“Check number one,” said Holmes, looking gloomily over therolling expanse of the moor. “There is another morass downyonder, and a narrow neck between. Halloa! halloa! halloa! whathave we here?”
We had come on a small black ribbon of pathway. In the middleof it, clearly marked on the sodden soil, was the track of a bicycle.
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“Hurrah!” I cried. “We have it.”
But Holmes was shaking his head, and his face was puzzled andexpectant rather than joyous.
“A bicycle, certainly, but not THE bicycle,” said he. “I amfamiliar with forty-two different impressions left by tires. This,as you perceive, is a Dunlop, with a patch upon the outer cover.
Heidegger’s tires were Palmer’s, leaving longitudinal stripes.
Aveling, the mathematical master, was sure upon the point.
Therefore, it is not Heidegger’s track.”
“The boy’s, then?”
“Possibly, if we could prove a bicycle to have been in hispossession. But this we have utterly failed to do. This track, as youperceive, was made by a rider who was going from the direction ofthe school.”
“Or towards it?”
“No, no, my dear Watson. The more deeply sunk impression is, ofcourse, the hind wheel, upon which the weight rests. You perceiveseveral places where it has passed across and obliterated the moreshallow mark of the front one. It was undoubtedly heading awayfrom the school. It may or may not be connected with our inquiry,but we will follow it backwards before we go any farther.”
We did so, and at the end of a few hundred yards lost the tracksas we emerged from the boggy portion of the moor. Followingthe path backwards, we picked out another spot, where a springtrickled across it. Here, once again, was the mark of the bicycle,though nearly obliterated by the hoofs of cows. After that therewas no sign, but the path ran right on into Ragged Shaw, the woodwhich backed on to the school. From this wood the cycle musthave emerged. Holmes sat down on a boulder and rested his chinin his hands. I had smoked two cigarettes before he moved.
“Well, well,” said he, at last. “It is, of course, possible that acunning man might change the tires of his bicycle in order to leaveunfamiliar tracks. A criminal who was capable of such a thought isa man whom I should be proud to do business with. We will leavethis question undecided and hark back to our morass again, for wehave left a good deal unexplored.”
We continued our systematic survey of the edge of the soddenportion of the moor, and soon our perseverance was gloriouslyrewarded. Right across the lower part of the bog lay a miry path.
Holmes gave a cry of delight as he approached it. An impressionlike a fine bundle of telegraph wires ran down the centre of it. Itwas the Palmer tires.
“Here is Herr Heidegger, sure enough!” cried Holmes, exultantly.
“My reasoning seems to have been pretty sound, Watson.”
“I congratulate you.”
936 The Complete Sherlock Holmes
“But we have a long way still to go. Kindly walk clear of thepath. Now let us follow the trail. I fear that it will not lead veryfar.”
We found, however, as we advanced that this portion of themoor is intersected with soft patches, and, though we frequentlylost sight of the track, we always succeeded in picking it up oncemore.
“Do you observe,” said Holmes, “that the rider is now undoubtedlyforcing the pace? There can be no doubt of it. Look at this impression,where you get both tires clear. The one is as deep as the other. That canonly mean that the rider is throwing his weight on to the handlebar,as a man does when he is sprinting. By Jove! he has had a fall.”
There was a broad, irregular smudge covering some yards of thetrack. Then there were a few footmarks, and the tire reappearedonce more.
“A side-slip,” I suggested.
Holmes held up a crumpled branch of flowering gorse. To myhorror I perceived that the yellow blossoms were all dabbled withcrimson. On the path, too, and among the heather were darkstains of clotted blood.
“Bad!” said Holmes. “Bad! Stand clear, Watson! Not anunnecessary footstep! What do I read here? He fell wounded—hestood up—he remounted—he proceeded. But there is no othertrack. Cattle on this side path. He was surely not gored by a bull?
Impossible! But I see no traces of anyone else. We must push on,Watson. Surely, with stains as well as the track to guide us, hecannot escape us now.”
Our search was not a very long one. The tracks of the tire beganto curve fantastically upon the wet and shining path. Suddenly, aslooked ahead, the gleam of metal caught my eye from amid thethick gorse-bushes. Out of them we dragged a bicycle, Palmertired,one pedal bent, and the whole front of it horribly smearedand slobbered with blood. On the other side of the bushes a shoewas projecting. We ran round, and there lay the unfortunate rider.
He was a tall man, full-bearded, with spectacles, one glass of whichhad been knocked out. The cause of his death was a frightful blowupon the head, which had crushed in part of his skull. That hecould have gone on after receiving such an injury said much for thevitality and courage of the man. He wore shoes, but no socks, andhis open coat disclosed a nightshirt beneath it. It was undoubtedlythe German master.
Holmes turned the body over reverently, and examined it withgreat attention. He then sat in deep thought for a time, and Icould see by his ruffled brow that this grim discovery had not, inhis opinion, advanced us much in our inquiry.
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“It is a little difficult to know what to do, Watson,” said he, atlast. “My own inclinations are to push this inquiry on, for we havealready lost so much time that we cannot afford to waste anotherhour. On the other hand, we are bound to inform the police of thediscovery, and to see that this poor fellow’s body is looked after.”
“I could take a note back.”
“But I need your company and assistance. Wait a bit! There isa fellow cutting peat up yonder. Bring him over here, and he willguide the police.”
