THE MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
by
Arthur Conan Doyle

Silver Blaze

Chapter 13

What has become
of the horse ?

The sun was beginning
to sink behind the
stables of Mapleton,
and the long,
sloping plain in front of us
was tinged with gold,
deepening into rich,
ruddy browns
where the
faded ferns and brambles
caught the evening light.

But the glories
of the landscape
were all wasted
upon my companion,
who was sunk
in the deepest thought.

“It’s this way,
Watson,”
said he at last.

“We may leave
the question
of who killed
John Straker
for the instant,
and confine ourselves
to finding out
what has become
of the horse.

Now,
supposing that
he broke away
during or after
the tragedy,
where could
he have gone to?

The horse
is a very gregarious creature.

If left to himself
his instincts
would have been
either to return
to King’s Pyland
or go over to Mapleton.

Why should he
run wild
upon the moor?

He would surely
have been seen
by now.

And why
should gypsies
kidnap him?

These people
always clear out
when they hear
of trouble,
for they do not wish
to be pestered
by the police.

They could not hope
to sell such a horse.

They would run
a great risk
and gain nothing
by taking him.
Surely that is
clear.”

“Where is he, then?”

“I have already said
that he must have gone
to King’s Pyland
or to Mapleton.

He is not
at King’s Pyland.

Therefore
he is at 
Mapleton.

Let us take that
as a working hypothesis
and see what
it leads us to.

This part of the moor,
as the Inspector remarked,
is very hard and dry.

But it falls away
towards Mapleton,
and you
can see from here
that there is
a long hollow
over yonder,
which must have been
very wet on Monday night.

If our supposition
is correct,
then the horse
must have crossed that,
and there
is the point
where we should look
for his tracks.”

We had been
walking briskly
during this conversation,
and a few more minutes
brought us to
the hollow in question.

At Holmes’ request
I walked down the bank
to the right,
and he to the left,
but I had not taken
fifty paces
before I heard him
give a shout,
and saw him
waving his hand
to me.

The track of a horse
was plainly outlined
in the soft earth
in front of him,
and the shoe
which he took
from his pocket
exactly fitted
the impression.

“See the value
of imagination,”
said Holmes.

“It is
the one quality
which Gregory lacks.

We imagined
what might have
happened,
acted upon the supposition,
and find ourselves
justified.

Let us proceed.”

We crossed
the marshy bottom
and passed over
a quarter of a mile
of dry, hard turf.

Again
the ground sloped,
and again
we came on
the tracks.

Then we lost them
for half a mile,
but only to pick
them up once more
quite close to Mapleton.

It was Holmes
who saw them first,
and he stood pointing
with a look of triumph
upon his face.

A man’s track
was visible
beside the horse’s.

“The horse
was alone before,”
I cried.

“Quite so.
It was alone before.
Hullo, what is this?”

The double track
turned sharp off
and took the direction
of King’s Pyland.

Holmes whistled,
and we both
followed along
after it.

His eyes
were on the trail,
but I happened
to look a little
to one side,
and saw
to my surprise
the same tracks
coming back again
in the opposite direction.

“One for you,
Watson,”
said Holmes,
when I pointed it out.

“You have saved us
a long walk,
which would have
brought us back
on our own traces.

Let us follow
the return track.”

We had not
to go far.

It ended
at the paving
of asphalt
which led up to
the gates
of the Mapleton stables.

End of Chapter 13

Chapter 14
As we approached,
a groom ran out
from them.

“We don’t want
any loiterers
about here,”
said he.

“I only wished
to ask a question,”
said Holmes,
with his finger
and thumb
in his waistcoat pocket.

“Should I be too early
to see
your master,
Mr. Silas Brown,
if I were to call
at five o’clock
tomorrow morning?”

“Bless you, sir,
if any one is about
he will be,
for he is always
the first stirring.

But here he is, sir,
to answer your questions
for himself.

No, sir, no;
it is as much as
my place is worth
to let him see me
touch your money.
Afterwards, if you like.”

As Sherlock Holmes
replaced the half-crown
which he had drawn
from his pocket,
a fierce-looking
elderly man
strode out from
the gate
with a hunting-crop
swinging in his hand.

“What’s this, Dawson!”
he cried.
“No gossiping!
Go about your
business!
And you,
what the devil
do you want here?”

“Ten minutes’ talk
with you,
my good sir,”
said Holmes
in the sweetest
of voices.

“I’ve no time
to talk to every gadabout.

We want
no strangers here.

Be off,
or you may find
a dog
at your heels.”

Holmes leaned forward
and whispered something
in the trainer’s ear.

He started violently
and flushed to the temples.

“It’s a lie!”
he shouted,
“an infernal lie!”

“Very good.
Shall we argue
about it here
in public
or talk it over
in your parlor?”

“Oh,
come in
if you wish to.”

Holmes smiled.
“I shall not keep you more than a few minutes,
Watson,” said he.
“Now, Mr. Brown, I am quite at your disposal.”

It was twenty minutes, and the reds had all faded into greys
before Holmes and the trainer reappeared.

Never have I seen such
a change as had been brought about in Silas Brown in that short
time.

His face was ashy pale,
beads of perspiration shone upon
his brow, and his hands shook until the hunting-crop wagged like
a branch in the wind. His bullying, overbearing manner was all
gone too, and he cringed along at my companion’s side like a dog
with its master.

“Your instructions will be done.
It shall all be done,” said he.

“There must be no mistake,”
said Holmes,
looking round at him.

The other winced
as he read the menace in his eyes.

“Oh no, there shall be no mistake.

It shall be there.

Should I
change it first or not?”

Holmes thought a little and then burst out laughing. No, don’t,”
said he;
“I shall write to you about it.
No tricks, now, or—”

“Oh, you can trust me, you can trust me!”

“Yes, I think I can.
Well, you shall hear from me to-morrow.”
He
turned upon his heel,
disregarding the trembling hand which the
other held out to him, and we set off for King’s Pyland.

“A more perfect compound of the bully,
coward, and sneak than
Master Silas Brown I have seldom met with,” remarked Holmes as we
trudged along together.

“He has the horse, then?”

“He tried to bluster out of it,
but I described to him so exactly
what his actions had been upon that morning that he is convinced
that I was watching him. Of course you observed the peculiarly
square toes in the impressions, and that his own boots exactly
corresponded to them. Again, of course no subordinate would have
dared to do such a thing. I described to him how, when according
to his custom he was the first down, he perceived a strange horse
wandering over the moor. How he went out to it, and his
astonishment at recognising, from the white forehead which has
given the favourite its name, that chance had put in his power
the only horse which could beat the one upon which he had put his
money. Then I described how his first impulse had been to lead
him back to King’s Pyland, and how the devil had shown him how he
could hide the horse until the race was over, and how he had led
it back and concealed it at Mapleton. When I told him every
detail he gave it up and thought only of saving his own skin.”

“But his stables had been searched?”

“Oh, an old horse-faker like him has many a dodge.”

“But are you not afraid to leave the horse in his power now,
since he has every interest in injuring it?”

“My dear fellow, he will guard it as the apple of his eye.

He
knows that his only hope of mercy is to produce it safe.”

“Colonel Ross did not impress me as a man who would be likely to
show much mercy in any case.”

“The matter does not rest with Colonel Ross. I follow my own
methods, and tell as much or as little as I choose. That is the
advantage of being unofficial. I don’t know whether you observed
it, Watson, but the Colonel’s manner has been just a trifle
cavalier to me. I am inclined now to have a little amusement at
his expense. Say nothing to him about the horse.”

“Certainly not without your permission.”

“And of course this is all quite a minor point compared to the
question of who killed John Straker.”

“And you will devote yourself to that?”

“On the contrary, we both go back to London by the night train.”

I was thunderstruck by my friend’s words. We had only been a few
hours in Devonshire, and that he should give up an investigation
which he had begun so brilliantly was quite incomprehensible to
me. Not a word more could I draw from him until we were back at
the trainer’s house. The Colonel and the Inspector were awaiting
us in the parlour.

“My friend and I return to town by the night-express,” said
Holmes. “We have had a charming little breath of your beautiful
Dartmoor air.”

The Inspector opened his eyes, and the Colonel’s lip curled in a
sneer.

“So you despair of arresting the murderer of poor Straker,” said
he.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “There are certainly grave
difficulties in the way,” said he. “I have every hope, however,
that your horse will start upon Tuesday, and I beg that you will
have your jockey in readiness. Might I ask for a photograph of
Mr. John Straker?”

The Inspector took one from an envelope and handed it to him.

“My dear Gregory, you anticipate all my wants. If I might ask you
to wait here for an instant, I have a question which I should
like to put to the maid.”

“I must say that I am rather disappointed in our London
consultant,” said Colonel Ross, bluntly, as my friend left the
room. “I do not see that we are any further than when he came.”

“At least you have his assurance that your horse will run,” said
I.

“Yes, I have his assurance,” said the Colonel, with a shrug of
his shoulders. “I should prefer to have the horse.”

I was about to make some reply in defence of my friend when he
entered the room again.

“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “I am quite ready for Tavistock.”

As we stepped into the carriage one of the stable-lads held the
door open for us. A sudden idea seemed to occur to Holmes, for he
leaned forward and touched the lad upon the sleeve.

“You have a few sheep in the paddock,” he said. “Who attends to
them?”

“I do, sir.”

“Have you noticed anything amiss with them of late?”

“Well, sir, not of much account; but three of them have gone
lame, sir.”

I could see that Holmes was extremely pleased, for he chuckled
and rubbed his hands together.

“A long shot, Watson; a very long shot,” said he, pinching my
arm. “Gregory, let me recommend to your attention this singular
epidemic among the sheep. Drive on, coachman!”

Colonel Ross still wore an expression which showed the poor
opinion which he had formed of my companion’s ability, but I saw
by the Inspector’s face that his attention had been keenly
aroused.

“You consider that to be important?” he asked.

“Exceedingly so.”

“Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my
attention?”

“To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.”

“The dog did nothing in the night-time.”

“That was the curious incident,” remarked Sherlock Holmes.

Four days later Holmes and I were again in the train, bound for
Winchester to see the race for the Wessex Cup. Colonel Ross met
us by appointment outside the station, and we drove in his drag
to the course beyond the town. His face was grave, and his manner
was cold in the extreme.

“I have seen nothing of my horse,” said he.

“I suppose that you would know him when you saw him?” asked
Holmes.

The Colonel was very angry. “I have been on the turf for twenty
years, and never was asked such a question as that before,” said
he. “A child would know Silver Blaze, with his white forehead and
his mottled off-foreleg.”

“How is the betting?”

“Well, that is the curious part of it. You could have got fifteen
to one yesterday, but the price has become shorter and shorter,
until you can hardly get three to one now.”

“Hum!” said Holmes. “Somebody knows something, that is clear.”

As the drag drew up in the enclosure near the grand stand I
glanced at the card to see the entries. It ran:—
Wessex Plate. 50 sovs each h ft with 1000 sovs added for four and
five year olds. Second, £300. Third, £200. New course (one mile
and five furlongs).

1. Mr. Heath Newton’s The Negro (red cap, cinnamon jacket).

2. Colonel Wardlaw’s Pugilist (pink cap, blue and black jacket).

      3. Lord Backwater’s Desborough (yellow cap and sleeves).

4. Colonel Ross’s Silver Blaze (black cap, red jacket).

5. Duke of Balmoral’s Iris (yellow and black stripes).

6. Lord Singleford’s Rasper (purple cap, black sleeves).

“We scratched our other one, and put all hopes on your word,”
said the Colonel. “Why, what is that? Silver Blaze favourite?”

“Five to four against Silver Blaze!” roared the ring. “Five to
four against Silver Blaze! Five to fifteen against Desborough!

Five to four on the field!”

“There are the numbers up,” I cried. “They are all six there.”

“All six there? Then my horse is running,” cried the Colonel in
great agitation. “But I don’t see him. My colours have not
passed.”

“Only five have passed. This must be he.”

As I spoke a powerful bay horse swept out from the weighing
enclosure and cantered past us, bearing on its back the
well known black and red of the Colonel.

“That’s not my horse,” cried the owner. “That beast has not a
white hair upon its body. What is this that you have done, Mr.
Holmes?”

“Well, well, let us see how he gets on,” said my friend,
imperturbably. For a few minutes he gazed through my field-glass.

“Capital! An excellent start!” he cried suddenly. “There they
are, coming round the curve!”

From our drag we had a superb view as they came up the straight.

The six horses were so close together that a carpet could have
covered them, but half way up the yellow of the Mapleton stable
showed to the front. Before they reached us, however,

Desborough’s bolt was shot, and the Colonel’s horse, coming away
with a rush, passed the post a good six lengths before its rival,
the Duke of Balmoral’s Iris making a bad third.

“It’s my race, anyhow,” gasped the Colonel, passing his hand over
his eyes. “I confess that I can make neither head nor tail of it.

Don’t you think that you have kept up your mystery long enough,

Mr. Holmes?”

“Certainly, Colonel, you shall know everything. Let us all go
round and have a look at the horse together. Here he is,” he
continued, as we made our way into the weighing enclosure, where
only owners and their friends find admittance.
“You have only to
wash his face and his leg in spirits of wine, and you will find
that he is the same old Silver Blaze as ever.”

“You take my breath away!”

“I found him in the hands of a faker, and took the liberty of
running him just as he was sent over.”

“My dear sir, you have done wonders. The horse looks very fit and
well. It never went better in its life. I owe you a thousand
apologies for having doubted your ability. You have done me a
great service by recovering my horse. You would do me a greater
still if you could lay your hands on the murderer of John
Straker.”

“I have done so,” said Holmes quietly.

The Colonel and I stared at him in amazement. “You have got him!

Where is he, then?”

“He is here.”

“Here! Where?”

“In my company at the present moment.”

The Colonel flushed angrily. “I quite recognise that I am under
obligations to you, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “but I must regard what
you have just said as either a very bad joke or an insult.”

Sherlock Holmes laughed. “I assure you that I have not associated
you with the crime, Colonel,” said he. “The real murderer is
standing immediately behind you.” He stepped past and laid his
hand upon the glossy neck of the thoroughbred.

 “The horse!” cried both the Colonel and myself.

 “Yes, the horse. And it may lessen his guilt if I say that it was
done in self-defence, and that John Straker was a man who was
entirely unworthy of your confidence. But there goes the bell,
and as I stand to win a little on this next race, I shall defer a
lengthy explanation until a more fitting time.”

We had the corner of a Pullman car to ourselves that evening as
we whirled back to London, and I fancy that the journey was a
short one to Colonel Ross as well as to myself, as we listened to
our companion’s narrative of the events which had occurred at the
Dartmoor training-stables upon the Monday night, and the means by
which he had unravelled them.

“I confess,” said he, “that any theories which I had formed from
the newspaper reports were entirely erroneous. And yet there were
indications there, had they not been overlaid by other details
which concealed their true import. I went to Devonshire with the
conviction that Fitzroy Simpson was the true culprit, although,
of course, I saw that the evidence against him was by no means
complete. It was while I was in the carriage, just as we reached
the trainer’s house, that the immense significance of the curried
mutton occurred to me. You may remember that I was distrait, and
remained sitting after you had all alighted. I was marvelling in
my own mind how I could possibly have overlooked so obvious a
clue.”

 

“I confess,” said the Colonel, “that even now I cannot see how it
helps us.”

 

“It was the first link in my chain of reasoning. Powdered opium
is by no means tasteless. The flavour is not disagreeable, but it

is perceptible. Were it mixed with any ordinary dish the eater
would undoubtedly detect it, and would probably eat no more. A
curry was exactly the medium which would disguise this taste. By
no possible supposition could this stranger, Fitzroy Simpson,
have caused curry to be served in the trainer’s family that
night, and it is surely too monstrous a coincidence to suppose
that he happened to come along with powdered opium upon the very
night when a dish happened to be served which would disguise the
flavour. That is unthinkable. Therefore Simpson becomes
eliminated from the case, and our attention centres upon Straker
and his wife, the only two people who could have chosen curried
mutton for supper that night. The opium was added after the dish
was set aside for the stable-boy, for the others had the same for
supper with no ill effects. Which of them, then, had access to
that dish without the maid seeing them?

 

“Before deciding that question I had grasped the significance of

the silence of the dog, for one true inference invariably

suggests others. The Simpson incident had shown me that a dog was

kept in the stables, and yet, though some one had been in and had

fetched out a horse, he had not barked enough to arouse the two

lads in the loft. Obviously the midnight visitor was some one

whom the dog knew well.

 

“I was already convinced, or almost convinced, that John Straker

went down to the stables in the dead of the night and took out

Silver Blaze. For what purpose? For a dishonest one, obviously,

or why should he drug his own stable-boy? And yet I was at a loss

to know why. There have been cases before now where trainers have

made sure of great sums of money by laying against their own

horses, through agents, and then preventing them from winning by

fraud. Sometimes it is a pulling jockey. Sometimes it is some

surer and subtler means. What was it here? I hoped that the

contents of his pockets might help me to form a conclusion.

 

“And they did so. You cannot have forgotten the singular knife

which was found in the dead man’s hand, a knife which certainly

no sane man would choose for a weapon. It was, as Dr. Watson told

us, a form of knife which is used for the most delicate

operations known in surgery. And it was to be used for a delicate

operation that night. You must know, with your wide experience of

turf matters, Colonel Ross, that it is possible to make a slight

nick upon the tendons of a horse’s ham, and to do it

subcutaneously, so as to leave absolutely no trace. A horse so

treated would develop a slight lameness, which would be put down

to a strain in exercise or a touch of rheumatism, but never to

foul play.”

 

“Villain! Scoundrel!” cried the Colonel.

 

“We have here the explanation of why John Straker wished to take

the horse out on to the moor. So spirited a creature would have

certainly roused the soundest of sleepers when it felt the prick

of the knife. It was absolutely necessary to do it in the open

air.”

 

“I have been blind!” cried the Colonel. “Of course that was why

he needed the candle, and struck the match.”

 

“Undoubtedly. But in examining his belongings I was fortunate

enough to discover not only the method of the crime, but even its

motives. As a man of the world, Colonel, you know that men do not

carry other people’s bills about in their pockets. We have most

of us quite enough to do to settle our own. I at once concluded

that Straker was leading a double life, and keeping a second

establishment. The nature of the bill showed that there was a

lady in the case, and one who had expensive tastes. Liberal as

you are with your servants, one can hardly expect that they can

buy twenty-guinea walking dresses for their ladies. I questioned

Mrs. Straker as to the dress without her knowing it, and having

satisfied myself that it had never reached her, I made a note of

the milliner’s address, and felt that by calling there with

Straker’s photograph I could easily dispose of the mythical

Derbyshire.

 

“From that time on all was plain. Straker had led out the horse

to a hollow where his light would be invisible. Simpson in his

flight had dropped his cravat, and Straker had picked it up—with

some idea, perhaps, that he might use it in securing the horse’s

leg. Once in the hollow, he had got behind the horse and had

struck a light; but the creature frightened at the sudden glare,

and with the strange instinct of animals feeling that some

mischief was intended, had lashed out, and the steel shoe had

struck Straker full on the forehead. He had already, in spite of

the rain, taken off his overcoat in order to do his delicate

task, and so, as he fell, his knife gashed his thigh. Do I make

it clear?”

 

“Wonderful!” cried the Colonel. “Wonderful! You might have been

there!”

 

“My final shot was, I confess a very long one. It struck me that

so astute a man as Straker would not undertake this delicate

tendon-nicking without a little practice. What could he practice

on? My eyes fell upon the sheep, and I asked a question which,

rather to my surprise, showed that my surmise was correct.

 

 “When I returned to London I called upon the milliner, who had

recognised Straker as an excellent customer of the name of

Derbyshire, who had a very dashing wife, with a strong partiality

for expensive dresses. I have no doubt that this woman had

plunged him over head and ears in debt, and so led him into this

miserable plot.”

 

 “You have explained all but one thing,” cried the Colonel. “Where

was the horse?”

 

“Ah, it bolted, and was cared for by one of your neighbours. We

must have an amnesty in that direction, I think. This is Clapham

Junction, if I am not mistaken, and we shall be in Victoria in

less than ten minutes. If you care to smoke a cigar in our rooms,

Colonel, I shall be happy to give you any other details which

might interest you.”