Silver Blaze.txt

Silver Blaze


I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go,” said Holmes, as we
sat down together to our breakfast one morning.

“Go! Where to?”

“To Dartmoor; to King’s Pyland.”

I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that he had not
already been mixed up in this extraordinary case, which was the
one topic of conversation through the length and breadth of
England. For a whole day my companion had rambled about the room
with his chin upon his chest and his brows knitted, charging and
recharging his pipe with the strongest black tobacco, and
absolutely deaf to any of my questions or remarks. Fresh editions
of every paper had been sent up by our news agent, only to be
glanced over and tossed down into a corner. Yet, silent as he
was, I knew perfectly well what it was over which he was
brooding. There was but one problem before the public which could
challenge his powers of analysis, and that was the singular
disappearance of the favourite for the Wessex Cup, and the tragic
murder of its trainer. When, therefore, he suddenly announced his
intention of setting out for the scene of the drama it was only
what I had both expected and hoped for.

“I should be most happy to go down with you if I should not be in
the way,” said I.

“My dear Watson, you would confer a great favour upon me by
coming. And I think that your time will not be misspent, for
there are points about the case which promise to make it an
absolutely unique one. We have, I think, just time to catch our
train at Paddington, and I will go further into the matter upon
our journey. You would oblige me by bringing with you your very
excellent field-glass.”

And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself in the
corner of a first-class carriage flying along en route for
Exeter, while Sherlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face framed
in his ear-flapped travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle
of fresh papers which he had procured at Paddington. We had left
Reading far behind us before he thrust the last one of them under
the seat, and offered me his cigar-case.

“We are going well,” said he, looking out the window and glancing
at his watch. “Our rate at present is fifty-three and a half
miles an hour.”

“I have not observed the quarter-mile posts,” said I.

“Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this line are sixty
yards apart, and the calculation is a simple one. I presume that
you have looked into this matter of the murder of John Straker
and the disappearance of Silver Blaze?”

“I have seen what the _Telegraph_ and the _Chronicle_ have to
say.”

“It is one of those cases where the art of the reasoner should be
used rather for the sifting of details than for the acquiring of
fresh evidence. The tragedy has been so uncommon, so complete and
of such personal importance to so many people, that we are
suffering from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis.
The difficulty is to detach the framework of fact—of absolute
undeniable fact—from the embellishments of theorists and
reporters. Then, having established ourselves upon this sound
basis, it is our duty to see what inferences may be drawn and
what are the special points upon which the whole mystery turns.
On Tuesday evening I received telegrams from both Colonel Ross,
the owner of the horse, and from Inspector Gregory, who is
looking after the case, inviting my co-operation.”

“Tuesday evening!” I exclaimed. “And this is Thursday morning.
Why didn’t you go down yesterday?”

“Because I made a blunder, my dear Watson—which is, I am afraid,
a more common occurrence than any one would think who only knew
me through your memoirs. The fact is that I could not believe it
possible that the most remarkable horse in England could long
remain concealed, especially in so sparsely inhabited a place as
the north of Dartmoor. From hour to hour yesterday I expected to
hear that he had been found, and that his abductor was the
murderer of John Straker. When, however, another morning had
come, and I found that beyond the arrest of young Fitzroy Simpson
nothing had been done, I felt that it was time for me to take
action. Yet in some ways I feel that yesterday has not been
wasted.”

“You have formed a theory, then?”

“At least I have got a grip of the essential facts of the case. I
shall enumerate them to you, for nothing clears up a case so much
as stating it to another person, and I can hardly expect your
co-operation if I do not show you the position from which we
start.”

I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar, while
Holmes, leaning forward, with his long, thin forefinger checking
off the points upon the palm of his left hand, gave me a sketch
of the events which had led to our journey.

“Silver Blaze,” said he, “is from the Isonomy stock, and holds as
brilliant a record as his famous ancestor. He is now in his fifth
year, and has brought in turn each of the prizes of the turf to
Colonel Ross, his fortunate owner. Up to the time of the
catastrophe he was the first favourite for the Wessex Cup, the
betting being three to one on him. He has always, however, been a
prime favourite with the racing public, and has never yet
disappointed them, so that even at those odds enormous sums of
money have been laid upon him. It is obvious, therefore, that
there were many people who had the strongest interest in
preventing Silver Blaze from being there at the fall of the flag
next Tuesday.

“The fact was, of course, appreciated at King’s Pyland, where the
Colonel’s training-stable is situated. Every precaution was taken
to guard the favourite. The trainer, John Straker, is a retired
jockey who rode in Colonel Ross’s colours before he became too
heavy for the weighing-chair. He has served the Colonel for five
years as jockey and for seven as trainer, and has always shown
himself to be a zealous and honest servant. Under him were three
lads; for the establishment was a small one, containing only four
horses in all. One of these lads sat up each night in the stable,
while the others slept in the loft. All three bore excellent
characters. John Straker, who is a married man, lived in a small
villa about two hundred yards from the stables. He has no
children, keeps one maid-servant, and is comfortably off. The
country round is very lonely, but about half a mile to the north
there is a small cluster of villas which have been built by a
Tavistock contractor for the use of invalids and others who may
wish to enjoy the pure Dartmoor air. Tavistock itself lies two
miles to the west, while across the moor, also about two miles
distant, is the larger training establishment of Mapleton, which
belongs to Lord Backwater, and is managed by Silas Brown. In
every other direction the moor is a complete wilderness,
inhabited only by a few roaming gypsies. Such was the general
situation last Monday night when the catastrophe occurred.

“On that evening the horses had been exercised and watered as
usual, and the stables were locked up at nine o’clock. Two of the
lads walked up to the trainer’s house, where they had supper in
the kitchen, while the third, Ned Hunter, remained on guard. At a
few minutes after nine the maid, Edith Baxter, carried down to
the stables his supper, which consisted of a dish of curried
mutton. She took no liquid, as there was a water-tap in the
stables, and it was the rule that the lad on duty should drink
nothing else. The maid carried a lantern with her, as it was very
dark and the path ran across the open moor.

“Edith Baxter was within thirty yards of the stables, when a man
appeared out of the darkness and called to her to stop. As he
stepped into the circle of yellow light thrown by the lantern she
saw that he was a person of gentlemanly bearing, dressed in a
grey suit of tweeds, with a cloth cap. He wore gaiters, and
carried a heavy stick with a knob to it. She was most impressed,
however, by the extreme pallor of his face and by the nervousness
of his manner. His age, she thought, would be rather over thirty
than under it.

“‘Can you tell me where I am?’ he asked. ‘I had almost made up my
mind to sleep on the moor, when I saw the light of your lantern.’

“‘You are close to the King’s Pyland training-stables,’ said she.

“‘Oh, indeed! What a stroke of luck!’ he cried. ‘I understand
that a stable-boy sleeps there alone every night. Perhaps that is
his supper which you are carrying to him. Now I am sure that you
would not be too proud to earn the price of a new dress, would
you?’ He took a piece of white paper folded up out of his
waistcoat pocket. ‘See that the boy has this to-night, and you
shall have the prettiest frock that money can buy.’

“She was frightened by the earnestness of his manner, and ran
past him to the window through which she was accustomed to hand
the meals. It was already opened, and Hunter was seated at the
small table inside. She had begun to tell him of what had
happened, when the stranger came up again.

“‘Good-evening,’ said he, looking through the window. ‘I wanted
to have a word with you.’ The girl has sworn that as he spoke she
noticed the corner of the little paper packet protruding from his
closed hand.

“‘What business have you here?’ asked the lad.

“‘It’s business that may put something into your pocket,’ said
the other. ‘You’ve two horses in for the Wessex Cup—Silver Blaze
and Bayard. Let me have the straight tip and you won’t be a
loser. Is it a fact that at the weights Bayard could give the
other a hundred yards in five furlongs, and that the stable have
put their money on him?’

“‘So, you’re one of those damned touts!’ cried the lad. ‘I’ll
show you how we serve them in King’s Pyland.’ He sprang up and
rushed across the stable to unloose the dog. The girl fled away
to the house, but as she ran she looked back and saw that the
stranger was leaning through the window. A minute later, however,
when Hunter rushed out with the hound he was gone, and though he
ran all round the buildings he failed to find any trace of him.”

“One moment,” I asked. “Did the stable-boy, when he ran out with
the dog, leave the door unlocked behind him?”

“Excellent, Watson, excellent!” murmured my companion. “The
importance of the point struck me so forcibly that I sent a
special wire to Dartmoor yesterday to clear the matter up. The
boy locked the door before he left it. The window, I may add, was
not large enough for a man to get through.

“Hunter waited until his fellow-grooms had returned, when he sent
a message to the trainer and told him what had occurred. Straker
was excited at hearing the account, although he does not seem to
have quite realized its true significance. It left him, however,
vaguely uneasy, and Mrs. Straker, waking at one in the morning,
found that he was dressing. In reply to her inquiries, he said
that he could not sleep on account of his anxiety about the
horses, and that he intended to walk down to the stables to see
that all was well. She begged him to remain at home, as she could
hear the rain pattering against the window, but in spite of her
entreaties he pulled on his large mackintosh and left the house.

“Mrs. Straker awoke at seven in the morning, to find that her
husband had not yet returned. She dressed herself hastily, called
the maid, and set off for the stables. The door was open; inside,
huddled together upon a chair, Hunter was sunk in a state of
absolute stupor, the favourite’s stall was empty, and there were
no signs of his trainer.

“The two lads who slept in the chaff-cutting loft above the
harness-room were quickly aroused. They had heard nothing during
the night, for they are both sound sleepers. Hunter was obviously
under the influence of some powerful drug, and as no sense could
be got out of him, he was left to sleep it off while the two lads
and the two women ran out in search of the absentees. They still
had hopes that the trainer had for some reason taken out the
horse for early exercise, but on ascending the knoll near the
house, from which all the neighbouring moors were visible, they
not only could see no signs of the missing favourite, but they
perceived something which warned them that they were in the
presence of a tragedy.

“About a quarter of a mile from the stables John Straker’s
overcoat was flapping from a furze-bush. Immediately beyond there
was a bowl-shaped depression in the moor, and at the bottom of
this was found the dead body of the unfortunate trainer. His head
had been shattered by a savage blow from some heavy weapon, and
he was wounded on the thigh, where there was a long, clean cut,
inflicted evidently by some very sharp instrument. It was clear,
however, that Straker had defended himself vigorously against his
assailants, for in his right hand he held a small knife, which
was clotted with blood up to the handle, while in his left he
clasped a red and black silk cravat, which was recognised by the
maid as having been worn on the preceding evening by the stranger
who had visited the stables.

“Hunter, on recovering from his stupor, was also quite positive
as to the ownership of the cravat. He was equally certain that
the same stranger had, while standing at the window, drugged his
curried mutton, and so deprived the stables of their watchman.

“As to the missing horse, there were abundant proofs in the mud
which lay at the bottom of the fatal hollow that he had been
there at the time of the struggle. But from that morning he has
disappeared, and although a large reward has been offered, and
all the gypsies of Dartmoor are on the alert, no news has come of
him. Finally, an analysis has shown that the remains of his
supper left by the stable-lad contain an appreciable quantity of
powdered opium, while the people at the house partook of the same
dish on the same night without any ill effect.

“Those are the main facts of the case, stripped of all surmise,
and stated as baldly as possible. I shall now recapitulate what
the police have done in the matter.

“Inspector Gregory, to whom the case has been committed, is an
extremely competent officer. Were he but gifted with imagination
he might rise to great heights in his profession. On his arrival
he promptly found and arrested the man upon whom suspicion
naturally rested. There was little difficulty in finding him, for
he inhabited one of those villas which I have mentioned. His
name, it appears, was Fitzroy Simpson. He was a man of excellent
birth and education, who had squandered a fortune upon the turf,
and who lived now by doing a little quiet and genteel book-making
in the sporting clubs of London. An examination of his
betting-book shows that bets to the amount of five thousand
pounds had been registered by him against the favourite.

“On being arrested he volunteered the statement that he had come
down to Dartmoor in the hope of getting some information about
the King’s Pyland horses, and also about Desborough, the second
favourite, which was in charge of Silas Brown at the Mapleton
stables. He did not attempt to deny that he had acted as
described upon the evening before, but declared that he had no
sinister designs, and had simply wished to obtain first-hand
information. When confronted with his cravat, he turned very
pale, and was utterly unable to account for its presence in the
hand of the murdered man. His wet clothing showed that he had
been out in the storm of the night before, and his stick, which
was a Penang-lawyer weighted with lead, was just such a weapon as
might, by repeated blows, have inflicted the terrible injuries to
which the trainer had succumbed.

“On the other hand, there was no wound upon his person, while the
state of Straker’s knife would show that one at least of his
assailants must bear his mark upon him. There you have it all in
a nutshell, Watson, and if you can give me any light I shall be
infinitely obliged to you.”

I had listened with the greatest interest to the statement which
Holmes, with characteristic clearness, had laid before me. Though
most of the facts were familiar to me, I had not sufficiently
appreciated their relative importance, nor their connection to
each other.

“Is it not possible,” I suggested, “that the incised wound upon
Straker may have been caused by his own knife in the convulsive
struggles which follow any brain injury?”

“It is more than possible; it is probable,” said Holmes. “In that
case one of the main points in favour of the accused disappears.”

“And yet,” said I, “even now I fail to understand what the theory
of the police can be.”

“I am afraid that whatever theory we state has very grave
objections to it,” returned my companion. “The police imagine, I
take it, that this Fitzroy Simpson, having drugged the lad, and
having in some way obtained a duplicate key, opened the stable
door and took out the horse, with the intention, apparently, of
kidnapping him altogether. His bridle is missing, so that Simpson
must have put this on. Then, having left the door open behind
him, he was leading the horse away over the moor, when he was
either met or overtaken by the trainer. A row naturally ensued.
Simpson beat out the trainer’s brains with his heavy stick
without receiving any injury from the small knife which Straker
used in self-defence, and then the thief either led the horse on
to some secret hiding-place, or else it may have bolted during
the struggle, and be now wandering out on the moors. That is the
case as it appears to the police, and improbable as it is, all
other explanations are more improbable still. However, I shall
very quickly test the matter when I am once upon the spot, and
until then I cannot really see how we can get much further than
our present position.”

It was evening before we reached the little town of Tavistock,
which lies, like the boss of a shield, in the middle of the huge
circle of Dartmoor. Two gentlemen were awaiting us in the
station—the one a tall, fair man with lion-like hair and beard
and curiously penetrating light blue eyes; the other a small,
alert person, very neat and dapper, in a frock-coat and gaiters,
with trim little side-whiskers and an eye-glass. The latter was
Colonel Ross, the well-known sportsman; the other, Inspector
Gregory, a man who was rapidly making his name in the English
detective service.

“I am delighted that you have come down, Mr. Holmes,” said the
Colonel. “The Inspector here has done all that could possibly be
suggested, but I wish to leave no stone unturned in trying to
avenge poor Straker and in recovering my horse.”

“Have there been any fresh developments?” asked Holmes.

“I am sorry to say that we have made very little progress,” said
the Inspector. “We have an open carriage outside, and as you
would no doubt like to see the place before the light fails, we
might talk it over as we drive.”

A minute later we were all seated in a comfortable landau, and
were rattling through the quaint old Devonshire city. Inspector
Gregory was full of his case, and poured out a stream of remarks,
while Holmes threw in an occasional question or interjection.
Colonel Ross leaned back with his arms folded and his hat tilted
over his eyes, while I listened with interest to the dialogue of
the two detectives. Gregory was formulating his theory, which was
almost exactly what Holmes had foretold in the train.

“The net is drawn pretty close round Fitzroy Simpson,” he
remarked, “and I believe myself that he is our man. At the same
time I recognise that the evidence is purely circumstantial, and
that some new development may upset it.”

“How about Straker’s knife?”

“We have quite come to the conclusion that he wounded himself in
his fall.”

“My friend Dr. Watson made that suggestion to me as we came down.
If so, it would tell against this man Simpson.”

“Undoubtedly. He has neither a knife nor any sign of a wound. The
evidence against him is certainly very strong. He had a great
interest in the disappearance of the favourite. He lies under
suspicion of having poisoned the stable-boy, he was undoubtedly
out in the storm, he was armed with a heavy stick, and his cravat
was found in the dead man’s hand. I really think we have enough
to go before a jury.”

Holmes shook his head. “A clever counsel would tear it all to
rags,” said he. “Why should he take the horse out of the stable?
If he wished to injure it why could he not do it there? Has a
duplicate key been found in his possession? What chemist sold him
the powdered opium? Above all, where could he, a stranger to the
district, hide a horse, and such a horse as this? What is his own
explanation as to the paper which he wished the maid to give to
the stable-boy?”

“He says that it was a ten-pound note. One was found in his
purse. But your other difficulties are not so formidable as they
seem. He is not a stranger to the district. He has twice lodged
at Tavistock in the summer. The opium was probably brought from
London. The key, having served its purpose, would be hurled away.
The horse may be at the bottom of one of the pits or old mines
upon the moor.”

“What does he say about the cravat?”

“He acknowledges that it is his, and declares that he had lost
it. But a new element has been introduced into the case which may
account for his leading the horse from the stable.”

Holmes pricked up his ears.

“We have found traces which show that a party of gypsies encamped
on Monday night within a mile of the spot where the murder took
place. On Tuesday they were gone. Now, presuming that there was
some understanding between Simpson and these gypsies, might he
not have been leading the horse to them when he was overtaken,
and may they not have him now?”

“It is certainly possible.”

“The moor is being scoured for these gypsies. I have also
examined every stable and out-house in Tavistock, and for a
radius of ten miles.”

“There is another training-stable quite close, I understand?”

“Yes, and that is a factor which we must certainly not neglect.
As Desborough, their horse, was second in the betting, they had
an interest in the disappearance of the favourite. Silas Brown,
the trainer, is known to have had large bets upon the event, and
he was no friend to poor Straker. We have, however, examined the
stables, and there is nothing to connect him with the affair.”

“And nothing to connect this man Simpson with the interests of
the Mapleton stables?”

“Nothing at all.”

Holmes leaned back in the carriage, and the conversation ceased.
A few minutes later our driver pulled up at a neat little
red-brick villa with overhanging eaves which stood by the road.
Some distance off, across a paddock, lay a long grey-tiled
out-building. In every other direction the low curves of the
moor, bronze-coloured from the fading ferns, stretched away to
the sky-line, broken only by the steeples of Tavistock, and by a
cluster of houses away to the westward which marked the Mapleton
stables. We all sprang out with the exception of Holmes, who
continued to lean back with his eyes fixed upon the sky in front
of him, entirely absorbed in his own thoughts. It was only when I
touched his arm that he roused himself with a violent start and
stepped out of the carriage.

“Excuse me,” said he, turning to Colonel Ross, who had looked at
him in some surprise. “I was day-dreaming.” There was a gleam in
his eyes and a suppressed excitement in his manner which
convinced me, used as I was to his ways, that his hand was upon a
clue, though I could not imagine where he had found it.

“Perhaps you would prefer at once to go on to the scene of the
crime, Mr. Holmes?” said Gregory.

“I think that I should prefer to stay here a little and go into
one or two questions of detail. Straker was brought back here, I
presume?”

“Yes; he lies upstairs. The inquest is to-morrow.”

“He has been in your service some years, Colonel Ross?”

“I have always found him an excellent servant.”

“I presume that you made an inventory of what he had in his
pockets at the time of his death, Inspector?”

“I have the things themselves in the sitting-room, if you would
care to see them.”

“I should be very glad.” We all filed into the front room and sat
round the central table while the Inspector unlocked a square tin
box and laid a small heap of things before us. There was a box of
vestas, two inches of tallow candle, an A.D.P. briar-root pipe, a
pouch of seal-skin with half an ounce of long-cut Cavendish, a
silver watch with a gold chain, five sovereigns in gold, an
aluminium pencil-case, a few papers, and an ivory-handled knife
with a very delicate, inflexible blade marked Weiss & Co.,
London.

“This is a very singular knife,” said Holmes, lifting it up and
examining it minutely. “I presume, as I see blood-stains upon it,
that it is the one which was found in the dead man’s grasp.
Watson, this knife is surely in your line?”

“It is what we call a cataract knife,” said I.

“I thought so. A very delicate blade devised for very delicate
work. A strange thing for a man to carry with him upon a rough
expedition, especially as it would not shut in his pocket.”

“The tip was guarded by a disk of cork which we found beside his
body,” said the Inspector. “His wife tells us that the knife had
lain upon the dressing-table, and that he had picked it up as he
left the room. It was a poor weapon, but perhaps the best that he
could lay his hands on at the moment.”

“Very possible. How about these papers?”

“Three of them are receipted hay-dealers’ accounts. One of them
is a letter of instructions from Colonel Ross. This other is a
milliner’s account for thirty-seven pounds fifteen made out by
Madame Lesurier, of Bond Street, to William Derbyshire. Mrs.
Straker tells us that Derbyshire was a friend of her husband’s
and that occasionally his letters were addressed here.”

“Madam Derbyshire had somewhat expensive tastes,” remarked
Holmes, glancing down the account. “Twenty-two guineas is rather
heavy for a single costume. However there appears to be nothing
more to learn, and we may now go down to the scene of the crime.”

As we emerged from the sitting-room a woman, who had been waiting
in the passage, took a step forward and laid her hand upon the
Inspector’s sleeve. Her face was haggard and thin and eager,
stamped with the print of a recent horror.

“Have you got them? Have you found them?” she panted.

“No, Mrs. Straker. But Mr. Holmes here has come from London to
help us, and we shall do all that is possible.”

“Surely I met you in Plymouth at a garden-party some little time
ago, Mrs. Straker?” said Holmes.

“No, sir; you are mistaken.”

“Dear me! Why, I could have sworn to it. You wore a costume of
dove-coloured silk with ostrich-feather trimming.”

“I never had such a dress, sir,” answered the lady.

“Ah, that quite settles it,” said Holmes. And with an apology he
followed the Inspector outside. A short walk across the moor took
us to the hollow in which the body had been found. At the brink
of it was the furze-bush upon which the coat had been hung.

“There was no wind that night, I understand,” said Holmes.

“None; but very heavy rain.”

“In that case the overcoat was not blown against the furze-bush,
but placed there.”

“Yes, it was laid across the bush.”

“You fill me with interest, I perceive that the ground has been
trampled up a good deal. No doubt many feet have been here since
Monday night.”

“A piece of matting has been laid here at the side, and we have
all stood upon that.”

“Excellent.”

“In this bag I have one of the boots which Straker wore, one of
Fitzroy Simpson’s shoes, and a cast horseshoe of Silver Blaze.”

“My dear Inspector, you surpass yourself!” Holmes took the bag,
and, descending into the hollow, he pushed the matting into a
more central position. Then stretching himself upon his face and
leaning his chin upon his hands, he made a careful study of the
trampled mud in front of him. “Hullo!” said he, suddenly. “What’s
this?” It was a wax vesta half burned, which was so coated with
mud that it looked at first like a little chip of wood.

“I cannot think how I came to overlook it,” said the Inspector,
with an expression of annoyance.

“It was invisible, buried in the mud. I only saw it because I was
looking for it.”

“What! You expected to find it?”

“I thought it not unlikely.”

He took the boots from the bag, and compared the impressions of
each of them with marks upon the ground. Then he clambered up to
the rim of the hollow, and crawled about among the ferns and
bushes.

“I am afraid that there are no more tracks,” said the Inspector.
“I have examined the ground very carefully for a hundred yards in
each direction.”

“Indeed!” said Holmes, rising. “I should not have the
impertinence to do it again after what you say. But I should like
to take a little walk over the moor before it grows dark, that I
may know my ground to-morrow, and I think that I shall put this
horseshoe into my pocket for luck.”

Colonel Ross, who had shown some signs of impatience at my
companion’s quiet and systematic method of work, glanced at his
watch. “I wish you would come back with me, Inspector,” said he.
“There are several points on which I should like your advice, and
especially as to whether we do not owe it to the public to remove
our horse’s name from the entries for the Cup.”

“Certainly not,” cried Holmes, with decision. “I should let the
name stand.”

The Colonel bowed. “I am very glad to have had your opinion,
sir,” said he. “You will find us at poor Straker’s house when you
have finished your walk, and we can drive together into
Tavistock.”

He turned back with the Inspector, while Holmes and I walked
slowly across the moor. The sun was beginning to sink behind the
stables of Mapleton, and the long, sloping plain in front of us
was tinged with gold, deepening into rich, ruddy browns where the
faded ferns and brambles caught the evening light. But the
glories of the landscape were all wasted upon my companion, who
was sunk in the deepest thought.

“It’s this way, Watson,” said he at last. “We may leave the
question of who killed John Straker for the instant, and confine
ourselves to finding out what has become of the horse. Now,
supposing that he broke away during or after the tragedy, where
could he have gone to? The horse is a very gregarious creature.
If left to himself his instincts would have been either to return
to King’s Pyland or go over to Mapleton. Why should he run wild
upon the moor? He would surely have been seen by now. And why
should gypsies kidnap him? These people always clear out when
they hear of trouble, for they do not wish to be pestered by the
police. They could not hope to sell such a horse. They would run
a great risk and gain nothing by taking him. Surely that is
clear.”

“Where is he, then?”

“I have already said that he must have gone to King’s Pyland or
to Mapleton. He is not at King’s Pyland. Therefore he is at
Mapleton. Let us take that as a working hypothesis and see what
it leads us to. This part of the moor, as the Inspector remarked,
is very hard and dry. But it falls away towards Mapleton, and you
can see from here that there is a long hollow over yonder, which
must have been very wet on Monday night. If our supposition is
correct, then the horse must have crossed that, and there is the
point where we should look for his tracks.”

We had been walking briskly during this conversation, and a few
more minutes brought us to the hollow in question. At Holmes’
request I walked down the bank to the right, and he to the left,
but I had not taken fifty paces before I heard him give a shout,
and saw him waving his hand to me. The track of a horse was
plainly outlined in the soft earth in front of him, and the shoe
which he took from his pocket exactly fitted the impression.

“See the value of imagination,” said Holmes. “It is the one
quality which Gregory lacks. We imagined what might have
happened, acted upon the supposition, and find ourselves
justified. Let us proceed.”

We crossed the marshy bottom and passed over a quarter of a mile
of dry, hard turf. Again the ground sloped, and again we came on
the tracks. Then we lost them for half a mile, but only to pick
them up once more quite close to Mapleton. It was Holmes who saw
them first, and he stood pointing with a look of triumph upon his
face. A man’s track was visible beside the horse’s.

“The horse was alone before,” I cried.

“Quite so. It was alone before. Hullo, what is this?”

The double track turned sharp off and took the direction of
King’s Pyland. Holmes whistled, and we both followed along after
it. His eyes were on the trail, but I happened to look a little
to one side, and saw to my surprise the same tracks coming back
again in the opposite direction.

“One for you, Watson,” said Holmes, when I pointed it out. “You
have saved us a long walk, which would have brought us back on
our own traces. Let us follow the return track.”

We had not to go far. It ended at the paving of asphalt which led
up to the gates of the Mapleton stables. As we approached, a
groom ran out from them.

“We don’t want any loiterers about here,” said he.

“I only wished to ask a question,” said Holmes, with his finger
and thumb in his waistcoat pocket. “Should I be too early to see
your master, Mr. Silas Brown, if I were to call at five o’clock
to-morrow morning?”

“Bless you, sir, if any one is about he will be, for he is always
the first stirring. But here he is, sir, to answer your questions
for himself. No, sir, no; it is as much as my place is worth to
let him see me touch your money. Afterwards, if you like.”

As Sherlock Holmes replaced the half-crown which he had drawn
from his pocket, a fierce-looking elderly man strode out from the
gate with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand.

“What’s this, Dawson!” he cried. “No gossiping! Go about your
business! And you, what the devil do you want here?”

“Ten minutes’ talk with you, my good sir,” said Holmes in the
sweetest of voices.

“I’ve no time to talk to every gadabout. We want no strangers
here. Be off, or you may find a dog at your heels.”

Holmes leaned forward and whispered something in the trainer’s
ear. He started violently and flushed to the temples.

“It’s a lie!” he shouted, “an infernal lie!”

“Very good. Shall we argue about it here in public or talk it
over in your parlour?”

“Oh, come in if you wish to.”

Holmes smiled. “I shall not keep you more than a few minutes,
Watson,” said he. “Now, Mr. Brown, I am quite at your disposal.”

It was twenty minutes, and the reds had all faded into greys
before Holmes and the trainer reappeared. Never have I seen such
a change as had been brought about in Silas Brown in that short
time. His face was ashy pale, beads of perspiration shone upon
his brow, and his hands shook until the hunting-crop wagged like
a branch in the wind. His bullying, overbearing manner was all
gone too, and he cringed along at my companion’s side like a dog
with its master.

“Your instructions will be done. It shall all be done,” said he.

“There must be no mistake,” said Holmes, looking round at him.
The other winced as he read the menace in his eyes.

“Oh no, there shall be no mistake. It shall be there. Should I
change it first or not?”

Holmes thought a little and then burst out laughing. “No, don’t,”
said he; “I shall write to you about it. No tricks, now, or—”

“Oh, you can trust me, you can trust me!”

“Yes, I think I can. Well, you shall hear from me to-morrow.” He
turned upon his heel, disregarding the trembling hand which the
other held out to him, and we set off for King’s Pyland.

“A more perfect compound of the bully, coward, and sneak than
Master Silas Brown I have seldom met with,” remarked Holmes as we
trudged along together.

“He has the horse, then?”

“He tried to bluster out of it, but I described to him so exactly
what his actions had been upon that morning that he is convinced
that I was watching him. Of course you observed the peculiarly
square toes in the impressions, and that his own boots exactly
corresponded to them. Again, of course no subordinate would have
dared to do such a thing. I described to him how, when according
to his custom he was the first down, he perceived a strange horse
wandering over the moor. How he went out to it, and his
astonishment at recognising, from the white forehead which has
given the favourite its name, that chance had put in his power
the only horse which could beat the one upon which he had put his
money. Then I described how his first impulse had been to lead
him back to King’s Pyland, and how the devil had shown him how he
could hide the horse until the race was over, and how he had led
it back and concealed it at Mapleton. When I told him every
detail he gave it up and thought only of saving his own skin.”

“But his stables had been searched?”

“Oh, an old horse-faker like him has many a dodge.”

“But are you not afraid to leave the horse in his power now,
since he has every interest in injuring it?”

“My dear fellow, he will guard it as the apple of his eye. He
knows that his only hope of mercy is to produce it safe.”

“Colonel Ross did not impress me as a man who would be likely to
show much mercy in any case.”

“The matter does not rest with Colonel Ross. I follow my own
methods, and tell as much or as little as I choose. That is the
advantage of being unofficial. I don’t know whether you observed
it, Watson, but the Colonel’s manner has been just a trifle
cavalier to me. I am inclined now to have a little amusement at
his expense. Say nothing to him about the horse.”

“Certainly not without your permission.”

“And of course this is all quite a minor point compared to the
question of who killed John Straker.”

“And you will devote yourself to that?”

“On the contrary, we both go back to London by the night train.”

I was thunderstruck by my friend’s words. We had only been a few
hours in Devonshire, and that he should give up an investigation
which he had begun so brilliantly was quite incomprehensible to
me. Not a word more could I draw from him until we were back at
the trainer’s house. The Colonel and the Inspector were awaiting
us in the parlour.

“My friend and I return to town by the night-express,” said
Holmes. “We have had a charming little breath of your beautiful
Dartmoor air.”

The Inspector opened his eyes, and the Colonel’s lip curled in a
sneer.

“So you despair of arresting the murderer of poor Straker,” said
he.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “There are certainly grave
difficulties in the way,” said he. “I have every hope, however,
that your horse will start upon Tuesday, and I beg that you will
have your jockey in readiness. Might I ask for a photograph of
Mr. John Straker?”

The Inspector took one from an envelope and handed it to him.

“My dear Gregory, you anticipate all my wants. If I might ask you
to wait here for an instant, I have a question which I should
like to put to the maid.”

“I must say that I am rather disappointed in our London
consultant,” said Colonel Ross, bluntly, as my friend left the
room. “I do not see that we are any further than when he came.”

“At least you have his assurance that your horse will run,” said
I.

“Yes, I have his assurance,” said the Colonel, with a shrug of
his shoulders. “I should prefer to have the horse.”

I was about to make some reply in defence of my friend when he
entered the room again.

“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “I am quite ready for Tavistock.”

As we stepped into the carriage one of the stable-lads held the
door open for us. A sudden idea seemed to occur to Holmes, for he
leaned forward and touched the lad upon the sleeve.

“You have a few sheep in the paddock,” he said. “Who attends to
them?”

“I do, sir.”

“Have you noticed anything amiss with them of late?”

“Well, sir, not of much account; but three of them have gone
lame, sir.”

I could see that Holmes was extremely pleased, for he chuckled
and rubbed his hands together.

“A long shot, Watson; a very long shot,” said he, pinching my
arm. “Gregory, let me recommend to your attention this singular
epidemic among the sheep. Drive on, coachman!”

Colonel Ross still wore an expression which showed the poor
opinion which he had formed of my companion’s ability, but I saw
by the Inspector’s face that his attention had been keenly
aroused.

“You consider that to be important?” he asked.

“Exceedingly so.”

“Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my
attention?”

“To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.”

“The dog did nothing in the night-time.”

“That was the curious incident,” remarked Sherlock Holmes.

Four days later Holmes and I were again in the train, bound for
Winchester to see the race for the Wessex Cup. Colonel Ross met
us by appointment outside the station, and we drove in his drag
to the course beyond the town. His face was grave, and his manner
was cold in the extreme.

“I have seen nothing of my horse,” said he.

“I suppose that you would know him when you saw him?” asked
Holmes.

The Colonel was very angry. “I have been on the turf for twenty
years, and never was asked such a question as that before,” said
he. “A child would know Silver Blaze, with his white forehead and
his mottled off-foreleg.”

“How is the betting?”

“Well, that is the curious part of it. You could have got fifteen
to one yesterday, but the price has become shorter and shorter,
until you can hardly get three to one now.”

“Hum!” said Holmes. “Somebody knows something, that is clear.”

As the drag drew up in the enclosure near the grand stand I
glanced at the card to see the entries. It ran:—

Wessex Plate. 50 sovs each h ft with 1000 sovs added for four and
five year olds. Second, £300. Third, £200. New course (one mile
and five furlongs).
1. Mr. Heath Newton’s The Negro (red cap, cinnamon jacket).
2. Colonel Wardlaw’s Pugilist (pink cap, blue and black jacket).
3. Lord Backwater’s Desborough (yellow cap and sleeves).
4. Colonel Ross’s Silver Blaze (black cap, red jacket).
5. Duke of Balmoral’s Iris (yellow and black stripes).
6. Lord Singleford’s Rasper (purple cap, black sleeves).

“We scratched our other one, and put all hopes on your word,”
said the Colonel. “Why, what is that? Silver Blaze favourite?”

“Five to four against Silver Blaze!” roared the ring. “Five to
four against Silver Blaze! Five to fifteen against Desborough!
Five to four on the field!”

“There are the numbers up,” I cried. “They are all six there.”

“All six there? Then my horse is running,” cried the Colonel in
great agitation. “But I don’t see him. My colours have not
passed.”

“Only five have passed. This must be he.”

As I spoke a powerful bay horse swept out from the weighing
enclosure and cantered past us, bearing on its back the
well-known black and red of the Colonel.

“That’s not my horse,” cried the owner. “That beast has not a
white hair upon its body. What is this that you have done, Mr.
Holmes?”

“Well, well, let us see how he gets on,” said my friend,
imperturbably. For a few minutes he gazed through my field-glass.
“Capital! An excellent start!” he cried suddenly. “There they
are, coming round the curve!”

From our drag we had a superb view as they came up the straight.
The six horses were so close together that a carpet could have
covered them, but half way up the yellow of the Mapleton stable
showed to the front. Before they reached us, however,
Desborough’s bolt was shot, and the Colonel’s horse, coming away
with a rush, passed the post a good six lengths before its rival,
the Duke of Balmoral’s Iris making a bad third.

“It’s my race, anyhow,” gasped the Colonel, passing his hand over
his eyes. “I confess that I can make neither head nor tail of it.
Don’t you think that you have kept up your mystery long enough,
Mr. Holmes?”

“Certainly, Colonel, you shall know everything. Let us all go
round and have a look at the horse together. Here he is,” he
continued, as we made our way into the weighing enclosure, where
only owners and their friends find admittance. “You have only to
wash his face and his leg in spirits of wine, and you will find
that he is the same old Silver Blaze as ever.”

“You take my breath away!”

“I found him in the hands of a faker, and took the liberty of
running him just as he was sent over.”

“My dear sir, you have done wonders. The horse looks very fit and
well. It never went better in its life. I owe you a thousand
apologies for having doubted your ability. You have done me a
great service by recovering my horse. You would do me a greater
still if you could lay your hands on the murderer of John
Straker.”

“I have done so,” said Holmes quietly.

The Colonel and I stared at him in amazement. “You have got him!
Where is he, then?”

“He is here.”

“Here! Where?”

“In my company at the present moment.”

The Colonel flushed angrily. “I quite recognise that I am under
obligations to you, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “but I must regard what
you have just said as either a very bad joke or an insult.”

Sherlock Holmes laughed. “I assure you that I have not associated
you with the crime, Colonel,” said he. “The real murderer is
standing immediately behind you.” He stepped past and laid his
hand upon the glossy neck of the thoroughbred.

“The horse!” cried both the Colonel and myself.

“Yes, the horse. And it may lessen his guilt if I say that it was
done in self-defence, and that John Straker was a man who was
entirely unworthy of your confidence. But there goes the bell,
and as I stand to win a little on this next race, I shall defer a
lengthy explanation until a more fitting time.”

We had the corner of a Pullman car to ourselves that evening as
we whirled back to London, and I fancy that the journey was a
short one to Colonel Ross as well as to myself, as we listened to
our companion’s narrative of the events which had occurred at the
Dartmoor training-stables upon the Monday night, and the means by
which he had unravelled them.

“I confess,” said he, “that any theories which I had formed from
the newspaper reports were entirely erroneous. And yet there were
indications there, had they not been overlaid by other details
which concealed their true import. I went to Devonshire with the
conviction that Fitzroy Simpson was the true culprit, although,
of course, I saw that the evidence against him was by no means
complete. It was while I was in the carriage, just as we reached
the trainer’s house, that the immense significance of the curried
mutton occurred to me. You may remember that I was distrait, and
remained sitting after you had all alighted. I was marvelling in
my own mind how I could possibly have overlooked so obvious a
clue.”

“I confess,” said the Colonel, “that even now I cannot see how it
helps us.”

“It was the first link in my chain of reasoning. Powdered opium
is by no means tasteless. The flavour is not disagreeable, but it
is perceptible. Were it mixed with any ordinary dish the eater
would undoubtedly detect it, and would probably eat no more. A
curry was exactly the medium which would disguise this taste. By
no possible supposition could this stranger, Fitzroy Simpson,
have caused curry to be served in the trainer’s family that
night, and it is surely too monstrous a coincidence to suppose
that he happened to come along with powdered opium upon the very
night when a dish happened to be served which would disguise the
flavour. That is unthinkable. Therefore Simpson becomes
eliminated from the case, and our attention centres upon Straker
and his wife, the only two people who could have chosen curried
mutton for supper that night. The opium was added after the dish
was set aside for the stable-boy, for the others had the same for
supper with no ill effects. Which of them, then, had access to
that dish without the maid seeing them?

“Before deciding that question I had grasped the significance of
the silence of the dog, for one true inference invariably
suggests others. The Simpson incident had shown me that a dog was
kept in the stables, and yet, though some one had been in and had
fetched out a horse, he had not barked enough to arouse the two
lads in the loft. Obviously the midnight visitor was some one
whom the dog knew well.

“I was already convinced, or almost convinced, that John Straker
went down to the stables in the dead of the night and took out
Silver Blaze. For what purpose? For a dishonest one, obviously,
or why should he drug his own stable-boy? And yet I was at a loss
to know why. There have been cases before now where trainers have
made sure of great sums of money by laying against their own
horses, through agents, and then preventing them from winning by
fraud. Sometimes it is a pulling jockey. Sometimes it is some
surer and subtler means. What was it here? I hoped that the
contents of his pockets might help me to form a conclusion.

“And they did so. You cannot have forgotten the singular knife
which was found in the dead man’s hand, a knife which certainly
no sane man would choose for a weapon. It was, as Dr. Watson told
us, a form of knife which is used for the most delicate
operations known in surgery. And it was to be used for a delicate
operation that night. You must know, with your wide experience of
turf matters, Colonel Ross, that it is possible to make a slight
nick upon the tendons of a horse’s ham, and to do it
subcutaneously, so as to leave absolutely no trace. A horse so
treated would develop a slight lameness, which would be put down
to a strain in exercise or a touch of rheumatism, but never to
foul play.”

“Villain! Scoundrel!” cried the Colonel.

“We have here the explanation of why John Straker wished to take
the horse out on to the moor. So spirited a creature would have
certainly roused the soundest of sleepers when it felt the prick
of the knife. It was absolutely necessary to do it in the open
air.”

“I have been blind!” cried the Colonel. “Of course that was why
he needed the candle, and struck the match.”

“Undoubtedly. But in examining his belongings I was fortunate
enough to discover not only the method of the crime, but even its
motives. As a man of the world, Colonel, you know that men do not
carry other people’s bills about in their pockets. We have most
of us quite enough to do to settle our own. I at once concluded
that Straker was leading a double life, and keeping a second
establishment. The nature of the bill showed that there was a
lady in the case, and one who had expensive tastes. Liberal as
you are with your servants, one can hardly expect that they can
buy twenty-guinea walking dresses for their ladies. I questioned
Mrs. Straker as to the dress without her knowing it, and having
satisfied myself that it had never reached her, I made a note of
the milliner’s address, and felt that by calling there with
Straker’s photograph I could easily dispose of the mythical
Derbyshire.

“From that time on all was plain. Straker had led out the horse
to a hollow where his light would be invisible. Simpson in his
flight had dropped his cravat, and Straker had picked it up—with
some idea, perhaps, that he might use it in securing the horse’s
leg. Once in the hollow, he had got behind the horse and had
struck a light; but the creature frightened at the sudden glare,
and with the strange instinct of animals feeling that some
mischief was intended, had lashed out, and the steel shoe had
struck Straker full on the forehead. He had already, in spite of
the rain, taken off his overcoat in order to do his delicate
task, and so, as he fell, his knife gashed his thigh. Do I make
it clear?”

“Wonderful!” cried the Colonel. “Wonderful! You might have been
there!”

“My final shot was, I confess a very long one. It struck me that
so astute a man as Straker would not undertake this delicate
tendon-nicking without a little practice. What could he practice
on? My eyes fell upon the sheep, and I asked a question which,
rather to my surprise, showed that my surmise was correct.

“When I returned to London I called upon the milliner, who had
recognised Straker as an excellent customer of the name of
Derbyshire, who had a very dashing wife, with a strong partiality
for expensive dresses. I have no doubt that this woman had
plunged him over head and ears in debt, and so led him into this
miserable plot.”

“You have explained all but one thing,” cried the Colonel. “Where
was the horse?”

“Ah, it bolted, and was cared for by one of your neighbours. We
must have an amnesty in that direction, I think. This is Clapham
Junction, if I am not mistaken, and we shall be in Victoria in
less than ten minutes. If you care to smoke a cigar in our rooms,
Colonel, I shall be happy to give you any other details which
might interest you.”