“Of course we could come. There is a lull at present. I can giveyou my undivided energies. Watson, of course, comes with us. Butthere are one or two points upon which I wish to be very surebefore I start. This unhappy lady, as I understand it, has appearedto assault both the children, her own baby and your little son?”
“That is so.”
“But the assaults take different forms, do they not? She hasbeaten your son.”
“Once with a stick and once very savagely with her hands.”
“Did she give no explanation why she struck him?”
“None save that she hated him. Again and again she said so.”
“Well, that is not unknown among stepmothers. A posthumousjealousy, we will say. Is the lady jealous by nature?”
“Yes, she is very jealous—jealous with all the strength of herfiery tropical love.”
“But the boy—he is fifteen, I understand, and probably verydeveloped in mind, since his body has been circumscribed inaction. Did he give you no explanation of these assaults?”
“No, he declared there was no reason.”
“Were they good friends at other times?”
“No, there was never any love between them.”
“Yet you say he is affectionate?”
“Never in the world could there be so devoted a son. My life ishis life. He is absorbed in what I say or do.”
Once again Holmes made a note. For some time he sat lost inthought.
“No doubt you and the boy were great comrades before thissecond marriage. You were thrown very close together, were younot?”
“Very much so.”
“And the boy, having so affectionate a nature, was devoted, nodoubt, to the memory of his mother?”
“Most devoted.”
“He would certainly seem to be a most interesting lad. Thereis one other point about these assaults. Were the strange attacksupon the baby and the assaults upon yow son at the same period?”
“In the first case it was so. It was as if some frenzy had seizedher, and she had vented her rage upon both. In the second caseit was only Jack who suffered. Mrs. Mason had no complaint tomake about the baby.”
“That certainly complicates matters.”
“I don’t quite follow you, Mr. Holmes.”
“Possibly not. One forms provisional theories and waits for timeor fuller knowledge to explode them. A bad habit, Mr. Ferguson,but human nature is weak. I fear that your old friend here hasgiven an exaggerated view of my scientific methods. However,I will only say at the present stage that your problem does notappear to me to be insoluble, and that you may expect to find us atVictoria at two o’clock.”
It was evening of a dull, foggy November day when, havingleft our bags at the Chequers, Lamberley, we drove through theSussex clay of a long winding lane and finally reached the isolatedand ancient farmhouse in which Ferguson dwelt. It was a large,straggling building, very old in the centre, very new at the wingswith towering Tudor chimneys and a lichen-spotted, high-pitchedroof of Horsham slabs. The doorsteps were worn into curves,and the ancient tiles which lined the porch were marked with therebus of a cheese and a man after the original builder. Within,the ceilings were corrugated with heavy oaken beams, and theuneven floors sagged into sharp curves. An odour of age and decaypervaded the whole crumbling building.
There was one very large central room into which Ferguson ledus. Here, in a huge old-fashioned fireplace with an iron screenbehind it dated 1670, there blazed and spluttered a splendid logfire.
The room, as I gazed round, was a most singular mixture ofdates and of places. The half-panelled walls may well have belongedto the original yeoman farmer of the seventeenth century. Theywere ornamented, however, on the lower part by a line of wellchosenmodern water-colours; while above, where yellow plastertook the place of oak, there was hung a fine collection of SouthAmerican utensils and weapons, which had been brought, nodoubt, by the Peruvian lady upstairs. Holmes rose, with that quickcuriosity which sprang from his eager mind, and examined themwith some care. He returned with his eyes full of thought.
“Hullo!” he cried. “Hullo!”
A spaniel had lain in a basket in the corner. It came slowlyforward towards its master, walking with difficulty. Its hindlegs moved irregularly and its tail was on the ground. It lickedFerguson’s hand.
“What is it, Mr. Holmes?”
“The dog. What’s the matter with it?”
“That’s what puzzled the vet. A sort of paralysis. Spinal meningitis,he thought. But it is passing. He’ll be all right soon—won’t you,Carlo?”
A shiver of assent passed through the drooping tail. The dog’smournful eyes passed from one of us to the other. He knew thatwe were discussing his case.
“Did it come on suddenly?”
“In a single night.”
“How long ago?”
“It may have been four months ago.”
“Very remarkable. Very suggestive.”
“What do you see in it, Mr. Holmes?”
“A confirmation of what I had already thought.”
“For God’s sake, what do you think, Mr. Holmes? It may be amere intellectual puzzle to you, but it is life and death to me! Mywife a would-be murderer—my child in constant danger! Don’tplay with me, Mr. Holmes. It is too terribly serious.”
The big Rugby three-quarter was trembling all over. Holmes puthis hand soothingly upon his arm.
“I fear that there is pain for you, Mr. Ferguson, whatever thesolution may be,” said he. “I would spare you all I can. I cannot saymore for the instant, but before I leave this house I hope I mayhave something definite.”
“Please God you may! If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will goup to my wife’s room and see if there has been any change.”
He was away some minutes, during which Holmes resumedhis examination of the curiosities upon the wall. When our hostreturned it was clear from his downcast face that he had made noprogress. He brought with him a tall, slim, brown-faced girl.
“The tea is ready, Dolores,” said Ferguson. “See that yourmistress has everything she can wish.”
“She verra ill,” cried the girl, looking with indignant eyes ather master. “She no ask for food. She verra ill. She need doctor. Ifrightened stay alone with her without doctor.”