Sherlock Holmes - The Boscombe Valley Mystery

My wife and I were sitting at breakfast one morning when a message from Sherlock Holmes arrived:

"Have you got a couple of days free? They’ve just called me about the Boscombe Valley murder. Glad if you come with me. I leave London on the 11:15 train."

"Will you go?" said my wife, looking across the table at me.

"I really don't know what to say. I have a long list of patients at the moment."

"Oh, Dr. Anstruther can do them for you. You look pale. I think the change will help and you’re always so interested in Sherlock Holmes' cases."

"But if I’m going, I must pack at once because I only have half an hour."

My experience of army life in Afghanistan made me an easy traveller. I needed very little, so that I was soon in a taxi with my case. Holmes was walking up and down outside the station with some newspapers under his arm.

He asked: "Have you heard anything about the case?"

"Nothing. I haven’t seen a paper for days."

"The London press hasn’t had very full reports. I’ve looked at all the recent papers to get the details. It seems one of those simple cases which are extremely difficult."

"That sounds a little illogical."

"But it’s still true. In this case, however, they have very serious evidence against the murdered man’s son."

"It is murder, then?"

"Well, they think so. I’ll trust nothing until I get a chance to look into it personally. I’ll explain everything to you in a few words:

"Boscombe Valley is in the countryside not very far from a town called Ross. The largest landowner there is Mr. John Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned here some years ago. One of his farms, called Hatherley, was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also retired from Australia. The men had known each other there, so it was natural they should live near each other in England too.

"Turner was the richer man, so McCarthy became his tenant but was still his friend, as they were always together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen and Turner had an only daughter of the same age, but both their wives were dead. They avoided the neighbours and led quiet lives. McCarthy had two servants – a man and a girl. Turner had half a dozen at least. That’s all I could find out about the families. Now, the facts.

"On June 3rd, that is last Monday, McCarthy left his house at about three in the afternoon and walked down to Boscombe Pool, a small lake. He had been out with his servants in the morning at Ross and he’d told them that he must hurry, as he had an important appointment at three. He never came back alive.

"From Hatherley Farm-house to Boscombe Pool is only three or four hundred metres and someone saw him walking there. That was William Crowder, who worked for Mr. Turner. He says McCarthy was walking alone but adds that a few minutes after seeing Mr. McCarthy, he saw his son going the same way with a gun under his arm. As far as he can recall, the son was following his father.

"The two McCarthys were seen later too. Boscombe Pool has a lot of woods around it. The daughter of another of Mr. Turner’s employees was in the woods picking flowers. While she was there, she saw McCarthy and his son near the lake and they were having a violent quarrel. She heard the father using very strong language to his son and she saw the boy about to hit his father. She was so frightened that she told her mother she was afraid they were going to fight. She’d only just finished speaking when young McCarthy came running to say that he’d found his father dead and to ask for help. He was very excited, was not carrying his gun and his right hand had blood on it. They followed him and found the dead body on the grass beside the pool. The head was badly injured, as if he had been hit with his son’s gun, which was found lying on the grass near the body. The young man was arrested immediately. Those are the facts of the case."

"It seems the son is certainly guilty," I said.

"Circumstantial evidence is a very risky thing," answered Holmes thoughtfully. "It seems to point at one thing, but if you change your perspective a little, you can find something very different. However, the young man may be the murderer. There are people in the neighbourhood, however, including Miss Turner, who believe he’s innocent and have employed us to prove it. So we middle-aged gentlemen are travelling to the west instead of enjoying our breakfasts at home."

"But the facts are so clear that you’ll find little to solve in this case."

"There’s nothing more dangerous than an obvious fact," he answered, laughing. "Besides, we may find some other facts that Inspector Lestrade from the police has missed. For instance, the boy was not arrested immediately but after his return to Hatherley Farm. When the inspector arrested him, he said he deserved it. This comment has made everyone think he’s guilty."

"It was a confession," I shouted.

"No, because he immediately added that he was innocent."

"After everything you’ve explained, it was at least suspicious." I shook my head. "Many men have been hanged on less evidence," I remarked.

"So they have. And many men have been wrongly hanged."

"What is the young man's own explanation?"

"It isn’t encouraging, though there are one or two points which might help. Here it is. Read it for yourself."

He gave me a copy of the local paper and pointed out the paragraph where the young man had given his statement of what happened. It went like this:

'James McCarthy, the only son of the murdered man, gave evidence as follows: 'I was away from home for three days and had only just returned last Monday. My father wasn’t home when I arrived but had driven over to Ross with a servant. Shortly after my return I heard his car and, looking out my window, I saw him get out and walk quickly away, though I was not aware where he was going. I then took my gun and went towards Boscombe Pool to hunt rabbits. On the way I saw William Crowder, just as he said in his evidence; but he is mistaken in thinking I was following my father. I had no idea he was in front of me. When I was about a hundred metres from the pool, I heard a cry of 'Cooee!', which was the usual signal between my father and myself. I then hurried forward and found him standing by the pool. He seemed surprised at seeing me and asked me what I was doing there. An angry conversation followed, because my father was a very bad-tempered man. I thought it best to return to Hatherley Farm. I hadn’t gone more than 150 metres, however, when I heard a terrible noise behind me, which made me run back again. I found my father dying on the ground, with his head badly injured. I dropped my gun and held him in my arms, but he died almost immediately. I sat beside him for some minutes and then made my way to Mr. Turner's employee, Mr. Moran, his house being nearest, to ask for help. I saw no-one near my father when I returned and I have no idea how he got his injuries. He was not a popular man because he was cold and hard, but he had, as far as I know, no enemies. I know nothing more.'

'The police asked if his father said anything before he died but the young man said he only mumbled a few words about a rat, which he did not understand. They also wanted to know why he argued with his father, but the young man refused to answer.

'The police inspector wanted to know why the cry of 'Cooee', the usual signal between the young man and his father, was shouted before the father saw his son. After all, he thought the boy was still away from home. But the young man did not know why.

'Police Officer: 'Didn’t you see anything suspicious when you returned to your father after hearing his cries and found him fatally injured?'

'James McCarthy: 'Nothing definite. I was so disturbed and excited that I could think of nothing except my father. However, I have a vague idea something was lying on the ground left of me. It was grey, a coat or something. When I got up from sitting next to my father, I looked round but it was gone.'

''Do you mean it disappeared before you went for help?'

''Yes, it was gone.'

''So, when it was removed, you were only a dozen metres away from it?'

''Yes, but with my back towards it.''

"I see," I said, as I glanced at the newspaper, "the inspector was hard on young McCarthy. He calls attention to the difference between his father signalling to him before seeing him, also to his refusal to give details of his conversation with his father and his strange account of his father's dying words. They’re all against the son."

Holmes laughed softly to himself and lay down on the seat. "Both you and the inspector have been trying," he said, "to draw attention to the strongest points in the young man's defence. Don't you see that you give him both too much imagination and too little? Too little, if he couldn’t invent a quarrel which would give him some sympathy; too much, if he invented a dying mention of a rat and a disappearing coat. No, I believe what this young man says is true."

It was nearly four o'clock when we at last arrived at the pretty country-town of Ross. A thin man, sly-looking, was waiting for us at the train station. I had no difficulty recognising Lestrade from the police force. With him we drove to the hotel, where we’d already reserved a room.

"I’ve arranged a taxi," said Lestrade as we sat over tea. "I knew your energy and that you wouldn’t be happy until you were at the crime scene."

"It was very nice of you," Holmes answered. "But look at the weather. No wind and not a cloud in the sky. I have some cigarettes which need smoking and the sofa is comfortable. I don’t think I’ll use the taxi tonight."

Lestrade laughed. "You’ve, no doubt, already decided what you think from the newspapers," he said. "The case is clear. Still, we can't refuse a lady. She’s heard of you and wanted your opinion, although I repeatedly told her that there was nothing you could do which I hadn’t done already. Why, here she is at the door."

He’d just spoken when a lovely young woman rushed into the room. Her eyes shining, her lips open, a pink colour on her cheeks all showed her excitement and concern.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" she cried, glancing from me to the detective and finally, looking at Holmes, "I’m so glad you have come. I’ve driven down to tell you so. I know that James didn't do it. We’ve known each other since we were children and I know his faults, but murder is absurd to anyone who really knows him."

"I hope we can clear him, Miss Turner," said Holmes. "You may rely on my doing all I can."

"But you’ve read the evidence. Don’t you think he is innocent?"

"I think it’s very probable."

"There, now!" she cried, looking angrily at Lestrade. "You hear! He gives me hope."

Lestrade was not impressed. "I’m afraid my colleague has been too quick in drawing conclusions," he said.

"But he’s right. I know he’s right. James never did it. And about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the reason why he wouldn’t speak was because I was concerned in it."

"In what way?" asked Holmes.

"This is no time to hide anything. James and his father had many disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there should be a marriage between us. James and I have always loved each other as brother and sister, but of course he is young and has seen very little of life yet. So there were quarrels and this, I am sure, was one of them."

"And your father?" asked Holmes. "Did he want you to marry James McCarthy?"

"No, he was against it. No-one but Mr. McCarthy wanted it."

"Thank you for this information," he said. "May I see your father if I call tomorrow?"

"I am afraid the doctor won't allow it."

"The doctor?"

"Yes, haven’t you heard? Poor father hasn’t been strong for years but this has broken him. He is in bed and Dr. Willows says that he is very ill. Mr. McCarthy was the only man who knew dad in the old days in Australia."

"Ha! In Australia! That is important. At the gold mines where Mr. Turner made his money?"

"Yes. You’ll tell me if you have any news tomorrow. No doubt you’ll go to the prison to see James. If you do, Mr. Holmes, tell him I know he’s innocent. I must go home now because dad is very ill and he misses me if I leave him. Goodbye." She left the room as fast as she’d come in and we heard her go off down the street.

"I’m ashamed of you, Holmes," said Lestrade after a few moments silence. "Why should you make her hope when she’ll be disappointed? I’m not a sensitive man but it’s cruel."

"James McCarthy is innocent," said Holmes. "Can I see him in prison? If so, I’ll go out. Do we still have time to take a train and see him tonight? Then let’s go."

I walked to the train station with them and then wandered through the streets of the town, finally returning to the hotel, where I lay on the sofa and tried to read a novel. The story was so poor, however, that I found I couldn’t concentrate on my book and at last thought only about what we’d found out that day. If the young man's story were true, then what could have happened between the time he left his father and the moment when, hearing his screams, he rushed to him again? What could it be? Maybe, his injuries could tell me something as a doctor? I called for the local newspaper. The doctor who examined the dead body stated that the left side of the back of his head had been broken by a heavy weapon from behind. But when James McCarthy was quarrelling with his father, he was face to face with him. Still, the older man might have turned his back. Then there was the strange dying word about a rat. What could that mean? It could not be madness. A man dying from a sudden blow doesn’t go mad. No, it was more likely an attempt to explain what had happened to him. But what? Then I remembered the grey cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were true the murderer dropped his coat, when he was running away and had the courage to return and carry it away when the son was next to his father, with his back turned. I didn’t wonder that Lestrade thought this impossible and yet I had faith in Holmes and couldn’t lose hope as every fresh fact seemed to show McCarthy's innocence.

It was late when Holmes returned. He spoke immediately:

"It’s important it shouldn’t rain before we can go over the ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his best for such work and I didn’t want to do it when I was tired from a long journey. I’ve seen young McCarthy."

"And what did you learn from him?"

"Nothing at all. He’s as puzzled as everyone else. He’s not a clever man, though he has a good heart."

"I can’t admire his taste," I said, "if he doesn’t want to marry the lovely Miss Turner."

"Ah, but he wants to! The young man is in love with her but two years ago, when he was only a lad, he married a washer woman in Bristol. No-one knows anything about it but you can imagine how frustrating it is to be blamed for not doing what he really wants to do, but what he knows is impossible. It was this which made him throw his hands in the air when his father was pushing him to marry Miss Turner. But good has come out of evil because his wife, finding from the papers that he’s in serious trouble and likely to be hanged, has written to him to say that she has a husband already."

"But if he is innocent, who did it?"

"Who? Don’t forget two points. One is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone at Boscombe Pool and that the ‘someone’ couldn’t have been his son, because his son was away. The second is that the murdered man was heard to shout 'Cooee!' before he knew his son was there. Those are the crucial points the case depends on."

There was no rain, as Holmes had guessed, and the morning was bright and cloudless. At nine o'clock, Lestrade called for us and we set off for Hatherley Farm and Boscombe Pool.

"There is serious news this morning," Lestrade said. "Mr. Turner is so ill he seems sure to die."

"An elderly man, I suppose?" said Holmes.

"About sixty, but he’s been ill for some time. This murder’s had a bad effect on him. He was an old friend of McCarthy's and helped him financially too: he gave him Hatherley Farm rent free. Everybody here speaks of his kindness to him."

"Doesn’t it seem strange that this McCarthy, who had little money of his own and owed so much to Turner, should still talk of marrying his son to Turner's daughter, who’s going to get all her father’s money after his death? And he talked about it confidently, as if James only had to ask to marry her and she’d certainly agree. It is even stranger, as we know that Turner didn’t like the idea. The daughter told us that. Don’t you see?"

"Now he’s started with his theories!" said Lestrade, winking at me. "I find it hard enough to understand the facts, Holmes, without flying after theories."

"You’re right," said Holmes calmly; "You do find it very hard to understand the facts." Holmes laughed. "Isn’t this Hatherley Farm on the left?"

"Yes, that’s it." It was a wide, comfortable-looking building, two-storeyed, with tall grey walls. The closed curtains, however, gave it a sad look. When the maid opened the door, Holmes asked her to show us the boots her employer wore at the time of his death and also a pair of the son's, though not the pair which he wore that day. Holmes measured these very carefully from seven or eight different angles. He then asked to go to the garden, where we all followed the path to Boscombe Pool.

Quickly and silently he made his way along the path through the fields and to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp ground and there were marks of many feet, both on the path and in the short grass. Sometimes Holmes would hurry, sometimes stop still. Lestrade and I walked behind him, watching with great interest.

Boscombe Pool is between Hatherley Farm and Mr. Turner’s garden. On the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew very thick and there was a small path of wet grass between the trees and the lake. Lestrade showed us the exact spot where the body was found and the ground was so wet I could plainly see where the injured man fell. Holmes could read many other things on that grass and ran round and shouted at Lestrade.

"That left foot of yours is all over the place. How easy it would be if I’d been here before they walked all over it. But here are three separate tracks of the same feet." He took out a lens to have a better view, talking to himself. "These are young McCarthy's feet. Twice he was walking and once he ran quickly. That’s exactly what he said. He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are the father's feet as he walked up and down. What’s this? Quite unusual boots! They come, they go, they come again – of course that was for the coat. Now where did they come from?" He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the tracks until we were in the wood. A stone was lying in the grass and he carefully examined and kept it. Then he followed a path through the wood until he came to the road, where the tracks were lost.

"It’s been an interesting case," he said, returning to his normal way of behaving. "I think this grey house on the right must be Mr. Turner’s. I’ll go in and have a word with Moran and perhaps write a little note. After that, we’ll drive back for lunch. I’ll be with you soon."

It was about ten minutes before we drove into Ross, Holmes still carrying the stone he had picked up.

"This may interest you, Lestrade," he said, holding it out. "The murder was done with it."

"How do you know?"

"The grass was growing under it. It had only been there a few days. There was no sign where it was taken from. It explains the injuries. There is no sign of another weapon."

"And the murderer?"

"Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg and wears thick boots and a grey coat. There are other clues, but these may be enough."

“I’ll probably return to London by the evening train."

"And leave your case unfinished?"

"No, it’s finished."

"Who was the criminal, then?"

"The gentleman I describe. Surely it wouldn’t be difficult to find out. This is not such a busy neighbourhood."

"I am a practical man," Lestrade said, "and I can’t go looking for a left-handed man with a bad leg."

"All right," said Holmes. "Here’s your hotel. Goodbye. I’ll write before I leave."

"Look here, Watson," he said when lunch was over, "Just sit down and let me talk at you. I don't know quite what to do and I’d be grateful for your advice. Light a cigar and let me explain.

"There are two points about young McCarthy's story which both of us noticed immediately, although they made me think he was innocent and made you think him guilty. One was that his father cried 'Cooee!' before seeing him. The other was his strange dying words about a rat. He mumbled several words but that was all the son heard."

"What about this 'Cooee!' then?"

"Well, obviously it wasn’t meant for the son. The son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was meant to get the attention of whoever he had the appointment with. But 'Cooee' is used between Australians. So, I think the man McCarthy expected to meet at Boscombe Pool was someone who’d been in Australia."

"What about the rat, then?"

Holmes took a piece of paper from his pocket and put it on the table. "This is a map of Australia," he said. He put his hand over part of the map. "What do you read?"

"ARAT," I read.

"And now?" He raised his hand.

"BALLARAT."

"Exactly. That was the word the man murmured but his son only got the last two syllables. He was trying to say the name of his murderer. So and so from Ballarat. It’s obvious. And now, you see, everything becomes much easier. We’ve come now to the definite idea of an Australian from Ballarat with a grey coat. And one who knew the area because you can only get to the pool from the field or the big house, where strangers couldn’t go, of course. Then comes our trip to the pool today. By examining the ground I learnt the small details which I gave to that idiot, Lestrade, about the criminal."

"But how did you understand them?"

"You know my method. It’s based on the observation of small details."

"But his walking problem?"

"The right footprint was always less clear than his left. Why? Because he limped."

"But his left-handedness?"

"You noticed the injury mentioned by the doctor. He was hit from behind on the left side. Now, why, unless he was hit by a left-handed man? He stood behind that tree during the interview between the father and son."

"Holmes," I said, "you’ve made a trap for this man he can’t escape from and you’ve saved an innocent human life. I see. The murderer is …"

"Mr. John Turner," shouted the hotel waiter, opening the door and showing in a visitor.

The man who entered was a strange figure. His slow, limping step gave the appearance of old age and yet his hard, deeply lined face and his enormous legs showed that he had a very strong body and personality. But his face was white, while his lips looked almost blue. It was clear at a glance that he was dying.

"Please sit down on the sofa," said Holmes gently. "You got my note?"

"Yes. You wanted to see me here to avoid a scandal." He looked at Holmes with despair in his tired eyes.

"Yes," said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. "I know all about McCarthy."

The old man dropped his face in his hands. "I wouldn’t have let the young man die. I give you my word that I’d have said something if he was found guilty. I’d have spoken already, except for my daughter. It would break her heart – it will break her heart when she hears I’ve been arrested."

"It may not happen," said Holmes.

"What?"

"I’m not a police officer. It was your daughter who wanted me here and I’m working for her. But young McCarthy must go free."

"I’m a dying man," said old Turner. "I’ve had diabetes for years. My doctor says I may not live a month. But I'd rather die under my own roof than in prison. I don’t want my daughter Alice to get a shock either."

Holmes sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and some paper in front of him. "Just tell us the truth," he said. "I’ll write down the facts. You’ll sign it. Then I can show your confession at the last minute to save young McCarthy but I promise I’ll not use it unless it’s needed."

"It's very good of you," said the old man; "And now I’ll tell you everything.”

"You didn't know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil. He’s had me in his power for twenty years and he’s ruined my life. I'll tell you first how it happened.

"It was in the early 1860s in Australia. I was a young man then, ready to do anything. I had no luck with my job and became a robber. There were six of us and we had a wild, free life, robbing on the road to the mine. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I used and our party is still known as the Ballarat Gang.

"One day a transport of gold came from Ballarat and we attacked it. There were six soldiers and six of us, so it was risky, but we killed four of them at the first shot. Three of our boys were killed, however, before we got the gold. I put my pistol to the head of the driver, McCarthy. I wish I had shot him then, but I spared his life, though I saw his wicked little eyes staring at my face to remember me. We got away with the gold, became wealthy men and made our way over to England. I decided to live a quiet and respectable life. I married and, though my wife died young, she left me dear little Alice. Even when she was a baby her little hand seemed to show me the right path as nothing else had ever done. All was going well when McCarthy found me. I’d gone to town and met him with no coat or shoes on.

"'Here we are, Jack,' he says, touching me on the arm. 'We'll be as good as a family to you. There are two of us, me and my son, and you can look after us. If you don't, there's always a policeman nearby.'

"Well, they came here. There was nothing else I could do and they’ve lived rent free on my best land ever since. There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetting. It grew worse as Alice grew up, because he soon saw I was more afraid of her knowing my past than of the police. Whatever he wanted he got and I gave him it without question: land, money, house, until at last he asked for a thing I couldn’t give. He asked for Alice.

"His son, you see, had grown up and so had my girl and, as I was ill, it seemed good to him that his lad should get the whole property. But I wouldn’t have his blood mixed with mine; I liked the lad, but his father’s blood was in him and that was enough. We were to meet at the pool to talk it over.

"When I went down there, I found him talking with his son, so I waited behind a tree until he was alone. But as I listened, all that was black and bitter in me seemed to come up. He was telling his son to marry my daughter with as little interest in what she might think as if she were a slut off the streets. It drove me mad that I was in the power of this man. Couldn’t I break the connection? I was already a dying man. I had to silence his evil tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. His cry brought back his son, but I was already in the wood, though I was forced to go back to fetch the coat I’d dropped. That’s the true story of all that happened."

"Now, what do you intend to do?"

"In view of your health, nothing. I will keep your confession and if McCarthy is found guilty, I’ll be forced to use it. If not, no-one will ever see it and your secret, if you’re alive or dead, will be safe with us."

"Goodbye, then," said the old man seriously. "Your own deathbeds, when they come, will be easier when you think of the peace you have given me." He walked slowly from the room.

James McCarthy was found not guilty. Old Turner lived for seven months after our interview, but he is now dead and there’s every chance that the son and daughter will live happily together, never knowing about the black cloud over their past.