The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist: Part One

Ready to launch your business? Get started with the commerce platform made for entrepreneurs. Shopify, especially designed to help you start, run, and grow your business with easy customizable themes that let you build your brand, marketing tools that get your products out there. Integrated shipping solutions that actually save you time, from startups to scale-ups, online, in-person, and on the go. Shopify is made for entrepreneurs like you. Sign up for your $1 a month trial at Shopify.com slash setup. I'm Hugh Bonneville and welcome to Sherlock Holmes' short stories. The series where we delve into the files of Fiction's most brilliant detective. Following his keen mind and unerring instincts, from the first subtle clue to the final dramatic revelation. This time, Holmes and Watson pursue a mysterious stalker in the adventure of the solitary cyclist. When a beautiful young music teacher notices she's being followed by a bearded stranger on her lonely bicycle journeys through the Sari countryside, she turns to Holmes for help. But what begins as a seemingly minor case quickly develops into something far more sinister. Soon, Holmes and Watson find themselves in a race against time. As they unravel the carefully woven web of deception, the young teacher has become trapped within. But will they discover the true identity of her shadowy pursuer before it's too late? From the Noiser Podcast Network, this is The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist, Part 1. From the years 1894 to 1901 inclusive, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was a very busy man. It is safe to say that there was no public case of any difficulty in which he was not consulted during those eight years, and there were hundreds of private cases, some of them of the most intricate and extraordinary character in which he played a prominent part. Many startling successes and a few unavoidable failures were the outcome of this long period of continuous work. As I have preserved very full notes of all these cases and was myself personally engaged in many of them, it may be imagined that it is no easy task to know which I should select to lay before the public. I shall, however, preserve my former rule and give the preference to those cases which derive their interest not so much from the brutality of the crime, as from the ingenuity and dramatic quality of the solution. For this reason, I will now lay before the reader the facts connected with Miss Violet Smith, the solitary cyclist of Charleston, and the curious sequel of our investigation, which culminated in unexpected tragedy. It is true that the circumstance did not admit of any striking illustration of those powers for which my friend was famous, but there were some points about the case which made it stand out in those long records of crime from which I gather the material for these little narratives. On referring to my notebook for the year 1895, I find that it was upon Saturday the 23rd of April that we first heard of Miss Violet Smith. Her visit was, I remember, extremely unwelcome to homes, for he was immersed at the moment in a very abstruse and complicated problem concerning the peculiar persecution to which John Vincent Harden, the well-known tobacco millionaire, had been subjected. My friend, who loved above all things precision and concentration of thought, resented anything which distracted his attention from the matter in hand, and yet, without a harshness which was foreign to his nature, it was impossible to refuse to listen to the story of the young and beautiful woman, tall, graceful and queenly, who presented herself at Baker Street late in the evening and implored his assistance and advice. It was vain to urge that his time was already fully occupied, for the young lady had come with the determined nation to tell her story, and it was evident that nothing short of force could get her out of the room until she had done so. With a resigned air and a somewhat weary smile, Holmes begged the beautiful intruder to take a seat and to inform us what it was that was troubling her. At least it cannot be your health, said he, as his keen eyes darted over her, so ardent a bicyclist must be full of energy. She glanced down in surprise at her own feet and I observed the slight ruffling of the side of the soul caused by the friction of the edge of the pedal. Yes, I bicycle a good deal, Mr. Holmes, and that has something to do with my visit to you today. My friend took the lady's unglouved hand and examined it with as close an attention and as little sentiment as a scientist would show to a specimen. You would excuse me, I am sure. It is my business, said he, as he dropped it. I nearly fell into the error of supposing that you were type writing. Of course it is obvious that it is music. You observe the spatula finger ends Watson which is common to both professions. There is a spirituality about the face, however, she gently turned it towards the light, which the type writer does not generate. This lady is a musician. Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music. In the country I presume from your complexion, yes sir near Farnham on the borders of Surrey. A beautiful neighborhood and full of the most interesting associations, you remember Watson that it was near there that we took Archie Stamford the Forger. Now, Miss Violet, what has happened to you near Farnham on the borders of Surrey? The young lady with great cleanness and composure made the following curious statement. My father is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was James Smith who conducted the orchestra at the Old Imperial Theatre. My mother and I were left without a relation in the world except one uncle, Rayf Smith, who went to Africa 25 years ago and we have never had 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 Times, inquiring for our whereabouts. You can imagine how excited we were for 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. Carruthas and Mr. Woodley, who were home on a visit from South Africa. They said that my uncle was a friend of theirs, that he had died some months before in Great Poverty in Johannesburg and that he had asked them with his last breath to hunt up his relations and see that they were in no want. It seemed strange to us that Uncle Rayf, who took no notice of us when he was alive, should be so careful to look after us when he was dead, but Mr. Carruthas explained that the reason was that my uncle had just heard of the death of his brother and so felt responsible for our fate. Excuse me, said Holmes, when was this interview? Last December, four months ago, Ray proceed. Mr. Woodley seemed to me to be a most odious person. He was forever making eyes at me a course puffy faced red moustacheed young man with his hair plastered down on each side of his forehead. I thought that he was perfectly hateful, and I was sure that Cyril would not wish me to know such a person. Oh, Cyril is his name, said Holmes smiling. The young lady blushed and laughed. Yes, Mr. Holmes, Cyril Morton, an electrical engineer, and we hope to be married at the end of the summer. Do you hear me? How did I get talking about him? What I wish to say was that Mr. Woodley was perfectly odious, but that Mr. Carruthas, who was a much older man, was more agreeable. He was a dark, shallow, clean, shaven, silent person, but he had polite manners and a pleasant smile. He inquired how we were left, and on finding that we were very poor, he suggested that I should come and teach music to his only daughter, aged 10. I said that I did not like to leave my mother on which he suggested that I should go home to her every weekend, and he offered me a hundred a year, which was certainly splendid, pay. So it ended by my accepting, and I went down to children's range about six miles from Phanum. Mr. Carruthas was a widower, but he had engaged a lady housekeeper, a very respectable elderly person called Mrs. Dixon, to look after his establishment. The child was a dear, and everything promised well. Mr. Carruthas was very kind and very musical, and we had most pleasant evenings together. Every weekend I went home to my mother in town. The first floor in my happiness was the arrival of the Red Mustast, Mr. Woodley. He came for a visit of a week, and it seemed three months to me. He was a dreadful person, a bully to everyone else, but to me something infinitely worse. He made Odeus love to me boasted of his wealth, said that if I married him, I could have the finest diamonds in London, and finally, when I would have nothing to do with him, he seized me in his arms one day after dinner. He was hideously strong, and swore that he would not let me go until I had kissed him. Mr. Carruthas came in and tore him from me, on which he turned upon his own host, knocking him down and cutting his face open. Well, that was the end of his visit, as you can imagine. Mr. Carruthas apologized to me next day, and assured me that I should never be exposed to such an insult 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 for noon I ride on my bicycle to Farnham station in order to get the 1222 to town. The road from Chilton Grange is a lonely one, and at one spot it is particularly so, for it lies for over a mile between Charlton Heath upon one side and the woods which lie round Charlton Hall upon the other. You could not find him all lonely, tractive road anywhere, and it is quite rare to meet so much as a cart or a peasant until you reach the high road near Cruxbury Hill. Two weeks ago, I was passing this place when I chanced to look back over my shoulder, and about 200 yards behind me, I saw a man, also on a bicycle. He seemed to be 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 could imagine how surprised I was, Mr. Holmes, when on my return on the Monday I saw the same man on the same stretch of road. My astonishment was increased when the incident occurred again exactly as before on the following Saturday and Monday. He always kept his distance and did not molest me in any way, but still it certainly was very odd. I mentioned it to Mr. Caravas who seemed interested in what I said and told me that he had ordered a horse and trap, so that in future I should not pass over these lonely roads without some companion. The horse and trap were to have come this week, but for some reason they were not delivered, and again I had to cycle to the station. That was this morning. You can think that I looked out when I came to Charleston, he's, and there, sure enough, was the man, exactly as he had been the two weeks before. He always kept so far from me that I could not clearly see his face, but it was certainly someone whom I did not know. He was dressed in a dark suit with a cloth cap. The only thing about his face that I could clearly see was his dark beard. Today I was not alarmed, but I was filled with curiosity, and I determined to find out who he was and what he wanted. I slowed down my machine, but he slowed down his. Then I stopped altogether, but he stopped also. Then I laid a trap for him. There is a sharp turning of the road, and I peddled very quickly around this, and then I stopped and waited. I expected him to shoot round and pass me before he could stop, but he never appeared. Then I went back and looked round the corner. I could see a mile of road, but he was not on it. To make it the more extraordinary, there was no side road at this point down which he could have gone. Homes chuckled and rubbed his hands. This case certainly presents some features of its own, city. How much time elapsed between your turning the corner and your discovery that the road was clear? Two or three minutes? Then he could not have retreated down the road, and you say that there are no side roads. None. Then he certainly took a footpath on one side or the other. It could not have been on the side of the Heath, or I should have seen him. So, by the process of exclusion, we arrive at the fact that he made his way toward Charleston Hall, which, as I understand, is situated in its own grounds on one side of the road. Anything else? Nothing, Mr. Homes, say that I was so perplexed that I felt I should not be happy until I had seen you and had your advice. Homes sat in silence for some little time. Where is the gentleman to whom you are engaged? He asked at last. He is in the Midland Electrical Company at Coventry. He would not pay you a surprise visit. Oh, Mr. Homes, as if I should not know him. Have you had any other admirers? Several before I knew Cittal. And since? There was this dreadful man, wouldly, if you can call him an admirer. No one else? A fair client seemed a little confused. Who was he? Asked Homes. Oh, it may be a mere fancy of mine, but it had seemed to me sometimes that my employer, Mr. Carothers, takes a great deal of interest in me. We are thrown rather together. I play his accompaniments in the evening. He has never said anything. He is a perfect gentleman, but a girl always knows. Ah, Homes looked grave. What does he do for a living? He is a rich man. No, carriages or horses? Well, at least he is fairly well to do, but he goes into the city two or three times a week. He is deeply interested in South African gold shares. You will let me know any fresh development, Miss Smith. I am very busy just now, but I will find time to make some inquiries into your case. In the meantime, take no step without letting me know. Goodbye, and I trust that we shall have nothing but good news from you. There once was a woman who lived in a shoe. A size too snug book. What could she do? But that is not where her story ends. Thanks to a little help from her experienced friends, she got her score into much better shape and relocated to a box fresh new place, with room to grow and a mortgage to suit. Now, she lives in a spacious four-bedroom cowboy boot. Better your experience credit score to help get mortgage ready. Experience better your score better your story. It is part of the settled order of nature that such a girl should have followers, said Holmes. He pulled at his meditative pipe. But for choice not on bicycles in lonely country roads, some secretive lover beyond all doubt. But there are curious and suggestive details about the case, Watson? That he should appear only at that point. Exactly. Our first effort must be to find who are the tenants of Charleston Hall. Then again, how about the connection between carothers and woodlay, since they appear to be men of such a different type? How came they both to be so keen upon looking up reef-smiths relations? One more point. What sort of a menage is it, which pays double the market price for a governess, but does not keep a horse, although six miles from the station? Odd Watson. Very odd. You will go down. No, my dear fellow. You will go down. This may be some trifling intrigue, and I cannot break my other important research for the sake of it. On Monday, you will arrive early at Farnham. You will conceal yourself near Charleston Heath. You will observe these facts for yourself and act as your own judgment advises. Then, having inquired as to the occupants of the hall, you will come back to me and report. And now Watson, not another word of the matter until we have a few solid stepping stones on which we may hope to get across to our solution. We had ascertained from the lady that she went down upon the Monday by the train which leaves Waterloo at 9.50, so I started early and caught the 9.13. At Farnham station, I had no difficulty in being directed to Charleston Heath. It was impossible to mistake the scene of the young lady's adventure for the road runs between the open Heath on one side and an old U-Hedge upon the other, surrounding a park which is studied with magnificent trees. There was a main gateway of Lycan studied stone, each side pillar surmounted by moldering heraldic emblems, but besides this central carriage drive, I observed several points where there were gaps in the hedge and paths leading through them. The house was invisible from the road, but the surroundings all spoke of gloom and decay. The Heath was covered with golden patches of flowering gauze, gleaming magnificently in the light of the bright spring sunshine. Behind one of these clumps, I took up my position, so as to command both the gateway of the hall and a long stretch of the road upon either side. It had been deserted when I left it, but now I saw a cyclist riding down it from the opposite direction to that in which I had come. He was clad in a dark suit and I saw that he had a black beard. On reaching the end of the Charleston grounds, he sprang from his machine and led it through a gap in the hedge, disappearing from my view. 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 about her as she came to the Charleston hedge. An instant later, the man emerged from his hiding place, sprang upon his cycle and followed her. In all the broad landscape, those were the only moving figures. The graceful girl sitting very straight upon her machine and the man behind her, bending low over his handlebar with a curiously furtive suggestion in every movement. She looked back at him and slowed her pace. He slowed also. She stopped. He had once stopped, keeping two hundred yards behind her. Her next movement was as unexpected as it was, spirited. She suddenly whisked her wheels round and dashed straight at him. He was as quick as she, however, and darted off in desperate flight. Presently, she came back up the road again. Her head hortily in the air, not daining to take any further notice of her silent attendant. He had turned also and still kept his distance until the curve of the road hid them from my sight. I remained in my hiding place and it was well that I did so for presently the man reappeared, cycling slowly back. He turned in at the hall gates and dismounted from his machine. For some minutes I could see him standing among the trees. His hands were raised and he seemed to be settling his necktie. Then he mounted his cycle and rode away from me down the drive towards the hall. I ran across the heat and peered through the trees. Far away I could catch glimpses of the old grey building with its bristling chewed chimneys, but the drive ran through a dense shrubbery and I saw no more of my man. However, it seemed to me that I had done a fairly good morning's work and I walked back in high spirits to farnham. The local house-agent could tell me nothing about Charleston Hall and he referred me to a well-known firm in Pal Mau. There I halted on my way home and met with courtesy from the representative. No, I could not have Charleston Hall for the summer. I was just too late. It had been let about a month ago. Mr. Williamson was the name of the tenant. He was a respectable elderly gentleman. The polite agent was afraid he could say no more as the affairs of his clients were not matters which he could discuss. Mr. Sherlock Holmes listened with attention to the long report which I was able to present to him that evening, but it did not elicit that word of curt praise which I had hoped for and should have valued. On the contrary, his austere face was even more severe than usual as he commented upon the things that I had done and the things that I had not. Your hiding place, my dear Watson, was very faulty. You should have been behind the hedge then you would have had a close view of this interesting person. As it is, you were some hundreds of yards away and can tell me even less than Miss Smith. She thinks she does not know the man I am convinced she does. Why otherwise should he be so desperately anxious that she should not get so near him as to see his features? You describe him as bending over the handlebar. Concealment again, you see? You really have done remarkably badly. He returns to the house and you want to find out who he is. You come to a London house agent. What should I have done? I cried with some heat. Gone to the nearest public house. That is the centre of country gossip. They would have told you every name from the master to the scullery made, Williamson. It conveys nothing to my mind. If he is an elderly man, he is not this active cyclist who sprints away from that young lady's athletic pursuit. What are we gained by expedition? The knowledge that the girl's story is true. I never doubted it. That there is a connection between the cyclist and the hall. I never doubted that either. That the hall is tenanted by Williamson. Who is the better for that? Well, my dear sir, don't look so depressed. We can do little more until next Saturday. And in the meantime, I may make one or two inquiries myself. The New LinkedIn Hiring Pro Can't undo your last hire. The lone wolf. Who you thought was a good collaborator because you didn't have the right candidate insights. But once you hired them, it was all hoarding, infos, declining meetings and howling at the full moon. But LinkedIn Hiring Pro can find you a perfect fit by using insights from the LinkedIn network to give you a short list of the best fit candidates. Higher write the first time with LinkedIn Hiring Pro. Post your first job today and get £100 off at LinkedIn.com slash AI Hire. Tempting clinicians apply. Next morning, we had a note from Miss Smith recounting shortly and accurately the very incidents which I had seen. But the pith of the letter, Lay, in the post script. I am sure that you will respect my confidence, Mr Holmes, when I tell you that my place here has become difficult. Owing to the fact that my employer has proposed marriage to me. I am convinced that his feelings are most deep and most honourable. At the same time, my promise is of course given. He took my refusal very seriously but also very gently. You can understand, however, that the situation is a little strained. Our young friend seems to be getting into deep waters, said Holmes thoughtfully as he finished the letter. The case certainly presents more features of interest and more possibility of development than I had originally thought. I should be none the worse for a quiet peaceful day in the country, and I am inclined to run down this afternoon and test one or two theories which I have formed. Holmes's quiet day in the country had a singular termination, for he arrived at Baker Street late in the evening with a cut lip and a discolored lump upon his forehead, besides a general air of dissipation which would have made his own person the fitting object of a Scotland yard investigation. He was immensely tickled by his own adventures and laughed heartily as he recounted them. I get so little active exercise that it is always a treat, said he, you are aware that I have some proficiency in the good old British sport of boxing. Occasionally it is of service. Today, for example, I should have come to very ignominious grief without it. I begged him to tell me what had occurred. I found that country pub which I had already recommended to your notice, and there I made my discreet inquiries. I was in the bar and a garulous landlord was giving me all that I wanted. Williamson is a white bearded man and he lives alone with a small staff of servants at the hall. There is some rumor that he is or has been a clergyman, but one or two incidents of his short residence at the hall struck me as peculiarly unecclesiastical. I have already made some inquiries at a clerical agency and they tell me that there was a man of that name in order whose career has been a singularly dark one. The landlord further informed me that there are usually weekend visitors, a warm lot sir at the hall, and especially one gentleman with a red moustache, Mr Woodley by name, who was always there. We had got as far as this when who should walk in but the gentleman himself, who had been drinking his beer in the tap room and had heard the whole conversation. Who was I? What did I want? What did I mean by asking questions? He had a fine flow of language and his adjectives were very vigorous. He ended a string of abuse by a vicious backhander which I failed to entirely avoid. The next few minutes were delicious. It was a straight left against a slogging ruffian. I emerged as you see me. Mr Woodley went home in a cart. So ended my country trip and it must be confessed that however enjoyable my day on the Surrey border has not been much more profitable than your own. The Thursday brought us another letter from our client. You will not be surprised Mr Holmes said she to hear that I am leaving Mr. Carothers' employment. Even the high pay cannot reconcile me to the discomforts of my situation. On Saturday I come up to town and I do not intend to return. Mr. Carothers has got a trap and so the dangers of the lonely road, if there ever were any dangers, are now over. As to the special cause of my leaving, it is not merely the strange situation with Mr. Carothers but it is the reappearance of that odious man Mr. Woodley. He was always hideous but he looks more awful than ever now for he appears to have had an accident and he is much disfigured. I saw him out of the window but I am glad to say I did not meet him. He had a long talk with Mr. Carothers who seemed much excited afterwards. Woodley must be staying in the neighbourhood for he did not sleep here and yet I caught a glimpse of him again this morning, slinking about in the shrubbery. I would sooner have a savage wild animal loose about the place. I loath and fear him more than I can say. How can Mr. Carothers endure such a creature for a moment? However, all my troubles will be over on Saturday. So I trust what so I trust said Holmes gravely. There is some deep intrigue going on around that little woman and it is our duty to see that no one molests her upon that last journey. I think Watson that we must spare time to run down together on Saturday morning and make sure that this curious and inclusive investigation has no untoward ending. Next time on Sherlock Holmes short stories, Ms. Smith's strange case takes a drastically darker term. A violent confrontation on a lonely country road needs to a desperate race against time and a sinister plot is laid bare as Holmes unmasks the young woman's shadowy pursuer. That's next time. A North Traitor in North Africa, exchanging furs for silver under a desert sun. The Vikings terrified the medieval world, yet they beguilers today. Who were they really? Real Vikings from the Noiser Podcast Network. Listen wherever you get your podcasts.