being a good servant of the railway, thought the express might be late. So he slammed the door of the smoking carriage, opened that of the next one, which was empty, and thrust the two travellers in. He says he fears he might have been brusque, which pained him, but he is a punctilious man and it was now one minute after five. So he sounded his whistle and the wheels of the train began to move. The man with the cigar was at the window of his carriage, and said something to the guard as he rolled past him, but the words were lost in the bustle of the departure. Palmer stepped into the guard’s van, as it came up to him, and thought no more of the incident.’

‘Why should he?’ I asked. ‘Nothing untoward has happened so far.’

‘Patience, Watson,’ said Holmes with a slight smile on his lips. ‘Mr Henderson, I feel we are about to reach the crux of this matter.’

‘Indeed we are. Some twelve minutes after its departure the train reached Willesden Junction, where it stopped for a very short interval. Now, before you ask, Mr Holmes, an examination of the tickets has ascertained beyond doubt that no one either joined or left it at this time, and no passenger was seen to alight upon the platform. At five fourteen the journey to Manchester was resumed, and Rugby was reached at six fifty, the express being five minutes late. At Rugby the attention of the station officials was drawn to the fact that the door of one of the First Class carriages was unlatched. An examination of that compartment, and of its neighbour, disclosed a remarkable state of affairs, Mr Holmes.’

Holmes leaned forward now, fingers still pyramided together and his eyes blazing. ‘Pray, proceed, Mr Henderson.’

‘The smoking carriage in which the short, red-faced man with the black beard had been seen was now empty. Save for a half-smoked cigar, there was no trace whatever of the recent occupant. The door of this carriage was fastened. In the next compartment, to which attention had been originally drawn, there was no sign either of the gentleman with the astrakhan collar or of the young lady who accompanied him. All three passengers had disappeared. On the other hand, there was found upon the floor of this carriage – the one in which the tall traveller and the lady had been – a young man fashionably dressed and of elegant appearance. He lay with his knees drawn up, and his head resting against the further door, an elbow upon either seat. A bullet had penetrated his heart and his death must have been instantaneous. No one had seen such a man enter the train, and no railway ticket was found in his pocket, neither were there any markings upon his linen, nor papers nor personal property that might help to identify him. Who he was, whence he had come, and how he had met his end were each as great a mystery as what had occurred to the three people who had started an hour and a half before from Euston and then Willesden in those two compartments.’

‘But there was one other peculiarity,’ prompted Holmes, ‘about this young man. Much commented upon at the time.’

‘Yes. In his pockets were found no fewer than six valuable gold watches, three in the various pockets of his waistcoat, one in his ticket-pocket, one in his breast-pocket, and one small one set in a leather strap and fastened round his left wrist.’

‘The obvious explanation,’ I offered, knowing I would be knocked down, but enjoying the show all the same, ‘was that the man was a pickpocket, and that this was his plunder.’

Holmes turned his gaze to me. ‘Yes, my dear Watson, but note that all six were of American make and of a type that is rare in England. Three of them bore the mark of the Rochester Watchmaking Company; one was by Mason of Elmira; one was unmarked; and the small one, which was highly jewelled and ornamented, was from Tiffany of New York. The other contents of his pockets consisted of an ivory knife with a corkscrew by Rodgers of Sheffield; a small, circular mirror, one inch in diameter; a readmission slip to the Lyceum Theatre; a silver box full of Vesta matches, and a brown leather cigar case containing two cheroots – also two pounds and fourteen shillings in money. It was clear, then, that whatever motives may have led to his death, robbery was not among them.’

‘I thought you knew only the vaguest details,’ offered Henderson, unable to hide his amazement.

To Holmes that list amounted to the vaguest details, but I said nothing.

‘As already mentioned, there were no markings upon the man’s linen, which appeared to be new, and no tailor’s name upon his coat. He was young, short, smooth-cheeked, and delicately featured. One of his front teeth was conspicuously stopped with gold.’

‘And what action was taken upon the discovery of the body?’ asked Holmes.

‘An examination was instantly made of the tickets of all passengers, and the number of the passengers themselves was counted. It was found that only three tickets were unaccounted for, corresponding to the three travellers who were missing. The express was then allowed to proceed, but a new guard was sent with it, and John Palmer was detained as a witness at Rugby. The carriage that included the two compartments in question was uncoupled and sidetracked. Then, on the arrival of Inspector Vane, of Scotland Yard—’

‘Vane?’

‘You know him, Mr Holmes?’

‘Only by reputation,’ he replied, with a thin smile that gave little away.

‘And of myself as company detective, an exhaustive enquiry was made into all the circumstances. That a crime had been committed was certain. The bullet, which appeared to have come from a small pistol or revolver, had been fired from some little distance, as there was no scorching of the clothes.’

‘The clothes have been retained?’ Holmes asked.

‘Yes. You are welcome to examine them, Mr Holmes.’

Holmes nodded his appreciation. ‘But I assume no weapon was found?’

‘None.’

‘Which, along with the lack of scorch marks, suggests this was not a suicide.’

‘My conclusion exactly, Mr Holmes. Nor was there any sign of the brown leather bag that the guard had seen in the hand of the tall gentleman. A lady’s parasol was found upon the rack, but no other trace was to be seen of the travellers in either of the sections. Apart from the crime, the question of how or why three passengers, one of them a lady, could get out of the train, and one other get in during the unbroken run between Willesden and Rugby has been exercising us.’

‘Could the guard throw any light on this?’

‘John Palmer said that there was a spot between Tring and Cheddington, where, on account of some repairs to the line, the train had for a few minutes slowed down to a pace not exceeding eight or ten miles an hour. At that place it might be possible for a man, or even for an exceptionally active woman, to have left the train without serious injury. It was true that a gang of platelayers was there, and that they had seen nothing, but it was their custom to stand in the middle between the metals, and the open carriage door was upon the far side, so that it was conceivable that someone might have alighted unseen, as the darkness would by that time be drawing in. A steep embankment would instantly screen anyone who sprang out from the observation of the navvies. The guard also noted that there was a good deal of movement upon the platform at Willesden Junction, and that though it was certain that no one had either joined or left the train there, it was still quite possible that some of the passengers might have changed unseen from one compartment to another.’

I ventured a theory. ‘A gentleman might finish his cigar in a smoking carriage and then change to a clearer atmosphere. Supposing that the man with the black beard had done so at Willesden – and the half-smoked cigar upon the floor seemed to favour the supposition – he would naturally go into the nearest section, which would bring him into the company of the two other actors in this drama.’

‘Bravo, Watson,’ Holmes said softly and sincerely. ‘But what happened next? The line has been examined, Mr Henderson, with thoroughness, I presume?’

‘Yes. And near Tring, at the very place where the train slowed down, there was found at the bottom of the embankment a small pocket Testament, very shabby and worn.’

‘Obviously well loved. Which suggests there might be an inscription?’

‘It was printed by the Bible Society of London, and bore an inscription: “From John to Alice. 13 Jan 1856,” upon the fly-leaf. Underneath was written: “James. 4 July 1859” and beneath that again: “Edward. 1 Nov 1869,” all the entries being in the same handwriting.’

‘It does not sound as if the owner would part with this willingly. Which suggests foul play indeed.’

‘Hence the coroner’s verdict of “Murder by a person or persons unknown”, Mr Holmes.’

‘There were rewards offered for information, I believe,’ I interjected.

‘The usual time-wasters, I am afraid, Dr Watson. It was the unsatisfactory ending to a singular case. Unless, of course, you can help, Mr Holmes.’

Holmes took a breath so deep it threatened to deplete the air in the room. ‘I cannot promise, Mr Henderson. It is, as you say, a most singular case and I would change nothing about your investigation.’

Henderson reddened with pleasure.

‘But I need some time. Having furnished me with the facts in such a concise way, you may consider your duty done. You left your card with Mrs Hudson? Good. I hope to be in touch shortly.’

When Henderson had left I let Holmes ruminate for ten minutes, eyes half-hooded, and returned to my newspaper. When the lids lifted I asked: ‘Well, Holmes?’

‘Well, my dear friend. Do you have any appointments this evening?’

‘None, Holmes.’

‘Good. Then perhaps you would do me the kindness of accompanying me on a journey.’

‘Where to, Holmes?’

‘Rugby, of course. Pass the Bradshaw’s, will you?’

The Manchester Express left that Monday evening at two minutes past five, with the usual cacophony of steam, whistles and slamming carriage doors. Holmes and I had a carriage to ourselves, a smoker in the same portion of the train as the one that the gentleman with the cigar would have occupied.

We both used the opportunity to light a cigarette and, replete after a late lunch in Simpson’s, I felt like snoozing. Holmes was having none of it. He was on his feet as soon as the train left the station, examining the doors and latches and, at one point, throwing himself on the floor and rolling under the seat.

‘Can you see me, Watson?’

‘Of course I can. And it is filthy down there.’

He emerged covered in fluff and cigar stubs, and brushed himself down. ‘There was a remarkable theory put forward. The fact that the young man’s watches were of American make, and some peculiarities in connection with the gold stopping of his front tooth, appeared to indicate that the deceased was a citizen of the United States. His linen, clothes and boots were undoubtedly of British manufacture. So, it has been surmised, he was a spy on the trail of some secret society, recently arrived in this country from America. He was concealed under the seat, and that, on being discovered, he was for some reason, possibly because he had overheard their guilty secrets, put to death by his fellow passengers.’

‘Including a woman?’

‘Are not women conspicuous in the nihilistic and anarchist movement?’

‘But why would he have so many watches about his person? And you can’t conceal yourself under a seat. And what role does the smoker play in that theory?’

‘Good points. But remember, Watson. When—’

‘—when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,’ I completed.

‘Admirable, Watson. I see some of my methods are finally taking root. Now, we will be at Willesden soon. I suggest when the train stops we move one carriage forward, to that non-smoker where the young man met his death.’

We were not alone in the second carriage. There was a young lady and her father, who had been down from Lancashire on business and wanted to show his daughter the metropolis. Neither seemed to recognize that a Great Detective was among them and, after some polite words while the lamps were being lit, he went back to his book and she embroidering an antimacassar. Holmes sat on the inner side of the carriage and glanced frequently at his pocket watch, as if impatient for something to happen.

‘Tring,’ he said absent-mindedly, as the train slowed. ‘The works must still be in place.’

‘Watson,’ he said eventually, ‘I took the liberty of bringing a flask. Perhaps you would like a sip for fortification?’

I thought it rather improper to drink in front of the young woman and turned to look at our fellow passengers. At that moment I heard the slamming of the door and looked around to see that Sherlock Holmes had left the carriage.

All three of us watched in incredulity as a local train rattled our windows as it passed, leaving a trail of grit-laden steam in its wake.

‘What’s going on?’ demanded the businessman. ‘Where’s your friend?’

‘Please stay calm,’ I said. ‘This is entirely normal behaviour for Mr Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Sherlock Holmes!’ exclaimed the man. ‘I thought he looked familiar.’ He tapped his daughter on the knee. ‘And you were complaining we hadn’t seen anyone famous.’

Her expression suggested that she had hoped for someone more celebrated than a well-known detective. I, meanwhile, dropped to my knees and examined beneath the seats but, as I expected, I found only discarded rail tickets and dirt.

Then, in the space he had recently vacated, I saw the flask he had mentioned and, pinned beneath it, a small note.

Apologies for the parlour trick, Watson. Either it worked, and I am now on my way south once more, somewhat circuitously, to Baker Street, or I lie mangled and lifeless on the track. If the former, I shall see you there as soon as possible. If the latter, it has been a pleasure and privilege to have known you. You really are a fixed point in a changing world.

I sprang to the window and lowered it, thrusting my head out without concern for any approaching train on the downline. The light was already fading but, through the dispersing trail of smoke left by the local, I could just make out that there appeared to be no hideously crushed detective lying on the track.

It was late in the evening when I finally made it back to Baker Street. Holmes was still up, smoking a pipe, a fire blazed in the grate, as the nights were still chill. There was a plate of cold meats set out by Mrs Hudson at Holmes’s request and I set about it with some relish.

‘Apologies again, Watson,’ said Holmes.

‘Leaping between moving trains, Holmes? It was a foolhardy thing to do—’

‘Which is exactly what I expected you to say if I had revealed my plans beforehand. Bradshaw’s told me there is a local train running through Harrow and King’s Langley, which is timed in such a way that the express must have overtaken it at or about the period when it eased down its speed to eight miles an hour on account of the repairs of the line. The two trains would at that time be travelling in the same direction at a similar rate of speed and upon parallel lines. As I have just demonstrated, it is entirely feasible to cross from one to the other.’

I finished off the last of the food. ‘That tells us how one might disappear from a train. But not why. Nor why murder was perpetrated.’

‘Whatever may be the truth,’ said Holmes, ‘it must depend upon some bizarre and rare combination of events, so we need have no hesitation in postulating such events in our explanation. In the absence of data we must abandon the analytic or scientific method of investigation, and must approach it in the synthetic fashion. In a word, instead of taking known events and deducing from them what has occurred, we must build up a fanciful explanation if it will only be consistent with known events.’

‘Really, Holmes? That goes against your usual methods.’

‘It sometimes does one good to ring the changes. We have nothing to lose here. There is no urgency, apart from to track down the killer, whom I suspect is already long out of Scotland Yard’s reach. But having come up with our theory, we can then test this explanation by any fresh facts that may arise. If they all fit into their places, the probability is that we are upon the right track, and with each fresh fact this probability increases in a geometrical progression until the evidence becomes final and convincing.

‘You recall that the lamps of the express had been lit at Willesden, so that each compartment was brightly illuminated, and most visible to an observer from outside. It is within everyone’s experience how, under such circumstances, the occupant of each carriage can see very plainly the passengers in the other carriages opposite to him.

‘Now, the sequence of events as I reconstruct them would be after this fashion. This young man with the abnormal number of watches was alone in the carriage of the slow train. His ticket, with his papers and gloves and other things, were, we will suppose, on the seat beside him. He was probably an American, and also probably a man of weak intellect. The excessive wearing of jewellery is an early symptom in some forms of mania.

‘As he sat watching the carriages of the express which were – on account of the state of the line – going at the same pace as himself, he suddenly saw some people in it whom he knew. We will suppose for the sake of our theory that these people were a woman whom he loved and a man whom he hated, and who in return hated him. The young man was excitable and impulsive. He opened the door of his carriage, stepped from the footboard of the local train to the footboard of the express, opened the other door, and made his way into the presence of these two people. The feat, on trains going at the same pace, is by no means so perilous as it might appear.’

I lit a cigarette. ‘I’m not sure I’d like to test that theory again. Now you have got our young man, without his ticket, into the carriage in which the elder man and the young woman are travelling.’

‘Yes, Watson, and it is not difficult to imagine that a violent scene ensued. It is possible that the pair were also Americans, which is the more probable as the man carried a weapon – an unusual thing in England. If our supposition of incipient mania is correct, the young man is likely to have assaulted the other. As the upshot of the quarrel the elder man shot the intruder, and then made his escape from the carriage, taking the young lady with him. We will suppose that all this happened very rapidly, and that the train was still going at so slow a pace that it was not difficult for them to leave it. A woman might leave a train going at eight miles an hour. As a matter of fact, we know that this woman did do so.

‘And now we have to fit in the man in the smoking carriage. Presuming that we have, up to this point, reconstructed the tragedy correctly, we shall find nothing in this other man to cause us to reconsider our conclusions. According to my theory, this man saw the young fellow cross from one train to the other, saw him open the door, heard the pistol-shot, saw the two fugitives spring out onto the line, realized that murder had been done, and sprang out himself in pursuit. Why he has never been heard of since – whether he met his own death in the pursuit, or whether, as is more likely, he was made to realize that it was not a case for his interference – is a detail that we have at present no means of explaining. I acknowledge that there are some difficulties in the way. At first sight, it might seem improbable that at such a moment a murderer would burden himself in his flight with a brown leather bag. My answer is that he was well aware that if the bag were found his identity would be established. It was absolutely necessary for him to take it with him. My theory stands or falls upon one point, and tomorrow I will call upon Mr Henderson and the railway company to make strict enquiry as to whether a ticket was found unclaimed in the local train through Harrow and King’s Langley upon the 18th of March. If such a ticket were found my case is proved. If not, my theory may still be the correct one, for it is conceivable either that he travelled without a ticket or that his ticket was lost.’

‘Remarkable, Holmes.’

‘You don’t sound convinced, Watson.’

‘And neither,’ I ventured, ‘do you, Holmes.’

To which he gave a peal of laughter. ‘Perhaps not, but we shall see what tomorrow brings.’

It was actually two days before the glum tidings arrived. No such ticket as hypothesized by Holmes was found; secondly, that on the night of the murder, thanks to a boiler problem, the local train had been stationary in King’s Langley Station when the express, going at fifty miles an hour, had flashed past it.

Holmes took this news remarkably well, perhaps because an intriguing note had arrived from Montague Place from a governess with a singular problem. ‘I am sure that the solution to this puzzle will present itself eventually,’ he said. Neither of us realized then that it would take five long years for The Rugby Mystery to be solved and, in the interim, my great friend would appear to be lost to the world for ever.

I recall it recorded in my notebook that it was a bleak and windy day towards the end of March 1895 that Holmes received a telegram over breakfast. He scribbled a reply and said nothing more of it. A few hours later there was a measured step on the stairs and a moment later a stout, tall and grey-whiskered gentleman entered the room.

‘Mr Peredue. Come, please be seated. This is my friend and companion Dr John Watson.’

‘I have read and greatly enjoyed your works, sir. Most engaging.’

‘Aren’t they?’ said Holmes. ‘Although Watson does have a rather romantic streak when it comes to reporting our cases. And a tendency to tell stories backwards. How was the crossing?’

‘Crossing?’

‘From the United States.’

Peredue frowned at this. ‘Rough, since you ask. It took me a day or so to recover. How did you . . . ? My accent?’

‘Sir, I would have placed you as from New York or its environs before you uttered a single word. The cut of the jacket, the cuffs on the trousers, the pearlized buttons on your waistcoat . . . or should I say vest?’

‘Waistcoat will do. I haven’t gone entirely native.’

‘When did you leave Buckinghamshire?’ Holmes made an aside to me, in case I wasn’t keeping up. ‘Peredue is an old Bucks surname.’

‘It is. My people emigrated to the States from there in the early fifties.’

Holmes took his customary place on the sofa. ‘Come, arrange your thoughts, Mr Peredue, and lay them out in due sequence. Watson, make yourself comfortable, because you are about to hear the solution to The Rugby Mystery.’

I needed no more encouragement to give Mr Peredue my undivided attention. At last! Five full years since Holmes hopped between those trains.

‘My family settled in Rochester, in the State of New York, where my father ran a large dry goods store. There were only two sons: myself, James Peredue, and my brother, Edward Peredue. I was ten years older than my brother, and after my father died I sort of took the place of a father to him, as an elder brother would. He was a bright, spirited boy. But there was always a soft spot in him, and it was like mould in cheese, for it spread and spread, and nothing that you could do would stop it. Mother saw it just as clearly as I did, but she went on spoiling him all the same, for he had such a way with him that you could refuse him nothing. I did all I could to hold him in, and he hated me for my pains.

‘At last he fairly got his head, and nothing that we could do would stop him. He got off into New York, and went rapidly from bad to worse. At first he was only fast, and then he was criminal; and then, at the end of a year or two, he was one of the most notorious young crooks in the city. He had formed a friendship with Sparrow MacCoy, who was at the head of his profession as a bunco steerer, green goodsman and general rascal.’

‘We have heard that name before, have we not, Watson? But not for some time.’

‘They took to card-sharping, and frequented some of the best hotels in New York. My brother was an excellent actor. In fact, he might have made an honest name for himself if he had chosen. He would take the parts of a young Englishman of title, of a simple lad from the West, or of a college undergraduate, whichever suited Sparrow MacCoy’s purpose. And then one day he dressed himself as a girl, and he carried it off so well, and made himself such a valuable decoy, that it was their favourite game afterwards.’

‘Ah,’ said Holmes, then put a finger to his lips, as if to remind himself not to interrupt.

‘They had made it right with corrupt politicians of Tammany Hall and with the police, and nothing would have stopped them if they had only stuck to cards and New York, but they must needs come up Rochester way, and forge a name upon a cheque. It was my brother who did it, though everyone knew that it was under the influence of Sparrow MacCoy. I bought up that cheque, and a pretty sum it cost me. Then I went to my brother, laid it before him on the table, and swore to him that I would prosecute if he did not clear out of the country. At first he simply laughed. I could not prosecute, he said, without breaking our mother’s heart, and he knew that I would not do that. I made him understand, however, that our mother’s heart was being broken in any case, and that I had set firm on the point that I would rather see him in Rochester gaol than in a New York hotel. So at last he gave in, and he made me a solemn promise that he would see Sparrow MacCoy no more, that he would go to Europe, and that he would turn his hand to any honest trade that I helped him to get. I took him down right away to an old family friend, Joe Wilson, who is an exporter of American watches and clocks, and I got him to give Edward an agency in London, with a small salary and a fifteen per cent commission on all business. His manner and appearance were so good that he won the old man over at once, and within a week he was sent off to London with a case full of samples.’

That explained the watches on the young man who, clearly, was this gentleman’s brother.

‘It seemed to me that this business of the cheque had really given my brother a fright, and that there was some chance of his settling down into an honest line of life. My mother had spoken with him, and what she said had touched him, for she had always been the best of mothers to him and he had been the great sorrow of her life. But I knew that this man Sparrow MacCoy had a great influence over Edward and my chance of keeping the lad straight lay in breaking the connection between them. I had a friend in the NewYork detective force, and through him I kept a watch upon MacCoy. When, within a fortnight of my brother’s sailing, I heard that MacCoy had taken a berth in the Etruria, I was as certain as if he had told me that he was going over to England for the purpose of coaxing Edward back again into the ways that he had left. In an instant I had resolved to go also, and to pit my influence against MacCoy’s. I knew it was a losing fight, but I thought, and my mother thought, that it was my duty. We passed the last night together in prayer for my success, and she gave me her own Testament that my father had given her on the day of their marriage in the Old Country, so that I might always wear it next to my heart.

‘I was a fellow traveller, on the steamship, with Sparrow MacCoy, and at least I had the satisfaction of spoiling his little game for the voyage. The very first night I went into the smoking-room, and found him at the head of a card-table, with a half a dozen young fellows who were carrying their full purses and their empty skulls over to Europe. He was settling down for his harvest, and a rich one it would have been. But I soon changed all that.

‘“Gentlemen,” said I, “are you aware whom you are playing with?”

‘“What’s that to you? You mind your own business!” said Sparrow, with an oath.

‘“Who is it, anyway?” asked one of the dudes.

‘“He’s Sparrow MacCoy, the most notorious card-sharper in the States.”

‘Up MacCoy jumped with a bottle in his hand, but he remembered that he was under the flag of the Old Country, where law and order run, and gaol and the gallows wait for violence and murder, and there’s no slipping out by the back door on board an ocean liner.

‘“Prove your words, you . . . !” said he.

‘“I will!” said I. “If you will turn up your right shirt-sleeve to the shoulder, I will either prove my words or I will eat them.”

‘He turned white and said not a word.’

I recalled that newspaper article I had been reading the very day when Henderson had called. ‘He would have revealed that he had an elastic band down the arm with a clip just above the wrist,’ I said.

‘Yes. It is by means of this clip that they withdraw from their hands the cards that they do not want, while they substitute other cards from another hiding place. I reckoned on it being there, and it was. He cursed me, slunk out of the saloon, and was hardly seen again during the voyage. For once, at any rate, I got level with Sparrow MacCoy.

‘But he soon had his revenge upon me, for when it came to influencing my brother he outweighed me every time. Edward had kept himself straight in London for the first few weeks, and had done some business with his American watches, until this villain came across his path once more. I did my best, but the best was little enough. The next thing I heard there had been a scandal at one of the Northumberland Avenue hotels: a traveller had been fleeced of a large sum by two confederate card-sharpers, and the matter was in the hands of Scotland Yard. The first I learned of it was in the evening paper, and I was at once certain that my brother and MacCoy were back at their old games. I hurried at once to Edward’s lodgings. They told me that he and a tall gentleman (whom I recognized as MacCoy) had gone off together, and that he had left the lodgings and taken his things with him. The landlady had heard them give several directions to the cabman, ending with Euston Station, and she had accidentally overheard the tall gentleman saying something about Manchester. She believed that that was their destination.

‘A glance at the timetable showed me that the most likely train was at five, though there was another at 4.35, which they might have caught. I had time to get only the later one, but found no sign of them either at the depot or in the train. They must have gone on by the earlier one, so I determined to follow them to Manchester and search for them in the hotels there. One last appeal to my brother by all that he owed to my mother might even now be the salvation of him. My nerves were overstrung, and I lit a cigar to steady them. At that moment, just as the train was moving off, the door of my compartment was flung open, and there were MacCoy and my brother on the platform.’

‘In disguise,’ said Holmes. ‘Because Scotland Yard was after them? Yet you recognized them?’

‘I did. MacCoy had a great astrakhan collar drawn up, so that only his eyes and nose were showing. But that nose, that great red beak, I’d know it anywhere. My brother was dressed like a woman, with a black veil half down his face, but of course it did not deceive me for an instant, nor would it have done so even if I had not known that he had often used such a dress before. I started up, and as I did so MacCoy recognized me. He said something, the conductor slammed the door, and they were shown into the next compartment. I tried to stop the train so as to follow them, but the wheels were already moving, and it was too late.

‘When we stopped at Willesden, I instantly changed my carriage. It appears that I was not seen to do so, which is not surprising, as the station was crowded with people. MacCoy, of course, was expecting me, and he had spent the time between Euston and Willesden in saying all he could to harden my brother’s heart and set him against me. That is what I fancy, for I had never found him so impossible to soften or to move. I tried this way and I tried that. I pictured his future in an English gaol; I described the sorrow of his mother when I came back with the news. I said everything to touch his heart, but all to no purpose. He sat there with a fixed sneer upon his handsome face, while every now and then Sparrow MacCoy would throw in a taunt at me, or some word of encouragement to hold my brother to his resolutions.

‘“Why don’t you run a Sunday school?” he would say to me, and then, in the same breath: “He’s only just finding out that you are a man as well as he.”

‘“A man!” said I. “Well, I’m glad to have your friend’s assurance of it, for no one would suspect it to see you like a boarding-school missy. I don’t suppose in all this country there is a more contemptible-looking creature than you are as you sit there with that Dolly pinafore upon you.” My brother coloured up at that, for he was a vain man, and he winced from ridicule.

‘“It’s only a dust-cloak,” said he, and he slipped it off. “One has to throw the coppers off one’s scent, and I had no other way to do it.” He took his toque off with the veil attached, and he put both it and the cloak into his brown bag. “Anyway, I don’t need to wear it until the conductor comes round,” said he.

‘“Nor then, either,” said I, and taking the bag I slung it with all my force out of the window. “Now,” said I, “if nothing but that disguise stands between you and a gaol, then to gaol you shall go.”

‘“Oh, you would squeal, would you?” MacCoy cried, and in an instant he whipped out his revolver. I sprang for his hand, but saw that I was too late, and jumped aside. At the same instant he fired, and the bullet which would have struck me passed through the heart of my unfortunate brother.

‘He dropped without a groan upon the floor of the compartment, and MacCoy and I, equally horrified, kneeled at each side of him, trying to bring back some signs of life. MacCoy still held the loaded revolver in his hand, but his anger against me and my resentment towards him had both for the moment been swallowed up in this sudden tragedy. It was he who first realized the situation. The train was for some reason going very slowly at the moment, and he saw his opportunity for escape. In an instant he had the door open, but I was as quick as he, and jumping upon him the two of us fell off the footboard and rolled in each other’s arms down a steep embankment. At the bottom I struck my head against a stone, and I remembered nothing more. When I came to myself I was lying among some low bushes, not far from the railroad track, and somebody was bathing my head with a wet handkerchief. It was Sparrow MacCoy.

‘“I guess I couldn’t leave you,” said he. “I didn’t want to have the blood of two of you on my hands in one day. You loved your brother, I’ve no doubt; but you didn’t love him a cent more than I loved him, though you’ll say that I took a queer way to show it. Anyhow, it seems a mighty empty world now that he is gone, and I don’t care a continental whether you give me over to the hangman or not.”

‘He had turned his ankle in the fall, and there we sat, he with his useless foot, and I with my throbbing head, and we talked and talked until gradually my bitterness began to soften and to turn into something like sympathy. What was the use of revenging his death upon a man who was as much stricken by that death as I was? And then, as my wits gradually returned, I began to realize also that I could do nothing against MacCoy that would not recoil upon my mother and myself. How could we convict him without a full account of my brother’s career being made public – the very thing that of all others we wished to avoid? It was really as much in our interest as his to cover the matter up, and from being an avenger of crime I found myself changed to a conspirator against Justice. The place in which we found ourselves was one of those pheasant preserves that are so common in the Old Country, and as we groped our way through it I found myself consulting the slayer of my brother as to how far it would be possible to hush it up.

‘I soon realized from what he said that unless there were some papers of which we knew nothing in my brother’s pockets, there was really no possible means by which the police could identify him or learn how he had got there. His ticket was in MacCoy’s pocket, and so was the ticket for some baggage that they had left at the depot. Like most Americans, he had found it cheaper and easier to buy an outfit in London than to bring one from New York, so that all his linen and clothes were new and unmarked. The bag, containing the dust-cloak, which I had thrown out of the window, may have fallen among some bramble patch where it is still concealed, or may have been carried off by some tramp, or may have come into the possession of the police, who kept the incident to themselves. Anyhow, I have seen nothing about it in the London papers. As to the watches, they were a selection from those that had been entrusted to him for business purposes. It may have been for the same business purposes that he was taking them to Manchester, but – well, it’s too late to enter into that.

‘I don’t blame the police for being at fault. I don’t see how it could have been otherwise. There was just one little clue that they might have followed up, but it was a small one. I mean that small, circular mirror that was found in my brother’s pocket. It isn’t a very common thing for a young man to carry about with him, is it? But a gambler might have told you what such a mirror may mean to a card-sharper. If you sit back a little from the table, and lay the mirror, face upwards, upon your lap, you can see, as you deal, every card that you give to your adversary. It is not hard to say whether you see a man or raise him when you know his cards as well as your own. It was as much a part of a sharper’s outfit as the elastic clip upon Sparrow MacCoy’s arm. Taking that, in connection with the recent frauds at the hotels, the police might have got hold of one end of the string.’

‘The mirror,’ said Holmes. ‘I should have known.’

I kept quiet. I had been reading that article about card-sharpers and it had mentioned the very same device and technique. Yet my mind had not made the connection. That, of course, is the difference between Holmes and the rest of us – his brain would have seen the link at once.

‘I don’t think there is much more for me to explain,’ Peredue continued. ‘We got to a village called Amersham that night in the character of two gentlemen upon a walking tour, and afterwards we made our way quietly to London, whence MacCoy went on to Cairo and I returned to New York. My mother died six months afterwards, and I am glad to say that to the day of her death she never knew what happened. She was always under the delusion that Edward was earning an honest living in London, and I never had the heart to tell her the truth. He never wrote; but then, he never did write at any time, so that made no difference. His name was the last upon her lips. Once she was gone, I felt I owed it to the authorities to travel here and put the record straight and take my punishment. But before going to Scotland Yard, I thought I would offer the explanation to you, as I followed the news carefully, and knew you had been consulted. It must be very vexing to a man of your unblemished record—’

I suppressed a smile, knowing that there was a clutch of cases that represented a blemish. Norbury, for example.

‘Oh, I would not bother with Scotland Yard, Mr Peredue,’ said Holmes.

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘I will convey the basic facts to Chief Inspector Vane. I am sure he will decide that unless you can produce Sparrow MacCoy, there is little point in reopening the case.’

‘But I—’

‘Lost a well-loved brother. None could have done more to try and save his soul. I am grateful you have drawn a line under The Rugby Mystery.’

‘Very well, Mr Holmes. There’s just one other thing that I have to ask you, sir, and I should take it as a kind return for all this explanation if you could do it for me. You remember the Testament that was picked up. I always carried it in my inside pocket, and it must have come out in my fall. I value it very highly, for it was the family book with my birth and my brother’s marked by my father in the beginning of it. I wish you would apply at the proper place and have it sent to me. It can be of no possible value to anyone else. If you address it to me at Bassano’s Library, Broadway, New York, it is sure to come to hand.’

‘I am sure we can locate it and have it returned.’

When Peredue had taken his leave, to visit the grave of his brother and arrange, anonymously, for a headstone to be erected bearing his name, Holmes turned to me. ‘Watson, no doubt one day you will wish to write of these events, of the time when Sherlock Holmes developed a theory so preposterous, it was only trumped by the truth. But have a care. Peredue did aid the escape of a murderer, albeit an accidental one, and leave the law, and a certain Consulting Detective, scratching their heads. Strictly speaking, he should face the courts. Perhaps you should allow some time to pass before putting pen to paper.’

Time has indeed passed and two of the principals are no longer with us. James Peredue perished in 1907 when the Larchmont, a paddle steamer, sank after a collision off the coast of Rhode Island, en route from Providence (where Peredue owned a fine home) to New York. Sparrow MacCoy sharped one too many cards and was shot dead in a gunfight in San Francisco in 1906, just days before the earthquake. Mr Sherlock Holmes is retired, tending his bees, his reputation secure and robust enough to survive a tale in which he played the part of the mistaken detective.