by Enrico Solito
translation by Alessandro di Francia
- An interesting little note. - Said Sherlock Holmes, turning a gray-coloured card in his hands. - A few considerations could be made... But I would like to know your opinion first, Watson.
We were in our dining-room in Baker Sttreet, having breakfast. I hawoken up very early that morning, contrary to my habits, and I was quite astonished at finding my fellow lodger already up. But, as I knew well, Holmes' morning habits were as irregular as all his life was: he might not wake up until late just as he might be up before dawn, absorbed in the study of some unknown books of medieval literature, or pondering on the development of his latest case. I therefore simply said hello to him and sat down for breakfast, waiting for him to tell me the reasons for his early rising.
- The doorbell rang very early this morning, - said Holmes while buttering his bread and handing the card over to me. - Our poor landlady was thus forced out of bed, and so was I. As for you, I think I can deduce from your sleep's imperturbability that the Beaujolais we had last night at dinner was of a good quality...
- Undoubtedly so, - I grumbled - but you could have deduced it more easily from the terrible night I've had. When I fell asleep it was nearly dawning, and this is why I wasn' t awoken by the ringing of the bell. But, by the way, who was it? Surely the postman cannot have delivered it at that time.
- Splendid, Watson. No postman is so fond of his job as to doing it so early: on the other hand, as you see, the envelope has no postmark on it. As a matter of fact an urchin brought it here. Well well, a good start!
I tried not to be influenced by Holmes' slightly professional tone and to avoid being overtaken by the feeling of being under examination. I knew, also because of many past experiences, that at times my friend enjoyed showing off his ability, not with malice or any sense of superiority, but more as a demonstration of his skills and of the power of his deductive reasoning. Between us, this had grown to become some kind of a pleasant pastime, source of intellectual pleasure and of harmless relaxation. And, finally, I felt such a delight in discussing these subjects with Holmes that I would have put up with much more than his pulling my leg.
- It has been written hurriedly; - I ventured, - I think I can deduce it from the calligraphic characteristics.
- Really good; you amaze me, Watson. Go on, please.
- Well, - said I, encouraged by my friend's appreciation, - I would say it's a person not too used to writing, mediocre, badly dressed, his cuffs stained with grease. Finally, it is an impolite and ill-mannered person.
Sherlock Holmes burst into a laugh. - And where does all this come from?
- He said while reaching for a nimble-bowled, long red briar pipe and starting to fill it with shag tobacco.
- Don't you agree? It's so clear... The card isn't on letter-head paper, such as a man of the world would use; here and there letters are broken, with ink spots, evidently because the author of the message has no familiarity with the nib. It's dirty with grease, filthy and spotted in many places: I find it rather unlikely that a man with his hands and cuffs this dirty dresses decently. As to his character, anyone waking up people without even feeling he owes an apology cannot be called a well-educated person!
The great detective smiled while lightning his pipe, rose from his seat and started walking between puffs, the room slowly being filled with bluish aromatic clouds.
- There are some good points in your observations, my dear Watson, but you jump too quickly to conclusions. Guessing is never a good characteristic in a detective: it is essential to be able to risk something, but all in its time and place, and when firm facts are at hand. Now, what do we have here? A dirty card. If you look at it against the light, you will notice it is marked with the initials of the railway company that runs the Northern lines. It's one of those cards one finds in the premises of the stations, at the public's disposal. Its deplorable conditions are thus at least partly ascribed to the carelessness of the personnel employed on the maintenance of the premises, more than to that of the author of the message... The same for our friend's supposed inability to write: if you had ever written a
prescription using one of the nibs you find in a station, partly broken and badly stained as they are, I doubt if your medical colleagues would have allowed you to practice your profession. Nonetheless some of these spots ARE of a certain interest. You see this tiny black mark appearing half an inch on the right of every " t " ? On writing this note the author touches the card with his little finger's nail, and leaves an unmistakable sign: it's coal dust.
- A miner?
- Good, Watson. A man who arrives in London in the early morning from the North, who uses the supplies of the railway station to write us a note, who has coal dust under his nails, should belong to this category of workers. As to his character, you are right, he is a very resolute person: " I need to see you for a matter of the utmost importance. I'll be with you at 7:30am. James Pordees " . Well! Not even a goodbye! But he must have had his own reasons if he's dashed down to London in the heart of the night only to consult us. - Oh, - said he, glancing out of the window, - here he comes.
I didn't make it to look out too before the doorbell rang and had then to wait for our landlady to open the front door and for their footsteps to be heard coming up the stairs. When Holmes opened the door I found myself facing a stoutly built man with a fierce and resolute look on hisface. Contrary to what I had imagined, he was dressed in a simple but
presentable way, particularly without those features of untidiness I had supposed. If, and I had no reason to doubt it, he was indeed a miner, he must have dress in his Sunday best and gotten ready for this visit to Town: the traces of coal under his nails surely were the only signs of his profession. He entered the room and, after the usual compliments, he sat down and started talking in a deep and loud, though slightly hesitating, voice.
- I shall be brief, as I realize your time is precious: please help my mates and me in a difficult and important matter.
- Would you please make yourself clearer? What do you mean by " difficult and important " ?
- Two men have died, and I don't understand how.
Sherlock Holmes stretched out on the couch, half closing his eyes, while his hand searched for more tobacco in the Persian slipper close to him.
- You mean someone has been murdered?
The man shook his head vigorously. - No! - he said in a vibrant voice and clenching his fists, or so I thought. - My poor mates died in an accident. But maybe I'd best give this to you: this villainous newspaper will at least come of use, besides dishonouring us all.
He gave me a copy of a morning paper, fresh from the press, opened at page 5, and showed me an article. At a sign from Holmes, still smoking half laid down in his couch, I started to read.
" Latest news: tragedy in Yorkshire.Yesterday morning, a little after 4am, the lifeless bodies of two miners, died in a vile attempt at sabotage, were found in an old abandoned gallery of the Addleton mine. For some time now an action is taking place in the mine between the executives and some plotters stirring up the workmen. One of the victims was precisely one of them, although he had recently been employed in the executive staff; the other victim, known for being hot-headed, was one of the older miners, and a very experienced one too; the pair, James Weighton and Charles Rodbee, had been seen for the last time the other night, hanging about the entrance to the mine. The watchman, Thomas Cracksee, had noticed them, but the two had said they needed to go back into the mine to recover some valuables they had forgotten in there. Such a feeble excuse was anyway sufficient for the credulous watchman to let them pass. Cracksee then, having dozed off for a few minutes, had not worried in not having seen the couple coming out, thinking they had done so while he was asleep: and so it was that the tragic discovery was made only on the following morning, with the new turn of miners. The wicked pair had been caught by a leak of "grisou", the lethal gas that has already been the cause of many tragedies, while preparing a criminal deed that could have stopped the mine for weeks, even months, forcing the company to inactivity. What to say about such a sad event? Evidently class-hate so skillfully and poisonously scattered by the plotters among the poorest class of our workers has asked for yet another blood-share. There remains but to hope in the common sense and the moderation of our citizens, as well as in God's forgiveness towards the two assailants. "
The article continued in this line still for a good half-column, but no other facts were given. I closed the newspaper and turned towards our guest. - A sad event indeed. Still, it seems to be pretty clear: I fail to understand what kind of help you might want from mister Holmes. -
The big man tossed in the chair, too small for him, - It's the whole story that's wrong. You didn't know them, but I did. Weighton had been one of the chiefs of our union, up to a few months ago. Then, suddenly, he got promoted clerk, quitted the galleries and became a "
white collar " in the administrative offices. A betrayal far too filthy to pass unnoticed, and so it was that he was thrown out of the Union. Our reality is a difficult one, especially in this moment, with all this talking of strikes: we're like in a war, and there's no room for turncoats; Jim had been thrown out not only of the Union, but of the miners' village too...
- Did he go to live someplace else? - I asked, confused.
- On no, it wouldn't even be possible over there. I mean he kept living in the same place, but he didn't exist anymore for anyone: nobody would talk to him. Now, what was he doing all of a sudden with Rodbee, one of the elders of the group?
- Well, - I interjected - the latter might have tried to convince the first to get back to his old ideas...
- I know far too well we're all criminals to you, sir, - replied the miner with a bitter grin - but, believe it or not, I am sure neither old Rodbee nor any other member of the Union would have ever dreamed of doing such a thing. And then Rodbee, as I told you, was one of the most experienced between us. He never would have wandered out in the night, no help, in a dead gallery filled with grisou without taking a mask with him. Everybody knew there was gas there. No, the whole story stinks.
- Let me have it clearly. - Said Holmes after a moment of silence, - If I have it correctly you fear the traitor has been done with by old Rodbee for vengeance, and that he in turn tragically died. Is that so?
- I must confess this is one of the hypothesis that has been tormenting me since yesterday, and if it is correct a spiral of violence has already started among my people, and nothing will stop it... But I don't exclude any other hypothesis. I must be very frank with you, sirs: at this point the deaths of old Rodbee and of that traitor do upset me, but not under the political point of view. What really terrifies me is that this sad event might start up gossips that might be used by the executives against us. And at that point anything could happen, even an uprising, which I fear like plague because it would mean a ferocious repression: they would rid of us all. To make it very clear, - he continued after a moment, - if you pick up the case you'll have nothing but trouble. My mates will think you policemen, and I'll have a hard time holding them; as for the executives, they'll know it was I who called you, and will then think you on our side. What's more, I have no money of my own to pay for your help: so, I won't blame you if you refuse...
A long silence filled the room, broken only by the noises of the traffic beginning to stir in the early morning down in Baker Street. How many times such a lapse of silence had been the prologue to adventures I never will forget!
- I am sorry to disappoint you... - started Sherlock Holmes, getting to his feet.
- I feared as much. - Interrupted briskly Pordees, rising too. -I fooled myself thinking that your sense of justice would have you forgetting the difference of our status...
- I am sorry to disappoint you, - began once more my friend, impassive, -but I can assure you money doesn't interest me at all, provided that the case is of some interest: this time I'll work free of charge, but my way. I shall not, by any means, feel obliged to any concern towards you or your fellow-miners, and I shall accept the truth, whichever it be. I
am a faithful subject to the Crown, and thus I shall behave. Watson, will you join us? Good.
Half an hour later we were riding in the countryside with the Yorkshire Express. It was quite a long trip, and I had time to look carefully at our client. Pordees was a gloomy man, possibly anguished in that particular moment of his life, anyway very much absorbed, practical and basic in all he did. He gave the impression of a man with such thoughts in mind not to have time to waste with his fellows. The bitter bend of his mouth, the vertical wrinkles on his forehead, the knitted appearance of his eyebrows did not vanish, not even while he was resting.
It was taking advantage of one of these rare moments of the miner's dozing off that I was able to speak to Holmes about what had most worried me since that morning. - I don't mean to criticize you, my dear Holmes, but do you realize that by accepting this case you risk playing the Labourists' game?
Holmes shrugged. - So? Whose game would I play if I didn't accept it? No, Watson, I won't get caught in such a trap. I just go straight to the truth, without looking anyone in the face, whichever flag they might hide themselves under, and if others wish to gain from this, let them, if they think they can. It was you, after all, at the end of our first adventure, the one you later gave to press with the title " A Study in Scarlet " , to advise me to stand to Plauto: 'Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo/ ipse domi, simul ac nummos contemplor in arca'. And this is what I'm doing.
The trip to the small village of Addleton in Yorkshire was long and boring, and we arrived at dusk, in a shabby gig. It really was a poor little town, all gathered around the mine: similar to many others agglomerations of miners' families all over the Country. Darkness, quickly falling, emphasized the gloomy colours of the houses, clutched to one another as if not to fall, and crowded together as to form a halo around the building where the administrative offices were: almost depending on it, like their inhabitants, or maybe tightened all around it to be able to concentrate and listen, in the vain attempt to hearing the alarm nobody wished to hear, and that unfortunately at times wailed, and still wails, to signal terrible underground tragedies. It almost looked like the coal those people lived of had entered their lives as a doom, painting black roofs and shutters, streets, the very sky, where no star shone. From the closed windows there came no beam of light to speak of life, joy, the warmth of an hearth. Adding to this, the gloomy and heavy atmosphere I sensed was stressed by the unnatural silence and the tension the air was filled with. Our gig stopped in an open space - the only one we had come across until that moment riding through the village's filthy alleys - in front of a small building with a less sinister appearance, which we were told to be the administrative offices. Pordees led the way, looking around, worried.
- Bad business! - said he - They must all be in the funeral chamber. And the families locked up in their houses... bad, bad business! But here's the manager, Mister Dreeson.
Pordees introduced us with few dry words to the man who had come towards us and quickly left us. The maneger was a distinguished person, of about forty, soberly but smartly dressed. His face, framed by a thin beard, showed cleverness and openmindedness, while his gaze, open and straight, aroused a feeling of trust and liking.
- It is an honour for me, sirs, to speak to you: I know you by your good reputation. I am only sorry you've undertaken such a long trip for such a trivial matter - from your point of view, I mean. I anyway hope you will accept my hospitality as long as you stay here: there are no hotels here in Addleton, you see...
- What was the conclusion of the police? - asked Holmes, matter-of-factly.
- It was an accident, possibly after an attempt at sabotage, if we are to judge it by the dynamite and the slow matches they had with them... The inquest is open and will be discussed with the Coroner in the next few days. They ventured in an old, abandoned gallery, in a section where landslides are not uncommon: a landslip actually blocked the ventilation pit and the tunnel filled up with grisou in a few minutes. There was nothing to be done, poor fellows. Of course, as soon as the discovery was made I had the pit freed and opened, and now that part of the mine is still usable. What is not clear is whether Rodbee had lured the other inside the mine to murder him, and was then himself victim of the gas, or wether the two had entered the mine of their own will...
- But wasn't Weighton loyal to your executives?
The maneger opened his arms. - What shall I say, - he commented, - we were sure of it, but now... Until a few months ago he was one of the most active between the hot-headed: then he came to me and told me he had some problems... He made it clear he would happily have taken the right way if I had helped him. I thought he would have given us no more troubles.
- And how's the situation in the village now?
- We've had worse moments, but the atmosphere is quite heavy. The miners are bewildered, they don't know what to think. We fear rash acts from the usual fanatics. Those two sure made a big blunder: to blow up the pits! I'm trying to calm things down and have insisted on the Police not to scatter their men all over the place, but just to garrison the entry to the mine: but at the first accident I shall have to call for them; and God only knows what might happen then, I'm afraid!
- May we see the bodies?
- Only if their fellow-workers will allow you to. Again, to avoid accidents I had two different funeral chambers set up. They are both garrisoned by a small group of miners. If you're going there I'd best not be seen: I'm doing my best not to provoke them. Anything you might need, please ask for me.
We found the small rooms in the ground floor of the building now turned into funeral chambers: outside them, together with the victims' relatives and a group of miners, we found Pordees, who let us in. I shall not dwell on giving an account of those poor people's torment, nor of the dignified austerity of the miners. I was too used, because of my military experiences and profession, to seeing both death and the pain it causes to be too impressed by such a sight, no matter how much pitiful and touching. But I was struck by the difference in the treatment given to the two dead men: one, the " traitor " Weighton, laid in a coffin in the center of a bare and dark room, watched over only by his weeping dear ones, without a flower, without a friend to greet him a last goodbye; the other, Rodbee, was surrounded by his companions, by the grief and remembrance of all. So hard it is for men to forget, I thought, not to be able to do so even in front of She who will anyway make the one like the other...
- They have already delivered their sentence, Watson! - Whispered to me Sherlock Holmes. - May God forgive us all; us and our grudges...
With a few words from Pordees everyone left the rooms, reluctantly, not without having first glanced suspiciously at us, and Holmes was thus able to examine the corpses. He bent down to have a close look at both, observing their fingertips, their faces, their scalps. The examination was long and accurate, and my friend would have continued going from one room to the other for still some time, if a buzz in the outside corridor had not told us that the miners' patience was at an end.
- Shall we go, Watson? Let's see if our client will take us inside the mine!
- At this time of the night? - I couldn't possibly believe my ears. Us, inside a mine?
Holmes shrugged. - It's not so late after all. And as for darkness, I suppose down there night or day doesn't make any difference. But maybe you would like to dine first?
- Not at all! - I answered, dully. - I'm sure it would be quitedifficult to digest anything. But I confess the mere thought of going underground is quite unpleasant to me...
- Come, come! An old campaigner like you! And after all it is essential that I visit the place where everything happened: although now twenty-four hours have passed since the discovery , and almost two days since the event happened, we can always hope to find something of importance.
Pordees stared at us bewildered when my friend explained to him his intentions, but did not object. He took us to the entrance of the mine, garrisoned by agents. Fortunately, Sherlock Holmes' reputation was, by that time, known all over the United Kingdom, and the Sergeant in charge of the group of policemen did not deny us the leave to enter: indeed he himself came with us inside the mine, forbidding the entry to Pordees.
- A dangerous fellow, that one is: a real rabble rouser. - He said, as soon as the miner had left us. - But come, this way! And take these masks: they might save your lives, down there...
We crossed the vast clearing between the gates and the elevators the workmen used to descend into the pits. I think I have already said it was a new-moon night, and adding to this the stars didn't shine because of a thick layer of clouds. As hard as I tried, then, I couldn't see what surrounded me: I was able to perceive the guard's shed, close to the gates, and part of the wire fencing around the whole place. The muddy soil had been made hard by the trampling of hundreds of shoes - those of the miners, who, at the end of every turn, always took the very path we had just taken. When we entered the cage that worked as elevator and it started sinking, with an unpleasant, noisy, squeaky sound, into the depths of the earth, my last look before darkness fell was at the fire around which the policemen warmed up, and a shiver of dread startled me as I thought that maybe I never would have made it to see the light. " Ridiculous! " , I said to myself, trying to shake my nerves up at the thought that many people every day took that trip to the earth's womb. But I wasn't able to win that dull feeling of danger and horror that had grasped me: only today do I understand that it must have been one of those still inexplicable mechanisms of premonition our conscience builds in crucial moments. The Sergeant skillfully worked on the cage until it came to a halt. -
The main pit. - he said. - The miners start from here to get to the working tunnels. Come with me.
He led the way, lightning up the underground path with a cap lamp. The place was wide, wider than I expected, but maybe it looked even more so because of the darkness that hung about it. It was some sort of a big cavern from which many galleries departed. The Sargeant took us to one of them.
- We shall have to walk; we cannot use the corves: it's an old, abandoned tunnel, and there are no binaries over there. Be careful, the first part is a descent. It's a miracle that the bodies have been found because usually nobody ever comes in here. But Rodbee's cap had fallen right at the beginning of the tunnel, and this aroused the suspicion of the miners. Then they found the traces and so...
- Which traces? The ground is all rocky! - I interrupted.
- It is here, but down there it's muddy in the middle although still rocky on the sides. And, just in the middle, there were footprints; of two men, going right to the bottom of the tunnel. Don't worry, mister Holmes; I have read Doctor Watson's novels and I have followed your way of dealing with such things: we have been very careful walking on the sides not to step on the traces. Still, besides telling us what we already knew, I failed to see the use of this procedure you like so much.
A little later, from the narrow descending tunnel we were in, we found ourselves in a slightly wider gallery, almost horizontal. It was there that we found the footprints we were looking for: Sherlock Holmes literally dived on them with such an ardour and heat that, even if usual in him, almost bewildered me: what was Holmes hoping to gather from those prints? After all we both knew the couple had come down alone, nor did those data bear elements that might help to understand the dynamics of the subsequent events. Homicide or accident? To me, this was the only problem to be solved. But I knew my friend's meticulous nature and his extreme attention, almost a mania, in rebuilding every single link in the chain of events when investigating; precision and meticulousness he seemed to forget in every other aspect of his life.
- Remarkable! - Said Holmes all of a sudden. - They have stopped here for a while: the footprints cover one another. Are you tired, Watson?
- Not at all, thank you! - I replied, a little offended for the scarce consideration my friend had of my physical resistance.
We walked on for another ten minutes, always careful not to step on the prints the two assailants had left on the muddy soil. Suddenly the gallery widened a little, abruptly ending in an open space, if this name could be given to a place dug in the live rocks, seven feet high and no wider than nine.
- Over there - said the policeman, - is where the bodies of the two miners were found.
I tried not to think about the fact that another leak of gas was possible at any time, and that tons of rocks and coal were above our heads, detained from caving in on us only by the wooden beams that sustained the whole gallery, and to concentrate instead on the footprints the mud still retained.
- What on earth are you doing, Holmes! -I cried, astonished. - You've stepped on the footprints!
- Oh, yes? - Replied the detective, looking down for a moment. - I really don't know what I was thinking about... I become more absent-minded every day. Thank you anyway, Watson. We've finished here: shall we go back?
The policeman was left speechless, and so was I: we had walked for almost twenty minutes, in the dark, through narrow tunnels, facing not few risks to reach that dreadful place, and all this after a heavy day's travel; and now Holmes, who so much had insisted upon undertaking that expedition immediately, did not regard the place as worthy of even the slightest investigation. I was absolutely furious and it took all my self-control not to burst in protests with my friend. On the other hand a long closeness to him had showed me more than once that those that seemed to be oddities and eccentricities dictated by a whimsical character almost always turned out to be moves worked out in a sagacious operative strategy. I then philosophically decided to swallow the bitter pill and follow the resentful Sargeant back to the open air. Once out of the gallery, the officer left us without a word; as for me, I didn't feel like exchanging any comment and, apart from a courteous " good night", Holmes kept silent too. So it was only on the following morning at breakfast that I was able to ask him what he thought about the case.