



                        THE ADVENTURE OF THE LION'S MANE

                               Arthur Conan Doyle



     It is a most singular thing that a problem which was certainly as
     abstruse and unusual as any which I have faced in my long
     professional career should have come to me after my retirement, and
     be brought, as it were, to my very door. It occurred after my
     withdrawal to my little Sussex home, when I had given myself up
     entirely to that soothing life of Nature for which I had so often
     yearned during the long years spent amid the gloom of London. At this
     period of my life the good Watson had passed almost beyond my ken. An
     occasional week-end visit was the most that I ever saw of him. Thus I
     must act as my own chronicler. Ah! had he but been with me, how much
     he might have made of so wonderful a happening and of my eventual
     triumph against every difficulty! As it is, however, I must needs
     tell my tale in my own plain way, showing by my words each step upon
     the difficult road which lay before me as I searched for the mystery
     of the Lion's Mane.

     My villa is situated upon the southern slope of the downs, commanding
     a great view of the Channel. At this point the coast-line is entirely
     of chalk cliffs, which can only be descended by a single, long,
     tortuous path, which is steep and slippery. At the bottom of the path
     lie a hundred yards of pebbles and shingle, even when the tide is at
     full. Here and there, however, there are curves and hollows which
     make splendid swimming-pools filled afresh with each flow. This
     admirable beach extends for some miles in each direction, save only
     at one point where the little cove and village of Fulworth break the
     line.

     My house is lonely. I, my old housekeeper, and my bees have the
     estate all to ourselves. Half a mile off, however, is Harold
     Stackhurst's well-known coaching establishment, The Gables, quite a
     large place, which contains some score of young fellows preparing for
     various professions, with a staff of several masters. Stackhurst
     himself was a well-known rowing Blue in his day, and an excellent
     all-round scholar. He and I were always friendly from the day I came
     to the coast, and he was the one man who was on such terms with me
     that we could drop in on each other in the evenings without an
     invitation.

     Towards the end of July, 1907, there was a severe gale, the wind
     blowing up-channel, heaping the seas to the base of the cliffs and
     leaving a lagoon at the turn of the tide. On the morning of which I
     speak the wind had abated, and all Nature was newly washed and fresh.
     It was impossible to work upon so delightful a day, and I strolled
     out before breakfast to enjoy the exquisite air. I walked along the
     cliff path which led to the steep descent to the beach. As I walked I
     heard a shout behind me, and there was Harold Stackhurst waving his
     hand in cheery greeting.

     "What a morning, Mr. Holmes! I thought I should see you out."

     "Going for a swim, I see."

     "At your old tricks again," he laughed, patting his bulging pocket.
     "Yes. McPherson started early, and I expect I may find him there."

     Fitzroy McPherson was the science master, a fine upstanding young
     fellow whose life had been crippled by heart trouble following
     rheumatic fever. He was a natural athlete, however, and excelled in
     every game which did not throw too great a strain upon him. Summer
     and winter he went for his swim, and, as I am a swimmer myself, I
     have often joined him.

     At this moment we saw the man himself. His head showed above the edge
     of the cliff where the path ends. Then his whole figure appeared at
     the top, staggering like a drunken man. The next instant he threw up
     his hands and, with a terrible cry, fell upon his face. Stackhurst
     and I rushed forward--it may have been fifty yards--and turned him on
     his back. He was obviously dying. Those glazed sunken eyes and
     dreadful livid cheeks could mean nothing else. One glimmer of life
     came into his face for an instant, and he uttered two or three words
     with an eager air of warning. They were slurred and indistinct, but
     to my ear the last of them, which burst in a shriek from his lips,
     were "the Lion's Mane." It was utterly irrelevant and unintelligible,
     and yet I could twist the sound into no other sense. Then he half
     raised himself from the ground, threw his arms into the air, and fell
     forward on his side. He was dead.

     My companion was paralyzed by the sudden horror of it, but I, as may
     well be imagined, had every sense on the alert. And I had need, for
     it was speedily evident that we were in the presence of an
     extraordinary case. The man was dressed only in his Burberry
     overcoat, his trousers, and an unlaced pair of canvas shoes. As he
     fell over, his Burberry, which had been simply thrown round his
     shoulders, slipped off, exposing his trunk. We stared at it in
     amazement. His back was covered with dark red lines as though he had
     been terribly flogged by a thin wire scourge. The instrument with
     which this punishment had been inflicted was clearly flexible, for
     the long, angry weals curved round his shoulders and ribs. There was
     blood dripping down his chin, for he had bitten through his lower lip
     in the paroxysm of his agony. His drawn and distorted face told how
     terrible that agony had been.

     I was kneeling and Stackhurst standing by the body when a shadow fell
     across us, and we found that Ian Murdoch was by our side. Murdoch was
     the mathematical coach at the establishment, a tall, dark, thin man,
     so taciturn and aloof that none can be said to have been his friend.
     He seemed to live in some high, abstract region of surds and conic
     sections, with little to connect him with ordinary life. He was
     looked upon as an oddity by the students, and would have been their
     butt, but there was some strange outlandish blood in the man, which
     showed itself not only in his coal-black eyes and swarthy face but
     also in occasional outbreaks of temper, which could only be described
     as ferocious. On one occasion, being plagued by a little dog
     belonging to McPherson, he had caught the creature up and hurled it
     through the plate-glass window, an action for which Stackhurst would
     certainly have given him his dismissal had he not been a very
     valuable teacher. Such was the strange complex man who now appeared
     beside us. He seemed to be honestly shocked at the sight before him,
     though the incident of the dog may show that there was no great
     sympathy 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. I
     have come straight from The Gables. What can I do?"

     "You can hurry to the police-station at Fulworth. Report the matter
     at once."

     Without a word he made off at top speed, and I proceeded to take the
     matter in hand, while Stackhurst, dazed at this tragedy, remained by
     the body. My first task naturally was to note who was on the beach.
     From the top of the path I could see the whole sweep of it, and it
     was absolutely deserted save that two or three dark figures could be
     seen far away moving towards the village of Fulworth. Having
     satisfied myself upon this point, I walked slowly down the path.
     There was clay or soft marl mixed with the chalk, and every here and
     there I saw the same footstep, both ascending and descending. No one
     else had gone down to the beach by this track that morning. At one
     place I observed the print of an open hand with the fingers towards
     the incline. This could only mean that poor McPherson had fallen as
     he ascended. There were rounded depressions, too, which suggested
     that he had come down upon his knees more than once. At the bottom of
     the path was the considerable lagoon left by the retreating tide. At
     the side of 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 had never entered the water. Once or twice as I hunted round amid
     the hard shingle I came on little patches of sand where the print of
     his canvas shoe, and also of his naked foot, could be seen. The
     latter fact proved that he had made all ready to bathe, though the
     towel indicated that he had not actually done so.

     And here was the problem clearly defined--as strange a one as had
     ever confronted me. The man had not been on the beach more than a
     quarter of an hour at the most. Stackhurst had followed him from The
     Gables, so there could be no doubt about that. He had gone to bathe
     and had stripped, as the naked footsteps showed. Then he had suddenly
     huddled on his clothes again--they were all dishevelled and
     unfastened--and he had returned without bathing, or at any rate
     without drying himself. And the reason for his change of purpose had
     been that he had been scourged in some savage, inhuman fashion,
     tortured until he bit his lip through in his agony, and was left with
     only strength enough to crawl away and to die. Who had done this
     barbarous deed? There were, it is true, small grottos and caves in
     the base of the cliffs, but the low sun shone directly into them, and
     there was no place for concealment. Then, again, there were those
     distant figures on the beach. They seemed too far away to have been
     connected with the crime, and the broad lagoon in which McPherson had
     intended to bathe lay between him and them, lapping up to the rocks.
     On the sea two or three fishing-boats were at no great distance.
     Their occupants might be examined at our leisure. There were several
     roads for inquiry, but none which led to any very obvious goal.

     When I at last returned to the body I found that a little group of
     wondering folk had gathered round it. Stackhurst was, of course,
     still there, and Ian Murdoch had just arrived with Anderson, the
     village constable, a big, ginger-moustached man of the slow, solid
     Sussex breed--a breed which covers much good 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 for me
     to handle, and I'll hear of it from Lewes if I go wrong."

     I advised him to send for his immediate superior, and for a doctor;
     also to allow nothing to be moved, and as few fresh footmarks as
     possible to be made, until they came. In the meantime I searched the
     dead man's pockets. There were his handkerchief, a large knife, and a
     small folding card-case. From this projected a slip of paper, which I
     unfolded and handed to the constable. 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 where
     were a blank. The constable replaced it in the card-case and returned
     it with the other things to the pockets of the Burberry. Then, as
     nothing more suggested itself, I walked back to my house for
     breakfast, having first arranged that the base of the cliffs should
     be thoroughly searched.

     Stackhurst was round in an hour or two to tell me that the body had
     been removed to The Gables, where the inquest would be held. He
     brought with him some serious and definite news. As I expected,
     nothing had been found in the small caves below the cliff, but he had
     examined the papers in McPherson's desk, and there were several which
     showed an intimate correspondence with a certain Miss Maud Bellamy,
     of Fulworth. We had then established the identity of the writer of
     the note.

     "The police have the letters," he explained. "I could not bring them.
     But there is no doubt that it was a serious love affair. I see no
     reason, however, to connect it with that horrible happening save,
     indeed, that the lady had made an appointment with him."

     "But hardly at a bathing-pool which all of you were in the habit of
     using," I remarked.

     "It is mere chance," said he, "that several of the students were not
     with McPherson."

     "Was it mere chance?"

     Stackhurst knit his brows in thought.

     "Ian Murdoch held them back," said he. "He would insist upon some
     algebraic demonstration before breakfast. Poor chap, he is dreadfully
     cut up about it all."

     "And yet I gather that they were not friends."

     "At one time they were not. But for a year or more Murdoch has been
     as near to McPherson as he ever could be to anyone. He is not of a
     very sympathetic disposition by nature."

     "So I understand. I seem to remember your telling me once about a
     quarrel over the ill-usage of a dog."

     "That blew over all right."

     "But left some vindictive feeling, perhaps."

     "No, no, I am sure they were real friends."

     "Well, then, we must explore the matter of the girl. Do you know
     her?"

     "Everyone knows her. She is the beauty of the neighbourhood--a real
     beauty, Holmes, who would draw attention everywhere. I knew that
     McPherson was attracted by her, but I had no notion that it had gone
     so far as these letters would seem to indicate."

     "But who is she?"

     "She is the daughter of old Tom Bellamy, who owns all the boats and
     bathing-cots at Fulworth. He was a fisherman to start with, but is
     now a man of some substance. He and his son William run the
     business."

     "Shall we walk into Fulworth and see them?"

     "On what pretext?"

     "Oh, we can easily find a pretext. After all, this poor man did not
     ill-use himself in this outrageous way. Some human hand was on the
     handle of that scourge, if indeed it was a scourge which inflicted
     the injuries. His circle of acquaintances in this lonely place was
     surely limited. Let us follow it up in every direction and we can
     hardly fail to come upon the motive, which in turn should lead us to
     the criminal."

     It would have been a pleasant walk across the thyme-scented downs had
     our minds not been poisoned by the tragedy we had witnessed. The
     village of Fulworth lies in a hollow curving in a semicircle round
     the bay. Behind the old-fashioned hamlet several modern houses have
     been built upon the rising ground. It was to one of these that
     Stackhurst guided me.

     "That's The Haven, as Bellamy called it. The one with the corner
     tower and slate roof. Not bad for a man who started with nothing
     but-- By Jove, look at that!"

     The garden gate of The Haven had opened and a man had emerged. There
     was no mistaking that tall, angular, straggling figure. It was Ian
     Murdoch, the mathematician. A moment later we confronted him upon the
     road.

     "Hullo!" said Stackhurst. The man nodded, gave us a sideways glance
     from his curious dark eyes, and would have passed us, but his
     principal pulled him up.

     "What were you doing there?" he asked.

     Murdoch's face flushed with anger. "I am your subordinate, sir, under
     your roof. I am not aware that I owe you any account of my private
     actions."

     Stackhurst's nerves were near the surface after all he had endured.
     Otherwise, perhaps, he would have waited. Now he lost his temper
     completely.

     "In the circumstances your answer is pure impertinence, Mr. Murdoch."

     "Your own question might perhaps come under the same heading."

     "This is not the first time that I have had to overlook your
     insubordinate ways. It will certainly be the last. You will kindly
     make fresh arrangements for your future as speedily as you can."

     "I had intended to do so. I have lost to-day the only person who made
     The Gables habitable."

     He strode off upon his way, while Stackhurst, with angry eyes, stood
     glaring after him. "Is he not an impossible, intolerable man?" he
     cried.

     The one thing that impressed itself forcibly upon my mind was that
     Mr. Ian Murdoch was taking the first chance to open a path of escape
     from the scene of the crime. Suspicion, vague and nebulous, was now
     beginning to take outline in my mind. Perhaps the visit to the
     Bellamys might throw some further light upon the matter. Stackhurst
     pulled himself together, and we went forward to the house.

     Mr. Bellamy proved to be a middle-aged man with a flaming red beard.
     He seemed to be in a very angry mood, and his face was soon as florid
     as his hair.

     "No, sir, I do not desire any particulars. My son here"--indicating a
     powerful young man, with a heavy, sullen face, in the corner of the
     sitting-room--"is of one mind with me that Mr. McPherson's attentions
     to Maud were insulting. Yes, sir, the word 'marriage' was never
     mentioned, and yet there were letters and meetings, and a great deal
     more of which neither of us could approve. She has no mother, and we
     are her only guardians. We are determined--"

     But the words were taken from his mouth by the appearance of the lady
     herself. There was no gainsaying that she would have graced any
     assembly in the world. Who could have imagined that so rare a flower
     would grow from such a root and in such an atmosphere? Women have
     seldom been an attraction to me, for my brain has always governed my
     heart, but I could not look upon her perfect clear-cut face, with all
     the soft freshness of the downlands in her delicate colouring,
     without realizing that no young man would cross her path unscathed.
     Such was the girl who had pushed open the door and stood now,
     wide-eyed and intense, in front of Harold Stackhurst.

     "I know already that Fitzroy is dead," she said. "Do not be afraid to
     tell me the particulars."

     "This other gentleman of yours let us know the news," explained the
     father.

     "There is no reason why my sister should be brought into the matter,"
     growled the younger man.

     The sister turned a sharp, fierce look upon him. "This is my
     business, William. Kindly leave me to manage it in my own way. By all
     accounts there has been a crime committed. If I can help to show who
     did it, it is the least I can do for him who is gone."

     She listened to a short account from my companion, with a composed
     concentration which showed me that she possessed strong character as
     well as great beauty. Maud Bellamy will always remain in my memory as
     a most complete and remarkable woman. It seems that she already knew
     me by sight, for she turned to me at the end.

     "Bring them to justice, Mr. Holmes. You have my sympathy and my help,
     whoever they may be." It seemed to me that she glanced defiantly at
     her father and brother as she spoke.

     "Thank you," said I. "I value a woman's instinct in such matters. You
     use the word 'they.' You think that more than one was concerned?"

     "I knew Mr. McPherson well enough to be aware that he was a brave and
     a strong man. No single person could ever have inflicted such an
     outrage upon him."

     "Might I have one word with you alone?"

     "I tell you, Maud, not to mix yourself up in the matter," cried her
     father angrily.

     She looked at me helplessly. "What can I do?"

     "The whole world will know the facts presently, so there can be no
     harm if I discuss them here," said I. "I should have preferred
     privacy, but if your father will not allow it he must share the
     deliberations." Then I spoke of the note which had been found in the
     dead man's pocket. "It is sure to be produced at the inquest. May I
     ask you to throw any light upon it that you can?"

     "I see no reason for mystery," she answered. "We were engaged to be
     married, and we only kept it secret because Fitzroy's uncle, who is
     very old and said to be dying, might have disinherited him if he had
     married against his wish. There was no other reason."

     "You could have told us," growled Mr. Bellamy.

     "So I would, father, if you had ever shown sympathy."

     "I object to my girl picking up with men outside her own station."

     "It was your prejudice against him which prevented us from telling
     you. As to this appointment"--she fumbled in her dress and produced a
     crumpled note--"it was in answer to this."

     Dearest [ran the message]:
     The old place on the beach just after sunset on Tuesday. It is the
     only time I can get away.
     F. M.

     "Tuesday was to-day, and I had meant to meet him to-night."

     I turned over the paper. "This never came by post. How did you get
     it?"

     "I would rather not answer that question. It has really nothing to do
     with the matter which you are investigating. But anything which bears
     upon that I will most freely answer."

     She was as good as her word, but there was nothing which was helpful
     in our investigation. She had no reason to think that her fiance had
     any hidden enemy, but she admitted that she had had several warm
     admirers.

     "May I ask if Mr. Ian Murdoch was one of them?"

     She blushed and seemed confused.

     "There was a time when I thought he was. But that was all changed
     when he understood the relations between Fitzroy and myself."

     Again the shadow round this strange man seemed to me to be taking
     more definite shape. His record must be examined. His rooms must be
     privately searched. Stackhurst was a willing collaborator, for in his
     mind also suspicions were forming. We returned from our visit to The
     Haven with the hope that one free end of this tangled skein was
     already in our hands.

     A week passed. The inquest had thrown no light upon the matter and
     had been adjourned for further evidence. Stackhurst had made discreet
     inquiry about his subordinate, and there had been a superficial
     search of his room, but without result. Personally, I had gone over
     the whole ground again, both physically and mentally, but with no new
     conclusions. In all my chronicles the reader will find no case which
     brought me so completely to the limit of my powers. Even my
     imagination could conceive no solution to the mystery. And then there
     came the incident of the dog.

     It was my old housekeeper who heard of it first by that strange
     wireless by which such people collect the news of the countryside.

     "Sad story this, sir, about Mr. McPherson's dog," said she one
     evening.

     I do not encourage such conversations, but the words arrested my
     attention.

     "What of Mr. McPherson's dog?"

     "Dead, sir. Died of grief for its master."

     "Who told you this?"

     "Why, sir, everyone is talking of it. It took on terrible, and has
     eaten nothing for a week. Then to-day two of the young gentlemen from
     The Gables found it dead--down on the beach, sir, at the very place
     where its master met his end."

     "At the very place." The words stood out clear in my memory. Some dim
     perception that the matter was vital rose in my mind. That the dog
     should die was after the beautiful, faithful nature of dogs. But "in
     the very place"! Why should this lonely beach be fatal to it? Was it
     possible that it also had been sacrificed to some revengeful feud?
     Was it possible--? Yes, the perception was dim, but already something
     was building up in my mind. In a few minutes I was on my way to The
     Gables, where I found Stackhurst in his study. At my request he sent
     for Sudbury and Blount, the two students who had found the dog.

     "Yes, it lay on the very edge of the pool," said one of them. "It
     must have followed the trail of its dead master."

     I saw the faithful little creature, an Airedale terrier, laid out
     upon the mat in the hall. The body was stiff and rigid, the eyes
     projecting, and the limbs contorted. There was agony in every line of
     it.

     From The Gables I walked down to the bathing-pool. The sun had sunk
     and the shadow of the great cliff lay black across the water, which
     glimmered dully like a sheet of lead. The place was deserted and
     there was no sign of life save for two sea-birds circling and
     screaming overhead. In the fading light I could dimly make out the
     little dog's spoor upon the sand round the very rock on which his
     master's towel had been laid. For a long time I stood in deep
     meditation while the shadows grew darker around me. My mind was
     filled with racing thoughts. You have known what it was to be in a
     nightmare in which you feel that there is some all-important thing
     for which you search and which you know is there, though it remains
     forever just beyond your reach. That was how I felt that evening as I
     stood alone by that place of death. Then at last I turned and walked
     slowly homeward.

     I had just reached the top of the path when it came to me. Like a
     flash, I remembered the thing for which I had so eagerly and vainly
     grasped. You will know, or Watson has written in vain, that I hold a
     vast store of out-of-the-way knowledge without scientific system, but
     very available for the needs of my work. My mind is like a crowded
     box-room with packets of all sorts stowed away therein--so many that
     I may well have but a vague perception of what was there. I had known
     that there was something which might bear upon this matter. It was
     still vague, but at least I knew how I could make it clear. It was
     monstrous, incredible, and yet it was always a possibility. I would
     test it to the full.

     There is a great garret in my little house which is stuffed with
     books. It was into this that I plunged and rummaged for an hour. At
     the end of that time I emerged with a little chocolate and silver
     volume. Eagerly I turned up the chapter of which I had a dim
     remembrance. Yes, it was indeed a far-fetched and unlikely
     proposition, and yet I could not be at rest until I had made sure if
     it might, indeed, be so. It was late when I retired, with my mind
     eagerly awaiting the work of the morrow.

     But that work met with an annoying interruption. I had hardly
     swallowed my early cup of tea and was starting for the beach when I
     had a call from Inspector Bardle of the Sussex Constabulary--a
     steady, solid, bovine man with thoughtful eyes, which looked at me
     now with a very troubled expression.

     "I know your immense experience, sir," said he. "This is quite
     unofficial, of course, and need go no farther. But I am fairly up
     against it in this McPherson case. The question is, shall I make an
     arrest, or shall I not?"

     "Meaning Mr. Ian Murdoch?"

     "Yes, sir. There is really no one else when you come to think of it.
     That's the advantage of this solitude. We narrow it down to a very
     small compass. If he did not do it, then who did?"

     "What have you against him?"

     He had gleaned along the same furrows as I had. There was Murdoch's
     character and the mystery which seemed to hang round the man. His
     furious bursts of temper, as shown in the incident of the dog. The
     fact that he had quarrelled with McPherson in the past, and that
     there was some reason to think that he might have resented his
     attentions to Miss Bellamy. He had all my points, but no fresh ones,
     save that Murdoch seemed to be making every preparation for
     departure.

     "What would my position be if I let him slip away with all this
     evidence against him?" The burly, phlegmatic man was sorely troubled
     in his mind.

     "Consider," I said, "all the essential gaps in your case. On the
     morning of the crime he can surely prove an alibi. He had been with
     his scholars till the last moment, and within a few minutes of
     McPherson's appearance he came upon us from behind. Then bear in mind
     the absolute impossibility that he could single-handed have inflicted
     this outrage upon a man quite as strong as himself. Finally, there is
     this question of the instrument with which these injuries were
     inflicted."

     "What could it be but a scourge or flexible whip of some sort?"

     "Have you examined the marks?" I asked.

     "I have seen them. So has the doctor."

     "But I have examined them very carefully with a lens. They have
     peculiarities."

     "What are they, Mr. Holmes?"

     I stepped to my bureau and brought out an enlarged photograph. "This
     is my method in such cases," I explained.

     "You certainly do things thoroughly, Mr. Holmes."

     "I should hardly be what I am if I did not. Now let us consider this
     weal which extends round the right shoulder. Do you observe nothing
     remarkable?"

     "I can't say I do."

     "Surely it is evident that it is unequal in its intensity. There is a
     dot of extravasated blood here, and another there. There are similar
     indications in this other weal down here. What can that mean?"

     "I have no idea. Have you?"

     "Perhaps I have. Perhaps I haven't. I may be able to say more soon.
     Anything which will define what made that mark will bring us a long
     way towards the criminal."

     "It is, of course, an absurd idea," said the policeman, "but if a
     red-hot net of wire had been laid across the back, then these better
     marked points would represent where the meshes crossed each other."

     "A most ingenious comparison. Or shall we say a very stiff
     cat-o'-nine-tails with small hard knots upon it?"

     "By Jove, Mr. Holmes, I think you have hit it."

     "Or there may be some very different cause, Mr. Bardle. But your case
     is far too weak for an arrest. Besides, we have those last words--the
     'Lion's Mane.'"

     "I have wondered whether Ian--"

     "Yes, I have considered that. If the second word had borne any
     resemblance to Murdoch--but it did not. He gave it almost in a
     shriek. I am sure that it was 'Mane.'"

     "Have you no alternative, Mr. Holmes?"

     "Perhaps I have. But I do not care to discuss it until there is
     something more solid to discuss."

     "And when will that be?"

     "In an hour--possibly less."

     The inspector rubbed his chin and looked at me with dubious eyes.

     "I wish I could see what was in your mind, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps it's
     those fishing-boats."

     "No, no, they were too far out."

     "Well, then, is it Bellamy and that big son of his? They were not too
     sweet upon Mr. McPherson. Could they have done him a mischief?"

     "No, no, you won't draw me until I am ready," said I with a smile.
     "Now, Inspector, we each have our own work to do. Perhaps if you were
     to meet me here at midday--"

     So far we had got when there came the tremendous interruption which
     was the beginning of the end.

     My outer door was flung open, there were blundering footsteps in the
     passage, and Ian Murdoch staggered into the room, pallid,
     dishevelled, his clothes in wild disorder, clawing with his bony
     hands at the furniture to hold himself erect. "Brandy! Brandy!" he
     gasped, and fell groaning upon the sofa.

     He was not alone. Behind him came Stackhurst, hatless and panting,
     almost as distrait as his companion.

     "Yes, yes, brandy!" he cried. "The man is at his last gasp. It was
     all I could do to bring him here. He fainted twice upon the way."

     Half a tumbler of the raw spirit brought about a wondrous change. He
     pushed himself up on one arm and swung his coat from his shoulders.
     "For God's sake, oil, opium, morphia!" he cried. "Anything to ease
     this infernal agony!"

     The inspector and I cried out at the sight. There, crisscrossed upon
     the man's naked shoulder, was the same strange reticulated pattern of
     red, inflamed lines which had been the death-mark of Fitzroy
     McPherson.

     The pain was evidently terrible and was more than local, for the
     sufferer's breathing would stop for a time, his face would turn
     black, and then with loud gasps he would clap his hand to his heart,
     while his brow dropped beads of sweat. At any moment he might die.
     More and more brandy was poured down his throat, each fresh dose
     bringing him back to life. Pads of cotton-wool soaked in salad-oil
     seemed to take the agony from the strange wounds. At last his head
     fell heavily upon the cushion. Exhausted Nature had taken refuge in
     its last storehouse of vitality. It was half a sleep and half a
     faint, but at least it was ease from pain.

     To question him had been impossible, but the moment we were assured
     of his condition Stackhurst turned upon me.

     "My God!" he cried, "what is it, Holmes? What is it?"

     "Where did you find him?"

     "Down on the beach. Exactly where poor McPherson met his end. If this
     man's heart had been weak as McPherson's was, he would not be here
     now. More than once I thought he was gone as I brought him up. It was
     too far to The Gables, so I made for you."

     "Did you see him on the beach?"

     "I was walking on the cliff when I heard his cry. He was at the edge
     of the water, reeling about like a drunken man. I ran down, threw
     some clothes about him, and brought him up. For heaven's sake,
     Holmes, use all the powers you have and spare no pains to lift the
     curse from this place, for life is becoming unendurable. Can you,
     with all your world-wide reputation, do nothing for us?"

     "I think I can, Stackhurst. Come with me now! And you, Inspector,
     come along! We will see if we cannot deliver this murderer into your
     hands."

     Leaving the unconscious man in the charge of my housekeeper, we all
     three went down to the deadly lagoon. On the shingle there was piled
     a little heap of towels and clothes left by the stricken man. Slowly
     I walked round the edge of the water, my comrades in Indian file
     behind me. Most of the pool was quite shallow, but under the cliff
     where the beach was hollowed out it was four or five feet deep. It
     was to this part that a swimmer would naturally go, for it formed a
     beautiful pellucid green pool as clear as crystal. A line of rocks
     lay above it at the base of the cliff, and along this I led the way,
     peering eagerly into the depths beneath me. I had reached the deepest
     and stillest pool when my eyes caught that for which they were
     searching, and I burst into a shout of triumph.

     "Cyanea!" I cried. "Cyanea! Behold the Lion's Mane!"

     The strange object at which I pointed did indeed look like a tangled
     mass torn from the mane of a lion. It lay upon a rocky shelf some
     three feet under the water, a curious waving, vibrating, hairy
     creature with streaks of silver among its yellow tresses. It pulsated
     with a slow, heavy dilation and contraction.

     "It has done mischief enough. Its day is over!" I cried. "Help me,
     Stackhurst! Let us end the murderer forever."

     There was a big boulder just above the ledge, and we pushed it until
     it fell with a tremendous splash into the water. When the ripples had
     cleared we saw that it had settled upon the ledge below. One flapping
     edge of yellow membrane showed that our victim was beneath it. A
     thick oily scum oozed out from below the stone and stained the water
     round, rising slowly to the surface.

     "Well, this gets me!" cried the inspector. "What was it, Mr. Holmes?
     I'm born and bred in these parts, but I never saw such a thing. It
     don't belong to Sussex."

     "Just as well for Sussex," I remarked. "It may have been the
     southwest gale that brought it up. Come back to my house, both of
     you, and I will give you the terrible experience of one who has good
     reason to remember his own meeting with the same peril of the seas."

     When we reached my study we found that Murdoch was so far recovered
     that he could sit up. He was dazed in mind, and every now and then
     was shaken by a paroxysm of pain. In broken words he explained that
     he had no notion what had occurred to him, save that terrific pangs
     had suddenly shot through him, and that it had taken all his
     fortitude to reach the bank.

     "Here is a book," I said, taking up the little volume, "which first
     brought light into what might have been forever dark. It is Out of
     Doors, by the famous observer, J. G. Wood. Wood himself very nearly
     perished from contact with this vile creature, so he wrote with a
     very full knowledge. Cyanea capillata is the miscreant's full name,
     and he can be as dangerous to life as, and far more painful than, the
     bite of the cobra. Let me briefly give this extract.

     "If the bather should see a loose roundish mass of tawny membranes
     and fibres, something like very large handfuls of lion's mane and
     silver paper, let him beware, for this is the fearful stinger, Cyanea
     capillata.

     Could our sinister acquaintance be more clearly described?

     "He goes on to tell of his own encounter with one when swimming off
     the coast of Kent. He found that the creature radiated almost
     invisible filaments to the distance of fifty feet, and that anyone
     within that circumference from the deadly centre was in danger of
     death. Even at a distance the effect upon Wood was almost fatal.

     "The multitudinous threads caused light scarlet lines upon the skin
     which on closer examination resolved into minute dots or pustules,
     each dot charged as it were with a red-hot needle making its way
     through the nerves.

     "The local pain was, as he explains, the least part of the exquisite
     torment.

     "Pangs shot through the chest, causing me to fall as if struck by a
     bullet. The pulsation would cease, and then the heart would give six
     or seven leaps as if it would force its way through the chest.

     "It nearly killed him, although he had only been exposed to it in the
     disturbed ocean and not in the narrow calm waters of a bathing-pool.
     He says that he could hardly recognize himself afterwards, so white,
     wrinkled and shrivelled was his face. He gulped down brandy, a whole
     bottleful, and it seems to have saved his life. There is the book,
     Inspector. I leave it with you, and you cannot doubt that it contains
     a full explanation of the tragedy of poor McPherson."

     "And incidentally exonerates me," remarked Ian Murdoch with a wry
     smile. "I do not blame you, Inspector, nor you, Mr. Holmes, for your
     suspicions were natural. I feel that on the very eve of my arrest I
     have only cleared myself by sharing the fate of my poor friend."

     "No, Mr. Murdoch. I was already upon the track, and had I been out as
     early as I intended I might well have saved you from this terrific
     experience."

     "But how did you know, Mr. Holmes?"

     "I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for
     trifles. That phrase 'the Lion's Mane' haunted my mind. I knew that I
     had seen it somewhere in an unexpected context. You have seen that it
     does describe the creature. I have no doubt that it was floating on
     the water when McPherson saw it, and that this phrase was the only
     one by which he could convey to us a warning as to the creature which
     had been his death."

     "Then I, at least, am cleared," said Murdoch, rising slowly to his
     feet. "There are one or two words of explanation which I should give,
     for I know the direction in which your inquiries have run. It is true
     that I loved this lady, but from the day when she chose my friend
     McPherson my one desire was to help her to happiness. I was well
     content to stand aside and act as their go-between. Often I carried
     their messages, and it was because I was in their confidence and
     because she was so dear to me that I hastened to tell her of my
     friend's death, lest someone should forestall me in a more sudden and
     heartless manner. She would not tell you, sir, of our relations lest
     you should disapprove and I might suffer. But with your leave I must
     try to get back to The Gables, for my bed will be very welcome."

     Stackhurst held out his hand. "Our nerves have all been at
     concert-pitch," said he. "Forgive what is past, Murdoch. We shall
     understand each other better in the future." They passed out together
     with their arms linked in friendly fashion. The inspector remained,
     staring at me in silence with his ox-like eyes.

     "Well, you've done it!" he cried at last. "I had read of you, but I
     never believed it. It's wonderful!"

     I was forced to shake my head. To accept such praise was to lower
     one's own standards.

     "I was slow at the outset--culpably slow. Had the body been found in
     the water I could hardly have missed it. It was the towel which
     misled me. The poor fellow had never thought to dry himself, and so I
     in turn was led to believe that he had never been in the water. Why,
     then, should the attack of any water creature suggest itself to me?
     That was where I went astray. Well, well, Inspector, I often ventured
     to chaff you gentlemen of the police force, but Cyanea capillata very
     nearly avenged Scotland Yard."









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