THE MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
by Arthur Conan Doyle
Silver Blaze
Chapter 2
The Train Trip
And so it happened
that an hour or so later
I found myself
in the corner
of a first-class carriage
flying along
enroute for Exeter,
while Sherlock Holmes,
with his sharp, eager face
framed in his
ear-flapped travelling-cap,
dipped rapidly
into the bundle
of fresh papers
which he had procured (bought)
at Paddington.
We had left Reading
far behind us
before he thrust
the last one of them
under the seat,
and offered me
his cigar-case.
“We are going well,”
said he,
looking out the window
and glancing
at his watch.
“Our rate
at present
is fifty-three and
a half miles an hour.”
“I have not observed
the quarter-mile posts,”
said I.
“Nor have I.
But the telegraph posts
upon this line
are sixty yards apart,
and the calculation
is a simple one.
I presume
that you have looked
into this matter
of the murder
of John Straker
and the disappearance
of Silver Blaze?”
“I have seen
what the “Telegraph”
and the “Chronicle”
have to say.”
“It is one of
those cases
where the art
of the reasoner
should be used
rather for the sifting
of details than for
the acquiring
of fresh evidence.
The tragedy
has been so uncommon,
so complete and of
such personal importance
to so many people,
that we are suffering
from a plethora of surmise,
conjecture, and hypothesis.
The difficulty
is to detach the framework
of fact – of absolute
undeniable fact –
from the embellishments
of theorists and reporters.
Then,
having established ourselves
upon this sound basis,
it is our duty
to see what inferences
may be drawn
and what are
the special points
upon which
the whole mystery turns.
On Tuesday evening
I received telegrams
from both Colonel Ross,
the owner
of the horse,
and from Inspector Gregory,
who is
looking after the case,
inviting my co-operation.”
“Tuesday evening!”
I exclaimed.
“And this
is Thursday morning.
Why didn’t
you go down
yesterday?”
“Because
I made a blunder,
my dear Watson
– which is,
I am afraid,
a more common
occurrence
than any one
would think
who only knew me
through your memoirs.
The fact is that
I could not believe
it possible
that the most
remarkable horse
in England
could long remain
concealed,
especially in so
sparsely inhabited
a place as
the north of Dartmoor.
From hour to hour yesterday
I expected to hear
that he had been found,
and that his abductor
was the murderer
of John Straker.
When, however,
another morning
had come,
and I found that
beyond the arrest
of young Fitzroy Simpson
nothing had been done,
I felt that
it was time
for me to take action.
Yet in some ways
I feel that yesterday
has not been wasted.”
End of Chapter 2