The Adventure of the Devils Foot | Page 4

the Cornish peninsula.
It was a singular spot, and one peculiarly well suited to the grim humour of my patient.
From the windows of our little whitewashed house, which stood high upon a grassy
headland, we looked down upon the whole sinister semicircle of Mounts Bay, that old
death trap of sailing vessels, with its fringe of black cliffs and surge-swept reefs on which
innumerable seamen have met their end. With a northerly breeze it lies placid and
sheltered, inviting the storm-tossed craft to tack into it for rest and protection.
Then come the sudden swirl round of the wind, the blistering gale from the south-west,
the dragging anchor, the lee shore, and the last battle in the creaming breakers. The wise
mariner stands far out from that evil place.
On the land side our surroundings were as sombre as on the sea. It was a country of
rolling moors, lonely and dun-colored, with an occasional church tower to mark the site
of some old-world village. In every direction upon these moors there were traces of some
vanished race which had passed utterly away, and left as it sole record strange
monuments of stone, irregular mounds which contained the burned ashes of the dead, and
curious earthworks which hinted at prehistoric strife. The glamour and mystery of the
place, with its sinister atmosphere of forgotten nations, appealed to the imagination of my
friend, and he spent much of his time in long walks and solitary meditations upon the
moor. The ancient Cornish language had also arrested his attention, and he had, I
remember, conceived the idea that it was akin to the Chaldean, and had been largely
derived from the Phoenician traders in tin. He had received a consignment of books upon
philology and was settling down to develop this thesis when suddenly, to my sorrow and
to his unfeigned delight, we found ourselves, even in that land of dreams, plunged into a
problem at our very doors which was more intense, more engrossing, and infinitely more
mysterious than any of those which had driven us from London. Our simple life and
peaceful, healthy routine were violently interrupted, and we were precipitated into the
midst of a series of events which caused the utmost excitement not only in Cornwall but
throughout the whole west of England. Many of my readers may retain some recollection
of what was called at the time "The Cornish Horror," though a most imperfect account of
the matter reached the London press. Now, after thirteen years, I will give the true details
of this inconceivable affair to the public.
I have said that scattered towers marked the villages which dotted this part of Cornwall.
The nearest of these was the hamlet of Tredannick Wollas, where the cottages of a couple
of hundred inhabitants clustered round an ancient, moss-grown church. The vicar of the
parish, Mr. Roundhay, was something of an archaeologist, and as such Holmes had made
his acquaintance. He was a middle-aged man, portly and affable, with a considerable fund
of local lore. At his invitation we had taken tea at the vicarage and had come to know,
also, Mr. Mortimer Tregennis, an independent gentleman, who increased the clergyman's
scanty resources by taking rooms in his large, straggling house. The vicar, being a
bachelor, was glad to come to such an arrangement, though he had little in common with
his lodger, who was a thin, dark, spectacled man, with a stoop which gave the impression
of actual, physical deformity. I remember that during our short visit we found the vicar

garrulous, but his lodger strangely reticent, a sad-faced, introspective man, sitting with
averted eyes, brooding apparently upon his own affairs.
These were the two men who entered abruptly into our little sitting-room on Tuesday,
March the 16th, shortly after our breakfast hour, as we were smoking together,
preparatory to our daily excursion upon the moors.
"Mr. Holmes," said the vicar in an agitated voice, "the most extraordinary and tragic
affair has occurred during the night. It is the most unheard-of business. We can only
regard it as a special Providence that you should chance to be here at the time, for in all
England you are the one man we need."
I glared at the intrusive vicar with no very friendly eyes; but Holmes took his pipe from
his lips and sat up in his chair like an old hound who hears the view-halloa. He waved his
hand to the sofa, and our palpitating visitor with his agitated companion sat side by side
upon it. Mr. Mortimer Tregennis was more self- contained than the clergyman, but the
twitching of his thin hands and the brightness of his dark eyes showed that they shared a
common emotion.
"Shall I speak or you?" he asked of the vicar.