“Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with itsinward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and thereit vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all havebeen had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo andwallowed all over it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keepercame, and they have covered all tracks for six or eight feet roundthe body. But here are three separate tracks of the same feet.” Hedrew out a lens and lay down upon his waterproof to have a betterview, talking all the time rather to himself than to us. “These areyoung McCarthy’s feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ranswiftly, so that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardlyvisible. That bears out his story. He ran when he saw his fatheron the ground. Then here are the father’s feet as he paced up anddown. What is this, then? It is the butt-end of the gun as the sonstood listening. And this? Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes!
tiptoes! Square, too, quite unusual boots! They come, they go,they come again—of course that was for the cloak. Now wheredid they come from?” He ran up and down, sometimes losing,sometimes finding the track until we were well within the edge ofthe wood and under the shadow of a great beech, the largest treein the neighbourhood. Holmes traced his way to the farther sideof this and lay down once more upon his face with a little cry ofsatisfaction. For a long time he remained there, turning over theleaves and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to me to bedust into an envelope and examining with his lens not only theground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could reach. Ajagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he carefullyexamined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through thewood until he came to the highroad, where all traces were lost.
“It has been a case of considerable interest,” he remarked,returning to his natural manner. “I fancy that this grey house onthe right must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have aword with Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having donethat, we may drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the cab,and I shall be with you presently.”
It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and droveback into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which hehad picked up in the wood.
“This may interest you, Lestrade,” he remarked, holding it out.
“The murder was done with it.”
“I see no marks.”
“There are none.”
“How do you know, then?”
“The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a fewdays. There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken.
It corresponds with the injuries. There is no sign of any otherweapon.”
“And the murderer?”
“Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears thicksoledshooting-boots and a grey cloak, smokes Indian cigars, uses acigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket. There areseveral other indications, but these may be enough to aid us in oursearch.”
Lestrade laughed. “I am afraid that I am still a sceptic,” he said.
“Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a hard-headedBritish jury.”
“Nous verrons,” answered Holmes calmly. “You work your ownmethod, and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon, andshall probably return to London by the evening train.”
“And leave your case unfinished?”
“No, finished.”
“But the mystery?”
“It is solved.”
“Who was the criminal, then?”
“The gentleman I describe.”
“But who is he?”
“Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such apopulous neighbourhood.”
Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am a practical man,” he said,“and I really cannot undertake to go about the country lookingfor a left-handed gentleman with a game-leg. I should become thelaughing-stock of Scotland Yard.”
“All right,” said Holmes quietly. “I have given you the chance.
Here are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before Ileave.”
Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, wherewe found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried inthought with a pained expression upon his face, as one who findshimself in a perplexing position.
“Look here, Watson,” he said when the cloth was cleared; “justsit down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don’tknow quite what to do, and I should value your advice. Light acigar and let me expound.”
“Pray do so.”
“Well, now, in considering this case there are two points aboutyoung McCarthy’s narrative which struck us both instantly,although they impressed me in his favour and you against him.
One was the fact that his father should, according to his account,cry ‘Cooee!’ before seeing him. The other was his singular dyingreference to a rat. He mumbled several words, you understand, butthat was all that caught the son’s ear. Now from this double pointour research must commence, and we will begin it by presumingthat what the lad says is absolutely true.”
“What of this ‘Cooee!’ then?”
“Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son.
The son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chancethat he was within earshot. The ‘Cooee!’ was meant to attractthe attention of whoever it was that he had the appointmentwith. But ‘Cooee’ is a distinctly Australian cry, and one which isused between Australians. There is a strong presumption that theperson whom McCarthy expected to meet him at Boscombe Poolwas someone who had been in Australia.”
“What of the rat, then?”
Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket andflattened it out on the table. “This is a map of the Colony ofVictoria,” he said. “I wired to Bristol for it last night.” He put hishand over part of the map. “What do you read?”
“ARAT,” I read.
“And now?” He raised his hand.
“BALLARAT.”
“Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which hisson only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter thename of his murderer. So and so, of Ballarat.”
“It is wonderful!” I exclaimed.
