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''The Great Pegram Mystery'' is a pastiche written by ''Luke Sharp'' (aka [[Robert Barr]]) published in [[The Idler]] magazine in may 1892.

The story was originally titled ''Detective Stories Gone Wrong: The Adventures of Sherlaw Kombs'' when it appeared in the May 1892 issue of The Idler. It was reprinted in book form two years later as ''The Great Pegram Mystery.''

__TOC__

== Illustrations ==

...soon...

== The Great Pegram Mystery ==

I dropped in on my friend, Sherlaw Kombs, to hear what he had to say about the Pegram
mystery, as it had come to be called in the newspapers. I found him playing the violin
with a look of sweet peace and serenity on his face, which I never noticed on the
countenances of those within hearing distance. I knew this expression of seraphic calm
indicated that Kombs had been deeply annoyed about something. Such, indeed, proved
to be the case, for one of the morning papers had contained an article eulogising the
alertness and general competence of Scotland Yard. So great was Sherlaw Kombs's
contempt for Scotland Yard that he never would visit Scotland during his vacations, nor
would he ever admit that a Scotchman was fit for anything but export.
He generously put away his violin, for he had a sincere liking for me, and greeted
me with his usual kindness.

"I have come," I began, plunging at once into the matter on my mind, "to hear what
you think of the great Pegram mystery."

"I haven't heard of it," he said quietly, just as if all London were not talking of that
very thing. Kombs was curiously ignorant on some subjects, and abnormally learned on
others. I found, for instance, that political discussion with him was impossible, because
he did not know who Salisbury and Gladstone were. This made his friendship a great
boon.

"The Pegram mystery has baffled even Gregory, of Scotland Yard."

"I can well believe it," said my friend, calmly. "Perpetual motion, or squaring the
circle, would baffle Gregory. He's an infant, is Gregory."

This was one of the things I always liked about Kombs. There was no professional
jealousy in him, such as characterises so many other men.

"THREW HIMSELF INTO HIS DEEP-SEATED ARM-CHAIR"

He filled his pipe, threw himself into his deep-seated arm-chair, placed his feet on
the mantel, and clasped his hands behind his head.

"Tell me about it," he said simply.

"Old Barrie Kipson," I began, "was a stockbroker in the City. He lived in Pegram,
and it was his custom to — "

"Come in!" shouted Kombs, without changing his position, but with a suddenness
that startled me. I had heard no knock.

"Excuse me," said my friend, laughing, "my invitation to enter was a trifle
premature. I was really so interested in your recital that I spoke before I thought, which
a detective should never do. The fact is, a man will be here in a moment who will tell
me all about this crime, and so you will be spared further effort in that line."

"Ah, you have an appointment. In that case I will not intrude," I said, rising.

"Sit down; I have no appointment. I did not know until I spoke that he was coming."

I gazed at him in amazement. Accustomed as I was to his extraordinary talents, the
man was a perpetual surprise to me. He continued to smoke quietly, but evidently
enjoyed my consternation.

"I see you are surprised. It is really too simple to talk about, but, from my position
opposite the mirror, I can see the reflection of objects in the street. A man stopped,
looked at one of my cards, and then glanced across the street. I recognised my card,
because, as you know, they are all in scarlet. If, as you say, London is talking of this
mystery, it naturally follows that he will talk of it, and the chances are he wished to
consult with me upon it. Anyone can see that, besides there is always — Come in!"
There was a rap at the door this time.

A stranger entered. Sherlaw Kombs did not change his lounging attitude.

"I wish to see Mr. Sherlaw Kombs, the detective," said the stranger, coming within
the range of the smoker's vision.

"This is Mr. Kombs," I remarked at last, as my friend smoked quietly, and seemed
half-asleep.

"Allow me to introduce myself," continued the stranger, fumbling for a card.

"YOU ARE A JOUNALIST."

"There is no need. You are a journalist," said Kombs.

"Ah," said the stranger, somewhat taken aback, "you know me, then."

"Never saw or heard of you in my life before."

"Then how in the world — "

"Nothing simpler. You write for an evening paper. You have written an article
slating the book of a friend. He will feel badly about it, and you will condole with him.
He will never know who stabbed him unless I tell him."

"The devil!" cried the journalist, sinking into a chair and mopping his brow, while
his face became livid.

"Yes," drawled Kombs, "it is a devil of a shame that such things are done. But what
would you, as we say in France."

When the journalist had recovered his second wind he pulled himself together
somewhat.

"Would you object to telling me how you know these particulars about a man you
say you have never seen?"

"I rarely talk about these things," said Kombs with great composure. "But as the
cultivation of the habit of observation may help you in your profession, and thus in a
remote degree benefit me by making your paper less deadly dull, I will tell you. Your
first and second fingers are smeared with ink, which shows that you write a great deal.
This smeared class embraces two sub-classes, clerks or accountants, and journalists.
Clerks have to be neat in their work. The ink smear is slight in their case. Your fingers
are badly and carelessly smeared; therefore, you are a journalist. You have an evening
paper in your pocket. Any one might have any evening paper, but yours is a Special
Edition, which will not be on the streets for half an hour yet. You must have obtained it
before you left the office, and to do this you must be on the staff. A book notice is
marked with a blue pencil. A journalist always despises every article in his own paper
not written by himself; therefore, you wrote the article you have marked, and doubtless
are about to send it to the author of the book referred to. Your paper makes a speciality
of abusing all books not written by some member of its own staff. That the author is a
friend of yours, I merely surmised. It is all a trivial example of ordinary observation."
"Really, Mr. Kombs, you are the most wonderful man on earth. You are the equal of
Gregory, by Jove, you are."

A frown marred the brow of my friend as he placed his pipe on the sideboard and
drew his self-cocking six-shooter.

"Do you mean to insult me, sir?"

"I do not — I — I assure you. You are fit to take charge of Scotland Yard to-morrow. I
am in earnest, indeed I am, sir."

"'DON'T SHOOT,' I CRIED."

"Then heaven help you," cried Kombs, slowly raising his right arm. I sprang
between them. "Don't shoot!" I cried. "You will spoil the carpet. Besides, Sherlaw,
don't you see the man means well. He actually thinks it is a compliment!"

"Perhaps you are right," remarked the detective, flinging his revolver carelessly
beside his pipe, much to the relief of the third party. Then, turning to the journalist, he
said, with his customary bland courtesy —

"You wanted to see me, I think you said. What can I do for you, Mr. Wilber
Scribbings?"

The journalist started.

"How do you know my name?" he gasped.

Kombs waved his hand impatiently.

"Look inside your hat if you doubt your own name."

I then noticed for the first time that the name was plainly to be seen inside the tophat
Scribbings held upside down in his hands.

"You have heard, of course, of the Pegram mystery"

"Tush," cried the detective; "do not, I beg of you, call it a mystery. There is no such
thing. Life would become more tolerable if there ever was a mystery. Nothing is
original. Everything has been done before. What about the Pegram affair?"

"The Pegram — ah — case has baffled everyone. The Evening Blade wishes you to
investigate, so that it may publish the result. It will pay you well. Will you accept the
commission?"

"Possibly. Tell me about the case."

"HE DREW SOMETHING LIKE £300 IN NOTES."

"I thought everybody knew the particulars. Mr. Barrie Kipson lived at Pegram. He
carried a first-class season ticket between the terminus and that station. It was his
custom to leave for Pegram on the 5.30 train each evening. Some weeks ago, Mr.
Kipson was brought down by the influenza. On his first visit to the City after his
recovery, he drew something like £300 in notes, and left the office at his usual hour to
catch the 5.30. He was never seen again alive, as far as the public have been able to
learn. He was found at Brewster in a first-class compartment on the Scotch Express,
which does not stop between London and Brewster. There was a bullet in his head, and
his money was gone, pointing plainly to murder and robbery."

"And where is the mystery, might I ask?"

"There are several unexplainable things about the case. First, how came he on the
Scotch Express, which leaves at six, and does not stop at Pegram? Second, the ticket
examiners at the terminus would have turned him out if he showed his season ticket; and
all the tickets sold for the Scotch Express on the 21st are accounted for. Third, how
could the murderer have escaped? Fourth, the passengers in the two compartments on
each side of the one where the body was found heard no scuffle and no shot fired."

"Are you sure the Scotch Express on the 21st did not stop between London and
Brewster?"

"Now that you mention the fact, it did. It was stopped by signal just outside of
Pegram. There was a few moments' pause, when the line was reported clear, and it
went on again. This frequently happens, as there is a branch line beyond Pegram."
Mr. Sherlaw Kombs pondered for a few moments, smoking his pipe silently.

"I presume you wish the solution in time for to-morrow's paper?"

"Bless my soul, no. The editor thought if you evolved a theory in a month you would
do well."

"My dear sir, I do not deal with theories, but with facts. If you can make it
convenient to call here to-morrow at 8 a.m. I will give you the full particulars early
enough for the first edition. There is no sense in taking up much time over so simple an
affair as the Pegram case. Good afternoon, sir."

"WITH HIS HAT STILL IN HIS HAND."

Mr. Scribbings was too much astonished to return the greeting. He left in a
speechless condition, and I saw him go up the street with his hat still in his hand.
Sherlaw Kombs relapsed into his old lounging attitude, with his hands clasped
behind his head. The smoke came from his lips in quick puffs at first, then at longer
intervals. I saw he was coming to a conclusion, so I said nothing.

Finally he spoke in his most dreamy manner. "I do not wish to seem to be rushing
things at all, Whatson, but I am going out to-night on the Scotch Express. Would you
care to accompany me?"

"Bless me!" I cried, glancing at the clock, "you haven't time, it is after five now."

"Ample time, Whatson — ample," he murmured, without changing his position. "I
give myself a minute and a half to change slippers and dressing gown for boots and coat,
three seconds for hat, twenty-five seconds to the street, forty-two seconds waiting for a
hansom, and then seven minutes at the terminus before the express starts. I shall be glad
of your company."

I was only too happy to have the privilege of going with him. It was most interesting
to watch the workings of so inscrutable a mind. As we drove under the lofty iron roof of
the terminus I noticed a look of annoyance pass over his face.

"We are fifteen seconds ahead of our time," he remarked, looking at the big clock. "I
dislike having a miscalculation of that sort occur."

"THE DETECTIVE TAPPED ONE OF THE GUARDS ON THE SHOULDER."

The great Scotch Express stood ready for its long journey. The detective tapped one
of the guards on the shoulder.

"You have heard of the so-called Pegram mystery, I presume?"

"Certainly, sir. It happened on this very train, sir."

"Really? Is the same carriage still on the train?"

"Well, yes, sir, it is," replied the guard, lowering his voice, "but of course, sir, we
have to keep very quiet about it. People wouldn't travel in it, else, sir."

"Doubtless. Do you happen to know if anybody occupies the compartment in which
the body was found?"

"A lady and gentleman, sir; put 'em in myself, sir."

"Would you further oblige me," said the detective, deftly slipping half a sovereign
into the hand of the guard, "by going to the window and informing them in an offhand
casual sort of way that the tragedy took place in that compartment?"

"Certainly, sir."

"INSTANTLY A LADY CAME OUT."

We followed the guard, and the moment he had imparted his news there was a
suppressed scream in the carriage. Instantly a lady came out, followed by a florid-faced
gentleman, who scowled at the guard. We entered the now-empty compartment, and
Kombs said: "We would like to be alone here until we reach Brewster."

"I'll see to that, sir," answered the guard, locking the door.

When the official moved away, I asked my friend what he expected to find in the
carriage that would cast any light on the case.

"Nothing," was his brief reply.

"Then why do you come?"

"Merely to corroborate the conclusions I have already arrived at."

"And might I ask what those conclusions are?"

"Certainly," replied the detective, with a touch of lassitude in his voice. "I beg to
call your attention, first, to the fact that this train stands between two platforms, and can
be entered from either side. Any man familiar with the station for years would be aware
of that fact. This shows how Mr. Kipson entered the train just before it started."
"But the door on this side is locked," I objected, trying it.

"Of course. But every season ticket-holder carries a key. This accounts for the guard
not seeing him, and for the absence of a ticket. Now let me give you some information
about the influenza. The patient's temperature rises several degrees above normal, and
he has a fever. When the malady has run its course, the temperature falls to threequarters
of a degree below normal. These facts are unknown to you, I imagine, because
you are a doctor."

I admitted such was the case.

"Well, the consequence of this fall in temperature is that the convalescent's mind
turns towards thoughts of suicide. Then is the time he should be watched by his friends.
Then was the time Mr. Barrie Kipson's friends did not watch him. You remember the
21st, of course. No? It was a most depressing day. Fog all around and mud under foot.
Very good. He resolves on suicide. He wishes to be unidentified, if possible, but forgets
his season ticket. My experience is that a man about to commit a crime always forgets
something."

"But how do you account for the disappearance of the money?"

"The money has nothing to do with the matter. If he was a deep man, and knew the
stupidness of Scotland Yard, he probably sent the notes to an enemy. If not, they may
have been given to a friend. Nothing is more calculated to prepare the mind for selfdestruction
than the prospect of a night ride on the Scotch express, and the view from the
windows of the train as it passes through the northern part of London is particularly
conducive to thoughts of annihilation."

"What became of the weapon?"

"That is just the point on which I wish to satisfy myself. Excuse me for a moment."

"EXAMINED THE TOP OF THE CASING MINUTELY WITH A MAGNIFYING GLASS."

Mr. Sherlaw Kombs drew down the window on the right-hand side, and examined
the top of the casing minutely with a magnifying glass. Presently he heaved a sigh of
relief, and drew up the sash.

"Just as I expected," he remarked, speaking more to himself than to me. "There is a
slight dent on the top of the window-frame. It is of such a nature as to be made only by
the trigger of a pistol falling from the nerveless hand of a suicide. He intended to throw
the weapon far out of the window, but had not the strength. It might have fallen into the
carriage. As a matter of fact, it bounced away from the line and lies among the grass
about ten feet six inches from the outside rail. The only question that now remains is
where the deed was committed, and the exact present position of the pistol reckoned in
miles from London, but that, fortunately, is too simple to even need explanation."

"Great heavens, Sherlaw!" I cried. "How can you call that simple? It seems to me
impossible to compute."

We were now flying over Northern London, and the great detective leaned back
with every sign of ennui, closing his eyes. At last he spoke wearily:

"It is really too elementary, Whatson, but I am always willing to oblige a friend. I
shall be relieved, however, when you are able to work out the ABC of detection for
yourself, although I shall never object to helping you with the words of more than three
syllables. Having made up his mind to commit suicide, Kipson naturally intended to do
it before he reached Brewster, because tickets are again examined at that point. When
the train began to stop at the signal near Pegram, he came to the false conclusion that it
was stopping at Brewster. The fact that the shot was not heard is accounted for by the
screech of the air-brake, added to the noise of the train. Probably the whistle was also
sounding at the same moment. The train being a fast express would stop as near the
signal as possible. The air-brake will stop a train in twice its own length. Call it three
times in this case. Very well. At three times the length of this train from the signal-post
towards London, deducting half the length of the train, as this carriage is in the middle,
you will find the pistol."

"Wonderful!" I exclaimed.

"Commonplace," he murmured.

At this moment the whistle sounded shrilly, and we felt the grind of the air-brakes.

"The Pegram signal again," cried Kombs, with something almost like enthusiasm.

"This is indeed luck. We will get out here, Whatson, and test the matter."

"AS THE TRAIN STOPPED, WE GOT OUT."

As the train stopped, we got out on the right-hand side of the line. The engine stood
panting impatiently under the red light, which changed to green as I looked at it. As the
train moved on with increasing speed, the detective counted the carriages, and noted
down the number. It was now dark, with the thin crescent of the moon hanging in the
western sky throwing a weird half-light on the shining metals. The rear lamps of the
train disappeared around a curve, and the signal stood at baleful red again. The black
magic of the lonesome night in that strange place impressed me, but the detective was a
most practical man. He placed his back against the signal-post, and paced up the line
with even strides, counting his steps. I walked along the permanent way beside him
silently. At last he stopped, and took a tape-line from his pocket. He ran it out until the
ten feet six inches were unrolled, scanning the figures in the wan light of the new moon.
Giving me the end, he placed his knuckles on the metals, motioning me to proceed down
the embankment. I stretched out the line, and then sank my hand in the damp grass to
mark the spot.

"Good God!" I cried, aghast, "what is this?"

"'IT IS THE PISTOL,' SAID KOMBS QUIETLY."

"It is the pistol," said Kombs quietly.

It was!!

Journalistic London will not soon forget the sensation that was caused by the record
of the investigations of Sherlaw Kombs, as printed at length in the next day's Evening
Blade. Would that my story ended here. Alas! Kombs contemptuously turned over the
pistol to Scotland Yard. The meddlesome officials, actuated, as I always hold, by
jealousy, found the name of the seller upon it. They investigated. The seller testified that
it had never been in the possession of Mr. Kipson, as far as he knew. It was sold to a
man whose description tallied with that of a criminal long watched by the police. He
was arrested, and turned Queen's evidence in the hope of hanging his pal. It seemed that
Mr. Kipson, who was a gloomy, taciturn man, and usually came home in a compartment
by himself, thus escaping observation, had been murdered in the lane leading to his
house. After robbing him, the miscreants turned their thoughts towards the disposal of
the body — a subject that always occupies a first-class criminal mind before the deed is
done. They agreed to place it on the line, and have it mangled by the Scotch Express,
then nearly due. Before they got the body half-way up the embankment the express came
along and stopped. The guard got out and walked along the other side to speak with the
engineer. The thought of putting the body into an empty first-class carriage instantly
occurred to the murderers. They opened the door with the deceased's key. It is supposed
that the pistol dropped when they were hoisting the body in the carriage.

The Queen's evidence dodge didn't work, and Scotland Yard ignobly insulted my
friend Sherlaw Kombs by sending him a pass to see the villains hanged.

----
* [[Pastiches & Parodies]]

The Great Pegram Mystery - Revision history

TCDE-Team at 10:17, 2 August 2021