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I have mentioned before the three massive manuscript volumes that contain my notes on our cases for the year 1894. Circumstances now allow me to reveal the details of one of these, as weird and tragic a case as any we encountered. It was, I see, the begi
"Read that, Watson," he said, passing the paper to me, and pointing to a brief paragraph.
"'Mr Josiah Walvis, 51, an overseer at the Bow-side match-works, met an untimely end on Saturday evening when he fell from a high wall abutting the East India Wharf, and cracked his skull. The cause of his sad accident has not been ascertained. It is understood Mr Walvis had been entertaining friends at the Lamb & Flag public house before making his way home. Interviewed, his associates say the deceased was of his normal disposition upon departing, and was not excessively inebriated. It is considered possible Mr Walvis was contemplating a shorter route to his home but missed his footing. Two witnesses, a watchman and a street boy, aver that they saw the victim pursued some moments beforehand, but this ca
"There is the barest hint of promise in that, Watson: the pursuer, you know. But it is otherwise a drab affair. Yet it is all there is. Inventive evil appears to have quite vanished from London."
Holmes sighed, and began to gather up the dottles for his morning pipe.
The visit of our colleague from Scotland Yard did not at first obviate his gloom. For it seemed Lestrade had indeed nothing better to offer.
"It's the Walvis business, Mr Holmes."
"Oh, indeed? But that happened two days ago, Lestrade. The gales will have rushed all the evidence to the four corners. There is no point in coming to me now."
"Well, it seems a straightforward case that is hardly worth your while. But one of the constables, a keen lad, saw something he didn't quite like."
"Indeed?"
"Yes. Of course, an accident is quite the likeliest explanation. There was no robbery, and no other marks on the body but those caused by the fall. Yet, here is the thing. In the deceased's left hand, between the two middle fingers, protruding outwards, was a spent match."
"Ah. That is singular." I saw my friend's eyes gleam.
"Quite so. A drowning man may clutch at a straw, but-I say to myself-a falling man does not. He splays his fingers, so… "
"Therefore, the match was placed there after the fall," I interjected.
"Exactly, Doctor," returned Lestrade. "Now I am inclined to regard it as merely a macabre little joke on the part of the friends who found him. They all worked at the match factory, you know. They were pretty far gone in drink. So they put it there as if to say 'you, Walvis, have struck your last match.' I questioned them pretty fiercely about that, but they deny it. Half didn't notice it at all, the others say it must have blown there… "
"You have preserved the match, Lestrade?" Holmes demanded.
"I have, Mr Holmes, and-knowing your ways-have brought it with me." Lestrade produced a twist of paper from his waistcoat pocket and handed it over.
Holmes inspected the exhibit carefully between thumb and forefinger, then handed it back.
"It tells us little. It is a Lyphant & Bray match-the people who have the Bow works. So it could well have come from his colleagues. Or from almost anybody. It is a very popular brand. Yet, someone who has handled it may be an actor."
We both looked suitably astonished, and Holmes favoured us with an explanation. "It is very simple. I have studied the shape, size and composition of over forty types of lucifer or match-the matter complements my researches upon tobacco ash, you know. A combination of a certain ash and a certain match may help to mark a man. But not in this case. No ash, and a very common brand."
"The theatrical co
Holmes shrugged. "Oh, merely that someone has left a small smudge of greasepaint upon the stick. Not you or your constable, I assume, Lestrade?"
"Indeed not."
"Well, it does not get us very far. But what about this evidence of a pursuer, Inspector?"
Our visitor's face settled into a satisfied smirk.
"The witnesses are not very sound. An aged watchman, half deaf and almost wholly foolish. A street arab, with a lively imagination."
"And what do they say?"
"Well, Mr Holmes, I don't give it much credit. Indeed, I am trying what I can to suppress their little yarn. It doesn't take much to spread unreasoning terror abroad."
There was a brittle silence, Lestrade savouring the matter that had really brought him to us, Holmes quiveringly alert.
"They say they saw Walvis chased down the street by a phantom. It wore a hooded cloak, but they caught a glimpse of its face-if you can call it that. It looked more like, they said, it looked more like-a green skull."
Sherlock Holmes rose from his chair and rubbed his hands together. "Come now," he said. "This sounds promising."
The case may have caught my friend's imagination, because of its peculiarities, but for some days he made little progress. The scene, as he had anticipated, had been quite wiped clean by the wind and rain of the intervening days, and all the witnesses he interviewed stuck resolutely to the stories they had given the police, even the two who had seen the spectral pursuer. Lyphant & Bray would give nothing but a sound character to Walvis, conceding only that by some he might be regarded as somewhat stern in his duties. There was little more for Holmes to do, and he was succumbing again to his blue devils when, barely a week later, Mrs Hudson ushered in a new client. He was an angular, brisk young man, pale and peremptory in ma
"Sit down, Mr Reynolds. This is my friend and associate, Dr Watson. What is your business with us?"
"I have read of you, Mr Holmes, from Dr Watson's accounts. I have observed that you see importance in matters others overlook."
"You are very kind. And you think you have a similar matter?"
"I do. My employer, Mr Thomas Mostyn, died last night."
"I see. The cause?"
"Heart failure."
Holmes looked crestfallen.
"It is certain?"
"Yes. His medical man has treated him for years. He has long had indifferent health. I could see this for myself too."
"Then why-"
"That was the cause of his death, Mr Holmes. I am concerned about the occasion of it."
"There is something here that does not satisfy you?"
"A number of matters."
Holmes tapped his fingers upon the arm of his chair. "Pray proceed."
"Mr Mostyn's face in death was distorted most disturbingly. It was a grimacing mask, exhibiting naked fear."
I interrupted. "Rictus, Mr Reynolds. It can give the most distressing effects."
Our client turned to me. "I understand. But there is rather more. Though in his nightgown and dressing-gown, as if prepared for bed, Mr Mostyn met his end in his study. Some matter had taken him there. And in death he was clutching between his middle fingers, pointing outwards-"