Sherlock Holmes complete collection by sir arthur conan doyle

The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes THE LION'S MANE

IT IS a most singular thing that a problem which was certainly as abstruseand unusual as any which I have faced in my long professional careershould have come to me after my retirement, and be brought, as it were,to my very door. It occurred after my withdrawal to my little Sussexhome, when I had given myself up entirely to that soothing life of Naturefor which I had so often yearned during the long years spent amid thegloom of London. At this period of my life the good Watson had passedalmost beyond my ken. An occasional week-end visit was the most that Iever saw of him. Thus I must act as my own chronicler. Ah! had he butbeen with me, how much he might have made of so wonderful ahappening and of my eventual triumph against every difficulty! As it is,however, I must needs tell my tale in my own plain way, showing by mywords each step upon the difficult road which lay before me as I searchedfor the mystery of the Lion's Mane.My villa is situated upon the southern slope of the downs, commandinga great view of the Channel. At this point the coast-line is entirely ofchalk cliffs, which can only be descended by a single, long, tortuous path,which is steep and slippery. At the bottom of the path lie a hundred yardsof pebbles and shingle, even when the tide is at full. Here and there,however, there are curves and hollows which make splendid swimmingpools filled afresh with each flow. This admirable beach extends for somemiles in each direction, save only at one point where the little cove andvillage of Fulworth break the line.My house is lonely. I, my old housekeeper, and my bees have the estateall to ourselves. Half a mile off, however, is Harold Stackhurst's wellknown coaching establishment, The Gables, quite a large place, whichcontains some score of young fellows preparing for various professions,with a staff of several masters. Stackhurst himself was a well-knownrowing Blue in his day, and an excellent all-round scholar. He and I werealways friendly from the day I came to the coast, and he was the one manwho was on such terms with me that we could drop in on each other in theevenings without an invitation.Towards the end of July, 1907, there was a severe gale, the windblowing up-channel, heaping the seas to the base of the cliffs and leavinga lagoon at the turn of the tide. On the morning of which I speak the windhad abated, and all Nature was newly washed and fresh. It was impossibleto work upon so delightful a day, [1084] and I strolled out before breakfastto enjoy the exquisite air. I walked along the cliff path which led to thesteep descent to the beach. As I walked I heard a shout behind me, andthere was Harold Stackhurst waving his hand in cheery greeting."What a morning, Mr. Holmes! I thought I should see you out." "Going for a swim, I see.""At your old tricks again," he laughed, patting his bulging pocket."Yes. McPherson started early, and I expect I may find him there."Fitzroy McPherson was the science master, a fine upstanding youngfellow whose life had been crippled by heart trouble following rheumaticfever. He was a natural athlete, however, and excelled in every gamewhich did not throw too great a strain upon him. Summer and winter hewent for his swim, and, as I am a swimmer myself, I have often joinedhim.At this moment we saw the man himself. His head showed above theedge of the cliff where the path ends. Then his whole figure appeared atthe top, staggering like a drunken man. The next instant he threw up hishands and, with a terrible cry, fell upon his face. Stackhurst and I rushedforward-it may have been fifty yards-and turned him on his back. He wasobviously dying. Those glazed sunken eyes and dreadful livid cheekscould mean nothing else. One glimmer of life came into his face for aninstant, and he uttered two or three words with an eager air of warning.They were slurred and indistinct, but to my ear the last of them, whichburst in a shriek from his lips, were "the Lion's Mane." It was utterlyirrelevant and unintelligible, and yet I could twist the sound into no othersense. Then he half raised himself from the ground, threw his arms intothe air, and fell forward on his side. He was dead.My companion was paralyzed by the sudden horror of it, but I, as maywell be imagined, had every sense on the alert. And I had need, for it wasspeedily evident that we were in the presence of an extraordinary case.The man was dressed only in his Burberry overcoat, his trousers, and anunlaced pair of canvas shoes. As he fell over, his Burberry, which hadbeen simply thrown round his shoulders, slipped off, exposing his trunk.We stared at it in amazement. His back was covered with dark red lines asthough he had been terribly flogged by a thin wire scourge. Theinstrument with which this punishment had been inflicted was clearlyflexible, for the long, angry weals curved round his shoulders and ribs.There was blood dripping down his chin, for he had bitten through hislower lip in the paroxysm of his agony. His drawn and distorted face toldhow terrible that agony had been.I was kneeling and Stackhurst standing by the body when a shadow fellacross us, and we found that Ian Murdoch was by our side. Murdoch wasthe mathematical coach at the establishment, a tall, dark, thin man, sotaciturn and aloof that none can be said to have been his friend. Heseemed to live in some high, abstract region of surds and conic sections,with little to connect him with ordinary life. He was looked upon as anoddity by the students, and would have been their butt, but there wassome strange outlandish blood in the man, which showed itself not only inhis coal-black eyes and swarthy face but also in occasional outbreaks oftemper, which could only be described as ferocious. On one occasion,being plagued by a little dog belonging to McPherson, he had caught thecreature up and hurled it through the plate-glass window, an action forwhich Stackhurst would certainly have given him his dismissal had he notbeen a very valuable teacher. Such was the strange complex man whonow appeared beside us. He seemed to be [1085] honestly shocked at thesight before him, though the incident of the dog may show that there wasno great sympathy between the dead man and himself."Poor fellow! Poor fellow! What can I do? How can I help?""Were you with him? Can you tell us what has happened?""No, no, I was late this morning. I was not on the beach at all. I havecome straight from The Gables. What can I do?""You can hurry to the police-station at Fulworth. Report the matter atonce."Without a word he made off at top speed, and I proceeded to take thematter in hand, while Stackhurst, dazed at this tragedy, remained by thebody. My first task naturally was to note who was on the beach. From thetop of the path I could see the whole sweep of it, and it was absolutelydeserted save that two or three dark figures could be seen far awaymoving towards the village of Fulworth. Having satisfied myself uponthis point, I walked slowly down the path. There was clay or soft marlmixed with the chalk, and every here and there I saw the same footstep,both ascending and descending. No one else had gone down to the beachby this track that morning. At one place I observed the print of an openhand with the fingers towards the incline. This could only mean that poorMcPherson had fallen as he ascended. There were rounded depressions, too, which suggested that he had come down upon his knees more thanonce. At the bottom of the path was the considerable lagoon left by theretreating tide. At the side of it McPherson had undressed, for there layhis towel on a rock. It was folded and dry, so that it would seem that, afterall, he had never entered the water. Once or twice as I hunted round amidthe hard shingle I came on little patches of sand where the print of hiscanvas shoe, and also of his naked foot, could be seen. The latter factproved that he had made all ready to bathe, though the towel indicatedthat he had not actually done so.And here was the problem clearly defined-as strange a one as had everconfronted me. The man had not been on the beach more than a quarter ofan hour at the most. Stackhurst had followed him from The Gables, sothere could be no doubt about that. He had gone to bathe and hadstripped, as the naked footsteps showed. Then he had suddenly huddledon his clothes again-they were all dishevelled and unfastened-and he hadreturned without bathing, or at any rate without drying himself. And thereason for his change of purpose had been that he had been scourged insome savage, inhuman fashion, tortured until he bit his lip through in hisagony, and was left with only strength enough to crawl away and to die.Who had done this barbarous deed? There were, it is true, small grottosand caves in the base of the cliffs, but the low sun shone directly intothem, and there was no place for concealment. Then, again, there werethose distant figures on the beach. They seemed too far away to have beenconnected with the crime, and the broad lagoon in which McPherson hadintended to bathe lay between him and them, lapping up to the rocks. Onthe sea two or three fishing-boats were at no great distance. Theiroccupants might be examined at our leisure. There were several roads forinquiry, but none which led to any very obvious goal.When I at last returned to the body I found that a little group ofwondering folk had gathered round it. Stackhurst was, of course, stillthere, and Ian Murdoch had just arrived with Anderson, the villageconstable, a big, ginger-moustached man of the slow, solid Sussexbreed-a breed which covers much good sense under a heavy, silentexterior. He listened to everything, took note of all we said, and finallydrew me aside.[1086] "I'd be glad of your advice, Mr. Holmes. This is a big thing forme to handle, and I'll hear of it from Lewes if I go wrong."I advised him to send for his immediate superior, and for a doctor; alsoto allow nothing to be moved, and as few fresh footmarks as possible tobe made, until they came. In the meantime I searched the dead man'spockets. There were his handkerchief, a large knife, and a small foldingcard-case. From this projected a slip of paper, which I unfolded andhanded to the constable. There was written on it in a scrawling, femininehand:I will be there, you may be sure.MAUDIE.It read like a love affair, an assignation, though when and where were a blank. The constable replaced it in the card-case and returned it with theother things to the pockets of the Burberry. Then, as nothing moresuggested itself, I walked back to my house for breakfast, having firstarranged that the base of the cliffs should be thoroughly searched.Stackhurst was round in an hour or two to tell me that the body hadbeen removed to The Gables, where the inquest would be held. Hebrought with him some serious and definite news. As I expected, nothinghad been found in the small caves below the cliff, but he had examinedthe papers in McPherson's desk, and there were several which showed anintimate correspondence with a certain Miss Maud Bellamy, of Fulworth.We had then established the identity of the writer of the note."The police have the letters," he explained. "I could not bring them.But there is no doubt that it was a serious love affair. I see no reason,however, to connect it with that horrible happening save, indeed, that thelady had made an appointment with him.""But hardly at a bathing-pool which all of you were in the habit ofusing," I remarked."It is mere chance," said he, "that several of the students were not withMcPherson.""Was it mere chance?"Stackhurst knit his brows in thought."Ian Murdoch held them back," said he. "He would insist upon somealgebraic demonstration before breakfast. Poor chap, he is dreadfully cutup about it all.""And yet I gather that they were not friends.""At one time they were not. But for a year or more Murdoch has beenas near to McPherson as he ever could be to anyone. He is not of a verysympathetic disposition by nature.""So I understand. I seem to remember your telling me once about aquarrel over the ill-usage of a dog.""That blew over all right.""But left some vindictive feeling, perhaps.""No, no, I am sure they were real friends.""Well, then, we must explore the matter of the girl. Do you know her?""Everyone knows her. She is the beauty of the neighbourhood-a realbeauty, Holmes, who would draw attention everywhere. I knew thatMcPherson was attracted by her, but I had no notion that it had gone sofar as these letters would seem to indicate."[1087] "But who is she?""She is the daughter of old Tom Bellamy, who owns all the boats andbathing-cots at Fulworth. He was a fisherman to start with, but is now aman of some substance. He and his son William run the business.""Shall we walk into Fulworth and see them?""On what pretext?""Oh, we can easily find a pretext. After all, this poor man did not ill-usehimself in this outrageous way. Some human hand was on the handle ofthat scourge, if indeed it was a scourge which inflicted the injuries. Hiscircle of acquaintances in this lonely place was surely limited. Let usfollow it up in every direction and we can hardly fail to come upon the motive, which in turn should lead us to the criminal."It would have been a pleasant walk across the thyme-scented downshad our minds not been poisoned by the tragedy we had witnessed. Thevillage of Fulworth lies in a hollow curving in a semicircle round the bay.Behind the old-fashioned hamlet several modern houses have been builtupon the rising ground. It was to one of these that Stackhurst guided me."That's The Haven, as Bellamy called it. The one with the corner towerand slate roof. Not bad for a man who started with nothing but- - ByJove, look at that!"The garden gate of The Haven had opened and a man had emerged.There was no mistaking that tall, angular, straggling figure. It was IanMurdoch, the mathematician. A moment later we confronted him uponthe road."Hullo!" said Stackhurst. The man nodded, gave us a sideways glancefrom his curious dark eyes, and would have passed us, but his principalpulled him up."What were you doing there?" he asked.Murdoch's face flushed with anger. "I am your subordinate, sir, underyour roof. I am not aware that I owe you any account of my privateactions."Stackhurst's nerves were near the surface after all he had endured.Otherwise, perhaps, he would have waited. Now he lost his tempercompletely."In the circumstances your answer is pure impertinence, Mr. Murdoch.""Your own question might perhaps come under the same heading.""This is not the first time that I have had to overlook your insubordinateways. It will certainly be the last. You will kindly make fresharrangements for your future as speedily as you can.""I had intended to do so. I have lost to-day the only person who madeThe Gables habitable."He strode off upon his way, while Stackhurst, with angry eyes, stoodglaring after him. "Is he not an impossible, intolerable man?" he cried.The one thing that impressed itself forcibly upon my mind was that Mr.Ian Murdoch was taking the first chance to open a path of escape from thescene of the crime. Suspicion, vague and nebulous, was now beginning totake outline in my mind. Perhaps the visit to the Bellamys might throwsome further light upon the matter. Stackhurst pulled himself together,and we went forward to the house.Mr. Bellamy proved to be a middle-aged man with a flaming red beard.He seemed to be in a very angry mood, and his face was soon as florid ashis hair."No, sir, I do not desire any particulars. My son here"-indicating apowerful young man, with a heavy, sullen face, in the corner of the sittingroom -"is of one mind with me that Mr. McPherson's attentions to Maudwere insulting. Yes, sir, [1088] the word 'marriage' was never mentioned,and yet there were letters and meetings, and a great deal more of whichneither of us could approve. She has no mother, and we are her onlyguardians. We are determined- -"But the words were taken from his mouth by the appearance of the lady herself. There was no gainsaying that she would have graced anyassembly in the world. Who could have imagined that so rare a flowerwould grow from such a root and in such an atmosphere? Women haveseldom been an attraction to me, for my brain has always governed myheart, but I could not look upon her perfect clear-cut face, with all the softfreshness of the downlands in her delicate colouring, without realizingthat no young man would cross her path unscathed. Such was the girl whohad pushed open the door and stood now, wide-eyed and intense, in frontof Harold Stackhurst."I know already that Fitzroy is dead," she said. "Do not be afraid to tellme the particulars.""This other gentleman of yours let us know the news," explained thefather."There is no reason why my sister should be brought into the matter,"growled the younger man.The sister turned a sharp, fierce look upon him. "This is my business,William. Kindly leave me to manage it in my own way. By all accountsthere has been a crime committed. If I can help to show who did it, it isthe least I can do for him who is gone."She listened to a short account from my companion, with a composedconcentration which showed me that she possessed strong character aswell as great beauty. Maud Bellamy will always remain in my memory asa most complete and remarkable woman. It seems that she already knewme by sight, for she turned to me at the end."Bring them to justice, Mr. Holmes. You have my sympathy and myhelp, whoever they may be." It seemed to me that she glanced defiantly ather father and brother as she spoke."Thank you," said I. "I value a woman's instinct in such matters. Youuse the word 'they.' You think that more than one was concerned?""I knew Mr. McPherson well enough to be aware that he was a braveand a strong man. No single person could ever have inflicted such anoutrage upon him.""Might I have one word with you alone?""I tell you, Maud, not to mix yourself up in the matter," cried her fatherangrily.She looked at me helplessly. "What can I do?""The whole world will know the facts presently, so there can be noharm if I discuss them here," said I. "I should have preferred privacy, butif your father will not allow it he must share the deliberations." Then Ispoke of the note which had been found in the dead man's pocket. "It issure to be produced at the inquest. May I ask you to throw any light uponit that you can?""I see no reason for mystery," she answered. "We were engaged to bemarried, and we only kept it secret because Fitzroy's uncle, who is veryold and said to be dying, might have disinherited him if he had marriedagainst his wish. There was no other reason.""You could have told us," growled Mr. Bellamy."So I would, father, if you had ever shown sympathy.""I object to my girl picking up with men outside her own station." [1089] "It was your prejudice against him which prevented us fromtelling you. As to this appointment"-she fumbled in her dress andproduced a crumpled note- "it was in answer to this."DEAREST [ran the message]:The old place on the beach just after sunset on Tuesday. It is theonly time I can get away.F. M."Tuesday was to-day, and I had meant to meet him to-night."I turned over the paper. "This never came by post. How did you get it?""I would rather not answer that question. It has really nothing to dowith the matter which you are investigating. But anything which bearsupon that I will most freely answer."She was as good as her word, but there was nothing which was helpfulin our investigation. She had no reason to think that her fiance had anyhidden enemy, but she admitted that she had had several warm admirers."May I ask if Mr. Ian Murdoch was one of them?"She blushed and seemed confused."There was a time when I thought he was. But that was all changedwhen he understood the relations between Fitzroy and myself."Again the shadow round this strange man seemed to me to be takingmore definite shape. His record must be examined. His rooms must beprivately searched. Stackhurst was a willing collaborator, for in his mindalso suspicions were forming. We returned from our visit to The Haven with the hope that one free end of this tangled skein was already in ourhands.A week passed. The inquest had thrown no light upon the matter andhad been adjourned for further evidence. Stackhurst had made discreetinquiry about his subordinate, and there had been a superficial search ofhis room, but without result. Personally, I had gone over the wholeground again, both physically and mentally, but with no new conclusions.In all my chronicles the reader will find no case which brought me socompletely to the limit of my powers. Even my imagination couldconceive no solution to the mystery. And then there came the incident ofthe dog.It was my old housekeeper who heard of it first by that strange wirelessby which such people collect the news of the countryside."Sad story this, sir, about Mr. McPherson's dog," said she one evening.I do not encourage such conversations, but the words arrested myattention."What of Mr. McPherson's dog?""Dead, sir. Died of grief for its master.""Who told you this?""Why, sir, everyone is talking of it. It took on terrible, and has eatennothing for a week. Then to-day two of the young gentlemen from TheGables found it dead-down on the beach, sir, at the very place where itsmaster met his end.""At the very place." The words stood out clear in my memory. Somedim perception that the matter was vital rose in my mind. That the dogshould die was after the beautiful, faithful nature of dogs. But "in the veryplace"! Why should this lonely beach be fatal to it? Was it possible that italso had been sacrificed to some revengeful feud? Was it possible- -?Yes, the perception was dim, but already something was building up inmy mind. In a few minutes I was on my way [1090] to The Gables, where Ifound Stackhurst in his study. At my request he sent for Sudbury andBlount, the two students who had found the dog."Yes, it lay on the very edge of the pool," said one of them. "It musthave followed the trail of its dead master."I saw the faithful little creature, an Airedale terrier, laid out upon themat in the hall. The body was stiff and rigid, the eyes projecting, and thelimbs contorted. There was agony in every line of it.From The Gables I walked down to the bathing-pool. The sun had sunkand the shadow of the great cliff lay black across the water, whichglimmered dully like a sheet of lead. The place was deserted and therewas no sign of life save for two sea-birds circling and screamingoverhead. In the fading light I could dimly make out the little dog's spoorupon the sand round the very rock on which his master's towel had beenlaid. For a long time I stood in deep meditation while the shadows grewdarker around me. My mind was filled with racing thoughts. You haveknown what it was to be in a nightmare in which you feel that there issome all-important thing for which you search and which you know isthere, though it remains forever just beyond your reach. That was how Ifelt that evening as I stood alone by that place of death. Then at last I turned and walked slowly homeward.I had just reached the top of the path when it came to me. Like a flash, Iremembered the thing for which I had so eagerly and vainly grasped. Youwill know, or Watson has written in vain, that I hold a vast store of out-ofthe-way knowledge without scientific system, but very available for theneeds of my work. My mind is like a crowded box-room with packets ofall sorts stowed away therein-so many that I may well have but a vagueperception of what was there. I had known that there was somethingwhich might bear upon this matter. It was still vague, but at least I knewhow I could make it clear. It was monstrous, incredible, and yet it wasalways a possibility. I would test it to the full.There is a great garret in my little house which is stuffed with books. Itwas into this that I plunged and rummaged for an hour. At the end of thattime I emerged with a little chocolate and silver volume. Eagerly I turnedup the chapter of which I had a dim remembrance. Yes, it was indeed afar-fetched and unlikely proposition, and yet I could not be at rest until Ihad made sure if it might, indeed, be so. It was late when I retired, withmy mind eagerly awaiting the work of the morrow.But that work met with an annoying interruption. I had hardlyswallowed my early cup of tea and was starting for the beach when I hada call from Inspector Bardle of the Sussex Constabulary-a steady, solid,bovine man with thoughtful eyes, which looked at me now with a verytroubled expression."I know your immense experience, sir," said he. "This is quiteunofficial, of course, and need go no farther. But I am fairly up against it in this McPherson case. The question is, shall I make an arrest, or shall Inot?""Meaning Mr. Ian Murdoch?""Yes, sir. There is really no one else when you come to think of it.That's the advantage of this solitude. We narrow it down to a very smallcompass. If he did not do it, then who did?""What have you against him?"He had gleaned along the same furrows as I had. There was Murdoch'scharacter and the mystery which seemed to hang round the man. Hisfurious bursts of temper, [1091] as shown in the incident of the dog. Thefact that he had quarrelled with McPherson in the past, and that there wassome reason to think that he might have resented his attentions to MissBellamy. He had all my points, but no fresh ones, save that Murdochseemed to be making every preparation for departure."What would my position be if I let him slip away with all thisevidence against him?" The burly, phlegmatic man was sorely troubled inhis mind."Consider," I said, "all the essential gaps in your case. On the morningof the crime he can surely prove an alibi. He had been with his scholarstill the last moment, and within a few minutes of McPherson's appearancehe came upon us from behind. Then bear in mind the absoluteimpossibility that he could single-handed have inflicted this outrage upona man quite as strong as himself. Finally, there is this question of theinstrument with which these injuries were inflicted.""What could it be but a scourge or flexible whip of some sort?""Have you examined the marks?" I asked."I have seen them. So has the doctor.""But I have examined them very carefully with a lens. They havepeculiarities.""What are they, Mr. Holmes?"I stepped to my bureau and brought out an enlarged photograph. "Thisis my method in such cases," I explained."You certainly do things thoroughly, Mr. Holmes.""I should hardly be what I am if I did not. Now let us consider this wealwhich extends round the right shoulder. Do you observe nothingremarkable?""I can't say I do.""Surely it is evident that it is unequal in its intensity. There is a dot ofextravasated blood here, and another there. There are similar indicationsin this other weal down here. What can that mean?""I have no idea. Have you?""Perhaps I have. Perhaps I haven't. I may be able to say more soon.Anything which will define what made that mark will bring us a long waytowards the criminal.""It is, of course, an absurd idea," said the policeman, "but if a red-hotnet of wire had been laid across the back, then these better marked pointswould represent where the meshes crossed each other.""A most ingenious comparison. Or shall we say a very stiff cat-o'-ninetails with small hard knots upon it?" "By Jove, Mr. Holmes, I think you have hit it.""Or there may be some very different cause, Mr. Bardle. But your caseis far too weak for an arrest. Besides, we have those last words-the'Lion's Mane.' ""I have wondered whether Ian- -""Yes, I have considered that. If the second word had borne anyresemblance to Murdoch-but it did not. He gave it almost in a shriek. Iam sure that it was 'Mane.' ""Have you no alternative, Mr. Holmes?""Perhaps I have. But I do not care to discuss it until there is somethingmore solid to discuss.""And when will that be?""In an hour-possibly less."The inspector rubbed his chin and looked at me with dubious eyes.[1092] "I wish I could see what was in your mind, Mr. Holmes. Perhapsit's those fishing-boats.""No, no, they were too far out.""Well, then, is it Bellamy and that big son of his? They were not toosweet upon Mr. McPherson. Could they have done him a mischief?""No, no, you won't draw me until I am ready," said I with a smile."Now, Inspector, we each have our own work to do. Perhaps if you wereto meet me here at midday- -"So far we had got when there came the tremendous interruption whichwas the beginning of the end.My outer door was flung open, there were blundering footsteps in thepassage, and Ian Murdoch staggered into the room, pallid, dishevelled, hisclothes in wild disorder, clawing with his bony hands at the furniture tohold himself erect. "Brandy! Brandy!" he gasped, and fell groaning uponthe sofa.He was not alone. Behind him came Stackhurst, hatless and panting, almost as distrait as his companion."Yes, yes, brandy!" he cried. "The man is at his last gasp. It was all Icould do to bring him here. He fainted twice upon the way."Half a tumbler of the raw spirit brought about a wondrous change. Hepushed himself up on one arm and swung his coat from his shoulders."For God's sake, oil, opium, morphia!" he cried. "Anything to ease thisinfernal agony!"The inspector and I cried out at the sight. There, crisscrossed upon theman's naked shoulder, was the same strange reticulated pattern of red,inflamed lines which had been the death-mark of Fitzroy McPherson.The pain was evidently terrible and was more than local, for thesufferer's breathing would stop for a time, his face would turn black, andthen with loud gasps he would clap his hand to his heart, while his browdropped beads of sweat. At any moment he might die. More and morebrandy was poured down his throat, each fresh dose bringing him back tolife. Pads of cotton-wool soaked in salad-oil seemed to take the agonyfrom the strange wounds. At last his head fell heavily upon the cushion.Exhausted Nature had taken refuge in its last storehouse of vitality. It washalf a sleep and half a faint, but at least it was ease from pain.To question him had been impossible, but the moment we were assuredof his condition Stackhurst turned upon me."My God!" he cried, "what is it, Holmes? What is it?""Where did you find him?""Down on the beach. Exactly where poor McPherson met his end. Ifthis man's heart had been weak as McPherson's was, he would not behere now. More than once I thought he was gone as I brought him up. Itwas too far to The Gables, so I made for you.""Did you see him on the beach?""I was walking on the cliff when I heard his cry. He was at the edge ofthe water, reeling about like a drunken man. I ran down, threw someclothes about him, and brought him up. For heaven's sake, Holmes, useall the powers you have and spare no pains to lift the curse from thisplace, for life is becoming unendurable. Can you, with all your worldwide reputation, do nothing for us?""I think I can, Stackhurst. Come with me now! And you, Inspector,come along! We will see if we cannot deliver this murderer into yourhands."Leaving the unconscious man in the charge of my housekeeper, we allthree [1093] went down to the deadly lagoon. On the shingle there waspiled a little heap of towels and clothes left by the stricken man. Slowly Iwalked round the edge of the water, my comrades in Indian file behindme. Most of the pool was quite shallow, but under the cliff where thebeach was hollowed out it was four or five feet deep. It was to this partthat a swimmer would naturally go, for it formed a beautiful pellucidgreen pool as clear as crystal. A line of rocks lay above it at the base ofthe cliff, and along this I led the way, peering eagerly into the depthsbeneath me. I had reached the deepest and stillest pool when my eyescaught that for which they were searching, and I burst into a shout oftriumph. "Cyanea!" I cried. "Cyanea! Behold the Lion's Mane!"The strange object at which I pointed did indeed look like a tangledmass torn from the mane of a lion. It lay upon a rocky shelf some threefeet under the water, a curious waving, vibrating, hairy creature withstreaks of silver among its yellow tresses. It pulsated with a slow, heavydilation and contraction."It has done mischief enough. Its day is over!" I cried. "Help me,Stackhurst! Let us end the murderer forever."There was a big boulder just above the ledge, and we pushed it until itfell with a tremendous splash into the water. When the ripples had clearedwe saw that it had settled upon the ledge below. One flapping edge ofyellow membrane showed that our victim was beneath it. A thick oilyscum oozed out from below the stone and stained the water round, risingslowly to the surface."Well, this gets me!" cried the inspector. "What was it, Mr. Holmes?I'm born and bred in these parts, but I never saw such a thing. It don'tbelong to Sussex.""Just as well for Sussex," I remarked. "It may have been the southwestgale that brought it up. Come back to my house, both of you, and I willgive you the terrible experience of one who has good reason to rememberhis own meeting with the same peril of the seas."When we reached my study we found that Murdoch was so farrecovered that he could sit up. He was dazed in mind, and every now andthen was shaken by a paroxysm of pain. In broken words he explainedthat he had no notion what had occurred to him, save that terrific pangshad suddenly shot through him, and that it had taken all his fortitude toreach the bank."Here is a book," I said, taking up the little volume, "which firstbrought light into what might have been forever dark. It is Out of Doors,by the famous observer, J. G. Wood. Wood himself very nearly perishedfrom contact with this vile creature, so he wrote with a very fullknowledge. Cyanea capillata is the miscreant's full name, and he can beas dangerous to life as, and far more painful than, the bite of the cobra.Let me briefly give this extract."If the bather should see a loose roundish mass of tawnymembranes and fibres, something like very large handfuls of lion'smane and silver paper, let him beware, for this is the fearfulstinger, Cyanea capillata.Could our sinister acquaintance be more clearly described?"He goes on to tell of his own encounter with one when swimming offthe coast of Kent. He found that the creature radiated almost invisiblefilaments to the distance of fifty feet, and that anyone within thatcircumference from the deadly centre was in danger of death. Even at adistance the effect upon Wood was almost fatal.[1094] "The multitudinous threads caused light scarlet lines uponthe skin which on closer examination resolved into minute dots or pustules, each dot charged as it were with a red-hot needle makingits way through the nerves."The local pain was, as he explains, the least part of the exquisitetorment."Pangs shot through the chest, causing me to fall as if struck bya bullet. The pulsation would cease, and then the heart would givesix or seven leaps as if it would force its way through the chest."It nearly killed him, although he had only been exposed to it in thedisturbed ocean and not in the narrow calm waters of a bathing-pool. Hesays that he could hardly recognize himself afterwards, so white, wrinkledand shrivelled was his face. He gulped down brandy, a whole bottleful,and it seems to have saved his life. There is the book, Inspector. I leave itwith you, and you cannot doubt that it contains a full explanation of thetragedy of poor McPherson.""And incidentally exonerates me," remarked Ian Murdoch with a wrysmile. "I do not blame you, Inspector, nor you, Mr. Holmes, for yoursuspicions were natural. I feel that on the very eve of my arrest I haveonly cleared myself by sharing the fate of my poor friend.""No, Mr. Murdoch. I was already upon the track, and had I been out asearly as I intended I might well have saved you from this terrificexperience.""But how did you know, Mr. Holmes?""I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory fortrifles. That phrase 'the Lion's Mane' haunted my mind. I knew that I hadseen it somewhere in an unexpected context. You have seen that it doesdescribe the creature. I have no doubt that it was floating on the waterwhen McPherson saw it, and that this phrase was the only one by whichhe could convey to us a warning as to the creature which had been hisdeath." "Then I, at least, am cleared," said Murdoch, rising slowly to his feet."There are one or two words of explanation which I should give, for Iknow the direction in which your inquiries have run. It is true that I lovedthis lady, but from the day when she chose my friend McPherson my onedesire was to help her to happiness. I was well content to stand aside andact as their go-between. Often I carried their messages, and it was becauseI was in their confidence and because she was so dear to me that Ihastened to tell her of my friend's death, lest someone should forestall mein a more sudden and heartless manner. She would not tell you, sir, of ourrelations lest you should disapprove and I might suffer. But with yourleave I must try to get back to The Gables, for my bed will be verywelcome."Stackhurst held out his hand. "Our nerves have all been at concertpitch," said he. "Forgive what is past, Murdoch. We shall understand eachother better in the future." They passed out together with their arms linkedin friendly fashion. The inspector remained, staring at me in silence withhis ox-like eyes."Well, you've done it!" he cried at last. "I had read of you, but I neverbelieved it. It's wonderful!"I was forced to shake my head. To accept such praise was to lowerone's own standards."I was slow at the outset-culpably slow. Had the body been found inthe water I could hardly have missed it. It was the towel which misled me.The poor fellow had never thought to dry himself, and so I in turn was ledto believe that he had [1095] never been in the water. Why, then, shouldthe attack of any water creature suggest itself to me? That was where Iwent astray. Well, well, Inspector, I often ventured to chaff yougentlemen of the police force, but Cyanea capillata very nearly avengedScotland Yard."