THE ADVENTURE OF THE DEVIL’S FATHER, by Morris Hershman

Fame, as my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes occasionally insisted, is the destroyer of function. Let a man be recognized among the general public, Holmes might add pensively, and it promptly becomes impossible to proceed about his business, particularly that of pursuing the craft of detection, a fate which for his part he claimed he owned entirely to the accounts which I had indicated about certain of his cases.

Holmes happened to be holding forth in this vein on a chill pre-Christmas afternoon at our quarters in Baker Street when he suddenly halted himself almost in mid-sentence.

“I can relieve your mind, Watson, by informing you that the man you expect to join us will be arriving very shortly.”

“Holmes, is this black magic on your part? How could you possibly know what is on my mind?”

“It is absurdly elementary, my dear fellow. You are continually looking at the door and then examining the face of the turnip watch you wear.”

“Could I not be expecting a woman to join us?”

“In that case, you would be dressed far more like a bird showing off its plumage.”

“And how do you know that the man will arrive ‘very shortly’?”

“Because a glance out the window shows a florid-faced and worried looking gentleman (with much military experience in his past, I’ll be bound!) halting before our premises and looking at the exterior. Someday I must compose a monograph about the effects of anticipation on the reasoning processes.”

Before I could apologize for not having spoken about the impending visitation, Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, was ushering a new arrival into our premises.

I said, “This is Colonel Phineas Warburton, late of Her Majesty’s Service, whom I knew in Afghanistan.” Indeed, he had been among the first to reach me when that infernal Jezail bullet I still carry had penetrated my flesh. “We recently encountered each other in the Strand, and he asked to consult you.”

“Let us hope that your problem is of interest, Colonel Warburton. Pray be seated and make your statement.”

“I’ll get right to the point. I have a son, Mr. Holmes, adopted as a baby by my late wife and myself shortly before a fever carried her off. I was left to raise Trevor, but my duty so occupied me that I couldn’t be the best of fathers. Trevor, in a sense, raised himself.”

“An elder’s duty has warped more children than the basest of crimes,” Holmes observed. “Please continue, Colonel.”

“Trevor married and was soon in need of funds. No part of my pension would have sufficed to help sufficiently. Not long after his marriage to Violet. I was horrified to learn that my son had illegally invaded the premises of a jeweler in Hatton Gardens to commit theft. With his revolver he fired at a drawer containing valuables and opened it.”

“Mr. Trevor Warburton’s impatience could dispose him toward further violence.”

“It is that possibility, Mr. Holmes, which brings me to ask for help. You see, Trevor was captured and convicted for his crime. He is to be released from Dartmoor on a day not yet determined, but within the week, and has written me that he intends returning to Surrey.”

“Where, I presume, he has lived with his wife.”

“They rent a cottage in the village of Casshire.”

“And you feel that he may be tempted once again into the commission of a crime.”

“Tempted into violence is how I must put it. Trevor has previously written that he feels strongly about an extravagant wife having argued him into taking draconian measures to support her. It grieves and shames me to say that I greatly fear possible consequences of his anger at Violet, whether or not justified. He might perpetrate an even greater—ah, indiscretion, than in the past.”

“Hm! I must tell you, sir, that I appreciate the difficulty but am not aware of any way in which I must help.”

“I dreaded as much, Mr. Holmes, but there may be one solution to this hellish difficulty. If my son is told by so famous a man as Mr. Sherlock Holmes that he will be watched as closely as a dealer in a gambling hell to prevent any misstep, it may be enough to keep Trevor law-abiding from then on.”

Holmes looked displeased. “It is not gratifying to confront a commission in which my façade as pictured by Watson, is wanted rather than my hard-won skills as a consulting investigator. You will be aware, though, Colonel, that I can be strongly moved by the task of preventing crime.”

“You will not find me ungrateful for your help, Holmes.”

“Our good landlady, Mrs. Hudson, will certainly be pleased to hear as much,” Holmes said dryly, rising. “I take it that you remain in London at least till the matter can be apparently resolved. Where can you be reached? The Albany? Capital?”

* * * *

Holmes spent the balance of the daylight hours wrapped in thick coils of silence, rather than bestirring himself to arrange a prison interview with Warburton’s devil of a son. He sat staring wordlessly at our bullet-pocked walls, his eyes half-shut, an unlighted meerschaum planted between his lips.

I said peevishly, “Sitting immobile for hours will not prevent a woman’s being battered, or worse, murdered.”

“Without evidence or the means to procure it, I do not yet know how to proceed.”

Aware that I was on the threshold of an argument at a difficult time, I descended instead to the street to take the wintry London evening air. Returning not long after, I was surprised to see Mrs. Hudson near the stairs, evidently awaiting me.

“Mr. Holmes told me to let you know that he has left until tomorrow midday, Doctor.”

At least Holmes was about to give that wicked young Warburton the sort of talking to that had been richly earned. Holmes was not too late to prevent a horrid crime.

* * * *

Holmes did not reappear into the breakfast hour. A telegram from Warburton was delivered, inquiring about the current status of the matter he had placed before us. After some thought I wrote out a telegram to the effect that all was proceeding satisfactorily. Having signed my friend’s name to the concoction. I requested our page-boy to drop it off at the appropriate location.

As for the remainder of that morning and into the early afternoon, I hardly recall it. The fire was burning in our grate, adding warmth to the winter day, and I very much fear I dozed off. Suffice it to say that I knew nothing more until my ears made out a sound nearby and I forced both eyes open.

“Just a moment, my good man,” I snapped to the scruffy stranger who had invaded our quarters. “Did you receive an appointment to meet with Mr. Holmes at this time?”

Whereupon I was astonished to hear a familiar chuckle issuing from that intruder’s parched lips.

“You are ever loyal, Watson, the blessed British bulldog of the life,” said Sherlock Holmes. “The blame for my outré wardrobe lies at your door, you having published such accounts of my work as to make it far more difficult for me to accomplish in everyday clothes, as I have often explained.”

“Spare me, Holmes.”

“To business, then. I was unable to visit Dartmoor, the trains to the area not running because of the recent snow and the current icy weather.”

“What have you been doing?”

“I hiked myself to Surrey and the village of Casshire, where I repaired to the Pipe and Shag, as the local pub is rather felicitously named.”

“Ah! You wanted to question various residents without seeming to do so.”

“Bravo, Watson! Your capacity for logical deduction grows apace, I am happy to hear. Yes, in my disguise, it seemed to me that the natives would talk easily about young Warburton. I found several who were happy to indulge in that supposedly feminine sport of gossip. It seems that the young Warburton—had fared badly as far as obtaining the needful was concerned. The young man attempted to find means of honest employment in London and elsewhere, but was thwarted at every turn. He had made application to serve in Her Majesty’s forces when the crime took place with its grim aftermath.”

“How has Mrs. Warburton lived while her husband was detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure?”

“There, Watson, you have put an unerring finger on a point of great interest. It would appear that Mrs. Warburton has inherited money from her late mother’s will. An adequate stipend for two will shortly be arriving on the first of the month and into the foreseeable future.”

“One hopes it will be enough to save her from possible unpleasantness at her husband’s hands,” I said. “He has been imprisoned while she, at liberty, has a newly gained income. Is it possible he feels no regrets? That he can persuade himself she was not to blame? Is it possible? Is it likely?”

“I have taken a step to prevent the worst, if only a small step,” Holmes responded. “After an overnight stay in Surrey, I met with Violet Warburton, introducing myself correctly. She understood the necessity for my garish costume without referring to it, a young woman who thinks before speaking. Cautious, obviously, with no bent for risk, which may be quite fortunate in the situation that confronts us.”

“Did you tell her of the possible difficulty?”

“I did indeed. Violet Warburton loyally refuses to believe that her husband committed the crime for which he was detained, or that he might do her some mischief. She was familiar with my reputation, so she gave me her word that she would be cautious in dealing with her husband and to allow no stranger into her home for the near future. She promised to inform the local constabulary with no delay if any difficulty occurs along those lines. As the trait of caution is part of the young woman’s disposition. I accept her word.”

“In other words,” I said, suddenly triumphant despite the current strains, “she was familiar with your reputation which enabled you to gain her consent, because of the ‘sensational’ accounts I have caused to be published about your many achievements.”

“A touch, Watson, distinctly a touch!” My friend’s hearty chuckle was lost in the search for a stubby pen and paper on his cluttered desk. “I am writing to the principal warder of Dartmoor, a bit belatedly, asking when Trevor Warburton is to be released. Then, my dear Watson, you and I will take a hand in the game.”

* * * *

In the next hours Holmes beguiled himself by adding cuttings from the newspapers to his various volumes about criminal cases in the length and breadth of Empire. This chore concluded, he favored me with several sentimental German Christmas lieder skillfully rendered on his violin. I was breathing deeply in pleasure when a reply came to his recent telegram. Holmes was suddenly galvanized.

“Trevor Warburton was released from Dartmoor early this morning.”

“He will have returned to his wife before you can warn him to restrain from further violent impulses!”

“An immediate trip must be made to Casshire. It is dark now and dirty deeds blend invisibly into the sheath of darkness.” He reached for a timetable. “Dress quickly, Watson! Your company will keep strangers from noticing my undisguised presence.”

“Shall I take a revolver?”

“There is less chance of mishap if we bring sticks, and I expect further assistance from the full moon.”

* * * *

Our train was approaching the snow-tipped chalk downs of Surrey before it occurred to me to regret that my army friend had not been asked to join us. I said as much.

“There is no reason to think that the colonel would like what he might have to witness, Watson. In this matter, even if in no other, circumstances may have conspired for the best.”

My further desultory efforts at conversation were met with silence. Holmes was straining to see through the once spotless windows at our sides. He jumped to his feet shortly after we saw the ice-tipped River Way looking like a blue knife in a blancmange. I joined him as the train let us off in the appropriate village, which was no different in external appearance from many others I had seen.

“The local will serve as a rough compass needle pointing north.” So saying, he set off down the High Street, stick at the ready, eyes squinting straight ahead. I found myself several steps behind no matter how hard I struggled to catch up.

Despite my having been of assistance to him—or perhaps I flatter myself—in a number of cases. I never did become used to the lightning quickness with which my friend could act. When he whirled about to urge me by a gesture to walk more silently, I was so taken by surprise that several seconds passed before I was able to do his bidding. I was at my usual two-three paces behind when he halted and raised one hand to keep me from moving straight ahead.

“Behind that tree,” he whispered.

Holmes’ face was hard, as if contemplating an enemy, eyes narrowed, lips taut against each other. Most surprising of all he had gripped his stick so tightly that the moon’s light gave those taut knuckles a semblance of fury.

“Do you think that Trevor Warburton has arrived?” I asked, careful to keep my voice low.

“No,” Holmes returned. “Every room but the parlor is dark, and those who live alone are proverbially sparing of light.”

The full moon shortly enabled me to see a male approaching the Warburton door, his back toward us. Warburton’s devil of an adopted son, I felt sure, was walking along grounds he knew. A sturdy devil, he looked.

I turned to Holmes for guidance and received a shock when he pointed firmly back to the unfolding drama before us. A woman’s footsteps eagerly approached the other side of the door as the new arrival knocked imperiously.

There was a pause, and then along the brisk night air, it was possible to hear a slurred and almost gravelly voice.

“It is I, Trevor.”

No movement could be heard from the other side of the door.

Holmes, already in motion, called back to me, “Now, Watson!”

Even as Holmes raced to the door, myself only a step back, Trevor Warburton’s body thundered against it, striking at the correct angle to force it open. He had shown a devastating lack of caution by not hearing or paying attention to Holmes. The full moon let a cone of light over his broad back into the large room.

Holmes had raised the stick and connected solidly with the man’s form. The man grunted and showed a revolver which was promptly knocked out of his nerveless hand. He suddenly staggered, having taken a total of ten steps into the room, then fell back to the floor.

Only now that Holmes had prevailed did I turn to the woman. Blood marked a cheek where she had surely been struck in the seconds that the villain had been able to do what he wished. She was pluckily recovering her balance before I started to attend her.

That done, I looked down at the monster writhing at our feet and received one of the most profound shocks of my life. For I was staring not at the youthful Trevor Warburton, but at Trevor’s adopted father, my army friend, Colonel Phineas Warburton.

* * * *

“The criminal himself made me suspicious of his villainy,” Holmes observed on the morning train back to London. “In speaking to us at Baker Street, he offered a jarring simile about a dealer in a gambling hell, you recall, while discussing a matter in which the prime factor was a lack of money. It caused me to view other aspects of his story in a different light, and to wonder whether he himself was afflicted with a shortage of the necessary.”

“And he was?”

“Indeed, yes. I was able to learn the truth in the briefest time by making contact with my brother, whose acquaintance you have made over the years. To a far greater extent than myself, Mycroft knows everything about potential scandals of any interest. Truly, he is the Debrett’s of the disreputable. He provided me with the information that Warburton had been on the ropes, financially, for quite awhile, and staving off discovery by the skin of his teeth.”

“I can hardly believe that Phineas Warburton acquired gambling debts that drove him to steal his son’s revolver some years ago and commit a robbery, then say nothing when Trevor was sent to prison in his stead.”

“The colonel’s confession freely given, even boastfully given for some reason, must force you to accept those facts, Watson, as well as the horror that followed. Learning that his daughter-in-law had inherited enough to solve his difficulty he decided to take that money for himself by lying, cheating, and committing a base murder which could involve exposing another human being to a judicial sentence of hanging.”

I nodded sadly, well aware from his jaunty confession that Phineas Warburton had lied, among other things, about Trevor’s feelings for his young wife. Later, he had urged Trevor to spend a few restful hours in London upon his release from imprisonment, promising to telegraph Violet Warburton with the good news that her husband was free. Of course he had done nothing of the sort.

When the young man finally rested, the colonel felt able to wreak fatal mischief that would be laid at the door of the luckless younger man. If Mrs. Warburton hadn’t failed to accept the colonel’s claim of identity as Trevor in those last moments, he would have been entirely successful, inheriting the dead daughter-in-law’s money from Trevor’s estate after the latter had been hanged.

“Couldn’t he have thrown himself at the mercy of the young people and borrowed a considerable portion of the money that he needed?”

“He lacked enough judgment to consider doing so,” Holmes tapped his own forehead as if to say that the man’s faculties had been impaired by greed.

“I fear, after having seen him, that the matter may be more tragic than you believe, Holmes. Warburton’s reason may have been shaken to the foundations by his many reverses, and he may never leave an institution for the—the insane.”

“Your apprehensions could be wholly justified, Watson, but Warburton’s stay cannot be without an end. Everything in this span of our lives is pro tempore, old fellow, for we begin afresh after we leave this first plane of existence.”

I introduced to this notice the problem of Colonel Warburton’s madness.

—A. Conan Doyle,

“The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb”