“Oh, it is clear enough. It is from our friend Overton, and is inanswer to a question from me. I’ll just send round a note to Mr.
Jeremy Dixon, and then I have no doubt that our luck will turn.
By the way, is there any news of the match?”
“Yes, the local evening paper has an excellent account in its lastedition. Oxford won by a goal and two tries. The last sentences ofthe description say:
“ ‘The defeat of the Light Blues may be entirely attributed to theunfortunate absence of the crack International, Godfrey Staunton,whose want was felt at every instant of the game. The lack ofcombination in the three-quarter line and their weakness both inattack and defence more than neutralized the efforts of a heavy andhard-working pack.’ ”
“Then our friend Overton’s forebodings have been justified,”
said Holmes. “Personally I am in agreement with Dr. Armstrong,and football does not come within my horizon. Early to bed to-night, Watson, for I foresee that to-morrow may be an eventfulday.”
I was horrified by my first glimpse of Holmes next morning, forhe sat by the fire holding his tiny hypodermic syringe. I associatedthat instrument with the single weakness of his nature, and Ifeared the worst when I saw it glittering in his hand. He laughedat my expression of dismay and laid it upon the table.
“No, no, my dear fellow, there is no cause for alarm. It is notupon this occasion the instrument of evil, but it will rather proveto be the key which will unlock our mystery. On this syringe I baseall my hopes. I have just returned from a small scouting expedition,and everything is favourable. Eat a good breakfast, Watson, for Ipropose to get upon Dr. Armstrong’s trail to-day, and once on it Iwill not stop for rest or food until I run him to his burrow.”
“In that case,” said I, “we had best carry our breakfast with us,for he is making an early start. His carriage is at the door.”
“Never mind. Let him go. He will be clever if he can drive whereI cannot follow him. When you have finished, come downstairswith me, and I will introduce you to a detective who is a veryeminent specialist in the work that lies before us.”
When we descended I followed Holmes into the stable yard,where he opened the door of a loose-box and led out a squat,lop-eared, white-and-tan dog, something between a beagle and afoxhound.
“Let me introduce you to Pompey,” said he. “Pompey is thepride of the local draghounds—no very great flier, as his build willshow, but a staunch hound on a scent. Well, Pompey, you may notbe fast, but I expect you will be too fast for a couple of middleagedLondon gentlemen, so I will take the liberty of fasteningthis leather leash to your collar. Now, boy, come along, and showwhat you can do.” He led him across to the doctor’s door. Thedog sniffed round for an instant, and then with a shrill whine ofexcitement started off down the street, tugging at his leash in hisefforts to go faster. In half an hour, we were clear of the town andhastening down a country road.
“What have you done, Holmes?” I asked.
“A threadbare and venerable device, but useful upon occasion.
I walked into the doctor’s yard this morning, and shot my syringefull of aniseed over the hind wheel. A draghound will followaniseed from here to John o’Groat’s, and our friend, Armstrong,would have to drive through the Cam before he would shakePompey off his trail. Oh, the cunning rascal! This is how he gaveme the slip the other night.”
The dog had suddenly turned out of the main road into a grassgrownlane. Half a mile farther this opened into another broadroad, and the trail turned hard to the right in the direction of thetown, which we had just quitted. The road took a sweep to thesouth of the town, and continued in the opposite direction to thatin which we started.
“This DETOUR has been entirely for our benefit, then?” saidHolmes. “No wonder that my inquiries among those villagers ledto nothing. The doctor has certainly played the game for all it isworth, and one would like to know the reason for such elaboratedeception. This should be the village of Trumpington to theright of us. And, by Jove! here is the brougham coming round thecorner. Quick, Watson—quick, or we are done!”
He sprang through a gate into a field, dragging the reluctantPompey after him. We had hardly got under the shelter of thehedge when the carriage rattled past. I caught a glimpse of Dr.
Armstrong within, his shoulders bowed, his head sunk on hishands, the very image of distress. I could tell by my companion’sgraver face that he also had seen.
“I fear there is some dark ending to our quest,” said he. “Itcannot be long before we know it. Come, Pompey! Ah, it is thecottage in the field!”
There could be no doubt that we had reached the end of ourjourney. Pompey ran about and whined eagerly outside the gate,where the marks of the brougham’s wheels were still to be seen.
A footpath led across to the lonely cottage. Holmes tied the dogto the hedge, and we hastened onward. My friend knocked at thelittle rustic door, and knocked again without response. And yetthe cottage was not deserted, for a low sound came to our ears—akind of drone of misery and despair which was indescribablymelancholy. Holmes paused irresolute, and then he glanced backat the road which he had just traversed. A brougham was comingdown it, and there could be no mistaking those gray horses.
“By Jove, the doctor is coming back!” cried Holmes. “Thatsettles it. We are bound to see what it means before he comes.”
He opened the door, and we stepped into the hall. The droningsound swelled louder upon our ears until it became one long, deepwail of distress. It came from upstairs. Holmes darted up, and Ifollowed him. He pushed open a half-closed door, and we bothstood appalled at the sight before us.
A woman, young and beautiful, was lying dead upon the bed.
