Sherlock Holmes - Black Peter

I have never known my friend to be in better shape, both mental and physical, than in 1895. We had some very important and wealthy clients. Holmes, however, like all great artists, lived for his art. He frequently refused his help to the powerful when the problem did not interest him, while he'd spend weeks on the affairs of some poor client whose case grabbed his imagination and challenged his intelligence. In this year, Holmes investigated the circumstances around the death of Captain Peter Carey.

During the first week of July my friend was away so often and so long from our flat that I knew he was involved in something. The fact that several rough-looking men visited during that time and asked for Captain Basil made me aware that Holmes was working somewhere under one of the many disguises and names he used to conceal his identity. He had at least five small places in different parts of London where he could change his clothes and his personality. He said nothing about his business to me and it was not my habit to force him to talk. The first sign I had of his investigation was extraordinary. He had gone out before breakfast and I had sat down to mine, when he walked into the room with a huge spear under his arm.

"Holmes!" I cried. "You haven't been walking about London with that thing?"

"I drove to the butcher's and back."

"The butcher's?"

He laughed as he poured out the coffee.

"If you'd been in the shop, you'd have seen a dead sheep hanging from the ceiling, with me furiously stabbing at it with this weapon. I now know that I can't pin the animal to a wall with a single blow. Perhaps you'd try?"

"But why were you doing this?"

"Because it seemed to have an indirect bearing on Captain Carey's case. Ah, Hopkins, I got your telegram last night and I've been expecting you. Come and join us."

Our visitor was a very alert man, thirty years of age, dressed in a suit, but standing as straight as someone who often wore a uniform. I recognised him at once as Stanley Hopkins, a young police inspector that Holmes liked, while Hopkins gave the great detective the respect of a pupil for his teacher. Hopkins's face was clouded and he sat down looking depressed.

"No, thank-you, sir. I had breakfast before I came round. I spent the night in London, because I was here yesterday to report on the case."

"And what did you have to report?"

"Failure, sir. Absolute failure."

"Well, I must have a look at it."

"I wish you would, Mr. Holmes. It's my first big chance and I have no idea what to do."

"I've already read the evidence, including the inquest, with some care. By the way, what do you think of that tobacco-pouch? Is there no clue there?"

Hopkins looked surprised."It was the man's own pouch, sir. His initials were inside it. It was made of seal-skin - and he worked on ships killing seals and whales."

"But he didn't smoke."

"No, sir, we could find no pipe. But he might have kept some tobacco for his friends."

"No doubt. I only mention it because if I'd been handling the case I'd have made that the starting point of my investigation. However, my friend Dr. Watson knows nothing of this matter. Just describe it for him."

Stanley Hopkins took a piece of paper from his pocket.

"I have a few dates here which will give you the career of the dead man, Captain Peter Carey. He was born in 1845, fifty years ago. He was a most successful seal and whale hunter. In 1883, he commanded the 'Sea Unicorn'. He then had several successful voyages one after another and, in the following year, 1884, he retired. After that he travelled for some years, and finally bought a small place. He lived there for six years and died there just a week ago.

"There was something unusual about the man. When he was sober, he was silent and gloomy. He had a wife, a daughter aged twenty, and two female servants that were always changing, because it was never a very happy place to work. When the man was drunk, he was a devil. He often drove his wife and daughter out of doors in the middle of the night and beat them in the garden until the whole village heard their screams.

"In short, Mr. Holmes, you couldn't find a less likeable man than Peter Carey, and I've heard that he was the same when he commanded his ship. He was known as Black Peter. I needn't add he was hated and avoided by his neighbours and I haven't heard one single sad word about his terrible death.

"Perhaps your friend hasn't heard about the man's cabin. He built himself a wooden outhouse in his garden, and he slept there every night. It was a little, single-roomed hut, five by three metres. He kept the key in his pocket, made his own bed, cleaned it himself, and allowed nobody to enter. There were small windows on each side, covered by curtains and never opened. One of these windows was on the road and when the light burnt at night people used to point it out to each other and wonder what Black Peter was doing there. That's the window, Mr. Holmes, which gave us one of the few bits of evidence that came out at the inquest.

"You remember that a workman, named Slater, walking home about one o'clock in the morning two days before the murder, stopped and looked at the light. He swears that the shadow of a man's head turned sideways was clearly visible, and that this shadow was certainly not Peter Carey's, whom he knew well. It was a bearded man's. So he says, but he'd been two hours in the pub, and it is some distance from the road to the window. Besides, this happened on Monday and the crime was on Wednesday.

"On Tuesday, Peter Carey was in one of his blackest moods, mad with drink and like a wild animal. He walked around the house and the women ran when they heard him coming. Late in the evening he went down to his own hut. About two o'clock the following morning his daughter, who slept with her window open, heard a terrible yell from that direction, but it was not unusual for him to shout when he was drunk, so she took no notice. At seven the next morning, a servant noticed the door of the hut was open, but everyone was so afraid of the man that it was midday before anyone would go to see what had become of him. Looking through the open door, they saw a sight which sent them flying into the village. Within an hour I was on the spot.

"Well, not much frightens me, as you know, Mr. Holmes, but I was afraid when I put my head into that room. It was full of flies and the floor and walls were like a slaughterhouse. There was a bed at one end, maps and charts, a picture of the 'Sea Unicorn', a line of ships' books on a shelf, all exactly what one would expect to find in a captain's room. And there in the middle of it was the man himself. Right through his broad chest, there was a steel harpoon fixed deep into the wall behind him. Of course, he was dead the moment after he'd screamed.

"I know your methods, sir, and I used them. Before I allowed anything to be moved, I examined the ground outside and also the floor of the room. There were no footprints."

"Meaning you saw none?"

"I assure you, sir, there were none."

"Hopkins, there must be some sign which can be detected by a scientific observer. It's incredible that this bloody room contained nothing which could have helped us."

"Well, there were several objects in the room which called for special attention. One was the harpoon, the murder weapon. It had been pulled down from the wall. Two others were still there and there was an empty place for the third one. 'Sea Unicorn' was written on all three. This meant the crime had been done in a moment of rage and that the murderer had grabbed the first weapon which came his way.

"The fact that the crime happened at two in the morning, and yet Peter Carey was fully dressed, suggested he had an appointment with the murderer. There was a bottle of rum and two dirty glasses on the table."

"Let's hear some more about the objects which seem important to you."

"There was a pouch with ship's tobacco in it on the table, made of seal-skin. 'P.C.' was written on the inside."

"Excellent! What else?"

Stanley Hopkins pulled a notebook from his pocket. The outside was rough, the pages discoloured. On the first page were written the initials 'J.H.N.' and the date '1883.' Holmes laid it on the table and examined it, while Hopkins and I gazed over his shoulders. On the second page were the letters 'C.P.R.' and several pages of numbers.

"What do you make of these?" asked Holmes.

"They appear to be lists of Stock Exchange securities. I thought that 'J.H.N.' were the initials of a broker and that 'C.P.R.' may have been his client."

"Try Canadian Pacific Railway," said Holmes.

"What a fool I've been!" he cried. "Of course, you're right. Then 'J.H.N.' are the only initials we have to solve. I've already examined the old Stock Exchange lists, and I can find no-one in 1883 whose initials match these. Yet I feel that the clue is the most important one I've got. You'll agree, Mr. Holmes, that there's a possibility these initials belong to the second person there, in other words, to the murderer. Anyway, this document about valuable securities gives us a motive for the crime."

Sherlock Holmes's face showed he was shocked by this new development.

"I agree with you," he said. "This notebook, which didn't appear at the inquest, changes my opinion. Have you found any of the securities in the book?"

Holmes had been examining the cover of the book with his magnifying glass.

"Surely there's some discolouration here," said he.

"Yes, it's a blood stain. I told you I picked the book off the floor. I guessed it was dropped by the murderer as he hurried away. It lay near the door."

"I suppose none of these securities have been found among the dead man's property?"

"No, sir."

"Have you any reason to suspect robbery?"

"No, sir. Nothing was touched."

"It's certainly a very interesting case. Then there was a knife, wasn't there?"

"Yes, it lay at the feet of the dead man. Mrs. Carey has identified it as her husband's."

Holmes was lost in thought for some time.

"Well," he said, at last, "I suppose I'll have to come and look at it."

"Thank you, sir. That'll be a great weight off my mind."

Holmes shook his finger at the inspector.

"It would have been an easier task a week ago," he said. "But even now my visit may not be fruitless. Watson, if you can spare the time, I'd be very glad of your company. If you call a taxi, Hopkins, we'll be ready to start in a quarter of an hour."

--------

After arriving at the small country railway station, we drove for some miles through the woods. Here stood a long, low stone house, with a path running to it through the fields. Nearer the road, and surrounded by bushes, was a small outhouse, one window and the door facing in our direction. It was the murder scene!

Stanley Hopkins led us first to the house, where he introduced us to a haggard, grey-haired woman, the widow of the murdered man, whose thin and deep-lined face and a look of terror in her eyes, told of the years of ill-usage she had suffered. With her was her daughter, a pale, fair-haired girl, whose eyes shone angrily as she said she was glad her father was dead. It was a terrible household that Black Peter Carey had made for himself, and it was a relief when we found ourselves in the sunlight again, making our way along a path which had been made through the fields by the feet of the dead man.

The outhouse was very simple, wooden-walled, one window beside the door and one on the farther side. Hopkins took the key from his pocket when he paused with a look of attention and surprise on his face.

"Someone's been tampering with it," he said.

There could be no doubt. The woodwork was cut and the scratches showed white through the paint, as if they'd just been made. Holmes was examining the window.

"Someone's tried to force this too but couldn't get in. He must have been a very bad burglar."

"This is a most extraordinary thing," said the inspector; "I could swear these marks were not here yesterday."

"I think we're in luck."

"You mean the person will come again?"

"It's likely. He came expecting to find the door open. He tried to get in with a penknife. He couldn't manage it. What would he do?"

"Come again the next night with something more useful."

"I think so. It'll be our fault if we're not there to meet him. Meanwhile, let's see inside the cabin."

The traces of the killing had been removed, but the furniture in the little room still stood as it was on the night of the crime. For two hours, with great concentration, Holmes examined one object after another, but his face showed he'd had no success. He paused only once in his patient investigation.

"Have you taken anything off this shelf, Hopkins?"

"No, I've moved nothing."

"Something's been taken. There's less dust in this corner. It may have been a book lying on its side or a box. Well, I can do nothing more. We'll meet you here later, Hopkins, and see if we can find the gentleman who paid a visit here last night."

--------

It was past eleven o'clock when we were ready for him. Hopkins wanted to leave the door of the hut open, but Holmes was of the opinion that this would make the stranger suspicious. The lock was a simple one and only a strong knife was needed to push it back. Holmes also suggested we should wait, not inside the hut, but outside it among the bushes. In this way, we could watch our man if he used a light.

It was a long wait but it brought something of the thrill the hunter feels when he lies beside a pool of water and waits for the thirsty lion. In absolute silence we waited among the bushes for whatever might come. At first, the sound of voices from the village kept boredom away, but one by one these interruptions stopped and an absolute stillness fell on us, except for the whisper of a fine rain falling on the grass.

It was half past two and the darkest hour before dawn, when we heard a noise from the direction of the gate. Someone had entered the garden. Again there was a long silence and I'd begun to think it was a false alarm, when a step was heard on the other side of the hut and, a moment later, a metallic sound. The man was trying to break the lock! This time his skill was greater or his knife was stronger, because there was a sudden snap. Then came a light from a candle. Through the thin curtain our eyes were all on the scene inside.

The visitor was a young man, weak and thin, with a black moustache which made his pale face look even whiter. He couldn't have been much above twenty years of age. I've never seen anyone who seemed so frightened - he was shaking. We watched him staring with scared eyes. Then he put the candle on the table and disappeared into a corner. He returned with one of the log-books from the shelves and rapidly turned over the pages until he came to the part he was looking for. Then, with an angry gesture, he closed the book, replaced it in the corner, and put out the light. He had just turned to leave the hut when Hopkins's arm prevented him, and I heard his cry of terror as he realised he'd been caught. The candle was re-lit, and there was our captive in the hands of the detective. He sat down and looked helplessly from one of us to the other.

"Now," said Hopkins, "who are you and what do you want here?"

The man pulled himself together and faced us.

"You are detectives, I suppose?" said he. "You imagine I'm connected with the death of Captain Carey. I'm innocent though."

"We'll see about that," said Hopkins. "First of all, what's your name?"

"John Hopley Neligan."

"What are you doing here?"

"I'll tell you," he said. "Why shouldn't I? And yet I hate to think of this old scandal coming to life again. Did you ever hear of Neligan?"

I could see from Hopkins's face that he never had; but Holmes was interested.

"You mean the banker," said he. "He lost a million, ruined half the families in the west of England and disappeared."

"Exactly. Neligan was my father."

At last we were getting something positive, and yet it seemed a long way from a runaway banker to Peter Carey fixed to the wall with one of his own harpoons. We all listened to the young man though.

"I was only ten years of age at the time, but I was old enough to feel the shame. It was said my father stole all the securities and ran away. It's not true. He believed that if he were given time, every creditor would be paid in full. He started in his little yacht for Norway just before he could be arrested. I can remember that last night when he said goodbye to my mother. He left us a list of the securities he was taking and swore he'd come back with his reputation, and that no-one who'd trusted him would suffer.

"Well, no word was ever heard from him again. Both he and the yacht vanished. We believed, my mother and I, that he was at the bottom of the sea with the securities he'd taken with him. We had a good friend, however, a business man, and he discovered some time ago that some of the securities my father had with him had reappeared on the London market. You can imagine our amazement. I spent months trying to find them and, at last, after many difficulties, I discovered the seller was Captain Carey, the owner of this hut.

"Naturally, I made some inquiries about the man. I found he'd been in command of a whaling ship, due to return from the Arctic at the same time as my father was crossing to Norway. The autumn that year was stormy. My father's yacht may have been blown to the north and met by Captain Carey's ship there. If that were so, what had happened to my father? In any case, if I could prove from Peter Carey's evidence how these securities came on the market it would be proof that my father had not profited from them.

"I came here to see the captain, but it was at that moment his terrible death occurred. I read a description of his cabin, in which it said the old log-books of his ship were written. I thought if I could see what happened in the month of August, 1883, on board the 'Sea Unicorn', I might solve the mystery of my father's death. I tried last night to get at these books, but couldn't open the door. Tonight I tried again, and succeeded; but I find the pages dealing with that month have been torn from the book. But at that moment you took me prisoner."

"Is that all?" asked Hopkins.

"Yes, that's all."

"You have nothing else to tell us?"

He hesitated.

"No; there's nothing."

"You weren't here before last night?"

"No."

"Then how do you explain that?" cried Hopkins, as he held up the note-book, with the initials of our prisoner on the first page and the bloodstain on the cover.

The young man shook all over.

"Where did you get it? I thought I'd lost it at the hotel."

"That's enough," said Hopkins. "Whatever else you have to say you must say in court. Walk down with me now to the police station. Well, Mr. Holmes, I'm very grateful to you and your friend for coming to help me. As it turns out, it was unnecessary and I solved the case without you but, nonetheless, thank-you very much."

"Well, Watson, what do you think?" asked Holmes, as we travelled back next morning.

"I can see you aren't satisfied."

"Oh, yes, Watson, I'm satisfied. At the same time, I'm disappointed in Hopkins. I'd hoped for more from him. One should always look for an alternative. It's the first rule of criminal investigation."

"What's the alternative?"

"The investigation I've been following. It may give us nothing. But at least I'll follow it to the end."

Several letters were waiting for Holmes at home. He opened one and laughed.

"Excellent, Watson. The alternative develops. Just write a couple of messages for me: 'Sumner, Shipping Agent. Send the three men to arrive at ten tomorrow morning. Captain Basil.' That's my name in that part of the country. Here's the other:

'Inspector Stanley Hopkins. Come to breakfast at nine-thirty. Important. Sherlock Holmes.' There, Watson, this case has worried me for ten days. Tomorrow I believe we'll hear the last of it."

Sharp at nine-thirty, Inspector Hopkins and we sat down together to the excellent breakfast Mrs. Hudson had prepared. The young detective was in high spirits.

"You really think your solution must be correct?" asked Holmes.

"I couldn't imagine a better one."

"Does your explanation answer every point?"

"Undoubtedly. Young Neligan arrived on the day of the crime. That night he saw Peter Carey at the hut, quarrelled with him and killed him with the harpoon. Then, horrified by what he'd done, he ran out of the hut, dropping the notebook he'd brought with him to question Carey about these securities. Some of them were marked with ticks, and the others - the great majority - were not. Those which are ticked have been found on the London market but the others were still with Carey, and young Neligan wanted them to pay back his father's creditors. He forced himself to go back to the hut for the information he needed. Surely that's all obvious?"

Holmes smiled and shook his head.

"It seems to have only one drawback, Hopkins. It's impossible. Have you tried to drive a harpoon through a body? No? You must really pay attention to these details. Watson could tell you I spent a whole morning trying. It's not easy and needs great strength. But Carey was killed with such violence that the top of the harpoon went deep into the wall. Do you imagine that this boy could do it? Is he the man who chatted with Black Peter at the dead of night, drinking rum? Was he seen through the curtain two nights before? No, no, Hopkins. It's another stronger and bearded person we must find."

The detective's face had grown longer and longer. His hopes and his ambitions were all collapsing.

"You must accept that Neligan was present that night, Mr. Holmes. The book will prove that. I think I have enough evidence for a judge, even if you find fault with it. Besides, Mr. Holmes, I have my suspect in jail. Where's yours?"

"I think he's on the stairs," said Holmes, calmly. "Watson, you should put that revolver where you can reach it." He got up and put a document on the table. "Now we're ready," he said.

There'd been some talking outside and now Mrs. Hudson opened the door to say there was a man asking for Captain Basil.

"Show him in," said Holmes.

The man had a frightening face in a mess of hair and beard and two angry, dark eyes. He stood like a sailor, turning his cap round in his hands.

"Your name?" asked Holmes.

"Patrick Cairns."

"Harpooner?"

"Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages."

"Could you start at once?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you got your papers?"

"Yes, sir." He took some worn and dirty forms from his pocket.

Holmes glanced over them and returned them.

"You're just the man I want," said he. "Here's the agreement on the table. If you sign it, everything's settled."

The seaman walked across the room and took the pen.

"Shall I sign here?" he asked.

Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over his neck.

"This will do," he said.

I heard a click of steel and a shout like an angry bull. The next moment, Holmes and the seaman were on the floor together. He was so strong that, even with the handcuffs which Holmes had locked on his wrists, he'd have quickly overpowered my friend, if Hopkins and I hadn't rushed to rescue him. Only when I put the revolver to his head did he understand he was beaten. We tied his ankles.

"I must apologise, Hopkins," said Holmes; "I'm afraid the eggs are cold. However, you'll enjoy the rest of your breakfast more now that you've arrested the right man."

Hopkins was speechless with amazement.

"I don't know what to say, Mr. Holmes. It seems I've made a fool of myself. I understand now, what I should never have forgotten, that I'm the pupil and you're the master. Even now I see what you've done, I don't know how you did it, or what it means."

"Well," said Holmes, happily. "We all learn by experience and your lesson this time is you should never forget the alternative. You were so absorbed in young Neligan that you couldn't see Patrick Cairns, the true murderer of Peter Carey."

The seaman broke in on our conversation.

"Look, mister," he said, "I don't complain about the arrest, but I'd like you to call things by their right names.You say I murdered Peter Carey; I say I killed Peter Carey. There's a difference. Maybe you don't believe what I say and think I'm just joking."

"Not at all," said Holmes. "Let's hear what you have to say."

"It's soon told and every word of it is truth. I knew Black Peter and when he pulled out his knife I put a harpoon through him because I knew it was him or me. That's how he died. You can call it murder. Anyhow, I'd as soon die with a rope round my neck as with Black Peter's knife in my heart."

"How did you decide to go there?" asked Holmes.

"I'll tell you the whole story from the beginning. It was in August 1883 that it happened. Peter Carey was master of the 'Sea Unicorn'; I was the harpooner. We were coming out of the ice on our way home when we picked up a little boat that had been blown north. There was one man on her.

"Well, we took him on board and he and the captain had some long talks in the cabin. All the baggage with him was one tin box. So far as I know, the man's name was never mentioned and on the second night he disappeared as if he'd never been there. The captain said he'd fallen overboard in the heavy weather.

"Only one man knew what had happened to him, and that was me, because I saw the captain with my own eyes push him over two nights before we saw the coast.

"Well, I kept it to myself and waited. When we got back to Scotland it was easily hushed up, and nobody asked any questions. A stranger died by accident and it was nobody's business. Shortly after Peter Carey gave up the sea, and it was years before I could find where he was. I guessed he'd killed the man for what was in that tin box and could now afford to pay me well to keep my mouth shut.

"I found out where he was and I went there to get some money out of him. The first night he was reasonable and was ready to give me enough to give up the sea forever. We were going to arrange it all two nights later. When I came, I found him three quarters drunk. We sat down and spoke about old times, but the more he drank the less I liked the look on his face. I noticed that harpoon on the wall and I thought I might need it before the night was over.

"Then at last he came at me with murder in his eyes and a great knife in his hand. He hadn't got time to use it before I had the harpoon through him. What a shout he gave! I stood there, with his blood all round me and waited for a bit. But everything was quiet. I looked round and there was the tin box on a shelf. I had as much right to it as Peter Carey, so I took it and left the hut. Like a fool, I left my tobacco-pouch behind.

"Now I'll tell you the strangest part of the story. I'd hardly got outside when I heard someone coming, and I hid among the bushes. A man came creeping along, went into the hut, gave a cry as if he'd seen a ghost, and ran away as hard as he could until he was out of sight. Who he was or what he wanted is more than I can tell you.

"I walked ten miles, got a train to London and no-one knew anything about it.

"Well, when I came to look at the box I found there was no money in it and nothing but papers that I couldn't sell. I had lost Black Peter and was in London without a penny. I saw these advertisements about harpooners and high wages, so I went to the shipping agents and they sent me here. That's all I know, and I say again that if I killed Black Peter the law should thank me."

"A very clear statement," said Holmes, lighting his pipe. "I think, Hopkins, you should lose no time in taking your prisoner to a safe place."

"Mr. Holmes," said Hopkins, "I don't know how to thank you. Even now I don't understand how you managed."

"Simply by having the good luck to get the right clue from the beginning. It's possible if I'd known about this notebook, it might have distracted me. But all I heard pointed in one direction. The amazing strength, the skill in the use of the harpoon, the seal-skin pouch with the rough tobacco - all these pointed to a seaman. I was convinced the initials 'P.C.' on the pouch were not Peter Carey's, because he didn't smoke."

"And how did you find him?"

"The problem was a very simple one. If it were a seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with him on the 'Sea Unicorn'. So far as I know, he'd sailed in no other ship. I spent three days researching and, in the end, I'd got the names of the crew of the 'Sea Unicorn' in 1883.

"When I found Patrick Cairns among the harpooners I'd solved the case. The man was probably in London and would like to leave the country for a time. I therefore advertised for harpooners who would work with Captain Basil - and this is the result!"

"Wonderful!" cried Hopkins. "Wonderful!"

"You must release young Neligan as soon as possible," said Holmes. "I think you owe him an apology.

"The tin box must be returned to him, but, of course, the securities which Peter Carey sold are lost for ever."