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About this Episode
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The adventures of Sherlock Holmes with Sir John Gilgurder Sherlock Holmes and Sir Ralph
Richardson as our storyteller, Dr. James Watson.
It was a wild tempestuous night towards the close of November 1894.
Holmes and I sat together in silence all the evening.
Outside the wind howled down the tapestry of the rain beats fiercely against the windows.
On such a night, we were not at all pleased to hear a cab draw up at our door and a ring
at the bell.
Oh, come in, Hopkins.
I hope you know professional designs upon us on a night like this.
Flopper Chair, weren't you, and warm your toes.
Thank you, Mr. Holmes.
I suppose it must be something important to bring you here at this hour and in such a
gale.
It is indeed, Mr. Holmes.
I've had a bustling afternoon, I promise you, on the yachts, in case.
I caught the last train back to town and came straight on by cab from Tyron Cross.
Yeah, that means I suppose that you're not quite care about the case.
I can't meet neither, hit no attainment.
There's no motive, Mr. Holmes, and that's what bothers me.
A man killed, and no reason on earth like anyone should wish him any harm.
Very well, let's hear about it.
It happened in the house of an old man called Professor Corham.
He's a semi-involved, keeps through his dead half the time, an elderly housekeeper and
a maid look after him, a booth of excellent character.
The professor's writing a book on coptic manuscripts, and keeps a secretary to help him.
The last, Mr. Willoughby Smith was the third, who's had a young man straight from the university,
quiet, hardworking fellow.
Yet this was the lad who met his death this morning, in the professor's study, under circumstances
that can only point to murder.
It was between 11 and 12 this morning.
Susan Charles and the maid was hanging some curtains in the upstairs front bedroom.
Professor Corham was still in bed, he seldom rises before midday, and the housekeeper was
busy at the back of the house.
Willoughby Smith had been in his bedroom, which he used as a sitting room.
The maid heard him come out of his room, go along the passenger downstairs to the study
at the room below her.
A minute or two later, there was a dreadful cry from that room, a wild horse scream, but
the same incident there was a heavy side which was a hoe-house, then silence.
The maid stood petrified for a moment, then, recovering her cottage, she ran downstairs.
The study door was shut, and she opened it.
Inside, Mr Willoughby Smith was stretched on the floor, and blood was pouring from a wound
in his neck.
On the floor, nearby was a blood-stained stiletto.
She recognized it as one the professor kept on his desk and used as a paper knife.
I take it that the young man was already dead, at first the maid thought so, but when she
poured some water over his forehead, he opened his eyes for a second.
Oh, Sam, what happened?
Oh, tell me, tell me.
The professor?
It was she.
Those were his last words.
He tried desperately to say something else, then he fell back dead.
The housekeeper arrived just after he died, leaving Susan with the body she hurried to
the professor's room, he was sitting up in bed terribly agitated.
You've questioned the professor, of course.
Oh, yes.
He says he heard the distant cry, but no, there's nothing more.
His first action was to send for the police.
I've been put in charge of the case, Mr. Hose, but I'm so bad for it.
I come to you as a friend.
Well, well, well, we must see what we can do.
Can you give me some ideas for the disposition of the rooms?
You say the study door was closed.
Was that the only door at that room?
There were three doors to the study, the one by which the maid and Willoughby Smith
had entered, and two other doors at the opposite end of the room.
Of these, one led by way of a corridor to the professor's room, the other led by a
cinema corridor to the back door of the house, which was unlocked.
There could be little doubt, but the murderer had entered this way, and there was no other
way by which he or she could possibly have left without meeting the maid at one door,
or running into the professor's bedroom by way of the other.
The path to the back door was saturated with rain and would certainly have shown any
footmarks.
My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and expert criminal,
for there were no footmarks to be found on the path, but the grass verge was trotted down,
and my inquiries prove that it could only have been trotted down by the murderer.
Well, well, well.
Now, these tracks on the grass, coming or going, or both, it was impossible to say
there was never any outlier.
Large footprints or small ones.
I wasn't able to make them out.
Well, it's been pouring with rain and blowing a heart again ever since.
They'll be harder to read tomorrow morning, anything else?
In the study, there's a desk, a bureau, and a cupboard.
The professor shows me that nothing is missing, so it seems certain that the robbery was
not the murderous aim.
How about the wound on the body?
The stamp was on the right side of the neck and from behind, so that it's almost
impossible it could have been self-inflicted, unless he fell on the knife.
Exactly, the idea crossed my mind, but the knife was some feet away,
and that are the man's dying words.
But most important of all, the dead man had a small object tightly grasped in his right hand.
Well, Watson, what do you make of these?
The object was a pair of gold-rinsed spectacles, or more properly, a golden-pastne,
a type of glass which kept on to the bridge of the nose.
From them hung two broken ends of black silk cord,
Holmes examined the glasses with the greatest attention.
He held them on his nose, he tried to read through them, he looked out of the window,
and then he handed them back to Hopkins with a chapel.
Well, Maria Hopkins, wanted a woman of good address, a tired, like a lady,
she has a remarkably thick nose with eyes that are set close upon either side of it,
a pocket for it, a peering expression, and probably blinded shoulders.
As she has been to an optician at least twice during the last few months,
it should be easy enough to trace her.
But how did you find all that out?
Simplicity itself, from their delicacy, and the dying man's last word I deduced
they belonged to a woman.
Anybody who wore such expensive and elegant glasses would be pretty sure to be well dressed.
The width of the clips tells me she has a broad nose,
and the position of the lens tells me that her eyes are set closely together.
You will see that the glasses are of unusual strength,
a lady whose vision is so contractively sure to have the physical characteristics
of such vision, the forehead, the eyelids, and shoulders.
But how have you arrived at the double visit to the optician?
The clips are lined with tiny bands of cork, one newer than the other,
both comparatively new.
They exactly correspond, so I presume that the lady went to the same optician for both.
Well, Hopkins, if you have nothing more to tell me,
I suggest we all turn in for the night.
You will be quite comfortable on this sofa, I believe,
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The game on blown itself out next day.
But it was a bitter morning when we started upon our journey.
We saw the cold winter sun rise over the very marshes of the Thames
and the long southern reaches of the river.
But at last, we reached the end of our journey.
This is the garden path of which I told you, Mr. Holmes.
And which side were the marks on the grassland?
At this side.
You can't see the nine afraid, but they were clear enough yesterday.
Yes, yes, yes.
I can see someone has walked along.
The lady must have picked her way very carefully, mustn't she?
Or very wide.
And you say she must have come back the same way.
She must have done.
There was no other way open to her.
Not a remarkable performance, quite remarkable.
One thing we can be sure of, the murder was not pre-milligated
or the lady would have brought some weapon with her
rather than picking up that paper knife off the desk.
Well, let us go into the house.
We entered the back door and advanced along the corridor
to the door of the study.
As the floor was covered with coconut netting,
there was nothing to be learned from it.
When we reached the study, Holmes conducted his usual
thorough examination of the walls, floor, and furniture.
Before the bureau, he paused.
Hello.
A scratch on the lock of this bureau.
A prank ring for the maid, will you, my dear Watson?
Why didn't you tell me about this Hopkins?
You'll always find scratches on a key.
Oh, sure, yes, yes, yes, but this is quite a recent one.
Did you ring, sir?
Yes, I did.
When was this room dusted last?
Oh, yes, this morning, sir.
I did it by myself.
Did you notice this scratch?
No, sir.
I didn't.
I'm sure you didn't.
A duster would have swept away those shreds of varnish,
I can see through my glass.
Who has the key to this bureau?
The professor keeps it on his watch chain.
It was in his bedroom with him at the time of the murder.
Very good.
We seem to be making a little progress.
Our lady enters the room, advances to the bureau,
and either opens it or tries to do so,
while she's thus engaged, will it be Smith enters the room?
In her heart, to withdraw the key,
she makes the scratch near the lock.
He seizes the intruder,
and she's snatching up the nearest object
which happens to be the stiletto,
strikes him in the neck to make him let go of his hold.
Smith is fatally wounded, falls to the floor,
and his assailer escapes either with or without the object
for which she came.
Now then, Susan could anyone have got away
through that door over there?
At the time you heard the cry?
Oh, no, sir. It's impossible.
I'd have seen them in the past.
Thanks you.
Then you were quite right about the exit Hopkins.
The lady must have gone out the way she came in.
But what about this third door?
I think you said that leads to the professor's room.
There's no other exit by it from the house that way.
No, sir.
And nobody could have hidden in the corridor
without being found by the housekeeper
when she ran to tell the professor what had happened.
Well, let us go and make the professor's acquaintance.
Oh, this corridor also is lined with coconut matting, I see.
Oh, what is that?
You think it's important?
Well, well, I don't insist upon it,
but no doubt I'm wrong,
but it seems to me to be suggestive.
Come along, I'm anxious to meet the professor.
We passed down the passage,
which was the same length as that which led to the garden.
As Hopkins knocked at the door,
I mean...
Good morning, professor.
May I present Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson?
It was a large room
and books that had overflowed from their shelves
laying piles on the floor
and around the bed
and were stacked in the heat
at the side of a huge bookcase.
The bed was in the center of the room,
and on it popped up with pillows
was the owner of the house.
The cigarette glowed
amid the tangle of his white beard.
The air of the room was stale to back a smoke.
As he held out his hand
to Holmes, I perceived that it also was stained yellow
with nicotine.
Well, well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
This is a surprise.
A... a smoke of Mr. Holmes?
Pretty take a cigarette.
And you, sir?
No, no, thank you.
I recommend them,
for I have them specially prepared
by the only days of Alexandria.
He sends me a thousand at a time.
But I grieve to say I have to arrange
for a fresh supply of reform tonight.
Though Holmes was much addicted to his bra pipe,
I'd never known him except to cigarette before.
Indeed, he seemed on the point
of refusing his on this occasion.
When changing his mind,
he accepted it,
and began to smoke
with a strange nervous rapidity.
For battle and my work,
but now only to battle,
I lost what a fatal interruption
to my book,
who could have foreseen
such a terrible tragedy.
So estimably young, man.
I assure you that after a few months
training, he was an admirable assistant.
What do you think of the matter, Mr. Holmes?
I'm afraid I've not shared my mind, Professor.
I shall indeed be indebted to you
if you can throw light
where all is dark to us.
To oppose bookworm and invalid
like myself, such a blow is paralyzing.
Well, I will do everything in my part,
clear it up.
Anyway, I find this cigarette
unusually good.
And might I...
Oh, but of course,
please help yourself.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Most delightful to the palace.
Quite a refreshing change for me, Watson.
And smoking with a rapidity
I'd never seen before,
Sherlock Holmes began to
pace up and down the bedroom.
Holmes continued to pace up and down the room,
still smoking feverishly,
as he listened to the son of a slow speech.
That pile of papers on the table there
is my magnum opus,
and work which will cut deep
into the very foundations
of revealed religion.
And I won't probably
within a length of cross-examination,
since I gather you were in bed here
when the crime was committed
and could not possibly know anything about it.
I would only ask this,
what do you imagine the poor fellow
meant by his last words?
The Professor,
it was she.
Susan is a country girl, Mr. Holmes,
and you know the incredible stupidity
of the class.
I thank you the poor fellow,
murmured something
coherent, delirious words,
and she twisted them
into this meaningless message.
I see.
You have no explanation
yourself of the tragedy.
Oh.
Possibly an accident?
Possibly a suicide.
We must apologize
for having disturbed you
so long, Professor Corm.
I promise we shan't intrude
on you again until after lunch,
and I'll have another look
around the garden,
if I may,
and at two o'clock
report to you
anything that may have emerged
in the meanwhile.
We were slow
from the bedroom,
and made our way out into the garden.
Holmes was curious to this tray,
and we walked up and down
for some time in silence.
At last, I'd broken on his thoughts
by asking him
whether he'd found any two.
It all depends on these cigarettes,
I smoked.
It's possible I've quite mistaken,
of course,
but those cigarettes will show me
my dear Holmes,
how on earth?
Well, well,
you'll see for yourself.
If not, there's no harm done.
Ah, there's the first keeper.
I should like a word with her.
Yes, Mr. Holmes,
it's as you say, sir.
He does smoke something terrible.
All day, and sometimes,
all night, sir,
his health.
Well, I don't know,
whether it's better or worse
for the smoking.
Ah, but smoking
as much as that kills the appetite,
doesn't it?
Well, I don't know about that, sir.
I mean, I suppose the professor eats
hardly anything at all.
Well, he's terrible.
I'll say that for him.
Ah, wait a minute.
He took no breakfast this morning,
and won't face any lunch.
After all those cigarettes,
I saw him get through.
We're out there, sir.
It happens.
For the uttering mark,
a big big breakfast this morning,
and I'm surprised myself.
But since I came into that room yesterday,
and so young, Mr. Smith lying there on the floor,
I couldn't bear to look at food.
Oh, well, it takes all sorts to make a world.
As you say, Mr. Mark,
it takes all sorts to make a world.
We light up the rest of the morning away in the garden.
The Susan of a weighted abundance of lunch,
volunteer the information,
that Mr. Smith had been out for a walk
the previous morning,
and it only returns some half an hour
before the tragedy occurred.
Through a talk, gentlemen,
you can now go up and have it out with our friend,
the professor.
Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet?
Oh, no, I'll figure it out after your lunch.
Oh, thank you.
I hope you're here.
Oh, careless of me.
Hey, let me pick them up.
Yes, wonderful.
How far they roll, isn't it?
Oh, there.
Yeah, I think that's the loss.
No harm done.
That's the mystery.
Yes, I've solved it.
You have?
Indeed, out in the garden.
No, no, no, in here.
Very well, Mr. Holmes.
I shall be very interested.
Yesterday a lady entered your study.
She came with the intention of possessing
herself of certain documents which were in your bureau.
She had a key of her own.
I've had an opportunity of examining yours, as you may remember,
but I didn't find that practice coloration,
which a scratch made upon the vanish of the bureau,
would have produced.
So you weren't an accessory.
And she came as far as I can read the evidence
to rob you without your knowledge.
In the first place she was seized by your secretary
whilst re-locking the bureau and stabbed him with the knife
in order to escape.
I found that the stabbing was an unhappy accident
but I am convinced the lady had no intention
of injuring him seriously.
A murderous doesn't come unarmed.
But horrified by what she had done,
she rushed wildly away from the scene of the tragedy.
Unfortunately for her, she had lost her glasses in the scuffle.
And as she was extremely short-sighted,
she was really helpless without them.
She ran down at Corridor as she thought the one
I would she had entered the study.
And only when it was too late that she realised
that she had taken the wrong door and the wrong passage
and that her treat was cut off behind her.
What was she to do?
She couldn't go back.
She couldn't remain where she was.
She must go on and she went on.
She went through the Corridor, pushed open the door,
and found herself in this room.
All very fine, Mr. Holmes.
But there's one little flaw in your splendid theory.
I was myself in this room and I never left it during the whole day.
Yes, I'm quite aware of that, Professor Corridor.
I do mean to say I could lie in bed and not be aware
that a woman had entered my room.
I never said so.
You were aware of it.
You spoke to her.
You recognised her.
You aided her to escape.
Ha, ha, ha, ha!
You're this, you're this, you're mad.
You're talking insanely.
I helped her to escape.
Where is she now?
There.
Even as Holmes spoke, a woman stepped out from behind a big bookcase.
I saw it once that she had the exact physical characteristics
that Holmes had defined.
What was her short sight and the sudden bright light
that blinded her, she stood as one dazed,
blinking about her to see who we were.
I give myself up to you, sir.
I am your prisoner.
From where I stood, I could hear everything.
And I know that you have learned the truth.
I confess it all.
It was I who killed the young man.
I have only a little time here.
But I would have you know the whole truth.
I am this man's wife.
He is a Russian, but his name I will not tell.
God bless you, Anna.
Why shouldn't you cling so hard to that rigid life of yourself?
It has done harm to me and good to none.
Not even to yourself.
However, it is not for me to give you away.
I have enough already upon my soul
since I crossed the threshold of this cursed house.
The story she told us was almost incredible
in its characters and setting.
Russia, Siberian prison camps and nihilists.
Both the professor and she, his wife,
had been engaged in revolutionary activities many years before.
Along with their comrades, they had been arrested.
In order to save his own life,
a husband had betrayed not only his friends, but hers well.
She and the others had been sent to Siberia.
The professor had been set free
and had come to England under an assumed name.
What content with that little piece of villainy?
Let an innocent man suffer along with the guilty.
He was noble, unselfish, loving,
whole that my husband was not.
He hated violence and wrote forever,
dissuading me from such a cause.
Those letters of his would have saved him,
so would my diary in which I had written about him
and our secret love.
My husband found and kept both the diary and the letters.
He hid them and he tried to swear away the young man's life.
In this, he failed.
But the Alexis was sent to Siberia
where he's still working in a salt mine.
When my sentence had been served,
I followed my husband to England
and after months of searching,
I discovered where he was living.
My one aim was to get my hands upon those letters in the diary
and give them to the Russian government
to make them release my innocent friend.
Yesterday, I took the papers.
The rest is, as you said.
Two points, I'm not yet quite clear to me, Madame.
How did you come to have a duplicate key to the bureau?
I had employed a private inquiry agent to take a position
as my husband's secretary.
It was your last secretary, Serbius, who left so suddenly.
He told me where the papers must be kept
and he gave me a wax impression of the key.
But he would go no further.
I understand.
And yesterday, as you were coming to get those papers,
you met a young man in the street.
It was...
It was the young man I killed.
I asked him the way to the professor's house.
He did not be a man. It's the way more.
Ah, that explains it all.
Smith, I told you about the meeting, professor.
I hadn't he?
As soon as he came in.
And that was what he meant afterwards by his dying words.
He was trying to say who his assailant was.
That woman, he had told you about some few minutes before.
But stop her.
And last, we were too late to say for.
Even as Holmes saw the grin of the gun,
she had shot herself in the breast.
With her dying breath, she charged him with seeing
that the little packet of letters and the diary
should be given to the Russian embassy in London,
which in due course they were.
And as we traveled back to Baker Street that night,
Holmes had last condescended to explain
how the mystery had been solved.
A simple case, yet in some ways, an instructive one.
It hinged from the outset on the passenger.
It was fair to me from the strength of the glasses
at the where I would be almost blind without them.
She would certainly not have been able to pick her way
a hundred yards along a narrow grass verge to the gate.
As there was no other way that she could have escaped,
it occurred to me that perhaps she hadn't escaped at all.
When I saw that both corridors were covered
with coconut netting, I began to wonder whether she
hadn't mistaken one for the other and burst in on the professor
in his room.
So I examined that room thoroughly.
I noticed that although books were piled all over the floor,
they were not piled in front of that big bookcase in the corner.
And I began to wonder whether a mysterious lady
might not still be hiding behind it,
since she had no possible chance of escaping later
with the police guard in the premises.
So I split a lot of cigarette ash just in front of the bookcase.
You remember how many cigarettes I smoked
and waited until the professor had had his lunch?
Then I upset his box of cigarettes
in order to examine the F.
I'd been right.
It was trundown by someone who had stepped from behind the bookcase
while we were at Allah.
In fact, I was not a source prize
to find how fast the professor had been eating since the tragedy day
if he had needed to order enough for two.
I had to leave her in the garage.
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