English is not my mother tongue. So please excuse and point out eventual language errors.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE "SUN PEACOCK"
I've said many times that I'm not quite free in my choice of stories to tell. Some of the brightest exploits of my friend Holmes won't be allowed to be told before long years. Others never will be. Because he was the king of the detectives, Holmes also was the detective of the kings, and generally of the people who had world's fate in their hands. So much of the cases he investigated still can occasion the most damageable commotion if I put them on the paper.
That's a sad situation to me, because, as I've told it before, some of the better examples of my friend's genius belong to that forbidden category. But duty must prevail. Therefore I won't say anything about the Legrand case Holmes told me about as we were having our breakfast that morning, excepted that I hope having someday authorization for divulge this big moment of his career.
Solving this affair had compelled Holmes to go to Paris, where he had collaborated with famous Inspecteur Hanaud, who had made a very good impression to my friend:
- He has many of the fundamental qualities a good detective needs – and that our British police lacks so cruelly! I've heard of him before, when he had solved that atrocious crime at Aix-les-Bains, but I thought papers had exaggerated his perspicacity – like you do with me in your little chronicles. I must confess I was wrong.
I affected to be surprised.
- No kidding, Holmes? You admit that someone may be as gifted as you are?
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
- I know you think I'm somehow vain, but it's not true. An analytical mind must see the things as they really are, without consideration of pride or shame. I've no illusions about my faculties; I just evaluate them at their right value.
He had just finished his phrase when the door opened on the volley; a man came in and looked at us. Mrs. Hudson appeared behind him, looking embarrassed.
- I told him not to go up, she said. But he didn't listen…
Our visitor didn't listen more now.
- Who of yours is Sherlock Holmes? He asked, ignoring our landlady.
Holmes lifted up. I knew him well enough to know he was furious, despite his impassive attitude.
- I am Sherlock Holmes, and I don't like to see people brutally burst in my apartment, Mr. … Mr.?
- Rafferty, the other answered, sitting without asking permission. Thomas Rafferty. Maybe you have heard of me?
- Of course I did, Holmes dryly replied. Even if it's not my favorite matter, I read financial chronicles. You're not exactly as rich as Mr. Gibson, but you come very close. I'd have asked you to sit down, but you preceded me. What can I do for you, Mr. Rafferty?
Rafferty took a handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket, and mopped up his forehead. He was in his late fifties, but looked even older because of his leanness. Grey side-whiskers surrounded his long tired face. He was obviously anxious, and that uneasiness surely partly explained his former attitude. But all aggressiveness had left him now.
- It's about my son, Mr. Holmes. He has disappeared.
He lifted tearful eyes to him.
- Oh, Mr. Holmes, I'll give you all that you want. But, please, help me! He's my only family!
For a brief moment, I was afraid he kneeled down before my friend, and surely Holmes was too. It really was an impressive, disturbing experience to see that man, who had near as much power as a king, imploring assistance that way.
Holmes had never been comfortable with human emotions, and distress above all. He nervously coughed, then he said:
- Missing persons are police's business. Did you hold counsel with them?
Rafferty had a sigh so deep that it seemed to empty his lungs.
- They can't do anything, Mr. Holmes. Nicholas – my son – has been missing for only one day. They must wait two more days before intervening. God only knows what may happen in the meantime!
- Wait a minute, Mr. Rafferty. Do you mean your son has left home yesterday?
Rafferty nodded. He was grieving to see.
- Well, Holmes continued. Don't you think you maybe worry for nothing? How old is your son?
- Twenty-five.
Holmes smiled.
- He's not a little boy anymore. Mr. Rafferty, I think you'd better come home and wait. I'm sure he'll be back soon.
Rafferty energetically shook his head.
- You don't understand, Mr. Holmes. It's not an escapade. Nicholas was not in his normal state when he left. (His voice turned lower.) He has not been in his normal state for a long time. And when he read that damned book…
I detected on my friend's face the stigmas of interest as the billionaire pronounced the latter phrase. These words have transformed to him a simple, boring disappearance affair into a case worthy of examination. His eyes shone and his voice showed a hardly repressed enthusiasm.
- On second thought, I think this case could have some interesting aspects. Maybe I can help you, Mr. Rafferty, but you must tell me everything, without omitting any detail.
The billionaire looked reassured.
- Oh, Mr. Holmes, thank you!
Holmes made him sign to start telling his story, then he joined his fingers' extremities as he always did when he concentrated. Rafferty briefly looked at the carpet, then he lifted his head and began:
- You must think I'm a lucky man, Mr. Holmes, and I've thought so for a long time. Alas, life took charge to show me money and power weren't everything. First my wife is dead, six years ago. It was a shock I'll never recovered of. She left me with my two children, Nicholas and Sarah, who was thirteen ten. Nicholas was old enough to endure that loss, but Sarah was unable to it. She became more and more uneasy to control, disobedient. She always had a particular character, but my wife knew how deal with her, but I failed to. I made a lot of mistakes, and I see now that my severity served to nothing except estrange her from me. Anyway, she was an ideal prey when she met that… that man.
I didn't miss – and Holmes neither – the angry and disgusted nuance in Rafferty's voice.
- What man, Mr. Rafferty? Holmes asked.
- We never knew his name, Rafferty answered. All that we knew was that he was an artist, older, and probably married. The little fool decided that she was in love with him, and all my attempts to keep her separated of him lamentably failed. She was very obstinate, Mr. Holmes, as much as she was beautiful. I've a picture of her with me. Do you want to see it?
Holmes acquiesced, so Rafferty took his wallet and got a picture out of it. Looking over my friend's shoulder, I saw the charming face of an eighteen-old young girl, roseate, sweet, with a well-draught mouth punched with a mole at its left corner. A river of black hair ran on each side. It was a really enjoying spectacle, but Holmes looked at it as an entomologist looks at a dead butterfly.
- And how did it end? He asked.
- Badly, as you suspected. She thought he would marry her, but, of course, he never had such an intention. They had a terrible quarrel, and he told her he didn't love her, she had only been an amusement and he didn't want to see her again. Sarah was passionate and she was young… She tried to destroy herself. We could save her life, but not her mind. She's now in a lunatic asylum. Oh, God, I'd kill that man if he was before me.
- I suppose your son has been affected by what happened to his sister?
- You can't imagine how much he was. Nicholas worshiped her, and he felt responsible for all that. His character progressively changed, turning darker. I was afraid for him, for he was my only family now. So I left business to take care of him. He never quite recovered his former gaiety, but things slowly arranged, or I thought so. Then, yesterday morning…
He paused. Holmes interrogatively flapped his eyelids.
- We were in the living-room. I was reading the Times and Nicholas was reading a book he had bought the day before. We had been silent for a long time, absorbed in our respective readings, when I heard him curse. I lifted my head and what I saw positively curdled my blood in my veins. Nicholas' face was red, his eyes were out of their orbits as he stared at the book. I could hear his uneasy breathe, and sweat covered his forehead. I had never seen him in such a state.
Holmes lifted a hand.
- How did you analyze that fluster? Was it fear? Anger? Both?
- I could not tell you, Mr. Holmes, I could not tell you. He looked like… like a madman. I asked him what happened. He turned to me, looking at me as he saw my face for the first time. "Nothing, nothing" he answered after a while. Then he rose from his chair, put the book on the table and came out. He went up to his room and closed in. Later in the morning, I had to leave; when I went back, Nicholas was gone. According to our housekeeper, he left across two o'clock, in a state of great excitation. When she asked when he'll be home, he answered her to not wait for him for the dinner, because he'd return very late. Of course it worried me, but I really took fright this morning, in discovering he wasn't there and his bed had not been undone. I went to Scotland Yard at once, but, as I've formerly told, they couldn't do anything. However, a friendly policeman (I think his name was Hopkins) advised me to see you.
Holmes nodded, took his pipe and started filling it.
- Popular wisdom is right once more, Watson! He said. It's always better to have friends in the police. (He put the pipe to his mouth and lighted it, then he turned back to our client.) I can realize your anguish, Mr. Rafferty, and I'm afraid it's quite justified." Rafferty turned pale. Holmes frowned, waving a negative finger. "I don't mean his life is endangered. But he could get in great trouble if my opinion is accurate. However, there's something I need to know before acting: what book was your son reading when he had that… attack?
For the first time since he came into our apartment, Rafferty had something looking like a smile.
- I've brought it with me, he said. I was sure it would interest you.
Holmes smiled too as Rafferty got a volume out of his pocket and put it on the table.
- Marvelous, Mr. Rafferty, marvelous! Holmes gladded, taking the book with careful gestures. My job would be easier if all my clients were as precautious as you! Mmmm… Let's see… "The Sun Peacock" by J.A. Worthington. I've little time for reading, especially recent productions. But I think you read it, Watson, or does my memory fool me?
I nodded.
- It doesn't. I've read it some weeks ago. Not very good, if you want my opinion, but it's of the selling kind.
- We'll discuss Mr. Worthington's literary value later, Watson. All I want to know is what this book is about.
I scratched my head, convoking my memories.
- Oh, it's about a young man who halts between army, to please his father, and his vocation for poetry. He chooses army after his father has been killed, but he finally goes back to his vocation after having gloriously fought in Crimea.
I stopped. The story I told obviously was not the one Holmes expected to hear. He stared frowning at the book's cover, puffing at his pipe.
- Is there a love story in it, Watson? He asked after a while.
I answered in the negative. Holmes grew nervous; he addressed to Rafferty:
- Mr. Rafferty, is there something in that plot in connection with your own family situation?
- No, Mr. Holmes, nothing at all. I've never tried to impel my son to go into business, and he has never shown any inclination for poetry or literature.
Holmes had put down his pipe and nibbled at his lower lip. I could get what happened in his brain: he had built a theory which suddenly fell down, and frenetically searched for another.
- It would be easier if we knew what he was exactly reading. Alas! How could we know?
- We can, Mr. Holmes! Rafferty shouted. We can! When Nicholas put down his book, he put it opened. I've often blamed him for that, because it's damageable for the books. So I marked the page with the bookmark before closing it. Since nobody touched it since yesterday…
- …We'll be able to find the page! Holmes concluded, opening the book. Mr. Rafferty, you would be a good auxiliary for a detective! The bookmark is still here. Let's see…
Holmes silently read. First he looked disappointed, then I saw a familiar gleam shining in his eyes. I was not surprised when, without lifting his head from the book:
- Watson, the Who's Who, please.
He almost snatched it off my hands and frenetically turned the pages. He finally found what he searched for, near the end of the book.. Rafferty and me stayed silent while he was carefully look over a notice, punctuating his reading with half-muttered "yes, yes", "of course" or "damned".
- I was right from the start. No summary can replace the real thing, Watson! (He rose.) Mr. Rafferty, we have no time to lose. Watson, sorry to abuse of your kindness, but please give me the time-table."
The train took us to a little Gloucestershire town named Ramsey. Despite all our attempts, Holmes had refused to explain anything, and he kept silent all our travel long, except for asking Mr. Rafferty a description of his son.
Arrived to destination, Holmes asked the station-master if a young man (he described Nicholas Rafferty.) had got off the train the evening before. Yes; the station-master remembered him because he had no luggage, something very unusual for a night train passenger.
Ramsey was less a town than an aggregation of country houses; its sole inn, "The Cross and the Crown" faced the station on the other side of the square. The dining-room was empty because of the forward hour. A great man came out from the backroom and went to us:
- The restaurant opens at noon, gentlemen.
- We don't want to lunch, Sir. We come for a room.
- Sorry, Sir. No vacancy. I've hired the last one yesterday evening.
Holmes nodded.
- Wouldn't it be a refined young man around twenty-five, dark-haired, without luggage and very excited?
The landlord shook his bald head.
- Yes, it is. Do you know him?
- In a sort, Holmes replied. Is he in his room?
The landlord burst out laughing, as if Holmes had told him a good joke.
- Oh yes, Sir, surely he is! After all that he has drunk yesterday, I don't think he'd wake up before next year!
Holmes looked relieved.
- May you lead us to his room? (He pointed out Rafferty.) That gentleman is the father of the client, and he worried much about him.
The landlord hesitated. Holmes took some guineas from his pocket, and showed them to him.
- Well… That's his father, after all.
He pocketed the guineas and we followed him upstairs. The landlord stopped before a door which a sonorous snore came from behind.
- What'd I say? He's sleeping off his wine.
Another guineas appeared in Holmes's hand.
- Well, we kept you away enough, didn't we? Just open that door and we won't ask you anything more.
Guineas changed of hands. The landlord took a bunch of keys out of under his apron and opened the door. He effaced himself to let us came in and went back downstairs, his weighty tread hammering the steps.
We remained alone in the room, alone with the young man sleeping all dressed on the bed. Nicholas Rafferty was his sister's living picture. Mustache and absence of mole made the only difference. Holmes came near to him and leaned over the bed.
- Mr. Rafferty?
No answer.
- Mr. Rafferty? Holmes said, louder this time.
A little groaning was the young man's only reaction. Then Holmes took him by the shoulders and energetically shook him.
- Wake up, Mr. Rafferty! We came especially for you!
Nicholas Rafferty finally opened his eyes and flashed a dark look to my friend.
- What happens? He aggressively asked, lifting a fist. You'd better…
He saw his father and then his expression completely changed.
- Father! What are you doing here? (He turned to Holmes and me.) Who are you?
Holmes it was who answered:
- My name is Sherlock Holmes, and here's my friend Dr. Watson. Sorry for that violent awakening. Your father hired me to find you. I was afraid to come too late, but it seems you needed some… encouragement for doing what you wanted to do.
The young man sat on his bed, massaging his aching head. Rafferty came next to him.
- Nicholas… Why?
Father and son looked at each other, without speaking. Holmes came to the window and lighted his pipe.
- Killing somebody has never been a solution, he said.
Astonished, Rafferty lifted his head to Holmes then he turned back to his son who remained silent.
- Killing? He repeated. What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?
- I can't believe you have not understood yet, Mr. Rafferty. Your son came here to kill the man who seduced and abandoned his sister. Please don't break in on. He and me know who that man is. Since we are here, I think we can busy ourselves with that… character. What do you think of it?
We were introduced into a richly decorated living-room. Standing before the fireplace, our hostess looked at us with a mix of perplexity, distrust and curiosity. Describing her is hard to me. She looked like an emanation of the house rather than a person. Her green eyes were so clear than they were almost transparent, and her hair glowed like a forest fire.
- Good afternoon, Gentlemen. It's a great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes, but I don't see…
- We won't take much of your time, Madam. I only want to tell you a story.
Then he told her the distressing story of Sarah Rafferty. Our hostess showed some emotion, but she obviously wondered how she was concerned in it. As a conclusion, Holmes answered her silent question.
- What I'm going to say is not agreeable to hear, but I think that your husband is the man in question.
Transparent eyes flapped; she draws a chair towards her and sat down.
- No. That is impossible. I can't believe it.
- I'm afraid there's no doubt about it.
Holmes tried to be commiserative, but one felt some impatience from him too.
Our hostess lifted her head to my friend:
- No. I don't believe you. You must be wrong.
Holmes took the book out of his pocket, opened it at the marked page, and held it out to her.
- Please read the underline passage.
She obeyed.
- I don't understand what you mean, she said when she finished reading. What is it supposed to prove?
Holmes gave her the picture of Sarah Rafferty. She took it and looked at with obvious irritation.
- I don't…, she started, anger breaking through her voice.
She didn't end. She had noticed something. For a long moment, her eyes went from the picture to the book and return. We saw her passing from incredulity to pain and finally to repressed wrath.
- Excuse me, Mr. Holmes, she said with dignity. You were right, and I was wrong.
She gave back Holmes both picture and book, then she rose and went to the window. Visibly making a strong effort to not cry before us, she nodded and turned to Thomas and Nicholas Rafferty, who had remained silent since we came in.
- I'm sorry for Miss Sarah.
Then her head slowly fell on her chest. Holmes made us sign it was time to go.
- We too are sorry for you. This man is only good to hurt the people who love him. Don't bother to accompany us. Goodbye, Mrs. Worthington.
I had many questions to ask my friend, but I controlled my curiosity until we were at Baker Street.
- It was quite simple, he said, taking his violin. In fact, you even had the best of it from the beginning.
- The best of it? What is that joke? Don't mock me, Holmes!
- But I don't mock you, Watson. You read that book, and me not. You had all elements to conclude at your disposal. Alas! You belong to that kind of reader who forgets a book as soon as it has finished reading.
Sherlock Holmes is my friend, but it's often hard to me to not knocking him down. I could control myself once more.
- Yes, Holmes, I am a bad reader. Now tell me all.
Holmes began to play, closing his eyes.
- The heart of that story lies on page 135 of Mr. J.A. Worthington's "The Sun Peacock". Take your copy in the library.
I did it and went back to my chair. Holmes had stopped playing and he looked at me.
- Before reading, I want you remember the picture of Sarah Rafferty her father showed us… Think of that beautiful girl, of her splendid dark hair, her fresh carnation, her beautiful mouth with that mole in the corner. Remember that Mr. Rafferty told us her seducer was an artist. Think of all that when you'll read it. And you'll understand what Nicholas Rafferty and Mrs. Worthington understood.
I opened the book and found the concerned page. It was a passage in which the hero read one of his poems, "Goddess", to his friends. The first strophes were rather boring, in a pseudo-Tennyson way, but I couldn't help gasping when I discovered the last lines.
- Do you see now? Holmes softly asked.
Yes, I saw. I re-read it, aloud this time.
…Because I can't move away from you, my dark lady
I'm alike that black fly laying beside your mouth.
- For average reader, it was only a passable metaphor, Holmes said. And I'm afraid it was the same to Mr. Worthington. But Nicholas Rafferty went beyond. He read between the lines. And he knew that "poet" talked about his sister.
THE END.