I leaned back and took down the great index volume to whichhe referred. Holmes balanced it on his knee, and his eyes movedslowly and lovingly over the record of old cases, mixed with theaccumulated information of a lifetime.
“Voyage of the Gloria Scott,” he read. “That was a bad business.
I have some recollection that you made a record of it, Watson,though I was unable to congratulate you upon the result. VictorLynch, the forger. Venomous lizard or gila. Remarkable case, that!
Vittoria, the circus belle. Vanderbilt and the Yeggman. Vipers.
Vigor, the Hammersmith wonder. Hullo! Hullo! Good old index.
You can’t beat it. Listen to this, Watson. Vampirism in Hungary.
And again, Vampires in Transylvania.” He turned over the pageswith eagerness, but after a short intent perusal he threw down thegreat book with a snarl of disappointment.
“Rubbish, Watson, rubbish! What have we to do with walkingcorpses who can only be held in their grave by stakes driventhrough their hearts? It’s pure lunacy.”
“But surely,” said I, “the vampire was not necessarily a deadman? A living person might have the habit. I have read, forexample, of the old sucking the blood of the young in order toretain their youth.”
“You are right, Watson. It mentions the legend in one of thesereferences. But are we to give serious attention to such things?
This agency stands flat-footed upon the ground, and there it mustremain. The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply.
I fear that we cannot take Mr. Robert Ferguson very seriously.
Possibly this note may be from him and may throw some lightupon what is worrying him.”
He took up a second letter which had lain unnoticed uponthe table while he had been absorbed with the first. This hebegan to read with a smile of amusement upon his face whichgradually faded away into an expression of intense interest andconcentration. When he had finished he sat for some little timelost in thought with the letter dangling from his fingers. Finally,with a start, he aroused himself from his reverie.
“Cheeseman’s, Lamberley. Where is Lamberley, Watson?”
“It is in Sussex, South of Horsham.”
“Not very far, eh? And Cheeseman’s?”
“I know that country, Holmes. It is full of old houses whichare named after the men who built them centuries ago. You getOdley’s and Harvey’s and Carriton’s—the folk are forgotten buttheir names live in their houses.”
“Precisely,” said Holmes coldly. It was one of the peculiarities ofhis proud, self-contained nature that though he docketed any freshinformation very quietly and accurately in his brain, he seldommade any acknowledgment to the giver. “I rather fancy we shallknow a good deal more about Cheeseman’s, Lamberley, before weare through. The letter is, as I had hoped, from Robert Ferguson.
By the way, he claims acquaintance with you.”
“With me!”
“You had better read it.”
He handed the letter across. It was headed with the addressquoted.
DEAR MR HOLMES [it said]:
I have been recommended to you by my lawyers, but indeedthe matter is so extraordinarily delicate that it is most difficult todiscuss. It concerns a friend for whom I am acting. This gentlemanmarried some five years ago a Peruvian lady the daughter of aPeruvian merchant, whom he had met in connection with theimportation of nitrates. The lady was very beautiful, but the fact ofher foreign birth and of her alien religion always caused a separationof interests and of feelings between husband and wife, so that aftera time his love may have cooled towards her and he may have cometo regard their union as a mistake. He felt there were sides of hercharacter which he could never explore or understand. This was themore painful as she was as loving a wife as a man could have—to allappearance absolutely devoted.
Now for the point which I will make more plain when we meet.
Indeed, this note is merely to give you a general idea of the situationand to ascertain whether you would care to interest yourself in thematter. The lady began to show some curious traits quite alien toher ordinarily sweet and gentle disposition. The gentleman hadbeen married twice and he had one son by the first wife. This boywas now fifteen, a very charming and affectionate youth, thoughunhappily injured through an accident in childhood. Twice thewife was caught in the act of assaulting this poor lad in the mostunprovoked way. Once she struck him with a stick and left a greatweal on his arm.
This was a small matter, however, compared with her conductto her own child, a dear boy just under one year of age. On oneoccasion about a month ago this child had been left by its nursefor a few minutes. A loud cry from the baby, as of pain, called thenurse back. As she ran into the room she saw her employer, the lady,leaning over the baby and apparently biting his neck. There was asmall wound in the neck from which a stream of blood had escaped.
The nurse was so horrified that she wished to call the husband, butthe lady implored her not to do so and actually gave her five poundsas a price for her silence. No explanation was ever given, and for themoment the matter was passed over.
It left, however, a terrible impression upon the nurse’s mind, andfrom that time she began to watch her mistress closely and to keepa closer guard upon the baby, whom she tenderly loved. It seemedto her that even as she watched the mother, so the mother watchedher, and that every time she was compelled to leave the baby alonethe mother was waiting to get at it. Day and night the nurse coveredthe child, and day and night the silent, watchful mother seemedto be lying in wait as a wolf waits for a lamb. It must read mostincredible to you, and yet I beg you to take it seriously, for a child’slife and a man’s sanity may depend upon it.
