Doyle - The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, Arthur Conan Doyle
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The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
Doyle, Arthur Conan
Published:
1893
Type(s):
Short Fiction, Crime/Mystery, Collections
Source:
Wikisource
1
About Doyle:
Sir Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle, DL (22 May 1859 – 7 July 1930) was a
Scottish author most noted for his stories about the detective Sherlock
Holmes, which are generally considered a major innovation in the field
of crime fiction, and the adventures of Professor Challenger. He was a
prolific writer whose other works include science fiction stories, historic-
al novels, plays and romances, poetry, and non-fiction.
Conan was originally a given name, but Doyle used it as part of his
surname in his later years.
Source: Wikipedia
Also available on Feedbooks for Doyle:
•
(1892)
•
(1923)
•
(1905)
•
(1912)
•
(1902)
•
(1887)
•
(1890)
•
(1917)
•
(1915)
•
(1928)
Copyright:
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2
Chapter
1
Silver Blaze
"I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go," said Holmes, as we sat
down together to our breakfast one morning.
"Go! Where to?"
"To Dartmoor; to King's Pyland."
I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that he had not
already been mixed upon this extraordinary case, which was the one top-
ic of conversation through the length and breadth of England. For a
whole day my companion had rambled about the room with his chin
upon his chest and his brows knitted, charging and recharging his pipe
with the strongest black tobacco, and absolutely deaf to any of my ques-
tions or remarks. Fresh editions of every paper had been sent up by our
news agent, only to be glanced over and tossed down into a corner. Yet,
silent as he was, I knew perfectly well what it was over which he was
brooding. There was but one problem before the public which could
challenge his powers of analysis, and that was the singular disappear-
ance of the favourite for the Wessex Cup, and the tragic murder of its
trainer. When, therefore, he suddenly announced his intention of setting
out for the scene of the drama it was only what I had both expected and
hoped for.
"I should be most happy to go down with you if I should not be in the
way," said I.
"My dear Watson, you would confer a great favour upon me by com-
ing. And I think that your time will not be misspent, for there are points
about the case which promise to make it an absolutely unique one. We
have, I think, just time to catch our train at Paddington, and I will go fur-
ther into the matter upon our journey. You would oblige me by bringing
with you your very excellent field-glass."
And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself in the
corner of a first-class carriage flying along en route for Exeter, while Sh-
erlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face framed in his ear-flapped
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travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle of fresh papers which he
had procured at Paddington. We had left Reading far behind us before
he thrust the last one of them under the seat, and offered me his cigar-
case.
"We are going well," said he, looking out the window and glancing at
his watch. "Our rate at present is fifty-three and a half miles an hour."
"I have not observed the quarter-mile posts," said I.
"Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this line are sixty yards
apart, and the calculation is a simple one. I presume that you have
looked into this matter of the murder of John Straker and the disappear-
ance of Silver Blaze?"
"I have seen what the Telegraph and the Chronicle have to say."
"It is one of those cases where the art of the reasoner should be used
rather for the sifting of details than for the acquiring of fresh evidence.
The tragedy has been so uncommon, so complete and of such personal
importance to so many people, that we are suffering from a plethora of
surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis. The difficulty is to detach the frame-
work of fact—of absolute undeniable fact—from the embellishments of
theorists and reporters. Then, having established ourselves upon this
sound basis, it is our duty to see what inferences may be drawn and
what are the special points upon which the whole mystery turns. On
Tuesday evening I received telegrams from both Colonel Ross, the owner
of the horse, and from Inspector Gregory, who is looking after the case,
inviting my co-operation.
"Tuesday evening!" I exclaimed. "And this is Thursday morning. Why
didn't you go down yesterday?"
"Because I made a blunder, my dear Watson—which is, I am afraid, a
more common occurrence than any one would think who only knew me
through your memoirs. The fact is that I could not believe is possible that
the most remarkable horse in England could long remain concealed, es-
pecially in so sparsely inhabited a place as the north of Dartmoor. From
hour to hour yesterday I expected to hear that he had been found, and
that his abductor was the murderer of John Straker. When, however, an-
other morning had come, and I found that beyond the arrest of young
Fitzroy Simpson nothing had been done, I felt that it was time for me to
take action. Yet in some ways I feel that yesterday has not been wasted."
"You have formed a theory, then?"
4
"At least I have got a grip of the essential facts of the case. I shall enu-
merate them to you, for nothing clears up a case so much as stating it to
another person, and I can hardly expect your co-operation if I do not
show you the position from which we start."
I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar, while Holmes,
leaning forward, with his long, thin forefinger checking off the points
upon the palm of his left hand, gave me a sketch of the events which had
led to our journey.
"Silver Blaze," said he, "is from the Somomy stock, and holds as bril-
liant a record as his famous ancestor. He is now in his fifth year, and has
brought in turn each of the prizes of the turf to Colonel Ross, his fortu-
nate owner. Up to the time of the catastrophe he was the first favourite
for the Wessex Cup, the betting being three to one on him. He has al-
ways, however, been a prime favourite with the racing public, and has
never yet disappointed them, so that even at those odds enormous sums
of money have been laid upon him. It is obvious, therefore, that there
were many people who had the strongest interest in preventing Silver
Blaze from being there at the fall of the flag next Tuesday.
"The fact was, of course, appreciated at King's Pyland, where the
Colonel's training-stable is situated. Every precaution was taken to guard
the favourite. The trainer, John Straker, is a retired jockey who rode in
Colonel Ross's colours before he became too heavy for the weighing-
chair. He has served the Colonel for five years as jockey and for seven as
trainer, and has always shown himself to be a zealous and honest ser-
vant. Under him were three lads; for the establishment was a small one,
containing only four horses in all. One of these lads sat up each night in
the stable, while the others slept in the loft. All three bore excellent char-
acters. John Straker, who is a married man, lived in a small villa about
two hundred yards from the stables. He has no children, keeps one
maid-servant, and is comfortably off. The country round is very lonely,
but about half a mile to the north there is a small cluster of villas which
have been built by a Tavistock contractor for the use of invalids and oth-
ers who may wish to enjoy the pure Dartmoor air. Tavistock itself lies
two miles to the west, while across the moor, also about two miles dis-
tant, is the larger training establishment of Mapleton, which belongs to
Lord Backwater, and is managed by Silas Brown. In every other direction
the moor is a complete wilderness, inhabited only be a few roaming
gypsies. Such was the general situation last Monday night when the cata-
strophe occurred.
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