“Well, then, is it Bellamy and that big son of his? They werenot too sweet upon Mr. McPherson. Could they have done him amischief?”
The Complete Sherlock Holmes
“No, no, you won’t draw me until I am ready,” said I with asmile. “Now, Inspector, we each have our own work to do. Perhapsyou were to meet me here at midday——”
So far we had got when there came the tremendous interruptionwhich was the beginning of the end.
My outer door was flung open, there were blundering footstepsin the passage, and Ian Murdoch staggered into the room, pallid,dishevelled, his clothes in wild disorder, clawing with his bonyhands at the furniture to hold himself erect. “Brandy! Brandy!” hegasped, and fell groaning upon the sofa.
He was not alone. Behind him came Stackhurst, hatless andpanting, almost as distrait as his companion.
“Yes, yes, brandy!” he cried. “The man is at his last gasp. It wasall I could do to bring him here. He fainted twice upon the way.”
Half a tumbler of the raw spirit brought about a wondrouschange. He pushed himself up on one arm and swung his coatfrom his shoulders. “For God’s sake oil, opium, morphia!” he cried.
Anything to ease this infernal agony!”
The inspector and I cried out at the sight. There, crisscrossedupon the man’s naked shoulder, was the same strange reticulatedpattern of red, inflamed lines which had been the death-mark ofFitzroy McPherson.
The pain was evidently terrible and was more than local, forthe sufferer’s breathing would stop for a time, his face would turnblack, and then with loud gasps he would clap his hand to hisheart, while his brow dropped beads of sweat. At any moment hemight die. More and more brandy was poured down his throat,each fresh dose bringing him back to life. Pads of cotton-woolsoaked in salad-oil seemed to take the agony from the strangewounds. At last his head fell heavily upon the cushion. ExhaustedNature had taken refuge in its last storehouse of vitality. It washalf a sleep and half a faint, but at least it was ease from pain.
To question him had been impossible, but the moment we wereassured of his condition Stackhurst turned upon me.
“My God!” he cried, “what is it, Holmes? What is it?”
“Where did you find him?”
“Down on the beach. Exactly where poor McPherson met hisend. If this man’s heart had been weak as McPherson’s was, hewould not be here now. More than once I thought he was gone as Ibrought him up. It was too far to The Gables, so I made for you.”
“Did you see him on the beach?”
“I was walking on the cliff when I heard his cry. He was at theedge of the water, reeling about like a drunken man. I ran down,threw some clothes about him, and brought him up. For heaven’ssake, Holmes, use all the powers you have and spare no pains toThe Case Book of Sherlock Holmes 1375
lift the curse from this place, for life is becoming unendurable.
Can you, with all your world-wide reputation, do nothing for us?”
“I think I can, Stackhurst. Come with me now! And you,Inspector, come along! We will see if we cannot deliver thismurderer into your hands.”
Leaving the unconscious man in the charge of my housekeeper,we all three went down to the deadly lagoon. On the shingle therewas piled a little heap of towels and clothes left by the strickenman. Slowly I walked round the edge of the water, my comradesin Indian file behind me. Most of the pool was quite shallow, butunder the cliff where the beach was hollowed out it was four orfive feet deep. It was to this part that a swimmer would naturallygo, for it formed a beautiful pellucid green pool as clear as crystal.
A line of rocks lay above it at the base of the cliff, and along thisI led the way, peering eagerly into the depths beneath me. I hadreached the deepest and stillest pool when my eyes caught that forwhich they were searching, and I burst into a shout of triumph.
“Cyanea!” I cried. “Cyanea! Behold the Lion’s Mane!”
The strange object at which I pointed did indeed look like atangled mass torn from the mane of a lion. It lay upon a rockyshelf some three feet under the water, a curious waving, vibrating,hairy creature with streaks of silver among its yellow tresses. Itpulsated with a slow, heavy dilation and contraction.
“It has done mischief enough. Its day is over!” I cried. “Help me,Stackhurst! Let us end the murderer forever.”
There was a big boulder just above the ledge, and we pushedit until it fell with a tremendous splash into the water. Whenthe ripples had cleared we saw that it had settled upon the ledgebelow. One flapping edge of yellow membrane showed that ourvictim was beneath it. A thick oily scum oozed out from below thestone and stained the water round, rising slowly to the surface.
“Well, this gets me!” cried the inspector. “What was it, Mr.
Holmes? I’m born and bred in these parts, but I never saw such athing. It don’t belong to Sussex.”
“Just as well for Sussex,” I remarked. “It may have been thesouthwest gale that brought it up. Come back to my house, bothof you, and I will give you the terrible experience of one who hasgood reason to remember his own meeting with the same peril ofthe seas.”
When we reached my study we found that Murdoch was so farrecovered that he could sit up. He was dazed in mind, and everynow and then was shaken by a paroxysm of pain. In broken wordshe explained that he had no notion what had occurred to him,save that terrific pangs had suddenly shot through him, and that ithad taken all his fortitude to reach the bank.
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“Here is a book,” I said, taking up the little volume, “which firstbrought light into what might have been forever dark. It is OutDoors, by the famous observer, J. G. Wood. Wood himself verynearly perished from contact with this vile creature, so he wrotewith a very full knowledge. Cyanea capillata is the miscreant’s fullname, and he can be as dangerous to life as, and far more painfulthan, the bite of the cobra. Let me briefly give this extract.