The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist: Part Two

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After her father's death, Mr. Carruthers and Mr. Woodley, two men who claimed to be acquaintances of her long-lost uncle in South Africa appeared. Carruthers offered her a well-paid position, teaching music to his daughter at Chilton Grange. Woodley proved to be an unpleasant suitor who made a series of unwelcome advances towards Miss Smith. For several Saturdays, when cycling to Farnham Station, Miss Smith noticed the same bearded man following her on a bicycle. He always maintained his distance and disappeared at the same spot near Chalinton Heath. On her most recent journey, she tried to confront him, but he fled. Homes occupied with another case sent Watson to investigate. Watson observed the mysterious cyclist following Miss Smith before disappearing into the grounds of Chalinton Hall. Watson's inquiries revealed little, except that the hall was rented to an elderly gentleman named Williamson. Homes criticized Watson's investigative methods and decided to conduct his own inquiries, which led to a violent encounter with Woodley at a local pub. Meanwhile, Miss Smith wrote to say that she was leaving her position, both because Carruthers had proposed marriage to her, which she declined being engaged to another, and because the odious Woodley had reappeared. As we rejoin the story, Homes and Watson are preparing to travel to Farnham to ensure Miss Smith's safe return to London. I confess that I had not up to now taken a very serious view of the case, which had seemed to me rather grotesque and bizarre than dangerous. That a man should lie in wait for and follow a very handsome woman, is no unheard of thing, and if he has so little audacity that he not only dared not address her, but even fled from her approach, he was not a very formidable assailant. The Ruffian Woodley was a very different person, but except on one occasion, he had not molested our client, and now he visited the house of Carruthers without intruding upon her presence. The man on the bicycle was doubtless a member of those weekend parties at the hall of which the public had spoken, but who he was, or what he wanted, was as obscure as ever. It was the severity of Homes' manner and the fact that he slipped a revolver into his pocket before leaving our rooms, which impressed me with the feeling that tragedy might prove to lurk behind this curious train of events. A rainy night had been followed by a glorious morning, and the heath-covered countryside with the glowing clumps of flowering gorse seemed all the more beautiful to eyes which were weary of the duns and drabs and slate-graze of London. Homes and eye walked along the broad sandy road, inhaling the fresh morning air and rejoicing in the music of the birds and the fresh breath of the spring. From a rise of the road on the shoulder of Cruxbury Hill, we could see the grim hall bristling out from amidst the ancient oak switch, old as they were, was still younger than the building which they surrounded. Homes pointed down the long tract of road which wound a reddish yellow band between the brown of the heath and the budding green of the woods. Far away, a black dot, we could see a vehicle moving in our direction. Homes gave an exclamation of impatience. I have given a margin of half an hour, said he. If that is her trap, she must be making for the earlier train. I fear Watson that she will be passed Charllington before we can possibly meet her. From the instant that we passed the rise, we could no longer see the vehicle, but we hastened onward at such a pace that my sedentary life began to tell upon me, and I was compelled to fall behind. Homes, however, was always in training, for he had an inexhaustible store of nervous energy upon which to draw. His springy step never slowed until suddenly, when he was a hundred yards in front of me, he thought, and I saw him throw up his hand with a gesture of grief and despair. At the same instant, an empty dog cart, the horse, cantering the reins, trailing, appeared round the curve of the road and rattled swiftly towards us. The too late Watson, too late! cried Homes as I ran, panting to his side. Full that I was not to allow for that earlier train. It's abduction Watson. Abduction! Murder! Heaven knows what! Block the road, stop the horse! That's right. Now jump in and let us see if I can repair the consequences of my own blunder. We had sprung into the dog cart and Homes, after turning the horse, gave it a sharp cut with the whip and we flew back along the road. As we turned the curve, the whole stretch of Rome between the hall and the heath was opened up. I grasped Homes's arm, catched a man! A solitary sight fist was coming towards us. His head was down and his shoulders rounded as he put every ounce of energy that he possessed onto the pedals. He was flying like a racer. Suddenly he raised his bearded face, saw us post to him and pulled up, springing from his machine. That cold black beard was in singular contrast to the pallor of his face and his eyes were as bright as if he had a fever. He stared at us and at the dog cart, then a look of amazement came over his face. Hello! Stop there! He shouted, holding his bicycle to block our road. Where did you get that dog cart? Pull up, man! The yelled, drawing a pistol from his side pocket. Pull up, I say, or by George I'll put a bullet into your horse. Homes threw the reins into my lab and sprang down from the cart. You're the man we want to see. Where is Miss Violet Smith? He said in his quick clear way. That's what I'm asking you. You're in her dog cart. You ought to know where she is. We met the dog cart on the road. There was no one in it. We drove back to help the young lady. Good lord! Good lord! What shall I do? Cried the stranger in an ecstasy of despair. They've got her! That hellhound would be in the blackest part! Come, man! Come! If you really are her friend, stand by me and will save her. If I have to leave my carcass in Chalinckonwood. He ran, distractedly, his pistol in his hand towards a gap in the hedge. Homes followed him and I, leaving the horse grazing beside the road, followed Homes. This is where they came crew. Said he, pointing to the marks of several feet upon the muddy path. Hello! Stop the minute! Who's this in the bush? It was a young fellow, about seventeen dressed like an ozler with leather cords and gators. He lay upon his back his knees drawn up a terrible cut upon his head. He was insensible but alive. A glance at his wound told me that it had not penetrated the bone. That's Peter the groom, cried the stranger. He drove her. The beasts have pulled him off and clubbed him, let him lie. We can't do him any good but we may save her from the worst fate that can befall a woman. We ran frantically down the path which wound among the trees. We had reached the shrubbery which surrounded the house when Homes pulled up. They didn't go to the house. Here are their marks on the left. Here, beside the lorrow bushes. Ah! I said so. As he spoke, woman shrill scream a scream which vibrated with a frenzy of horror burst from the thick green clump of bushes in front of us. It ended suddenly on its highest note with a choke and a gurgle. This way, this way they are in the bowling alley, cried the stranger darting through the bushes. Darn cowardly dogs. Follow me gently. Too late, too late! By the living jingo. We had broken suddenly into a lovely glade of greenswords surrounded by ancient trees. On the farther side of it, under the shadow of a mighty oak, there stood a singular group of three people. One was a woman, our client, drooping and faint, a hankerchief round her mouth. Opposite her stood a brutal heavy-faced red-most-starsed young man. His gated legs parted wide, one arm a kimbo, the other waving a riding-crop. His whole attitude suggestive of triumphant bravado. Between them an elderly grey-bearded man wearing a short surplus over a light-tweed suit had evidently just completed the wedding service. For he pocketed his prayer-book as we appeared, and he slapped the sinister bridegroom upon the back in jovial congratulation. Ther mackered, I gassed. Come on! cried our guide. Come on! He rushed across the glade, homes and eye at his heels, as we approached the lady staggered against the trunk of the tree for support. Williamson, the ex-cleurge-yman, bowed to us with mock politeness, and the bully, woodly, advanced with a shout of brutal and exultant laughter. You can take your beard off, Bob, City. I know you write enough. Well, you and your pals have just come in time for me to be able to introduce you to Mrs. Woodley. Our guide's answer was a singular one. He snatched off the dark beard, which had disguised him and threw it on the ground, disclosing a long, shallow, clean shaven face below it. Then he raised his revolver and covered the young ruffian, who was advancing upon him with his dangerous riding crop swinging in his hand. Yes, said our ally. I am Bob Carruthas, and I'll see this woman righted if I have to swing for it. I told you what I'd do if you molested her, and by the Lord I'll be as good as my word. You're too late. She's my wife. No. She's your widow. No! His revolver cracked, and I saw the blood spurred from the front of Woodley's waistcoat. He spun round with a scream and fell upon his back. His hideous red face turning suddenly to a dreadful mottled pallor. The old man still clad in his surplus, burst into such a string of foul oaths as I have never heard, and he pulled out a revolver of his own. But before he could raise it, he was looking down the barrel of Holmes' weapon. Enough of this, said my friend coldly. Drop that pistol. Watson, pick it up. Hold it to his head. Thank you. You, the brothers, give me that revolver. We'll have no more violence. Come and eat over. Who are you then? My name is Sherlock Holmes. Good Lord. You have heard of me, I see. I will represent the official police until their arrival. Here, you. He shouted to a frightened grume who had appeared at the edge of the glade. Come here. Take this note as hard as you can ride to phantom. He scribbled a few words upon a leaf from his notebook. Give it to the superintendent at the police station, until he comes I must detain you all under my personal custody. I'm Ian Glenn, and this is Real Vikings. A monastery on a remote Scottish island overrun with pagan warriors. The dragon-shaped prowl for longboat cutting through Canada's icy waters. A North trader 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. The strong, masterful personality of Holmes dominated the tragic scene, and all were equally puppets in his hands. Williamson and Carothers found themselves carrying the wounded woodly into the house, and I gave my arm to the frightened girl. The injured man was laid on his bed, and at Holmes' request I examined him. I carried my report to where he sat in the old tapestry-hung dining-room with his two prisoners before him. He will live, said I. What? Cried Carothers, springing out of his chair. I'll go upstairs and finish him first. Do you tell me that that angel is to be tied to roaring Jack Woodley for life? You need not concern yourself about that, said Holmes. There are two very good reasons why she should, under no circumstances, be his wife. In the first base we are very safe in questioning Mr. Williamson's right to solemnize a marriage. I have been ordained, cried the old rascal, and also unfroaked. Once a clergyman always a clergyman, I think not how about the license. We had a license for the marriage. I have it here in my pocket. Then you got it by trick, but in any case a forced marriage is no marriage, but it is a very serious felony, as you will discover before you have finished. You'll have time to think the point out during the next ten years or so, unless I am mistaken. As to you, Carothers, you would have done better to keep your pistol in your pocket. I begin to think so, Mr. Holmes. But when I thought of all the precaution I had taken to shield this girl for I loved her, Mr. Holmes, and it is the only time that ever I knew what love was, it fairly drove me mad to think that she was in the power of the greatest brute and bully in South Africa. A man whose name is a holy terror from Kimballet to Johannesburg. Why, Mr. Holmes, you'll hardly believe it, but ever since that girl has been in my employment, I never once let her go past this house, where I knew the rascals were lurking without following her on my bicycle, just to see that she came to no harm. Now I kept my distance from her and I water a beard so that she should not recognize me for she is a good and high-spirited girl, and she wouldn't have stayed in my employment long if she had thought that I was following her about the country roads. Why didn't you tell her of her danger? Because then again she would have left me, and I couldn't bear to face that. Even if she couldn't love me, it was a great deal to me just to see her dainty form about the house and to hear the sound of her voice. Well, said I, you call that love, Mr. Carruthas, but I should call it selfishness. Maybe the two things go together. Really how I couldn't let her go. Besides, with this crowd about it was well that she should have someone near to look after her. Then when the cable came, I knew they were bound to make a move. What cable? Carruthas took a telegram from his pocket. That's it, said he. It was short and concise. The old man is dead. Hmm, said Holmes. I think I see how things worked and I can understand how this message would, as you say, bring them to a head, but while you wait, you might tell me what you can. The old reprobates with the surplus burst into a volley of bad language. I, heaven, said he. If you squeeze on us, Bob Carruthas, I'll serve you as you served Jack Woodley. You can beat about the girl to your heart's content for that's your own affair, but if you round on your pals to this plain clothes copper, it will be the worst day's work that ever you did. Your reverence need not be excited, said Holmes, lighting a cigarette. The case is clear enough against you and all I ask is a few details for my private curiosity. However, if there's any difficulty in you're telling me, I'll do the talking and then you will see how far you have a chance of holding back your secrets. In the first place, three of you came from South Africa on this game, you, Williamson, you, Carruthas and Woodley. Lie number one, said the old man. I never saw either of them until two months ago and I have never been in Africa in my life so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it Mr. Bissie body homes. What he says is true, said Carruthas. Well, well, two of you came over. His reverence is our own homemade article. You had known Ray Smith in South Africa, you had reason to believe he would not live long. You found out that his niece would inherit his fortune. How's that? Carruthas nodded and Williamson swore. She was next of kin, no doubt, and you were aware that the old fellow would make no will. No, couldn't read or write, said Carruthas. So you came over the two of you and hunted up the girl. The idea was that one of you was to marry her and the other have a share of the plunder. For some reason, Woodley was chosen as the husband. Why was that? We played cards for her on the voyage. He won. I see. You got the young lady into your service and there Woodley was to do the courting. She recognized the drunken brute that he was and would have nothing to do with him. Meanwhile, your arrangement was rather upset by the fact that you had yourself fallen in love with the lady. You could no longer bear the idea of this ruffian owning her? No, by George, I couldn't. There was a quarrel between you. He left you in a rage and began to make his own plans independently of you. It strikes me, Williamson. There isn't very much that we can tell this gentleman. Cryed Carruthas with a bitter laugh. Yes, we quarreled and he knocked me down. I am leveled with him on that anyhow. Then I lost sight of him. That was when he picked up with this outcast powder here. I found that they had set up housekeeping together at this place on the line that she had to pass for the station. I kept my eye on her after that, for I knew there was some devilry in the wind. I saw them from time to time, for I was anxious to know what they were after. Two days ago, Woodley came up to my house with this cable, which showed that Rafe Smith was dead. He asked me if I would stand by the bargain. I said I would not. He asked me if I would marry the girl myself and give him a share. I said I would willingly do so, but that she would not have me. He said, let us get her married first, and after a week or two she may see things a bit different. I said I would have nothing to do with violence. So he went off cursing, like the foul-mouthed blackhead that he was, and swearing that he would have her yet. She was leaving me this weekend, and I had got a trap to take her to the station, but I was so uneasy in my mind that I followed her on my bicycle. She had got a start, however, and before I could catch her, the mischief was done. The first thing I knew about it was when I saw you two gentlemen driving back in her dog cart. Holmes rose and tossed the end of his cigarette into the grate. I have been very obtuse, Watson, said he. When in your report you said that you had seen the cyclist as you thought, a range his necktie in the shrubbery, that alone should have told me all. However, we may congratulate ourselves upon a curious and in some respects a unique case. I perceive three of the county constabulary in the drive, and I am glad to see that the little Osler is able to keep pace with them, so it is likely that neither he nor the interesting bride, Grum, will be permanently damaged by their morning's adventures. I think Watson that in your medical capacity you might wait upon Miss Smith and tell her that if she is sufficiently recovered, we shall be happy to escort her to her mother's home. If she is not quite convalescent, you will find that a hint that we were about to telegraph to a young electrician in the Midlands would probably complete the cure. As to you, Mr. Carothers, I think that you have done what you could to make amends for your share in an evil plot. There is my card, sir, and if my evidence can be of help in your trial, it shall be at your disposal. Please stand chair with a gap. Another morning, another reminder there's a gap to be careful of, but maybe it's time to bridge the one between your nine to five and your dream of living life on your own terms. At HSBC, we know ambition looks different to everyone, whether it's retiring early or leaving more for your family, we can help, because when it comes to unlocking your money's potential, we know wealth. Search HSBC wealth today, HSBC UK opening up a world of opportunity, HSBC UK current account holders only. In the world of our incessant activity, it has often been difficult for me as the reader has probably observed to round off my narratives and to give those final details which the curious might expect. Each case has been the predlew to another and the crisis once over, the actors have passed forever out of our busy lives. I find, however, a short note at the end of my manuscript dealing with this case, in which I have put it upon record that Miss Violet Smith did indeed inherit a large fortune, and that she is now the wife of Cyril Morton, a senior partner of Morton and Kennedy, the famous Westminster electricians. Williamson and Woodley were both tried for abduction and assault, the former getting seven years the latter, ten. Of the fate of Carothers, I have no record, but I am sure that his assault was not viewed very gravely by the court, since Woodley had the reputation of being a most dangerous raffian, and I think that a few months were sufficient to satisfy the demands of justice. Next time on Sherlock Holmes' short stories, we embark on Holmes' first ever case, the adventure of the glorious Scott. Before Baker Street, before Scotland Yard, and before Holmes had even considered a career in detection, there was one case that changed everything, a cryptic message, a nervous country squire, and a sudden death set a young Holmes on the path toward his life's calling. That's next time. Can't wait a week until the next episode. Well, listen to it right away by subscribing to Noiser Plus. Head to www.noiser.com slash subscriptions for more information, or click the link in the episode description.