Sherlock Holmes and the Solitary Cyclist

I shall now tell you about our investigation about Miss Violet Smith, the solitary cyclist of Charlington. The case does not, perhaps, show all the intelligence and creativity of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, but there are some points which make it interesting.

It was on Saturday, 23rd April, that we first heard of Miss Violet Smith. Her visit was, I remember, unwelcome to Holmes, because he was concentrating on a very complicated problem of a well-known millionaire. My friend was annoyed by anything which distracted him. But it was impossible to refuse to listen to the story of the beautiful, young woman who arrived at our London flat late in the evening and begged for his advice. With a somewhat tired smile, Holmes asked her to take a seat and to tell us what was troubling her.

"It can't be your health," he said, as his eyes moved over her. "A cyclist must be full of energy."

She glanced down in surprise at her own feet, and I observed the side of her shoe which was damaged by the pedals of her bicycle.

"Yes, I cycle a good deal, Mr. Holmes, and that has something to do with my visit to you today."

My friend took the lady's hand and examined it like a scientist would look at a specimen.

"You'll excuse me, I'm sure. It's my business," he said, as he dropped it. "I nearly made the mistake of supposing that you were a typist. But, of course, it is obvious that you're a musician. Look at the ends of her fingers, Watson. However, there is a feeling in the face" - he gently turned it towards the light - "which the typewriter does not give. This lady is certainly a musician."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music."

"In the country, I expect, from your complexion."

"Yes, sir."

The young lady, with great clearness, then made the following statement:

"My father is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was James Smith, who worked with the orchestra at the old Imperial Theatre. My mother and I were left without a relation in the world except one uncle, Ralph Smith, who went to Africa twenty-five years ago, but we have never heard a word from him since.

"When father died, we were left very poor, but one day we were told that there was an advertisement in the newspaper asking where we could be found. You can imagine how excited we were because we thought that someone had left us a fortune. We went at once to the lawyer whose name was given in the paper. There we met two gentlemen, Mr. Carruthers and Mr. Woodley, who were home on a visit from South Africa. They said that my uncle was a friend of theirs, that he died some months before in great poverty in Johannesburg, and that he had asked them with his last breath to find his relations and see that they were not hungry.

"It seemed strange to us that Uncle Ralph, who took no notice of us when he was alive, should be so careful to look after us when he was dead. But Mr. Carruthers explained that the reason was that my uncle had just heard of the death of his brother, and so felt responsible for us."

"Excuse me," said Holmes. "When was this meeting?"

"Last December - four months ago."

"Please continue."

"Mr. Woodley seemed to me a horrid person. He was always ogling me - a coarse, fat-faced, red-moustached man. I thought he was hateful - and I was sure that Cyril wouldn't want me to know him."

"Oh, Cyril is his name!" said Holmes, smiling.

The young lady laughed.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. Cyril Morton, an electrical engineer, and we hope to be married at the end of the summer. How did I start talking about him? What I wanted to say was that Mr. Woodley was nasty, but that Mr. Carruthers, who was an older man, was pleasant.

"He was a dark, clean-shaven, silent man; he was polite and had a nice smile. He asked if we were financially comfortable and, when he found out we were poor, he suggested I should come and teach music to his only daughter, aged ten. I said that I didn't like to leave my mother, and so he suggested that I should go home to her every weekend, and he offered me a hundred pounds a year, which was certainly wonderful pay. So I accepted and I went to his home. Mr. Carruthers was a widower. The child was lovely and everything looked good. Mr. Carruthers was very kind and musical, and we had most pleasant evenings together. Every weekend I went home to my mother.

"The first difficulty was the arrival of the red-moustached Mr. Woodley. He came for a week's visit and it seemed like three months to me! He was a dreadful person, a bully to everyone else, but to me something worse. He said that if I married him I'd have the finest diamonds in London, and finally, when I wanted nothing from him, he took me in his arms one day after dinner - he was very strong - and he said he wouldn't let me go until I kissed him. Mr. Carruthers came in and pulled him off me. Mr. Woodley attacked his host, knocking him down and cutting his face. That was the end of his visit, as you can imagine. Mr. Carruthers apologised to me next day and promised it would never happen again. I have not seen Mr. Woodley since.

"And now, Mr. Holmes, I come at last to the special thing which has caused me to ask your advice today. You must know that every Saturday morning I ride my bicycle to Farnham Station to get the train to London. The road from Mr. Carruthers' home is a lonely one. You could not find a lonelier road anywhere, and it is quite rare to see anybody.

"Two weeks ago, I was riding there, when I happened to look back over my shoulder, and about two hundred metres behind me I saw a man, also on a bicycle. He seemed a middle-aged man, with a short, dark beard. I looked back before I reached Farnham, but the man was gone, so I thought no more about it. But you can imagine how surprised I was, Mr. Holmes, when on my return on Monday I saw the same man on the same road.

"It happened again, exactly like before, the following Saturday and Monday. He always kept his distance and did not bother me in any way, but still it was certainly very strange. I mentioned it to Mr. Carruthers, who seemed interested in what I said, and told me that he would get a cart, so that in future I would not use these lonely roads alone.

"The horse was coming this week, but for some reason it didn't, and again I had to cycle to the station. That was this morning. Sure enough, there was the man, exactly as he had been the two weeks before. I was not worried, but I wanted to know more and I decided to find out who he was and what he wanted.

"I slowed down, but he slowed down too. Then I stopped, but he stopped as well. Then I thought of a way to catch him. There is a sudden turning in the road, and I pedalled very quickly round this. Then I stopped and waited. I expected him to pass me before he could stop. But he never appeared. Then I went back and looked round the corner. I could see a long way along the road, but he was not on it. To make it more extraordinary, there was no side road he could have gone down."

Holmes laughed. "This case certainly has some interest of its own," said he. "How much time passed between your turning the corner and your discovery that the road was clear?"

"Two or three minutes."

"Then he could not have gone back down the road, and you say that there are no side roads?"

"None."

"Then he certainly took a path on one side or the other."

"It could not have been on the side of the park or I'd have seen him."

"So he made his way towards Charlington Hall, which, as I understand, has its own park on one side of the road. Anything else?"

"Nothing, Mr. Holmes, except that I was so confused that I had to get your advice."

Holmes sat in silence for a little.

"Where is the gentleman you're engaged to?" he asked, at last.

"He is in the Midland Electrical Company, at Coventry."

"He wouldn't pay you a surprise visit?"

"Oh, Mr. Holmes! Of course, I'd know him!"

"Is there anybody else who likes you?"

The young lady seemed a little confused.

"Who?" asked Holmes.

"Oh, it may be just my imagination, but it has seemed sometimes that my employer, Mr. Carruthers, takes a great deal of interest in me. I play music with him in the evening. He has never said anything. He is a perfect gentleman. But a girl always knows."

Holmes looked serious. "What does he do for a living?"

"He's a rich man."

"No horses?"

"Well, at least he is very comfortable. But he goes to London two or three times a week. He's interested in South African gold stocks."

"You'll let me know if anything happens, Miss Smith. I'm very busy just now, but I'll find time to make some inquiries into your case. In the meantime do nothing without letting me know. Good-bye."

"It is normal that a girl would have boys interested in her," said Holmes, "but not on bicycles in lonely country roads. Some secretive lover, without doubt. But there are curious details about the case, Watson."

"That she only sees him on that road?"

"Exactly. We must find out who the tenants of Charlington Hall are. Then, how about the connection between Carruthers and Woodley, since they appear to be very different men? How come they were both so keen to find Ralph Smith's relations? One more point. What sort of man pays double the market price for a music teacher, but doesn't keep a horse although his home is six miles from the station? Odd, Watson, very odd!"

"You'll go down?"

"No, YOU will go down. This may be interesting but I can't interrupt my other important research for it. On Monday you'll arrive early at Farnham, hide yourself near Charlington Heath and you'll observe these things for yourself. Then, when you've discovered the tenants of the Hall, you'll come back to me and report."

We'd found out from the lady that she arrived at Farnham on Mondays by the train which leaves London at 9.50, so I caught one at 9.13. At Farnham Station I had no difficulty in getting to Charlington Heath. It was impossible to mistake the location of the young lady's adventure, because the road runs between the park on one side and a hedge on the other. There was a gate to the park, but I saw several points where there were gaps in the hedge and paths leading through them. The house was invisible from the road.

I hid behind a bush in the park, so I could see both the gate and the long road on either side. I soon saw a cyclist riding down it. He was in a dark suit and I saw he had a black beard. At the end of Charlington Hall, he jumped off his bicycle and led it through a gap in the hedge.

A quarter of an hour passed and then a second cyclist appeared. This time it was the young lady coming from the station. I saw her look around her as she came to the hedge. A moment later the man appeared from his hiding-place, jumped on his bicycle again and followed her. Those were the only moving figures, the girl sitting very straight on her bike, and the man behind her bending low over his handle-bars. She looked back at him and slowed down. He slowed too. She stopped. He stopped as well, keeping two hundred metres behind her. Her next movement was as unexpected as it was brave. She suddenly dashed straight at him! He was as quick as she, however, and hurried off. Soon, she came back up the road again, not taking any further notice of her follower. He had turned too and still kept his distance until the turning in the road hid them from me.

I remained in my hiding-place and soon the man reappeared, cycling slowly back. He turned in at the Hall gates and got off his bike. For a few minutes I could see him standing among the trees. He seemed to be straightening his tie again after his ride. Then he rode away from me towards the Hall.

However, I thought that I had done a fairly good morning's work and I walked back in high spirits to Farnham. The local estate agent could tell me nothing about Charlington Hall, and suggested I contact a well-known firm in London. I stopped there on my way home, but I could not have Charlington Hall for the summer. I was just too late. It had been rented about a month ago. Mr. Williamson was the name of the tenant. He was an elderly gentleman. The agent could say no more, as his clients' affairs were not matters he could discuss.

Holmes listened carefully to the long report I gave him that evening, but I did not get the thanks I was hoping for. On the contrary, his face was more severe than usual as he commented on the things I had done wrong or not done at all.

"Your hiding place, Watson, was wrong. You should have been behind the hedge. Then you'd have seen this interesting person. However, you were hundreds of metres away and can tell me even less than Miss Smith. She thinks she doesn't know the man; I'm convinced she does. Why, otherwise, should he be so keen that she shouldn't get near him? You really have done very badly. He returns to the house and you want to find out who he is so you come to a London estate agent!"

"What should I have done?" I shouted rather loudly.

"Gone to the nearest pub. That's the centre of country gossip. They'd have told you everyone's name. Williamson! It means nothing to me. If he's an elderly man, he's not this active cyclist who races away from our young lady. What have we got from your visit? We know the girl's story is true. I never doubted it. That there's a connection between the cyclist and the Hall. I never doubted that either. That the Hall is rented by Williamson. How does that help? Well, don't look so depressed. We can do no more until next Saturday and in the meantime I may make one or two inquiries myself."

Next morning we had a note from Miss Smith, telling shortly and accurately the same incidents I'd seen, but the important point about the letter came in the postscript:

"Mr. Holmes, my job here has become difficult because my employer has proposed to me. I'm convinced that his feelings are deep and honest. At the same time, of course, I am already engaged. He took my refusal very seriously, but also very kindly. You can understand, however, that the situation is a little awkward."

"Our young friend seems to be in trouble," said Holmes, thoughtfully, as he finished the letter. "The case is certainly more interesting than I'd originally thought. I should be none the worse for a peaceful day in the country. I may go this afternoon and test one or two theories I've got."

Holmes's quiet day in the country had an unusual ending because he arrived home late in the evening with a cut lip. He was very amused by his adventures and laughed as he told me them.

"I get so little exercise that it's always a treat," he said. "I found that country pub which I'd already recommended to you and there I made some inquiries. I was in the bar and the landlord was giving me all the information I wanted.

"Williamson is a white-bearded man and lives alone with a small staff of servants at the Hall. There's a rumour that he is or has been a priest, but I've already asked the Church of England office, and they tell me there WAS a man of that name whose career was a dark one. The landlord also informed me there are usually drunken weekend visitors at the Hall, and especially one gentleman with a red moustache, Mr. Woodley, who was always there.

"We had got as far as this when the gentleman himself walked in. He had been drinking his beer outside and heard the whole conversation. Who was I? What did I want? What did I mean by asking questions? He swore a lot and then punched me in the mouth. The next few minutes were delicious. I am as you see me but Mr. Woodley went home in a cart. And that was the end of my country trip, but, although enjoyable, my day there has not been much more useful than yours."

The next day brought us another letter from our client.

"You will not be surprised, Mr. Holmes," said she, "to hear that I am leaving Mr. Carruthers. Even the high pay cannot keep me here. On Saturday I'm going to London and I don't intend to return. Mr. Carruthers has got a horse and cart, and so the dangers of the lonely road are now over.

"Why am I leaving? It's not only the difficult situation with Mr. Carruthers, but the reappearance of that horrible man, Mr. Woodley. He looks more awful than ever, because he's had an accident. I saw him out of the window but I am glad to say I didn't meet him. He had a long talk with Mr. Carruthers, who seemed very angry afterwards.

"Woodley must be staying in the neighbourhood, because he did not sleep here, but I saw him again this morning creeping about in the garden. I hate and am afraid of him. How can Mr. Carruthers stand him? However, all my troubles will be over on Saturday."

"I hope so, Watson," said Holmes, seriously. "It's our duty to see that no-one bothers her on that last journey to London. I think, Watson, that we must find time to go together on Saturday morning and make sure that this case does not have an unhappy ending."

I had not up to now taken a very serious view of the case, which had seemed more bizarre than dangerous. It's no surprise that a man should follow a very attractive woman, and if he was not brave enough to speak to her, but preferred to run away, he could not be a very dangerous man. Woodley was a very different person, but, except on one occasion, he had not bothered our client, and now he visited Carruthers without trying to see her. The man on the bicycle was certainly one of those weekend visitors at the Hall the landlord had spoken about. It was Holmes' seriousness and the fact that he put a revolver in his pocket before leaving our rooms which made me feel that tragedy might be waiting for us.

A rainy night was followed by a beautiful morning. Holmes and I walked along the broad, sandy road breathing the fresh morning air and enjoying the music of the birds. From a rise in the road, we could see a vehicle moving in our direction. Holmes was annoyed.

"I thought we had half an hour," he said. "If that's her, she's getting the earlier train. She'll be past Charlington before we can meet her."

From the moment we passed the rise, we could no longer see the vehicle, but we hurried onwards so fast that I began to find it hard to keep up, and I had to follow. Holmes, however, was always in training because he had inexhaustible energy. His step never slowed until suddenly, when he was a hundred metres in front of me, he stopped, and I saw him throw up his hands. At the same moment, an empty cart appeared round the corner of the road and moved quickly towards us.

"Too late, Watson; too late!" cried Holmes, as I ran panting to his side. "I was a fool not to think about that earlier train! It's kidnapping, Watson - kidnapping! Murder! Block the road! Stop the horse! That's right. Now, jump in and let's see if I can find her."

We almost flew along the road. I grabbed Holmes's arm.

"That's the man!" I cried.

A solitary cyclist was coming towards us. His head was down as he put all his energy into riding. He was almost flying. Suddenly he raised his bearded face, saw us close to him and stopped, jumping from his bike. He stared at us and at the cart. Then a look of amazement came over his face.

"Stop there!" he shouted, holding his bicycle to block our road. "Where did you get that cart?" he shouted, pulling a revolver from his pocket. "Stop or I'll put a bullet into your horse."

Holmes jumped down from the cart.

"You're the man we want to see. Where's Miss Smith?" he said, in his quick, clear way.

"That's what I'm asking you. You're in her cart. You ought to know where she is."

"We found the cart on the road. There was no-one in it. We drove back to help the young lady."

"What shall I do?" cried the stranger, in despair. "They've got her, Woodley and that terrible priest. Come, man, if you really are her friend. Help me and we'll save her."

He ran, his pistol in his hand, towards a gap in the hedge. Holmes followed him and I, leaving the horse beside the road, followed Holmes.

"This is where they came," he said, pointing to the marks of several feet on the muddy path. "Stop a minute! Who's this in the bush?"

It was a young man about seventeen. He lay on his back, a cut on his head. He was unconscious, but alive.

"That's Peter, the driver," cried the stranger. "He drove her. Let him lie there; we can't do him any good, but we may save her."

We ran frantically down the path among the trees. We had reached the garden around the house when Holmes stopped.

"They didn't go to the house. Here are their marks on the left - here, beside the bushes!"

As he spoke a woman's scream - a scream of horror - came from the thick green bushes in front of us. It ended suddenly.

"This way! This way!" cried the stranger, pushing through the bushes. "Follow me, gentlemen! Too late!"

We had arrived at a lovely area of grass, surrounded by ancient trees. On the farther side of it, under the shadow, there stood a group of three people. One was a woman, our client, looking ill. Opposite her stood a heavy-faced, red-moustached young man, his legs apart, his whole attitude suggesting bravado. Between them an elderly, grey-bearded man had clearly just completed a wedding, as he put his prayer-book in his pocket, as we appeared.

"They're married!" I let out in horror.

"Come on!" cried our guide; "come on!" He rushed across the grass, Holmes and I following him. As we approached, the lady fell against a tree for support. Williamson, the ex-priest, and the bully Woodley advanced with a shout of brutal laughter.

"You can take your beard off, Bob," he said. "I know you. Well, you and your friends have just come in time for me to introduce you to Mrs. Woodley."

Our guide's answer was a strange one. He pulled off the dark beard which had disguised him and threw it on the ground, showing a long, clean-shaven face below it. Then he raised his revolver at Woodley, who was advancing towards him.

"Yes," said our guide, "I am Bob Carruthers, and I'll see this woman free of you if I hang for it. I told you what I'd do if you bothered her and I'll keep my promise!"

"You're too late. She's my wife!"

"No, she's your widow."

His revolver fired and I saw the blood run from the front of Woodley's jacket. With a scream, he fell on his back, his red face turning suddenly very pale. The old man pulled out a revolver of his own, but before he could raise it he was looking at Holmes's weapon.

"Enough of this," said my friend, coldly. "Drop that gun! Watson, pick it up! Hold it to his head! Thank you. You, Carruthers, give me that revolver. We'll have no more violence. Come, hand it over!"

"Who are you, then?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. You've heard of me, I see. I will keep you here until the police arrive. Here, you!" he shouted to a frightened man who had appeared at the edge of the grass. "Come here. Take this note and ride to the nearest police station." He scribbled a few words on his notebook. "Give it to the superintendent."

Williamson and Carruthers carried the wounded Woodley into the house, and I helped the frightened girl. The injured man was laid on his bed, and I examined him.

"He'll live," I said.

"What!" cried Carruthers, jumping out of his chair. "I'll go upstairs and finish him first. Do you tell me that that girl, that angel, is to be married to Jack Woodley for life?"

"You needn't worry about that," said Holmes. "There are two very good reasons why she should not be his wife. In the first place, Mr. Williamson has no right to hold a wedding. Anyway, a forced marriage is no marriage, but it is a very serious crime, as you'll soon discover. You'll have time to think about that during the next ten years or so, unless I am mistaken. You, Carruthers, you would have done better to keep your gun in your pocket."

"I begin to think so, Mr. Holmes, but when I thought of all the care I'd taken to protect this girl - because I loved her, Mr. Holmes, and it is the only time that ever I knew what love was - it drove me mad to think that she was in the power of the greatest bully in South Africa. Why, Mr. Holmes, you won't believe it, but ever since that girl has been in my employment I never once let her go past this house, where I knew these men were hiding, without following her on my bicycle just to see that she was not harmed. I kept my distance from her, and I wore a beard so that she should not recognise me, because she is a good girl, and she wouldn't have worked for me long if she'd thought I was following her along country roads."

"Why didn't you tell her of her danger?"

"Because then she would have left me. Even if she couldn't love me, it was a great deal just to see her about the house, and to hear the sound of her voice."

"Well," I said, "you call that love, Mr. Carruthers, but I'd call it selfishness."

"Maybe the two things go together. Anyhow, I couldn't let her go. Besides, with this crowd about, it was good that she should have someone near to look after her. Then when the telegram came I knew they were sure to make a move."

"What telegram?"

Carruthers took it from his pocket.

It was short:

"The old man is dead."

"Hum!" said Holmes. "I think I see how things worked. But while we wait you might tell me what you can. The case is clear enough against you and all I ask are a few details. However, if there's any difficulty in your telling me I'll do the talking, and then you'll see how far you have a chance of holding back your secrets. In the first place, two of you came from South Africa on this game - you Carruthers and Woodley. You'd known Ralph Smith, Miss Smith's uncle, in South Africa. You had reason to believe he wouldn't live long. You found out that his niece would inherit his fortune. How's that?"

Carruthers nodded and Williamson swore.

"She was next-of-kin, no doubt, and you were aware that the old man would make no will."

"He couldn't read or write," said Carruthers.

"So you came over and found the girl. The idea was that one of you was to marry her and the other have a share of the money. For some reason Woodley was chosen as the husband. Why was that?"

"We played cards for her on the ship coming here. He won."

"I see. You got the young lady to work for you and Woodley started to pay attention to her. She recognised him as a drunk and wanted nothing to do with him. Meanwhile, your arrangement was upset by the fact that you'd fallen in love with the lady yourself. You could not accept the idea of Woodley marrying her."

"No, I couldn't!"

"There was a quarrel between you. He left you in a rage and began to make his own plans."

"It strikes me, Williamson, there isn't very much that we can tell this gentleman," cried Carruthers, with a sad laugh. "Yes, we quarrelled and he hit me. Then I lost sight of him. That was when he got to know this priest here. I found they'd started sharing this house on the road she had to pass to get to the station. I kept my eye on her after that, because I knew something was going to happen. Two days ago, Woodley came to my house with this telegram, saying Ralph Smith was dead. He asked me if I'd marry the girl myself and give him a share. I said I would happily do so, but she did not want me.

He said, 'Let's get her married first, and after a week or two she may see things a bit differently.' I said I'd have nothing to do with violence. So he went off swearing he'd get her. She was leaving me this weekend, and I had got a cart to take her to the station, but I was so uneasy that I followed her on my bicycle. However, before I could catch her, they had grabbed her. The first thing I knew about it was when I saw you two gentlemen driving back in her cart."

Holmes rose and threw the end of his cigarette into the fire. "I've been very stupid, Watson," he said. "When you said you'd seen the cyclist arrange his tie in the garden, it should have told me everything. However, I see three policemen coming. I think Miss Smith has recovered and we'll take her to her mother's home.

"As to you, Mr. Carruthers, I think you've done what you could. There is my card, sir, and if my evidence can help you in your trial, I'll be happy to give it."

Miss Violet Smith inherited a large fortune and she is now the wife of Cyril Morton, of Morton Company, the famous Westminster electricians. Williamson got seven years in prison and Woodley ten. Carruthers was guilty but did not go to prison because of his role in helping Miss Smith escape her 'husband'.