Holmes shook his head. “The only fall of any significance has been the repeated fall of a large stick upon this poor boy’s body. Furthermore, I believe I have identified the stick in question, which is now lying in pieces upon the floor of the upstairs corridor.”
There was a general murmur of voices from behind the butler. He turned with a frown on his face, evidently intending to tell them all to keep quiet, but one of the maids abruptly spoke out in a nervous, breathless manner, as if it had taken her some courage to do so.
“He’s right,” said she in a defiant tone. “I’ve heard the poor lad screaming, enough to make you weep.” This daring statement appeared to embolden the others, some of whom murmured their agreement, and said that they, too, had heard screams.
“I fancy, though,” said Holmes, “that you have not heard him so much in recent days.” There was general assent to this suggestion and Holmes continued. “This is not, however, because his suffering has been any the less in recent days, but because he has been gagged to prevent him crying out, and tied to the bed to prevent him moving.”
There were horrified gasps at this revelation, and one of the young maids began to sob loudly. The butler appeared torn between his natural human sympathy for the boy and a desire to impose his authority upon his subordinates, and a variety of emotions passed in confusion across his features.
For a few moments, Holmes regarded his audience in silence, then he spoke again in a calm and measured tone. “No doubt,” said he, looking past the butler and addressing those behind him, “you have observed the very heavy rain that has fallen in these parts recently and flooded the fields?” There was a general, quiet murmur of assent. “Perhaps you have heard that it is very likely that every minute of every day, it is raining somewhere in the world? But has it ever occurred to you that it is also very likely that, each and every minute of every day, someone, somewhere in the world, is suffering grievously? Indeed, it is more than likely that human suffering is somewhat more prevalent in the world than rainfall; for there are some places – Timbuctoo, for instance – where, as you may be aware, it hardly ever rains at all, but we cannot suppose that human suffering is any less frequent in Timbuc-too than elsewhere.”
“No, sir,” said the butler.
“Now one cannot, therefore, actively lament each and every occasion of suffering and injustice in the world, any more than one can lament every drop of rain that falls. There is too much of it for it to be a practical proposition. Were one to try, one would be unable to continue with one’s own life.”
“No, sir.”
“There might for instance, at this very moment, be someone suffering grievously in Timbuctoo.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But we can do nothing about it.”
“No, sir.”
“But if someone informed you that you had a power, a magic power, perhaps, to alleviate the suffering of the person in Timbuctoo, what then?”
“An unlikely supposition, if I may say so, sir.”
“No doubt, but suppose for a moment that it were true – that by simply lifting your hand you might alleviate that person’s suffering. Would you do it? Do you think you ought to do it?”
“Most certainly, sir,” said the butler, to which there was a general murmur of agreement.
“And if, knowing that you had this power, to alleviate someone’s suffering, you refused to exercise it, what then? Would you be a generous person, or a mean person? Of course, as you all agree, you would be a mean, ungenerous person.”
Holmes regarded his audience in silence for a moment, before continuing. “Here,” said he at length, “is a little boy who has suffered at the hands of adults. He is not living in Timbuctoo, but here in England, at East Harrington. Which of you lifted your hand to alleviate his suffering?” This question was followed by a complete silence, during which I heard the clock on the mantelpiece ticking loudly. “You are thinking, perhaps,” Holmes continued after a moment, “that in our real world, where none of us has magic powers, things are not so simple. You are thinking that had you spoken out, you would have been at once dismissed from your position, without a reference.” The loud murmur of agreement that followed this suggestion indicated that Holmes had read the minds of his audience accurately. “This little boy has been beaten and starved. Had we not come today, I believe he would have died. And if he had died? What then? Is your position here worth this little boy’s life? Are all the domestic positions in the country worth a little boy’s life? I tell you this, if he had died, all the rain in heaven would not have sufficed to wash away the stain of this wickedness from East Harrington.”
Holmes surveyed his audience in silence for several minutes before continuing. The domestic staff had now fallen completely silent, save for the young maid, who was still sobbing. “We are now going to reunite this boy with his aunt,” said he at length in a calm tone. “She has, as you may be aware, the same legal right to have the boy with her as her husband, Mr John Hartley Lessingham.” He stepped forward and motioned to me to follow him, and as I did so, the staff silently pressed themselves back against the wall of the corridor and made a clear pathway for us. We had almost reached the corner of the corridor when the butler spoke.
“Pardon me, sir,” said he, “but who are you?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” returned my companion. “You are Hammond, I take it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, Hammond. Here is my card. You may inform your master that I can be reached at the address given there on most days of the week.”
With that he turned on his heel and we left the house.
“For a moment there, as the crowd began to muster, I thought we were undone,” said Holmes to me in a quiet tone as we descended the steps to the drive.
“It did seem a little unlikely that they would willingly let us leave the house.”
“Indeed. Those two big fellows with the cudgels might have presented a formidable obstacle.”
“They could hardly stop us, though, after your eloquent words.”
“Well, well, one’s tongue gains strength from the justice of one’s cause. I am not certain what will happen next, Watson, but if the worst comes to the worst, I know an excellent barrister to defend us. But here is Miss Borrow with the pony and trap!”
The trap had appeared at a clatter round the corner of the building as he spoke, with the groom holding the reins and Miss Borrow seated in the back.
“If you will climb in the back with the boy,” said Holmes to me as the trap drew to a halt before us, “I shall take the reins. We shall drive the trap ourselves,” he continued, addressing the groom. For a moment, the latter hesitated and appeared a little reluctant to yield up his vehicle. “This pony is a very fine-looking animal,” continued Holmes. “What is its name?”
“Buttercup, sir.”
“Well, you may rest assured that we shall take great care of Buttercup, and she will be returned to you later.”
With that, he took the reins from the groom’s hand and sprang aboard, and in a moment we were rattling up the drive and away from East Harrington Hall.
“Are we going to the railway station?” asked Miss Borrow.
“No,” said Holmes. “We cannot leave until we have got to the bottom of this business once and for all. We are going to the mill.”
Dedstone Mill
Just before we entered the narrow belt of woods, and the stately brick mansion vanished from view, I looked back and saw that several of the domestic staff were at the front door, watching us depart. No doubt they were wondering who, exactly, we were, and what we were going to do. If so, their wonder could scarcely have been any greater than my own. I could not help feeling that we had entangled ourselves somewhat more intimately in this thorny business than I had expected, and I confess that I could not quite see how we would extricate ourselves, nor how it would all end up. Although I had complete confidence in Holmes’s judgement – more so than I had ever had in that of any man – it seemed to me that we were wading rather too deeply into what were dark and treacherous waters.