bacon. It is as if his mind is like a prodigious dynamo, charging the body with such tremendous power that he can perform feats of endurance beyond any ordinary mortal. It is only when he lacks intellectual stimulus, which his mind seems to need in order to maintain his physical vitality, that he sinks into a torpor and will spend days lounging about the sitting-room, lying on the sofa or seeking what solace he can from playing melancholy airs on his violin.
On that particular morning, it was I who suffered most from the lack of sleep the previous night.
As soon as breakfast was over, we set off by cab for Victoria station, Holmes carrying in his pocket the list of family heir-looms which had been stolen from various country houses during the criminal career of Vanderbilt and his yeggman.
I was concerned about Holmes’ intentions regarding The Magpie for he had not, to my knowledge, informed either Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard or the Sussex Constabulary of his discovery of the man’s identity. Nor was either of us armed. Was he proposing to confront the man without the assistance of the official police? It seemed to me unwise for The Magpie, whom we knew had consorted with professional burglars, could be a dangerous and cunning opponent.
However, Holmes adroitly avoided my questions and we spent the journey discussing his most recent interest, the identification of human remains by means of their teeth which he considered could be put to considerable use in scientific detection. *
It is not my habit to force a confidence and I was therefore no better informed of Holmes’ designs for The Magpie at the end of the journey than at the beginning.
Once arrived at Barton Halt, we took the station fly for the eight-mile drive to Maplestead Hall, a large residence, built only in the past thirty years or so but designed in the once-fashionable Gothic style and surmounted by so many turrets and battlemented towers, covered with heavy ivy, that it appeared of much more ancient construction and might have been lifted bodily from some Rhenish escarpment to be deposited in the quiet Sussex countryside.
Instructing the driver of the fly to wait, Holmes alighted and I followed him up the steps to the massive front door where he rang the bell.
The summons was answered by an elderly butler who, after taking my old friend’s card, inspected it solemnly and then handed itback.
‘Mr Parker does not receive visitors,’ he informed us.
‘I believe he will see us,’ Holmes replied.
Turning the card over, he wrote a few words on the back and returned it to the butler who again examined it before inviting us into a large hall, hung with tapestries, where we were confronted on all sides by suits of armour, standing guard like grim sentinels. Here we were told to wait.
‘What did you write on it?’ I asked curiously when the butler had departed.
‘Only three words,’ Holmes replied, ‘but enough, I think, to lure our bird down into the open from whatever solitary nest he occupies. They were Vanderbilt, Smith and Wesson.’
On the butler’s return, we were conducted down several corridors, guarded by more suits of armour, and finally into a large drawing-room furnished with the most splendid antiquefurniture that I had ever seen, the walls so thickly hung with paintings that it resembled more an art gallery than part of a private residence. Even my untutored eyes could discern among the collection work by Rembrandt, Velasquez and Titian. At a modest estimate, the paintings alone must have been worth a fortune and that was not to take into account the many pieces of sculpture, porcelain and silver which also adorned the room.
In the midst of this display of exquisite objects, the very pinnacle of man’s artistic achievements, the figure of The Magpie seemed an aberration of Nature and, on seeing him, my first sensation was of enormous relief for he was not the master-criminal I had imagined.
He was seated in an
On that particular morning, it was I who suffered most from the lack of sleep the previous night.
As soon as breakfast was over, we set off by cab for Victoria station, Holmes carrying in his pocket the list of family heir-looms which had been stolen from various country houses during the criminal career of Vanderbilt and his yeggman.
I was concerned about Holmes’ intentions regarding The Magpie for he had not, to my knowledge, informed either Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard or the Sussex Constabulary of his discovery of the man’s identity. Nor was either of us armed. Was he proposing to confront the man without the assistance of the official police? It seemed to me unwise for The Magpie, whom we knew had consorted with professional burglars, could be a dangerous and cunning opponent.
However, Holmes adroitly avoided my questions and we spent the journey discussing his most recent interest, the identification of human remains by means of their teeth which he considered could be put to considerable use in scientific detection. *
It is not my habit to force a confidence and I was therefore no better informed of Holmes’ designs for The Magpie at the end of the journey than at the beginning.
Once arrived at Barton Halt, we took the station fly for the eight-mile drive to Maplestead Hall, a large residence, built only in the past thirty years or so but designed in the once-fashionable Gothic style and surmounted by so many turrets and battlemented towers, covered with heavy ivy, that it appeared of much more ancient construction and might have been lifted bodily from some Rhenish escarpment to be deposited in the quiet Sussex countryside.
Instructing the driver of the fly to wait, Holmes alighted and I followed him up the steps to the massive front door where he rang the bell.
The summons was answered by an elderly butler who, after taking my old friend’s card, inspected it solemnly and then handed itback.
‘Mr Parker does not receive visitors,’ he informed us.
‘I believe he will see us,’ Holmes replied.
Turning the card over, he wrote a few words on the back and returned it to the butler who again examined it before inviting us into a large hall, hung with tapestries, where we were confronted on all sides by suits of armour, standing guard like grim sentinels. Here we were told to wait.
‘What did you write on it?’ I asked curiously when the butler had departed.
‘Only three words,’ Holmes replied, ‘but enough, I think, to lure our bird down into the open from whatever solitary nest he occupies. They were Vanderbilt, Smith and Wesson.’
On the butler’s return, we were conducted down several corridors, guarded by more suits of armour, and finally into a large drawing-room furnished with the most splendid antiquefurniture that I had ever seen, the walls so thickly hung with paintings that it resembled more an art gallery than part of a private residence. Even my untutored eyes could discern among the collection work by Rembrandt, Velasquez and Titian. At a modest estimate, the paintings alone must have been worth a fortune and that was not to take into account the many pieces of sculpture, porcelain and silver which also adorned the room.
In the midst of this display of exquisite objects, the very pinnacle of man’s artistic achievements, the figure of The Magpie seemed an aberration of Nature and, on seeing him, my first sensation was of enormous relief for he was not the master-criminal I had imagined.
He was seated in an
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