The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge

It was a cold and windy day towards the end of March. Sherlock Holmes and I were sitting at lunch when there was a knock at the door and our landlady brought in a telegram. Holmes read it and quickly wrote a reply, but said nothing to me about it. The matter must have remained in his thoughts, however, as he kept looking at the telegram. At last, after lunch, he read it aloud to me:

HAVE JUST HAD AN EXTRAORDINARY EXPERIENCE. MAY I COME AND SEE YOU? SCOTT ECCLES, POST OFFICE, CHARING CROSS.

'Is Scott Eccles a man or a woman?' I asked.

'Oh, a man, of course! No woman would ever send a telegram like that. A woman would have come straight to me.'

'And did you agree to see Mr Scott Eccles?'

'My dear Watson, need you ask? Brain work is always absolutely necessary to me.' Just then there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. 'Ah! here comes our client now.'

Our visitor was tall, fat and very solemn. His grey hair was sticking out and his red face seemed to be swollen with anger.

'I have had a very strange and unpleasant experience, Mr Holmes,' he said at once, 'and I have come to you for an explanation!'

'Please sit down, Mr Scott Eccles,' said Holmes gently. 'Now tell me exactly why you have come to me.'

'Well, sir, there has been no crime, and so I could not go to the police. Of course I have never had any dealings with a private detective before, but —'

'And secondly,' Holmes interrupted, 'why didn't you come at once?'

'What do you mean?' asked Mr Scott Eccles.

Holmes looked at his watch. 'It is now a quarter past two,' he said. 'Your telegram was sent from Charing Cross at about one o'clock. And yet your clothing and appearance show that your disturbing experience happened as soon as you woke up this morning.'

Our client looked down at his untidy clothes and felt his rough chin.

'You are right, Mr Holmes. I had no time to think about my appearance this morning. I wanted to get out of that house as quickly as I could! But I made some enquiries of my own before coming to you. I went to the house agents' first. They told me that Mr Garcia had paid his rent and that everything was in order at Wisteria Lodge.'

'My dear sir,' Holmes said with a laugh, 'you are like my friend Doctor Watson, who has a bad habit of beginning his stories at the end. Please arrange your thoughts and then begin at the beginning.'

There was an interruption, however. Mrs Hudson showed Tobias Gregson and another police officer into the room. Gregson was a Scotland Yard detective. He shook hands with Holmes, and introduced the other officer as Mr Baynes of the Surrey police. Then he turned to Mr Scott Eccles.

'Are you Mr John Scott Eccles, of Popham House, Lee?'

'Yes, I am.'

'We have been following you about all the morning.'

'But why? What do you want?' asked our client.

'We want a statement from you,' said Gregson, 'about the death of Mr Aloysius Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, near Esher.'

Mr Scott Eccles's face was white now. 'Dead? Did you say he was dead?'

'Yes, sir, he died last night.'

'But how did he die? Was it an accident?'

'It was murder, without any doubt.'

'Oh God! This is terrible! But surely you can't suspect me!'

'A letter of yours was found in the dead man's pocket. It shows that you were intending to spend last night at his house.'

'And so I did.'

'Ah!' Gregson took out his notebook.

'Wait a moment, Gregson,' said Holmes. 'You want a plain statement from Mr Scott Eccles, don't you? He was just going to give us one when you arrived. Give our client a glass of brandy, please, Watson. Now, sir, please try to forget the presence of these police officers and tell us everything.'

Our visitor swallowed his brandy and the colour began to return to his face.

'I am unmarried,' he began, 'and I have many friends. One of these is Mr Melville, a retired gentleman who lives in Kensington. A few weeks ago I went to dinner at the Melvilles' and they introduced me to a young man called Garcia. He told me that he belonged to the Spanish Government office in London. He spoke perfect English, however. He was very good-looking and had excellent manners. He seemed to like me very much, and only two days later he came to see me at Lee. Before long he invited me to spend a few days at his house, Wisteria Lodge, between Esher and Oxshott in Surrey. I arranged to begin my visit yesterday evening.

'Garcia had already described his household to me. There was a faithful Spanish servant and an excellent American-Indian cook.

'I hired a cab at Esher Station. Wisteria Lodge is about two miles away, on the south side of the village. It is quite a big house, in its own grounds, but is in extremely poor condition.

'Garcia opened the door to me himself, and gave me a very friendly welcome. Then the Spanish servant showed me to my bedroom. He seemed as dark and sad as the house itself.

'At dinner I was the only guest. Garcia did his best to entertain me, but I could see that his thoughts were wandering. He bit his nails and kept drumming with his fingers on the table. He seemed to be full of impatience. The meal itself was neither well cooked nor well served. Many times that evening I wished I was back at home.

'Towards the end of dinner the servant brought Garcia a note. I noticed that my host seemed even more inattentive and strange after he had read it. He no longer attempted to make conversation, but only sat and smoked. At about eleven o'clock I went with relief to bed. Some time later Garcia looked in at my door and asked me if I had rung the bell. I said that I had not. He apologized for having disturbed me so late: he told me it was nearly one o'clock. When he had gone I fell asleep and did not wake up until almost nine. I had asked the Spanish servant to call me at eight, and I was surprised at his forgetfulness. I jumped out of bed and rang the bell. Nobody came. I rang again and again, but still nothing happened. I thought that perhaps the bell was out of order. I dressed quickly and then ran angrily downstairs to order some hot water, but there was no one there. I shouted in the hall. There was no answer. Then I ran from room to room. There was nobody anywhere. I knocked at Garcia's bedroom door. No reply. I turned the handle and walked in. The room was empty, and the bed had not been slept in. He too had gone! The foreign host, the foreign servant, the foreign cook—all had disappeared in the night! That was the end of my visit to Wisteria Lodge.'

Sherlock Holmes rubbed his hands with delight. 'And what did you do next?' he asked.

'I was very angry. At first I thought it was a practical joke. I packed my bag, left the house, and walked into Esher. I called at Allan Brothers', the main house agents in the village, and asked some questions about Mr Garcia and Wisteria Lodge. I thought that perhaps Garcia had gone away suddenly in order to avoid paying the rent. But the agents thanked me for warning them, and told me that Garcia had paid several months' rent in advance. Then I returned to London and made some enquiries at the Spanish Government office. The man was unknown there. After this I went to see Melville, at whose house I had first met Garcia, but he really knew very little about the man. Then I sent that telegram to you. A friend of mine had mentioned your name to me: he said you gave advice in difficult cases.' Mr Scott Eccles turned now to Gregson. 'I have told the whole truth, officer. I know absolutely nothing more about Mr Garcia and his death. I only want to help the police in every possible way.'

'I'm sure of it, Mr Scott Eccles,' answered Gregson. 'Your story agrees perfectly with all the facts of the case. For example, there was that note which arrived during dinner at Wisteria Lodge. What did Garcia do with it after he had read it?'

'He rolled it up and threw it into the fire.'

'Well, Mr Baynes?' asked Gregson, turning to the other police officer. Baynes was a country detective, a fat man with a red face and bright, clever eyes. He smiled and took a small piece of paper out of his pocket. It was brown in places.

'Garcia threw badly,' he said. 'The letter was only slightly burnt, as it fell into the fireplace and not into the fire. Shall I read it aloud to these gentlemen, Mr Gregson?'

'Certainly, Mr Baynes.'

'It says: "Our own colours, green and white. Green open, white shut. Main stairs, first passage, seventh on the right, green door—D." It is addressed on the other side to Mr Garcia, Wisteria Lodge. The letter is in a womans handwriting, but we think the address was written by someone else.'

'But what has happened to Garcia?' asked Mr Scott Eccles impatiently.

'He was found dead this morning in a field near Oxshott, about a mile from his home. All the bones in his head had been crushed by several blows from some large heavy weapon. It's a lonely place, and the nearest house is a quarter of a mile away.'

'Had he been robbed?' asked Holmes.

'No, there was no attempt at robbery,' replied Baynes.

'All this is very painful and terrible,' said Mr Scott Eccles, 'but why am I mixed up in the affair?'

'Because the only paper in Mr Garcia's pocket was your letter, sir,' answered Baynes. 'It was the envelope of this letter which gave us the dead man's name and address. When we reached his house at half-past nine this morning we found neither you nor anyone else inside. Mr Gregson tracked you down at Charing Cross Post Office by means of your telegram.'

'And now, sir,' said Gregson, 'you must come with us to Scotland Yard and give us your statement in writing.'

'Certainly, I will come at once. But I am still your client, Mr Holmes. I want to know the truth about this affair!'

'Mr Baynes, do you know exactly when the man was killed?' asked Holmes.

'He had been lying in the field since one o'clock. There was rain at about that time, and the murder certainly happened before the rain.'

'But that is quite impossible, Mr Baynes!' cried our client. 'He spoke to me in my bedroom at one o'clock.'

'It is certainly strange,' said Sherlock Holmes with a smile, 'but not impossible.'

'Have you formed any opinion about this affair, Watson?' asked Holmes, later the same afternoon.

'As the servants have disappeared, I think that perhaps they were concerned in the crime,' I said.

'It is possible,' he said. 'But why should they attack him on the one night when he had a guest?'

'But why did they run away?' I objected.

'That, Watson, is the problem. Mr Scott Eccles's strange experience is also a mystery. Why should a charming young man like Garcia want the friendship of a rather stupid middle-aged person like Scott Eccles? What is Scott Eccles's most noticeable quality? He is clearly an honest man, an old-fashioned Englishman whom other Englishmen believe and trust. You saw how those two policemen accepted his extraordinary story! Garcia wanted him as a witness, Watson.'

'But what was he to witness?'

'He could have sworn that his host was at home at one o'clock this morning. When Garcia told him it was one it was probably no later than midnight.'

'What is your explanation of the message? "Our own colours, green and white..."'

'That sounds like a horse-race,' Holmes replied. 'And "green open, white shut" must be a signal. The rest of the note seems to be an appointment. There may be a jealous husband somewhere in this case. Then there is the signature—"D".'

'The man was a Spaniard. I suggest that "D" stands for Dolores, a common female name in Spain.'

'Good, Watson, very good—but quite impossible. A Spaniard would write to another Spaniard in Spanish. The writer of this note is certainly English. The affair is still very mysterious. Meanwhile I have sent a telegram which may bring us some helpful information.'

When the answer to Holmes's telegram came he passed it across to me. It was only a list of names and addresses. '"Lord Harringby,"' I read, "'The Dingle; Sir George Ffolliott, Oxshott Towers; Mr Hynes, Purdey Place; Mr James Baker-Williams, Forton Old Hall; Mr Henderson, High Gable; Mr Joshua Stone, Nether Walsling." I don't quite understand, Holmes.'

'My dear fellow, have you forgotten the message that "D" sent to Garcia? "Main stairs, first passage, seventh on the right..." The house we are looking for has more than one staircase, and one of the passages contains at least seven doors. It must be a very large house, Watson, and it is probably within a mile or two of Oxshott. My telegram was to Allan Brothers', the house agents. I asked them to send me a list of all the large houses in the Oxshott district, and here it is.'

We went down by train to Esher later in the afternoon and took rooms at the village inn. We went along to Wisteria Lodge with Mr Baynes that evening. The house was in darkness except for a weak light in one window on the ground floor.

'There's a policeman inside,' Baynes explained. 'I'll knock at the window.' He crossed the lawn and tapped on the glass. I heard a cry of alarm and saw a policeman jump up nervously from his chair. A moment later he opened the front door to us. The candle in his hand was trembling violently.

'What's the matter, Walters?' asked Baynes.

'I am glad you have come, sir. It has been a long wait, and it's a lonely, silent house. I don't like those horrible things in the kitchen either. And when you tapped at the window I thought the devil had come again.'

'What do you mean?' Baynes asked sharply.

'The devil, sir. It was at the window.'

'What was at the window, and when?'

'It was about two hours ago. It was just beginning to get dark. I was reading. I don't know what made me look up, but there was a horrible face at the window. I shall see it in my dreams, sir. I know I shall.'

'A policeman should never talk in that silly way, Walters.'

'I know, sir. But it really frightened me. It wasn't black, sir, and it wasn't white. It was a kind of pale brownish grey—a whitish clay-colour. And it was enormous, sir—twice the size of your face. And it had huge eyes, and great white teeth like a wild animal's.'

'I think you must have been dreaming, Walters!' said Baynes.

'We can easily find out,' said Holmes. He lit his small pocket lamp and looked closely at the surface of the lawn outside the window. 'Yes, a Size 12 shoe, I think. He must have been an enormous fellow.'

'Where did he go?' I asked.

'He seems to have forced his way through this hedge.'

'Well,' said Baynes, 'we have other things to think of now, Mr Holmes. Let me show you the kitchen.'

This was a high, dark room at the back of the house. We saw a heap of straw and a few bedclothes. It appeared that the cook slept there. The table was covered with dirty plates and half-eaten food—the remains of the meal which Mr Scott Eccles had shared the previous evening.

'Look at this,' said Baynes. 'What do you think it is?'

He held up his candle to let us see an extraordinary object on top of a cupboard. It was a black, leathery, dried-up thing shaped like a baby or a monkey. A double band of sea shells was fastened round it.

'Very interesting!' said Holmes. 'Very interesting indeed! Is there anything else?'

In silence Baynes led the way to the other side of the kitchen and held out his candle. There, on a small table, we saw the legs, wings, head and body of a large white bird. The feathers were still on, but the bird had been torn to pieces.

'Extremely curious!' said Holmes. 'It is really a very unusual case.'

Mr Baynes had kept the most horrible thing of all until the last. He bent down and pulled a bucket out from under the small table. It was full of blood.

'We also found some burnt bones,' he said. 'A young goat seems to have been killed here. A young goat and a white bird.'

'Very curious indeed,' said Holmes. 'Very curious and interesting. Well, there is nothing more for me to do here. Thank you, Mr Baynes. Good night and good luck!'

Holmes told me nothing of the results of his enquiries in the next few days. One day he visited the London Library, but he spent most of his time in country walks around Esher and Oxshott. He pretended to be a scientist collecting rare plants, but he spent many hours in conversation with the village people. His plant box was usually almost empty in the evenings when he came back to the Bull Inn.

About five days after the crime I opened my morning paper and saw in large letters:

THE OXSHOTT MYSTERY.

A SOLUTION.

MURDERER ARRESTED.

When I read this out to Holmes he jumped out of his chair as if he had been stung.

'Good heavens!' he cried. 'So Baynes has got him?'

'It appears that he has,' I replied, and read the report aloud to him. '"Great excitement was caused in Esher and the neighbouring district last night when a man was arrested in connection with the Oxshott murder. Our readers will remember that Mr Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, was found dead near Oxshott last week. His body showed signs of extreme violence. On the same night his servant and his cook disappeared. Their flight seemed to show that they had something to do with the murder. The police thought that the dead man might have had gold or jewels in the house, and that robbery was the real reason for the crime. Mr Baynes of the Surrey police made great efforts to track the two servants down. He believed that they had not gone far, and that it would be easy to find their hiding-place. The cook in particular was a man of very noticeable appearance, a huge yellowish foreigner with an enormous and very ugly face. This man was seen by Policeman Walters at Wisteria Lodge on the day after the crime. After this Mr Baynes decided to remove his men from the house to the grounds, where they hid behind the trees every evening. The cook walked into this trap last night. In the struggle Policeman Downing was badly bitten, but the man was arrested and taken to the police station. We are told that the prisoner has been charged with the murder of Mr Garcia."'

'We must see Baynes at once!' cried Holmes, picking up his hat.

The house where Baynes was staying was only a short distance away. We hurried down the village street and found that he was just leaving his lodgings.

'You've seen the paper, Mr Holmes?' he asked, holding one out to us.

'Yes, Baynes, I've seen it. Please don't be angry with me if I give you a word of friendly warning.'

'Of warning, Mr Holmes?'

'I have looked into this case very carefully, and I think you may be making a mistake. I don't want you to do anything definite unless you are sure.'

'You're very kind, Mr Holmes.'

'I am only speaking for your own good.'

It seemed to me that Mr Baynes closed one of his tiny eyes for a moment and gave a slight smile.

'You have your methods, Mr Holmes, and I have mine.'

'Oh, very good,' said Holmes. 'But don't blame me if things go wrong.'

'No, sir. I believe you mean well. But I am dealing with this case in my own way.'

'Let us say no more about it.'

'Meanwhile let me tell you about the cook. He's a wild man, as strong as a cart-horse and as fierce as the devil. He nearly bit Downing's thumb off before they could master him. He hardly speaks a word of English, and only makes noises in his throat like an animal.'

'And you think that he murdered his master?'

'I didn't say so, Mr Holmes; I didn't say so. We all have our little methods. You can try yours and I will try mine.'

'I don't understand Baynes at all,' said Holmes as we walked away together. 'He seems to have gone completely wrong. Well, as he says, each of us must try his own way. We shall see the results!'

When we were back in our sitting-room at the Bull Inn, Holmes pushed me into an armchair.

'I have many things to tell you about this case, Watson,' he said. 'And I may need your help tonight.

'First of all,' he went on, 'I have been thinking about the letter Garcia received on the evening of the murder. We can dismiss the idea that his servants had anything to do with his death. It was Garcia who was planning a crime that night. It was he who invited Scott Eccles, that perfect witness. And it was he who lied to him about the time. I believe Garcia died in the course of a criminal adventure.

'Who, then,' Holmes continued, 'is most likely to have taken his life? Surely the person against whom Garcia's criminal plan was directed.

'We can now see a reason for the disappearance of Garcia's household. They were all concerned in his plot. If the plot had succeeded Garcia would have returned home and Scott Eccles would have been useful to him as a witness. All would have been well. But the attempt was a dangerous one, and if Garcia did not return by a certain time the servants would know he was probably dead. It had been arranged, therefore, that in such a case they would escape to their hiding-place. In that hiding-place they could make another attempt to carry the plot into effect. That would fully explain the facts, wouldn't it?'

The mystery seemed much clearer to me now. I wondered, as I always did with Holmes, why I had not thought of the explanation myself.

'But why should one of the servants return to Wisteria Lodge?' I objected.

'I think that perhaps in the confusion of flight something precious, something he could not bear to lose, had been left behind. That would explain both his visits, wouldn't it?'

'Yes, you're right,' I said. 'But you were going to tell me about the note that Garcia received at dinner on the evening of the murder.'

'Ah, yes. That note shows that the woman who wrote it was concerned in the plot too. But where was she? I have already shown you that the place could only be some large house, and that the number of large houses is limited. Since we arrived in Esher I have looked at all these houses and made enquiries about their owners. One house, and only one, especially attracted my attention. This was the famous old house called High Gable, one mile out of Oxshott on the farther side. High Gable is less than half a mile from the place where Garcia's body was found. The other big houses belong to ordinary, old-fashioned people to whom nothing exciting ever happens. But Mr Henderson, of High Gable, is certainly an unusual man—a man who would be likely to have curious adventures. I therefore decided to give all my attention to Mr Henderson and his household.

'They are a strange set of people, Watson. The man himself is the strangest of them all. I managed to think of a reason for asking to see him. But I think he guessed my real purpose. He is about fifty years old, strong and active, with grey hair, thick black eyebrows, and dark, deep-set, troubled eyes. He is a tough, fierce, masterful man with the spirit of a king. Either he is a foreigner or else he has spent most of his life in very hot countries. His face is like yellow leather. There is no doubt that his friend and secretary, Mr Lucas, is a foreigner. His face is the colour of milk chocolate. He is a cat-like person with a very gentle, polite voice. But he is completely evil, I am sure. You see, Watson, we now know of two separate sets of foreigners—one at Wisteria Lodge and the other at High Gable. I think we shall find the solution of our mystery in the connection between these two groups.

'Henderson and Lucas, who are close and confidential friends, are at the centre of the High Gable household. But there is one other person who may be even more important to us in our present enquiries. Henderson has two young daughters. One is thirteen and the other is eleven. They are taught by a lady called Miss Burnet. She is an Englishwoman, about forty years old. I am particularly interested in Miss Burnet, Watson. There is also one confidential servant—a man.

'The little group forms the real family. They all travel about together. Henderson is a great traveller. He is always on the move. It is only within the last few weeks that he has returned to High Gable after being away for a whole year. He is extremely rich, you see. He can easily afford to satisfy any desire as soon as he becomes conscious of it.

'The house is full of other servants of every kind. You know what the staff of a large English country house is like. They have very little work to do but they eat meat four times a day!

'Servants can be very useful to a detective, however. There is no better way of getting information than making friends with one of them. I was lucky enough to find a former gardener of Henderson's. His name is John Warner. Henderson dismissed him recently in a moment of temper. Luckily Warner still has friends among the High Gable servants, who all greatly fear and dislike their master. So I had a key to all the secrets of the household.

'And what a curious household it is, Watson! I don't understand everything yet, but it is certainly a curious household. The house is in two wings. The servants live on one side and the family on the other. The only connection between the two is Henderson's own confidential servant, who serves the family's meals. Everything is carried to a certain door in the servants' wing. This door is the only one that communicates with the other wing of the house. The girls and their teacher hardly ever go out, except into the garden. And Henderson never goes out alone. His dark secretary is like his shadow. The servants say that their master is terribly afraid of something. Warner says that he has sold his soul to the devil in exchange for money. "The master's afraid that the ground will open and that the devil will come up out of hell to claim him!" he says. Nobody knows where the Hendersons came from, or who they are. They are very violent people. Twice Henderson has struck people with his whip, and has had to pay them a lot of money in order to keep out of the courts.

'Well, now, Watson, all this new information should help us to judge the situation. It seems certain that the letter came out of this strange household. I believe it was an invitation to Garcia to carry out some attempt which had already been planned. Who can have written the note? It was someone inside the house, and it was a woman. Isn't the only possible person Miss Burnet, the teacher? All our reasoning seems to support that idea. Miss Burnet's age and character, however, make any idea of a love affair impossible.

'If she wrote the note she must have been concerned in her friend Garcia's plot. Now he died in trying to carry out that plot. So she must have felt great bitterness and hatred against their enemies. She must want revenge, Watson. Could we see her, then, and try to use her?

'That was my first thought. But Miss Burnet has not been seen since the night of the murder. She has completely disappeared. Is she still alive? Or was she perhaps killed on the night of Garcia's death? Or is she merely being kept prisoner somewhere? If so, her life may still be in danger.

'Unfortunately the police cannot help us here. It would not be possible to get a search warrant. We still lack proof. So I am watching the house. I am employing Warner to stand on guard at the gates.

'We can't let this situation continue, however. If the law can do nothing we must take the risk ourselves.'

'What do you suggest?' I asked.

'I know which is Miss Burnet's room. There is a low roof outside the window. My suggestion is that you and I go there tonight and climb in.'

This idea did not seem very attractive to me. The thought of that old house with its alarming owner and its connections with violent death made me hesitate. And I did not really want to break the law. But I could never refuse Holmes anything. His reasoning always persuaded me. This time I knew that his plan was the only way of solving the mystery of Garcia's death. I pressed his hand in silence to show that I would be ready for the wildest adventure.

But our enquiries did not have such an adventurous ending. It was about five o'clock, and the shadows of the March evening were beginning to come down, when an excited countryman rushed into our sitting-room.

'They've gone, Mr Holmes. They went by the last train. The lady broke away, and I've got her in a cab down below.'

'Excellent, Warner!' cried Holmes, springing to his feet. 'We shall know the solution very soon now, Watson.'

The woman in the cab seemed to be very weak and tired. Her head hung down on her breast, but she slowly raised it to look up at us. Her face was thin and sad. In the centre of each of her dull eyes I saw the signs of opium. She had been drugged!

'I watched the gate, as you told me to, Mr Holmes,' said Warner. 'When the carriage came out I followed it to the station. She was like a person walking in her sleep. But when they tried to get her into the train she came to life and struggled. They pushed her in, but she fought her way out again. I took her arm and helped her. I got her into a cab, and here we are. I shan't easily forget the master's face at the window of that train! I could see murder in his eyes. The black-eyed, yellow devil!'

We carried Miss Burnet upstairs and laid her on one of the beds. Two cups of the strongest coffee quickly cleared her brain of opium.

Mr Baynes, whom we had sent for at once, shook Holmes by the hand. 'Well done, Mr Holmes! I was on the same scent as you from the first.'

'What! You were after Henderson?'

'That's right. While you were hiding in the garden at High Gable I was up in one of the trees. I saw you down below.'

'Then why did you arrest Garcia's cook?'

Baynes laughed.

'I arrested the wrong man in order to make Henderson think he was safe,' he said. 'He would think we weren't watching him. I knew he would be likely to run away then. That would give us a chance of getting hold of Miss Burnet.'

'Tell me, Baynes, who is Henderson?'

'Henderson is really Juan Murillo, who was once known as the Animal of San Pedro. He was an evil Central American ruler who escaped from the State of San Pedro after the Revolution, taking with him many of the national treasures. He was a cruel, fearless robber and everybody hated him.

'Yes,' Baynes continued, 'he escaped. He completely disappeared, and none of his enemies knew where he was. But they wanted revenge, and they never rested until they found him.

'The national colours of San Pedro are green and white, as in Miss Burnet's letter. Murillo called himself Henderson, but he had other names in Paris and Rome and Madrid and Barcelona, where his ship arrived from South America in 1886. His enemies have only recently found his hiding-place.'

'They discovered him a year ago,' said Miss Burnet, who had sat up and was listening with keen attention. 'This time the noble Garcia has been killed, but before long our plot will succeed and the Animal of San Pedro will be put to death!' Her thin hands tightened with the violence of her hatred.

'But why are you mixed up in these foreign political affairs, Miss Burnet?' Holmes asked. 'One does not expect to find an English lady concerned in murder and plots.'

'I must take part!' she cried. 'Through me this criminal will be punished. Justice will be done. He has done many murders and stolen many treasures. To you his robberies and murders are like crimes that are done on some other planet. But we know. We have learned the truth in sorrow and in suffering. To us there is no devil in hell as bad as Juan Murillo. For us there can be no peace until we have had our revenge.'

'No doubt he was a very wicked ruler,' said Holmes. 'But how are you concerned in the affairs of the State of San Pedro?'

'I will tell you everything. My real name is Mrs Victor Durando. My husband was the London representative of the San Pedro Government. He met me and married me in this country. Oh, he was a noble being! And because he was so noble Murillo had him shot. All his property was taken away too.

Then came the revolution. A secret society was formed with the purpose of punishing Juan Murillo for all his crimes. At last we managed to find out that Mr Henderson of High Gable, Oxshott, was really the Animal of San Pedro. I was given the job of joining his household and watching all his movements. I smiled at him, did my duty to his children, and waited. The society had attempted to kill him in Paris once before, but the attempt failed.

'It was not easy to plan our revenge. Aloysius Garcia and his two servants, all of whom had suffered under the evil rule of Murillo, came to live in the district. But Garcia could do little during the day, as the Animal was very careful. He never went out alone. His friend Lucas, whose real name is Lopez, always went with him. At night, however, he slept alone. This gave us our chance. We arranged to make our attempt on a certain evening. Murillo often changed his bedroom, and it was necessary to send Garcia a note on the day itself. The signal of a green light in a window would mean that the doors were open and that it was safe. A white light would mean "Don't come in tonight".

'But everything went wrong for us. Lopez, the secretary, became suspicious. He crept up behind me as I was writing the note, and sprang upon me as soon as I had finished it. He and his master dragged me to my room, and then discussed whether or not to murder me with their knives there and then. In the end they decided that it would be too dangerous. But Garcia must die! Murillo twisted my arm until I gave them the address. Lopez addressed the note which I had written. Then he sent Jose, the confidential servant, with it. Murillo must have done the murder, as Lopez remained to guard me.

'After that terrible night, they kept me locked in my room. Oh! they treated me very cruelly. Look at these red marks on my arms! Once I tried to call out from the window, but they covered my mouth with a thick cloth. For five days this cruel treatment continued. They hardly gave me any food. This afternoon a good meal was brought in to me, but it must have contained opium. The journey to the station was like a dream. But my energy came back at the station and I managed to break away, with the help of that kind gardener.'

About six months later Lord Montalva and Mr Rulli, his secretary, were murdered in their rooms at the Hotel Escurial in Madrid. The murderers were never arrested. Mr Baynes came to see us in Baker Street, and showed us the newspaper report. The descriptions of the two men showed clearly who they really were. Justice had come at last to Murillo and Lopez.

'It hasn't been a very neat case, Watson,' said Holmes later. 'But everything seems clear now, doesn't it?'

'I still don't understand why that cook returned to Wisteria Lodge,' I said.

'There are some strange religions in the State of San Pedro, Watson. Perhaps you have heard of one called Voodooism? Look it up in that encyclopaedia.'

I found the letter 'V' and read the article. The most important part was the following:

'In Voodooism certain special sacrifices must be made to please the gods. The usual sacrifices are a white bird, which is torn to pieces while it is still alive, and a black goat, whose throat is cut and whose body is burned.'

I looked up. 'But what about the leathery black baby that we found?' I asked.

'Oh, that was only one of the cook's gods,' replied Holmes.