I was kneeling and Stackhurst standing by the body when ashadow fell across us, and we found that Ian Murdoch was by ourside. Murdoch was the mathematical coach at the establishment,tall, dark, thin man, so taciturn and aloof that none can be saidto have been his friend. He seemed to live in some high, abstractregion of surds and conic sections, with little to connect him withordinary life. He was looked upon as an oddity by the students,and would have been their butt, but there was some strangeoutlandish blood in the man, which showed itself not only in hiscoal-black eyes and swarthy face but also in occasional outbreaksof temper, which could only be described as ferocious. On oneoccasion, being plagued by a little dog belonging to McPherson,he had caught the creature up and hurled it through the plateglasswindow, an action for which Stackhurst would certainly havegiven him his dismissal had he not been a very valuable teacher.
Such was the strange complex man who now appeared besideus. He seemed to be honestly shocked at the sight before him,though the incident of the dog may show that there was no greatsympathy between the dead man and himself.
“Poor fellow! Poor fellow! What can I do? How can I help?”
“Were you with him? Can you tell us what has happened?”
“No, no, I was late this morning. I was not on the beach at all. Ihave come straight from The Gables. What can I do?”
“You can hurry to the police-station at Fulworth. Report thematter at once.”
Without a word he made off at top speed, and I proceeded totake the matter in hand, while Stackhurst, dazed at this tragedy,remained by the body. My first task naturally was to note whowas on the beach. From the top of the path I could see the whole.
The Case Book of Sherlock Holmes 1365
sweep of it, and it was absolutely deserted save that two or threedark figures could be seen far away moving towards the village ofFulworth. Having satisfied myself upon this point, I walked slowlydown the path. There was clay or soft marl mixed with the chalk,and every here and there I saw the same footstep, both ascendingand descending. No one else had gone down to the beach by thistrack that morning. At one place I observed the print of an openhand with the fingers towards the incline. This could only meanthat poor McPherson had fallen as he ascended. There wererounded depressions, too, which suggested that he had comedown upon his knees more than once. At the bottom of the pathwas the considerable lagoon left by the retreating tide. At the sideof it McPherson had undressed, for there lay his towel on a rock.
It was folded and dry, so that it would seem that, after all, he hadnever entered the water. Once or twice as I hunted round amidthe hard shingle I came on little patches of sand where the printof his canvas shoe, and also of his naked foot, could be seen. Thelatter fact proved that he had made all ready to bathe, though thetowel indicated that he had not actually done so.
And here was the problem clearly defined—as strange a one ashad ever confronted me. The man had not been on the beach morethan a quarter of an hour at the most. Stackhurst had followedhim from The Gables, so there could be no doubt about that.
He had gone to bathe and had stripped, as the naked footstepsshowed. Then he had suddenly huddled on his clothes again—theywere all dishevelled and unfastened—and he had returned withoutbathing, or at any rate without drying himself. And the reasonfor his change of purpose had been that he had been scourgedin some savage, inhuman fashion, tortured until he bit his lipthrough in his agony, and was left with only strength enough tocrawl away and to die. Who had done this barbarous deed? Therewere, it is true, small grottos and caves in the base of the cliffs, butthe low sun shone directly into them, and there was no place forconcealment. Then, again, there were those distant figures on thebeach. They seemed too far away to have been connected with thecrime, and the broad lagoon in which McPherson had intendedto bathe lay between him and them, lapping up to the rocks. Onthe sea two or three fishingboats were at no great distance. Theiroccupants might be examined at our leisure. There were severalroads for inquiry, but none which led to any very obvious goal.
When I at last returned to the body I found that a littlegroup of wondering folk had gathered round it. Stackhurst was,of course, still there, and Ian Murdoch had just arrived withAnderson, the village constable, a big, ginger-moustached manof the slow, solid Sussex breed—a breed which covers much good1366 The Complete Sherlock Holmes
sense under a heavy, silent exterior. He listened to everything,took note of all we said, and finally drew me aside.
“I’d be glad of your advice, Mr. Holmes. This is a big thing forme to handle, and I’ll hear of it from Lewes if I go wrong.”
I advised him to send for his immediate superior, and fordoctor; also to allow nothing to be moved, and as few freshfootmarks as possible to be made, until they came. In themeantime I searched the dead man’s pockets. There were hishandkerchief, a large knife, and a small folding card-case. Fromthis projected a slip of paper, which I unfolded and handed to theconstable. There was written on it in a scrawling, feminine hand:
I will be there, you may be sure.
MAUDIE.
It read like a love affair, an assignation, though when and wherewere a blank. The constable replaced it in the card-case andreturned it with the other things to the pockets of the Burberry.
Then, as nothing more suggested itself, I walked back to myhouse for breakfast, having first arranged that the base of the cliffsshould be thoroughly searched.
