elapt1c/ElapticAI-512 · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 149M
death, and also a pair of the son’s, though not the pair which he had
then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight
different points, Holmes desired to be led to the court-yard, from
which we all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.

Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as
this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker
Street would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed and
darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his
eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was
bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins
stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed
to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind was so
absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or
remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a
quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way
along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by way of the
woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as is all that
district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon the path and
amid the short grass which bounded it on either side. Sometimes Holmes
would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he made quite a little
detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked behind him, the detective
indifferent and contemptuous, while I watched my friend with the
interest which sprang from the conviction that every one of his actions
was directed towards a definite end.

The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some
fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the Hatherley
Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods
which lined it upon the farther side we could see the red, jutting
pinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner’s dwelling. On
the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew very thick, and there was
a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between the edge of
the trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us the
exact spot at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was
the ground, that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by
the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager
face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read upon the
trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking up a scent, and
then turned upon my companion.

“What did you go into the pool for? he asked.

“I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or
other trace. But how on earth—

“Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its inward
twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there it
vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been had I
been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all over
it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and they have
covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But here are
three separate tracks of the same feet. He drew out a lens and lay
down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time
rather to himself than to us. “These are young McCarthy’s feet. Twice
he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are deeply
marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his story. He ran
when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are the father’s feet
as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It is the butt-end of the
gun as the son stood 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 where did they
come from? He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the
track until we were well within the edge of the wood and under the
shadow of a great beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes
traced his way to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon
his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained
there, turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what
seemed to me to be dust into an envelope and examining with his lens
not only the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could
reach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he
carefully examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the
wood until he came to the high road, 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 on the right must
be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with Moran, and
perhaps write a little note. Having done that, 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 drove back into
Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he had 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 few days.
There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It corresponds
with the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon.

“And the murderer?

“Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears

death, and also a pair of the son’s, though not the pair which he had

then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight

different points, Holmes desired to be led to the court-yard, from

which we all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.

Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as

this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker

Street would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed and

darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his

eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was

bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins

stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed

to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind was so

absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or

remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a

quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way

along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by way of the

woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as is all that

district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon the path and

amid the short grass which bounded it on either side. Sometimes Holmes

would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he made quite a little

detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked behind him, the detective

indifferent and contemptuous, while I watched my friend with the

interest which sprang from the conviction that every one of his actions

was directed towards a definite end.

The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some

fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the Hatherley

Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods

which lined it upon the farther side we could see the red, jutting

pinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner’s dwelling. On

the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew very thick, and there was

a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between the edge of

the trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us the

exact spot at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was

the ground, that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by

the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager

face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read upon the

trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking up a scent, and

then turned upon my companion.

“What did you go into the pool for? he asked.

“I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or

other trace. But how on earth—

“Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its inward

twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there it

vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been had I

been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all over

it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and they have

covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But here are

three separate tracks of the same feet. He drew out a lens and lay

down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time

rather to himself than to us. “These are young McCarthy’s feet. Twice

he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are deeply

marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his story. He ran

when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are the father’s feet

as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It is the butt-end of the

gun as the son stood 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 where did they

come from? He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the

track until we were well within the edge of the wood and under the

shadow of a great beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes

traced his way to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon

his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained

there, turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what

seemed to me to be dust into an envelope and examining with his lens

not only the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could

reach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he

carefully examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the

wood until he came to the high road, 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 on the right must

be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with Moran, and

perhaps write a little note. Having done that, 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 drove back into

Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he had 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 few days.

There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It corresponds

with the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon.

“And the murderer?

“Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears