Episode XII - The Cardboard Box

Sun beats on Baker Street, the paper is dull, and then a small box arrives in Croydon filled with rough salt and two freshly severed ears. That jolt pulls us from a lazy August into one of the most unsettling puzzles we’ve ever worked through: a message posted from Belfast, a name misaddressed by a single initial, and ordinary details that refuse to stay ordinary. Coffee in the wrapping, tar in the twine, a sailor’s knot tied neat—each clue shifts the light until the picture sharpens into something far darker than a “student prank.”

We walk into Miss Susan Cushing’s tidy front room and find the case belongs to family as much as to crime. Sarah and Mary stand beside Susan in a portrait, and Holmes notices something uncanny: the female ear in the box matches the living sister’s ear in form. That single observation reframes the entire mystery. The parcel, it seems, was meant for Sarah, the sister with a Liverpool past and a quarrel that soured into silence. From there, a maritime trail emerges—pierced ears, dock salt, and a route that touches Belfast—pointing us toward Jim Browner, a steward on the May Day, and a story steeped in jealousy and drink.

When Lestrade arrests Browner at the Thames, the confession lands like iron. He speaks of love turned poison by Sarah’s meddling, of Alec Fairbairn’s charm, and of a mind that snapped when he spotted his wife laughing beside another man. He follows them to New Brighton, rows into a haze, and commits a double murder on the water. The ears, salted and boxed, become the cruel proof he addresses to the sister he blames. We end not in triumph but with Holmes’s quiet question: what purpose does this circle of misery serve, and can reason do more than draw the map after the storm has passed?

If you enjoy thoughtful, clue-rich storytelling that balances razor-sharp deduction with human weight, subscribe, share this episode with a friend, and leave us a review. Tell us which detail turned the case for you and what you think justice looks like here.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:08

Sherlock Holmes alone, Episode twelve, the cardboard box.

Holmes Reads Watson’s Thoughts

The Gruesome Parcel In Croydon

Miss Cushing’s House And The Outhouse Clues

String, Coffee Paper, And Mismatched Ears

Motive, Mistaken Address, And Sisters

Wallington Visit And A Sudden Illness

Lunch, A Telegram, And Lestrade’s Return

Backward Reasoning And The Sailor Theory

The Ear As Fingerprint

Belfast Route And The May Day

Browner’s Arrest And Confession Arrive

Love, Jealousy, And Sarah’s Poison

SPEAKER_01 0:31

In choosing a few typical cases which illustrate the scope of my work, I have endeavoured, as far as possible, to select those which present the minimum of sensationalism while offering a fair feel for my methods. It is, however, unfortunately impossible entirely to separate the sensational from the criminal, so I am left in the dilemma that I must either sacrifice details which are essential to the case in question, and so give a false impression of the problem, or I must use matter which chance and not choice has provided me with, and with that short preface I shall turn to my notes of what proved to be a strange, though particularly terrible chain of events. It was a blazing hot day in August. Baker Street was like an oven, and the glare of the sunlight upon the yellow brickwork of the house across the road was painful to the eye. It was hard to believe that these were the same walls which loomed so gloomily through the fogs of winter. Our blinds were half drawn, and I lay curled upon the sofa reading and rereading a letter which I had received by the morning post. Watson seemed rather unfazed by the extreme heat. His term of service in India had trained him to stand heat better than cold, and a thermometer at ninety was no hardship for him. But the morning paper was utterly uninteresting. Parliament had risen, everybody was out of town. I'm sure that Watson yearned for the glades of New Forest or the shingle of the South Sea. A depleted bank account had caused him to postpone his holiday. For myself, neither the country nor the sea presented the slightest attraction. I love to lie in the very centre of five millions of people, with my filaments stretching out and running through them, responsive to every little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of nature finds no place among my many interests, and my only change is when I turn my mind from the evil doer of the town to track down his brother in the country. Finding that I was too absorbed for conversation, Watson had tossed aside the barren paper, and leaning back in his chair he fell into a rather brown study. I thought I would provide some small amount of stimulation. You are right, Watson. It does seem a most preposterous way of settling a dispute. Oh yes indeed, Holmes, most preposterous. He then suddenly realized how I had echoed the inmost thoughts of his soul. He sat up in his chair and stared at me in blank amazement. What is this, Holmes? This is beyond anything which I could have imagined. You remember that some little time ago, when I read you that passage in one of Poe's sketches in which a close reasoner follows the unspoken thoughts of his companion, you were inclined to treat the matter as a mere tour de force of the author. On my remarking that I was constantly in the habit of doing the same thing, you expressed incredulity. Oh no, Holmes, I did not. Perhaps not directly with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter upon a train of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity of reading it off, and eventually of breaking into it, as proof that I had been in rapport with you. Well, in the example you have read to me, the reasoner drew his conclusions from the actions of the man whom he observed. If I remember correctly, he stumbled over a heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so on, but I have been seated quietly in my chair, and what clues could I possibly have given you? You do yourself an injustice, Watson. The features are given to a man as the means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are faithful servants. Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my features? Your features and especially your eyes. Perhaps you cannot yourself recall how your reverie commenced? No, Holmes, I cannot. Then I will tell you. After throwing down your paper, which was the action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a minute with a vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your newly framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by the alteration in your face that a train of thought had been started, but it did not lead very far. Your eyes flashed across to the unframed portrait of Henry Ward Beecher, which stands upon the top of your books. Then you glanced up at the wall, and of course your meaning was obvious. You were thinking that if the portrait were framed, it would just cover that bare space and correspond with Gordon's picture there. Oh Holmes, I must say, you have followed me wonderfully. So far I could hardly have gone astray, but now your thoughts went back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were studying the character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but you continued to look across, and your face was thoughtful. You were recalling the incidents of Beecher's career. I was well aware that you could not do this without thinking of the mission which he undertook on behalf of the North at the time of the Civil War, for I remember you expressing your passionate indignation at the way in which he was received by the more turbulent of our people. You felt so strongly about it, that I knew you could not think of Beecher without thinking of that also. When, a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned to the civil war, and when I observed that your lips set, your eyes sparkled, and your hands clenched, I was positive that you were indeed thinking of the gallantry which was shown by both sides in that desperate struggle. But then again your face grew sadder, and you shook your head. You were dwelling upon the sadness and the horror and the useless waste of life. Your hand stole toward your old wound, and a smile quivered upon your lips, which showed me that the ridiculous side of this method of settling international questions had forced itself upon your mind. It was at this point that I agreed with you that it was all very preposterous, and was glad to find that all my deductions had been correct. Absolutely, Holmes, and now that you've explained it, I confess that I am as amazed as before. It was all very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should not have intruded upon your attention had you not shown some incredulity the other day. But I have in my hands here a little problem which may prove to be more difficult of solution than my small essay on thought reading. Have you observed in the paper a short paragraph referring to the remarkable contents of a packet sent through the post to Miss Cushing of Cross Street, Croydon? No, no, Holmes, I saw nothing of interest in the paper. Ah, then you must have overlooked it. Here it is under the financial column. Perhaps you would be good enough to read it aloud. I picked up the paper and tossed it to Watson. A gruesome packet. Miss Susan Cushing, living across Street Croydon, has been made the victim of what must be regarded as a particularly revolting, practical joke, unless some more sinister meaning should prove to be attached to the incident. At two o'clock yesterday afternoon a small packet, wrapped in brown paper, was handed in by the postman. A cardboard box was inside, which was filled with coarse salt. On emptying this, Miss Cushing was horrified to find two human ears apparently quite freshly severed. The box had been sent by parcel post from Belfast upon the morning before. There is no indication as to the sender, and the matter is the more mysterious as Miss Cushing, who is a maiden lady of fifty, has led a most retired life and has so few acquaintances or correspondence that it is a very rare event for her to receive anything through the post. Some years ago, however, when she resided at Pinj, she let apartments in her house to three young medical students, whom she was obliged to get rid of on account of their noisy and irregular habits. The police are of the opinion that this outrage may have been perpetuated upon Miss Cushin by these youths, who owed her a grudge and who hoped to frighten her by sending her these relics from the dissecting room. Some probability is lent to the theory by the fact that one of these students came from the north of Ireland, and to the best of Miss Cushing's belief, from Belfast. In the meantime, the matter's being actively investigated, Mr Lestrade, one of the very smartest of our detective officers, being in charge of the case. So much for the Daily Chronicle, Watson. Now for our friend Lestrade. I had a note from him this morning, in which he says Mr Sherlock Holmes, I think that this case is very much in your line. We have every hope of clearing up the matter, but we find it a little difficult in getting anything to work upon. We have, of course, wired to Belfast Post Office, but a large number of parcels were handed in upon that day, and they have no means of identifying this particular one or of remembering the sender. The box is a half pound box of honeydew tobacco and does not help us in any way. The medical student theory still appears to me to be the most feasible, but if you should have a few hours to spare, I should be very happy to see you out here. I shall be either at the house or in the police station all day. So what do you say, Watson? Can you raise superior to the heat and run down to Croydon with me? Well, Holmes, I must admit, I was hoping to find something to do. And something to do you shall have. Ring for our boots, and tell them to order a cab. I'll be back in a moment when I've changed my dressing gown and filled my cigar case. A shower of rain fell while we were in the train, and the heat was far less oppressive in Croydon than in town. I had sent on a wire so that Lestrade, as wiry and as dapper and as ferret like as ever, was waiting for us at the station. A walk of five minutes took us to Cross Street, where Miss Cushing resided. It was a very long street of two story brick houses, neat and prim, with whitened stone steps, and little groups of aproned women gossiping at the doors. Halfway down, Lestrade stopped and tapped at a door, which was opened by a small servant girl. Miss Cushing was sitting in the front room, into which we were ushered. She was a placid faced woman with large gentle eyes and grizzled hair curving down over her temples on each side. A work of needlepoy upon her lap, and a basket of coloured silks and threads stood upon a stool beside her. They are in the outhouse, those dreadful things. I wish that you would take them away altogether, Detective Lestrade. So I shall, Miss Cushing. I only kept them here until my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes should be seeing them in your presence. Well why? Why in my presence, sir? In case he wished to ask you any questions, Miss Cushing. What is the use of asking me questions when I tell you I know nothing whatever about it? Quite so, quite so, madam. I have no doubt that you have been annoyed more than enough already over this business. Indeed, sir, I have. I am a quiet woman and live a retired life. It is something new for me to see my name in the papers, and to find the police in my house. I won't have those things in here, Mr Lestrade. If you wish to see them, you must go to the outhouse. The outhouse was a small shed in the narrow garden which ran behind the house. Lestrade went in and brought out a yellow cardboard box with a piece of brown paper and some string. There was a bench at the end of the path, and we all sat down while I examined one by one the articles which Lestrade had handed me. The string is exceedingly interesting, Lestrade. A rather strong odour emanated from the string. What do you make of this smell and the string itself, Lestrade? By the odour I'd say it has been tarred. Precisely. It is a piece of tarred twine. You have also no doubt remarked that Miss Cushing has cut the cord with scissors, as can be seen by the double fray on each end. This is of importance. Well I cannot see the importance, Mr Holmes. Well, Detective Lestrade, the importance lies in the fact that the knot is left intact, and that this knot is of peculiar character. It is very neatly tied, Mr Holmes. I had already made a note of that. So much for the string then, Lestrade. Now for the box wrapper. Brown paper with a distinct smell of coffee. What, Lestrede? You did not observe the smell? I think there can be no doubt of it. Address printed in rather straggling characters Miss S. Cushing Cross Street Croydon, done with a broad pointed pen, and with very inferior ink. The word Croydon has been originally spelled with an I, which has been changed to a Y. The parcel was directed then by a man. The printing is a distinctively masculine type. A man of limited education, and unacquainted with the town of Croydon. So far so good. The box is yellow, a half pound honeydew box, with nothing distinctive save two thumb marks at the left bottom corner. It is filled with rough salt, of the quality used for preserving hides and other other coarser commercial purposes, and embedded in it are these very singular enclosures. I took out the two ears as I spoke, and laying a board across my knee, I examined them minutely, while Lestrade and Watson, bending forward on each side of me, glanced at these dreadful relics. Finally, I returned them to the box once more and sat for a while in deep meditation. You have observed, of course, Lestrade, that the ears are not a pair. Yes, yes, Holmes, I have noticed that. But if this were a practical joke of some students from the dissecting rooms, it would be as easy for them to send two odd ears as a pair. Precisely, Lestrade, but this is not a practical joke. Are you sure of it, Mr Holmes? The presumption is strongly against it, Lestrade. Bodies in the dissecting rooms are injected with preserving fluid. These ears bear no signs of this. They are fresh too. They have been cut off with a blunt instrument, which would hardly happen if a student had done it. Again, carbolic or rectified spirits would be the preservative which would suggest themselves to the medical mind, certainly not rough salt. I repeat that there is no practical joke here, but that we are investigating a serious crime. This brutal preliminary seemed to shadow forth some strange and inexplicable horror in the background. Lestrade, however, shook his head like a man who is only half convinced. Mr Holmes, there are objections to the joke theory, no doubt, but there are much stronger reasons against the other. We know that this woman has led a most quiet and respectable life at Pinj, and here for the last twenty years. She has hardly been away from her home for a day during that time. Why on earth then should any criminal send her proofs of his guilt, especially as, unless she is a most consummate actress, she understands quite as little of the matter as we do. And that is the problem which we have to solve. For my part, I shall set about it by presuming that my reasoning is correct, and that a double murder has been committed. One of these ears is a woman's, small, finely formed, and pierced for an earring. The other is a man's, sunburned, discolored, and also pierced for an earring. These two people are presumably dead, or we should have heard their story before now. Today is Friday. The packet was posted on Thursday morning. The tragedy then occurred on Wednesday or Tuesday or earlier. If the two people were murdered, who but the murderer would have sent this sign of his work to Miss Cushing? We must take it that the sender of this packet is the man whom we want. But he must have some strong reason for sending Miss Cushing this packet. What reason then? It must be to tell her that the deed was done, or to pain her, perhaps. But in that case she knows who it is. But does she know who it is? I doubt it. If she knew, why would she call the police in? She might have buried the ears, and no one would have been the wiser. That is what she would have done if she had wished to shield the criminal. But if she does not wish to shield him, she would give his name. There is a tangle here which needs straightening out. I sprang briskly to my feet and walked towards the house. I have a few questions to ask Miss Cushing. Well, in that case, Mr Holmes, I may leave you here, for I have another small business on hand. I think that I have nothing further to learn from Miss Cushing. You will find me at the police station. Watson and I shall look in on our way to the train. A moment later we were back in the front room, where the impassive lady was still quietly working away at her needlepoint. She put it down on her lap as we entered, and looked at us with her frank, searching blue eyes. I am convinced, sir, that this matter is a mistake, and that the parcel was never meant for me at all. I have said this several times to the gentleman from Scotland Yard, but he simply laughs at me. I have not an enemy in the world, as far as I know, so why should anyone play me such a trick? I am coming to be of the same opinion, Miss Cushing. I think that it is more than probable I paused and observed the lady's profile. I stared hard at her flat grizzled hair, her trim cap, her little gilt earrings, her placid features. Much was revealed. There were one or two questions, Miss Cushing. Oh I'm wary of questions, sir. You have two sisters, I believe? Yes, but how could you know that? I observed the very instant I entered the room that you have a portrait group of three ladies upon the mantlepiece, one of whom is undoubtedly yourself, while the others are so exceedingly like you that there could be no doubt of the relationship. Well, yes, yes, you are quite right. Those are my sisters, Sarah and Mary. And here at my elbow is another portrait, taken at Liverpool, of your younger sister in the company of a man who appears to be a steward in his uniform. I observe that she was unmarried at the time. You are very quick at observing, sir. That is my trade, Miss Cushing. Well, you are quite right. But she was married to Mr Brown a few days afterwards. He was on the South American line when that was taken, but he was so fond of her that he couldn't abide to leave her for so long, and he got into the Liverpool and London boats. Ah the Conqueror, perhaps? No, no, the May Day, when I last heard, Jim came down here to see me once. That was before he broke the pledge, but afterwards he would always take drink when he was ashore, and a little drink would send him Stark staring mad. It was a dark day that Jim ever took a glass in his hand. First he dropped me, then quarrelled with Sarah, and now that Mary has stopped writing, we don't know how things are going with them. It was evident that Miss Cushing had come upon the subject on which she felt very deeply. Like most people who lead a lonely life, she was shy at first, but ended by becoming extremely communicative. She told us many details about her brother in law, the Stuart, and then wandering off on the subject of her former lodgers, the medical students, she gave us a long account of their delinquencies, with their names and those of their hospitals. I listened attentively to everything, throwing in a question from time to time. About your sister Sarah. I wonder, since you are both maiden ladies, that you do not keep house together. Ah, you don't know Sarah's temper, or you would wonder no more. I tried it when I came to Croydon, and we kept on it until about two months ago, when we had to part. I don't want to say a word against my own sister, but she was always meddlesome and hard to please with Sarah. You say that she quarrelled with your Liverpool relations? Yes, and they were the best of friends at one time. Why she went up there to live in order to be near them. And now she has no word hard enough for Jim Browner. The last six months that she was here, she would speak of nothing but his drinking and his ways. He had caught her meddling, I suspect, and gave her a bit of his mind. And that was the start of it. Thank you very much, Miss Cushing. Your sister Sarah lives, I think you said, at New Street, Wallington. Goodbye, and I'm very sorry that you should have been troubled over a case with which, as you say, you have nothing whatsoever to do. There was a cab passing as we came out, and I hailed it. How far to Wallington, driver? Uh about a mile, sir. Very good. Jump in, Watson. We must strike while the iron is hot. Simple as the case is, there have been one or two very interesting details in connection with it. Driver, please, just pull up at that telegraph office, will you? I sent off a short wire, and for the rest of the drive I lay back in the cab, with my hat tilted over my nose to keep the sun from my face. Our driver pulled up at a house which was not unlike the one we had just quitted. I ordered him to wait, and I had my hand upon the knocker when the door opened, and a grave young gentleman in black, with a very shiny hat, appeared on the doorstep. Is Miss Cushing at home? Miss Sarah Cushing is extremely ill. She has been suffering since yesterday from brain symptoms of great severity. And as her medical advisor, I cannot possibly take responsibility of allowing anyone to see her. I should recommend that you call again in ten days. He drew on his gloves, closed the door, and marched off down the street. Well, Watson, if we can't, then I guess we can't. Perhaps she could not have or would not have told you much, Holmes. I did not wish her to tell me anything. I only wanted to look at her. However, I think that I've got all that I want. Drive us to some decent hotel, Cabby, where we may have some lunch, and afterwards we shall drop down upon friendless strade at the police station. Watson and I had a very pleasant little meal together, during which I talked about nothing but violins. I had purchased my own Stradivarius, which was worth at least five hundred guineas at a broker's in Tottenham Court Road for fifty five shillings. This, of course, led me to Paganini, and we sat for an hour over a bottle of claret while I told Watson anecdote after anecdote about that extraordinary man. The afternoon was far advanced, and the hot glare had softened into a mellow glow before we found ourselves at the police station. Lestrade was waiting for us at the door. A telegram for you, Mr Holmes Ha It is the answer. I tore it open, glanced my eyes over it, and crumpled it into my pocket. Ah, very good. Well, Mr Holmes, have you found out anything? I have found out everything, Lestrade. What? Mr Holmes, you are certainly joking. I was never more serious in my life. A shocking crime has been committed, and I think I have now laid bare every detail of it. And the criminal Holmes I scribbled a few words upon the back of one of my visiting cards and threw it over to Lestrade. That is your name. You cannot effect an arrest until tomorrow night at the earliest. I should prefer that you do not mention my name at all in connection with this case, as I choose to only be associated with those crimes which present at least some difficulty in their solution. Come on, Watson. We strode off together to the station, leaving Lestrade still staring with delight at the card which I had thrown him. Watson and I chatted over cigars that night in our rooms at Baker Street. Well, Watson, the case is one where you know, we have been compelled to reason backwards from effects to causes. I have written to Lestrade asking him to supply us with the details which are now wanting, and which he will only get after he has secured his man. That he may be safely trusted to do, for although he is absolutely devoid of any reason, he is as tenacious as a bulldog when he once understands what he must do, and indeed, it is just that tenacity which has brought him to the top at Scotland Yard. Well your case is complete then, Holmes. It is fairly complete in essentials. We know who the author of the revolting business is, although one of the victims still escapes us. Of course, you have formed your own conclusions, Watson. Yes, I presume that this Jim Browner, the steward of the Liverpool boat, is the man whom you suspect? Oh, well, it is more than a suspicion, Watson. And yet I cannot see anything, save very vague indications. Oh, on the contrary, to my mind nothing could be more clear. Let me run down the principal steps. We approached the case, you remember, with an absolutely blank mind, which is always an advantage. We had formed no theories, we were simply there to observe and to draw inferences from our observations. What did we first see? A very placid and respectable lady, who seemed quite innocent of any secret, and a portrait which she showed me that had two younger sisters. It instantly flashed across my mind that the box might have been meant for one of these. I set the idea aside, as one which could be disproved or confirmed at our leisure. Then we went to the garden, as you remember, and we saw the very singular contents of that little yellow box. The string was of the quality which is used by sailmakers aboard ship, and at once a whiff of the sea was perceptible in our investigation. When I observed that the knot was one which is popular among sailors, that the parcel had been posted at a port, and that the male ear was pierced for an earring, which is so much more common among sailors than landsmen, I was quite certain that all the actors in the tragedy were to be found among our seafaring classes. When I came to examine the address of the packet, I observed that it was to Miss S Cushing. Now the oldest sister would of course be Miss Cushing, and although her initial was S, it might belong to one of the other sisters as well. In that case, we should have to commence our investigation from a fresh basis altogether. I therefore went into the house with the intention of clearing up this point. I was about to assure Miss Cushing that I was convinced that a mistake had been made, when you may remember that I came suddenly to a stop. The fact was that I had just seen something which filled me with surprise, and at the same time narrowed the field of our inquiry immensely. As a medical man you are aware, Watson, that there is no part of the human body which varies so much as the human ear. Each ear is quite unique, quite distinctive as a rule, and differs from all other ones. In last year's anthropological journal you will find two short monographs from my pen upon the subject. I had therefore examined the ears in the box with the eyes of an expert, and had carefully noted their anatomical peculiarities. Imagine my surprise then, when on looking at Miss Cushing, I perceived that her ear corresponded exactly to the female ear which I had just inspected. The matter was entirely beyond coincidence. There was the same shortening of the pina, the same broad curve of the upper lobe, the same convolution of the inner cartilage. In all essentials it was the same ear. In the first place, her sister's name was Sarah, and her address had until recently been the same, so that is quite obvious how the mistake had occurred, and for whom the packet was meant. Then we heard of this Stuart, married to the third sister, and learned that he had at one time been so intimate with Miss Sarah that she had actually gone up to Liverpool to be near the Browners. But a quarrel had afterwards divided them. This quarrel had put a stop to all communications for some months, so that if Browner had occasion to address a packet to Miss Sarah, he would undoubtedly have done so to her old address. And now the matter began to straighten itself out wonderfully. We had learned of the existence of this Stuart, an impulsive man of strong passions. You remember that he threw up what must have been a very superior birth in order to be nearer to his wife, subject too to occasional fits of hard drinking. We had reason to believe that his wife had been murdered, and that a man, presumably a seafaring man, had been murdered at the same time. Jealousy, of course, at once suggests itself as the motive for the crime. And why should these proofs of the deed be sent to Miss Sarah Cushing? Probably because during her residence in Liverpool she had some hand in bringing about the events which led to the tragedy. You will observe that this line of boats calls at Belfast, Dublin, and Waterford, so that presuming Brown had committed the deed and had embarked at once upon his steamer the May Day, Belfast would be the first place at which he could post his terrible packet. A second solution was at this stage obviously possible, and although I thought it highly unlikely, I was determined to elucidate it before going further. An unsuccessful lover might have killed Mr and Mrs. Browner, and the male ear might belong to the husband. There were many grave objections to this theory, but it was conceivable. I therefore sent off a telegram to my friend Alger of the Liverpool Force, and asked him to find out if Mrs. Browner were at home, and if Browner himself had departed on the May Day. I was curious in the first place to see how far the family air had been reproduced in her. Then of course she might give us very important information, but I could in no way be certain that she would. She must have heard about the business the day before, since all of Croydon was ringing with it, and she alone could have understood for whom the packet was meant. If she had been willing to help justice, she would probably have communicated with the police already. However, it was clearly our duty to see her, so we went. We found that the news of the arrival of the packet, for her illness dated from that time, had such an effect upon her as to bring on brain fever. It was clearer than ever that she understood its full significance, but equally clear that we should have to wait some time for any assistance from her. However, we were really independent of her help. Our answers were waiting for us at the police station where I directed Alga to send them. Nothing could be more conclusive. Mrs. Browner's house had been closed for more than three days, and the neighbors were of the opinion that she had gone south to see her relatives. It had been ascertained at the shipping offices that Browner had left aboard the May Day, and I calculate that she is due in the Thames tomorrow night. When Browner arrives he will be met by the obstruct but resolute Lestrade, and I have no doubt that we shall have all the details filled in. I was not disappointed in my expectations. Two days later I received a bulky envelope which contained a short note from the detective and a typewritten document which covered several pages of foolscap. Ah, Watson, Lestrade has got him all right. Perhaps it would interest you to hear what he says. Of course, Holmes, by all means, yes. Well, here it is. My dear Mr Holmes, in accordance with the scheme which we had formed in order to test our theories, I went down to the Albert Dock yesterday at six PM and boarded the SS May Day, belonging to the Liverpool, Dublin and London Steam Packet Company. On inquiry, I found that there was a steward on board of the name of James Browner, and that he had acted during the voyage in such an extraordinary manner that the captain had been compelled to relieve him of his duties. On descending to his berth I found him seated upon a chest with his head sunk upon his hands, rocking himself to and fro. He is a big, powerful chap, clean shaven and very swarthy, something like Aldridge, who helped us in the bogus laundry affair. He jumped up when he heard my business, and I had my whistle to my lips to call a couple of river police who were round the corner, but he seemed to have no heart in him, and he held out his hands quietly enough for the derbies. We brought him along to the cells and his box as well, for we thought there might be something incriminating, but bar a big sharp knife, such as most sailors have, we got nothing for our trouble. However, we find that we shall want no more evidence, for on being brought before the inspector at the station, he asked to leave to make a statement, which was, of course, taken down, just as he made it by our shorthand man. We had three copies typewritten, one of which I enclose. The affair proves, as I always thought it would, to be an extremely simple one. But I am obliged to you, Mr Holmes, for assisting me in my investigation. With kind regards, yours very truly G Lestrade. Hm The investigation really was a very simple one, but I don't think it struck him in that light when he first called us in. However, let us see what Jim Browner has to say for himself. This is his statement as made before Inspector Montgomery at the Shadwell Police Station, and it has the advantage of being verbatim. I have to make a clean breast of it. You can hang me or you can leave me alone. I don't care a plug what you do. I tell you, I've not shut an eye in sleep since I did it, and I don't believe I ever will again until I get past all waking. Sometimes it's his face, but most generally it's hers. I'm never without one or the other before me. He looks frowning and black like, but she has a kind of surprise upon her face. Aye the white lamb. She might well be surprised when she read death on the face that seldom looked on her with anything but love. But it was Sarah's fault, and may the curse of a broken man put a blight on her and set the blood rotting in her veins. It's not that I want to clear myself. I know, I know that I went back to the drink like the beast that I was. But she would have forgiven me. She would have she would have stuck as close to me as a rope to a block if that woman Sarah had never darkened our door for Sarah Cushing loved me. That's the root of this business. She loved me until all her love turned to poisonous hate, when she knew she knew that I thought more of my wife's footmark in the mud than I did of her whole body and soul. There were three sisters altogether. The old one was just a good woman. The second one was a devil, and the third the third was an angel. Sarah was thirty three and Mary Mary was twenty nine when I married her. We were just as happy as the day was long, and we set up house together. And in all Liverpool there was no better woman than my Mary. And then we asked Sarah up for a week, and the week grew into a month, and one thing led to another and until until she was just one of ourselves. I was blue ribbon at that time, and we were putting away a little money by and all was as bright as a new dollar. My God, whoever would have thought that would have come to this Whoever would have dreamed it I used to be home for weekends very often, and sometimes if the ship were held back for cargo, I'd have a whole week at a time, and in this way I saw a good deal of my sister in law, Sarah. She's a fine tall woman, and quick and fierce, with a proud way of carrying her head and a glint from her eye like a like a spark from a flint. But when my little Mary was there I never had a thought of her. And that I swear, as I hope for God's mercy. It seemed to me that sometimes Sarah liked to be alone with me or to coax me out for a walk with her, but I never thought anything of that. But one evening my eyes were opened. I'd come up from the ship and found me wife out, but Sarah was at home. Good evening, Sarah. Where's Mary? Oh, Jim love. She's gone to pay some accounts. I was impatient and I paced up and down the room like Oh Jim, can't you be happy for five minutes without Mary? It's a bad compliment to me that you can't be contented with my society for so short a time. Oh well now that's all right, my lass. I put a hand out toward her in a in a kindly way. But she had it in both of her hands in an instant, and her hands they burned as if they were in a fever. I looked into her eyes and I read it all there. There was no need for her to speak, nor for me either. I frowned and drew my hand away. Then she stood by my side in silence for a bit, and then put up her hand and patted me on the shoulder. Steady on, Jim old boy. Well then she she ran from the room. Well, from that time Sarah hated me. She hated me with her whole heart and soul, and she is a woman who can hate too, let me tell you. I was a fool to let her go on biding with us, a basat fool, but I never said a word to Mary for I knew I knew it would grieve her. Things went on much the same as before, but after a time I began to find that there was a bit of a change in Mary herself. She'd always been so trusting and so innocent, but now she became queer and suspicious, wanting to know where I'd been and what I'd been doing and who my letters were from and what I had in my pockets and a thousand such follies. And we had ceaseless rows about nothing. I was fairly puzzled by it all. Sarah avoided me now. I can see now how Sarah was plotting and scheming and poisoning my wife's mind against me, but I was such a blind beetle that I could not understand it at the time. Then I I broke my blue ribbon and I began to drink again. But I think I think that I should not have done it if Mary had been the same as ever. She had some reason to be disgusted with me now, and the gap between us, well it began to grow wider and wider, and then this Alec Fairburn chipped in, and things became a thousand times blacker. It was to see Sarah that he came to my house first, but soon it was to see us, for he was a man with winning ways, and he made friends everywhere he went. He was a dashing, swaggering chap smart and curled. He'd seen half the world and could talk about what he had seen. He was good company, I won't deny it. And he was wonderful polite in his ways with him for a sailor man, so that I think there must have been a time when he knew more of the poop than the forecastle. For a month he was in and out of my house, and never once did it cross my mind that harm might come of his soft and tricky ways. And then then at last something made me suspect, and from that day my peace was gone forever. There was only a little thing too. I come into the parlour unexpected, and I walked in the door and I saw a light of welcome in my wife's face, but as she saw who it was, that light faded again, and she turned away with a look of disappointment. Well, that was enough for me. There was no one but Alec Fairburn whose steps she could have mistaken for mine. If I could have seen him then I should have killed him on the spot. For I've always been like that, like a madman when my temper gets loose. Mary saw the devil's light in my eyes and she ran forward with her hands on my sleeve. Jim Jim, don't, Jim, please. Where's Sarah? In the kitchen. Sarah This man Fairburn is never to darken my door again. And why not, Jim? Because I order it. Oh if my friends are not good enough for this house, then I'm not good enough for it either. You can do what you like, but if Fairburn shows his face and hair again, I'll send you one of his ears for a Kate's sake. She was frightened by my face, I think, for she never answered a word. And the same evening she left my house. Well I don't know now whether it was pure devilry on the part of Sarah, or whether she thought she could turn me against my wife by encouraging her to misbehave. Anyway, she took a house just two streets off, and let lodgings to sailors. Fairbarn used to stay there, and Mary would go round to have tea with her sister and him. How often she went I don't know, but I followed her one day, and as I broke in at the door Fairbarn got away over the back garden wall, like that cowardly skunk that he was. I swore to my wife that I would kill her if I found her in his company again. And I led her back with me, sobbing and trembling, and as white as a piece of paper. There was no trace of love between us now. Not any longer. I could see that she hated me, and she feared me, and when the thought of that drove me back to drink, well, then she despised me as well. Sarah found that she could not make a living in Liverpool, so she went back, as I understand, to live with her sister in Croydon, and things jogged on much the same as ever at home. And then I came home this week and all the misery and ruin. It was in this way. We'd gone down on the Mayday for a round voyage of seven days, but a hogshead got loose and started one of our plates, so that we had to put back into port for twelve hours. I left the ship and came home, thinking what a surprise it would be for my wife, and hoping that maybe she would be glad to see me so soon. The thought was in my head as I turned into my own street, and at that moment a cab passed me, and there she was, sitting by the side of Fairburn, the two chatting and laughing with never a thought for me as I stood watching from the footpath. I tell you, and I give you my word for it, that from that moment I was not my own master. It is all like a dim dream while I look back at it. I had been drinking hard of late, and the two things together finally turned my brain. There's something throbbing in my head now, like a docker's hammer. But that morning I seemed to have all Niagara whizzing and buzzing in my ears. Well, I took to my heels and I ran after the cab. I had a heavy oak stick in my hand and I tell you, I saw red from the first. But as I ran, I got cunning too, and I hung back a little to see to see them without them seeing me. Then I pulled up at the railway station. There was good crowd round the booking office, so I got quite close to them without being seen. They took tickets for New Brighton. So did I. But I got in three carriages behind them. When we reached it they walked along the parade, and I was never more than a hundred yards from them. At last I saw them hire a boat and start off for a row, for it was a very hot day, and they thought, no doubt, that it would be cooler on the water. It was just as if they'd been given to my hands. There was a bit of a haze and you could not see more than maybe a few hundred yards. I hired a boat for myself and I pulled off after them. I could see the blur of their craft, but they were going nearly as fast as I and they must have been a long mile from the shore before I caught up to them. The haze was like a curtain all round us and there were three of us there, right there in the middle of it. My God, shall I ever forget their faces when they saw who it was in the boat that was closing in upon them? She screamed out. He swore like a madman and jabbed at me with an oar, for he must have seen death in my eyes. I got past it, and I got one in with my stick that crushed his head like an egg. I would have spared her, perhaps, for all my madness, but she threw her arms around him, crying out to him and calling to him Alec, my dearest Alec How could you, Jim Browner? You're a fiend from hell. I hate you And so I struck. I struck again, and she lay stretched out beside him. I was like a wild beast then that had tasted blood. If Sarah had been there by God she would have joined them. I pulled out my knife and and well there. I've said enough. It gave me a kind of savage joy when I thought when I thought of how Sarah would feel when she had such signs as these of her meddling, and what it had brought about. Then I tied the bodies into the boat and stove a plank and stood by until they had sunk. I knew very well that the owner would think that they had lost their bearings in the haze and drifted out to sea. I cleaned myself up, got back to land and joined my ship without a soul having a suspicion of what had passed. That night I made up the packet for Sarah Cushing. The next day, I sent it from Belfast. There you have it. The whole truth of it. You can hang me or do whatever you like with me, but but you cannot punish me as I've been punished already. I cannot shut my eyes. But I see those two faces staring at me staring at me as they stared when I broke through that haze. I kill them quick but they are killing me slow. And if I have another night of it, I shall either be mad or dead before morning. You won't put me alone into a cell, sir, will you? For pity's sake, don't And may you be treated in your day of agony as you treat me now. Well, Watson, there you have it. It is a sad business, Holmes. Very tragic indeed. And what is the meaning of it, Watson? What object is served by this circle of misery and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what end? There is the great standing perennial problem to which human reason is as far from an answer as ever.

The Pursuit To New Brighton

SPEAKER_02 52:02

Adapted and performed by J. P. Winslow, based on the original writings of Sir Arthur Colin Doyle.