SCENE 1

Sherlock Holmes: The Speckled Band

by

Abeera, Aditi
SCENE 1
Stage lights fade in on a dimly lit bedroom at Stoke Moran. It is nearly midnight.
HELEN and JULIA STONER sit together, the wind faintly rattling the window.

NARRATOR: The hour is late at the old estate of Stoke Moran. Two sisters sit
awake, whispering by the glow of a fading lamp. Outside, the night air hangs heavy
— and within these walls, unease has taken root.

HELEN: Have you noticed the terrible changes which have come over our stepfather
since we settled here in Stoke Moran?

JULIA: How can I not have done? He has become a far different man since we left
our home back in India. For one thing, he made friends with the neighbours there.

HELEN: Indeed, he did. But here in England, if he sees a neighbour at all, he

invariably picks a fight with him.

JULIA: And he collects such odd sorts of individuals about him.

HELEN: Nomads are camping everywhere on the grounds.

JULIA: And the animals—the cheetah and that loathsome creature he affectionately
calls his pet baboon.

HELEN: Roaming about the grounds, particularly at night.

JULIA: And terrifying anyone who ventures upon the premises. Still, he has not
objected to my marriage.

HELEN: Only two weeks off. I'll miss you, Julia.

JULIA: And I'll miss you terribly. But still, I'm very happy.

HELEN: [Clock strikes twelve as she speaks] I'm so happy for both of you. My, it's
midnight already? We'd better get some rest.

JULIA: Of course, Helen. [Goes to the door, starts to open it, then pauses and turns]
Helen?

HELEN: Yes?
JULIA: This may sound foolish, but have you—

HELEN: Have I what?

JULIA: Well, have you ever heard the sound of a whistle in the dead of night?

NARRATOR: A faint chill moves through the air. Helen looks up, unsure whether to
laugh or to listen more closely.

HELEN: A whistle? At night? What an odd question!

JULIA: I don't suppose that you could sometimes whistle in your sleep?

HELEN: [Laughing] Not very likely. I don't whistle all that well when I’m awake.

JULIA: Well, Helen, the last few nights, I'm certain that I have heard a low, clear
whistle—repeated several times. It has awakened me.

HELEN: When has this been?

JULIA: Three o'clock. Perhaps four. I cannot tell where it has come from— perhaps
from the next room, perhaps from the outside.

HELEN: You are really certain you've heard it?

JULIA: Positive.

HELEN: Well, our stepfather's room is next to yours. He sometimes does strange
things, but still, I can't quite imagine his whistling at three in the morning. You must
have heard some strange sound from the outside.

JULIA: Maybe one of our stepfather's animals.

HELEN: Very likely.

JULIA: Yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder if you did not hear it also.

HELEN: Ah, but I sleep much more heavily than you.

JULIA: True. Well, I'm sure that it is of no great consequence. Good night, Helen.

HELEN: Good night, Julia.

JULIA exits, closing the door behind her. HELEN walks toward the bed, but then
pauses.

HELEN: Maybe I'll read a little before I retire.

CURTAIN

NARRATOR:
The house settles into silence, but the night feels far from peaceful. Helen senses it —
a restlessness that lingers in the air, like a warning yet to be spoken.

She goes to the chair and sits. She picks up a book from the table next to the chair,
then thumbs through the pages to find her place.

Ah, here I am. [Silently begins to read]

NARRATOR: Outside, the wind sighs through the trees. Somewhere deep in the
house, a door creaks — or perhaps it’s only the imagination. The clock ticks toward
midnight’s end… and toward the beginning of a mystery that will change their lives
forever.

Lights fade out

CURTAIN
SCENE 2
 Scene 2
Same as the previous scene, but three hours later. HELEN is asleep in the chair, the book
on her lap.

NARRATOR: Three hours have passed since the sisters said goodnight. The fire has
faded to embers, and the house of Stoke Moran lies still — too still. In this uneasy quiet,
something moves unseen, waiting for its moment.

HELEN: [Starting] Oops! Two o'clock! I must have fallen asleep—just as young Mr
Chuzzlewit was about to sail for the colonies.
[Setting book aside] Well, time to retire.

Offstage, a wild scream of a terrified woman.

NARRATOR: The cry tears through the stillness — the kind of sound that freezes the
heart before the mind can name it.

HELEN: Julia's voice! What can it mean?

Another such scream.

HELEN: Julia! Julia! What is it? [She rushes to the door.]

A low whistle sounds, followed by another agonised scream

NARRATOR:
The whistle. The same warning Julia spoke of. The night has come alive with terror.

HELEN: The whistle—just as she said. Good Lord, could it mean?

HELEN opens the door and JULIA reels into the room, alternately screaming in pain and
gasping loudly for breath.

HELEN: Julia, what is it? Let me help you.

[Takes hold of JULIA and leads her towards the bed.]

JULIA: Oh, my God, Helen. It was the band!

HELEN: The band?

JULIA: [Collapsing onto bed] The band—the speckled band. The speckled baaannn . . .
[Sinks into unconsciousness]

NARRATOR: The words hang in the air like smoke — strange, senseless, and final.

HELEN: What shall I do? Help! Help! Stepfather! Stepfather!

ROYLOTT: [In nightclothes, rushing in] I'm coming! I'm coming! What is it? Good
Lord, what is it?

HELEN: It's Julia. Something terrible has happened to her.

ROYLOTT: Water, Helen! Quick, girl! Water!

HELEN pours a glass of water from the nightstand and hands it to ROYLOTT, who
attempts to pour it down JULIA's throat.

ROYLOTT: Helen, hold her head. That's the way! Ah, but she will not take it!
[Feels her pulse] It is of no avail. Her pulse is failing. She is leaving us.

HELEN: Julia, Julia!

NARRATOR: And with that final cry, silence once more claimed the house.
The mystery of the “speckled band” had begun — a riddle wrapped in darkness and
death.

Lights fade to black.

CURTAIN
SCENE 3
 SCENE 3
2 years later. 7:00 A.M. 221-B Baker Street. WATSON’s in a dressing gown,
tapping on HOLME’s door.
NARRATOR: Two years have passed since the tragedy at Stoke Moran. London has long
forgotten the case — but one man has not. Inside a modest flat at 221-B Baker Street, the
world’s most remarkable detective begins another ordinary morning that will soon turn
extraordinary.
WATSON: Holmes, Holmes!
HOLMES: [Donning dressing gown and entering] Yes, Watson. What is it, old man?
WATSON: Very sorry to knock you up, but it's the common lot this morning. Mrs.
Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon me, and I upon you.

A cheerful knock at the door. MRS HUDSON bustles in with a tray of tea and a
mischievous smile.

MRS HUDSON: And what a fine chain of events that makes! Good morning, gentlemen.
I’ve brought your tea, and a young lady downstairs who looks as though she’s seen a
ghost.

HOLMES: Show her in, Mrs Hudson.

MRS HUDSON: Aye, Mr Holmes — and mind you don’t drip tea on my carpet again!
[Exits briskly, humming to herself.]

NARRATOR: Mrs Hudson — the heart of Baker Street — whose tea arrived faster than
the London police, and twice as strong.

HELEN: [Entering, pale and shivering] Thank you,

sir.
HOLMES: Good morning, madam. My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my good
friend, Dr Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before me. Ah, I am glad to
see that Mrs Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray, draw up to it, for I
observe that you are shivering.
HELEN: It is not the cold which makes me shiver.

HOLMES: What, then?

HELEN: It is fear, Mr Holmes. It is terror.
WATSON: You must not fear. We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt.
HOLMES: You have come in by train this morning, I see.
HELEN: You know me, then?
HOLMES: No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of your
left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good drive in a dog-cart,
along heavy roads and on the side opposite from that of the driver, before you
reached the station.
HELEN: That is so, but how—?
WATSON: There is no mystery, madam.
HOLMES: The left arm of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven
places. The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which
throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the
left-hand side of the driver.
NARRATOR: The great detective’s eyes miss nothing. Before Helen Stoner could
draw breath, he had already traced her path from the Surrey countryside to his very
door.
HELEN: Sir, I can stand this strain no longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have
no one to turn to—none, save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can
be of little aid. I have heard of you, Mr Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs
Quinn, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need.
HOLMES: Quinn, Ah, yes. You surely recall the matter, Watson. It concerned an opal
tiara.
HELEN: Oh, sir, do you not think that you could help me, too, and at least throw a
little light through the dense darkness which surrounds me? At present, it is out of
my power to reward you for your services, but in a month or six weeks, I shall be
married, with the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not find me
ungrateful.
HOLMES: I can only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to
your case as I did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own
reward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put to, at the
time which suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay before us everything that
may help us in forming an opinion upon the matter.
HELEN: Very well. My name is Helen Stoner, and I live with my stepfather, who is
the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the Roylotts of
Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey.
WATSON: The name is familiar to me. Dr Grimesby Roylott, is it not?
HELEN: My stepfather. A most formidable individual.
WATSON: Surely it is not he whom you fear, my dear.
HELEN: What I fear is a whistle I have heard in the night.
WATSON: A whistle?
HELEN: I know that it must sound strange, but it is the very whistle which
heralded the death of my dear sister, Julia.
HOLMES: And when was this?
HELEN: Two years ago. She heard the sound each of several nights just before
her horrible death.
HOLMES: Exactly how did she die?
HELEN: In terrible agony. Just a week before her wedding, she burst into my
chamber at three in the morning, screaming and gasping for breath, and collapsed
upon my bed. She was dead almost at once.
HOLMES: And the whistle?
HELEN: I heard it myself for the very first time that night, as poor Julia lay
dying.
WATSON: Do you know what she died of?
HELEN: That was never determined.
HOLMES: I presume that there was an official inquest?
HELEN: There was, but the coroner was unable to find any satisfactory cause of
death.
WATSON: Poison, perhaps?
HELEN: The doctors examined her for it, but without success.
WATSON: Then what do you think the unfortunate lady died of?
HELEN: I believe that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though I do not
know what could have frightened her. And, as she lay dying, poor Julia actually
managed to speak of a band. "It was the band," she said, "The speckled band."
Those were the very last words she was ever to utter.
HOLMES: These are intense waters.
HELEN: In the time that has passed since that dreadful night, my life has been
lonelier than ever. However, a dear gentleman has done me the honour of asking
my hand in marriage. His name is Bond—James Bond—the second son of Mr
Bond, of Crane Water, near Reading. Although my stepfather will lose a
considerable income from my mother's estate when I marry, he has offered no
opposition to the match, and we are to be wedded next month.
WATSON: Then what brings you here?
HELEN: Just this. Two days ago, some repairs were started on the west wing of the
building, so that I was forced to move into the chamber in which my sister died, and
to sleep in the very bed in which she slept. How could I find repose in that place,
with the horror of my sister's death echoing and re-echoing in my mind?
WATSON: How indeed?
HELEN: Then, try to imagine my thrill of terror when, as I lay awake last night
unable to think of anything but her mysterious and terrible fate, there suddenly
came to my ears that very same dreaded whistle which had been the herald of her
death.
HOLMES: The same? Are you certain?
HELEN: The very same. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was to be seen in
the room. However, I was too shaken to go to bed again. I dressed, and as soon as it
was daylight, I slipped down to London, with the one objective of seeing you and
asking your advice.
HOLMES: You have done wisely. There are a thousand details that I should
desire to know before I decide upon our course of action. Yet we have not a
moment to lose. If the doctor and I were to come to Stoke Moran today, would it
be possible for us to examine these rooms without the knowledge of your
stepfather?
HELEN: As it happens, he spoke of coming into town today upon some most
important business. He will probably be away all day.
HOLMES: Excellent. Are you averse to such a trip, Watson?
WATSON: By no means.
HOLMES: Then we shall both come. At what time do you propose to leave
London?
HELEN: I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in
town. But I shall return by the twelve o'clock train.
HOLMES: We shall join you at the station. The trip to Surrey will afford an excellent
opportunity for us to fill in many of those details which we now lack.
WATSON: Will you have breakfast with us, Miss Stoner?
HELEN:​ No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided
my trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this afternoon. I shall
see myself out. Good morning.
HOLMES & WATSON: Good morning.

(She moves toward the door. MRS HUDSON reappears.)

MRS HUDSON: Miss Stoner, a bit of toast for the road? It works wonders for the
nerves.

HELEN: You are very kind, ma’am.

Exit HELEN.
HOLMES: And what do you think of it all, Watson?
WATSON: It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business.
HOLMES: Dark enough and sinister enough.
WATSON: Her sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her
mysterious end. Yet what becomes of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the very
peculiar words of the dying woman? The speckled band.
HOLMES: Ah, the speckled band! Quite possibly a reference to the travelling
nomads who often stay near the Roylott estate — those with whom this old
doctor is known to keep company. He clearly has an interest in preventing his
stepdaughter’s marriage. I believe there is a good reason to hold that “band” near
the heart of the mystery.
WATSON: I see many objections to any such theory.
HOLMES: And so do I. [A clamour begins offstage] It is precisely for that reason
that we are going to Stoke Moran this day. [The clamour becomes louder] I want to
see whether the objections are fatal, or if they may be explained away. [The clamour
by now is very loud indeed] But what in the name of the devil!
NARRATOR: And now, the devil himself arrives at Baker Street — in the form of
one Dr Grimesby Roylott of Stoke Moran.
ROYLOTT: [Bursting violently into the room] Which of you is Holmes?
HOLMES: My name, sir, but you have the advantage of me.
ROYLOTT: I am Dr Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran.
HOLMES: Indeed, Doctor, pray take a seat.
ROYLOTT: I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have
traced her. What has she been telling you?
HOLMES: It is a little cold for the time of the year,
ROYLOTT: What has she been telling you? What? Speak up!

HOLMES: But I have heard that the crocuses promise well,

ROYLOTT: Ha! You put me off, do you? I know you, you scoundrel! I have heard
of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler! [Raises cane] [HOLMES chuckles]
WATSON: Lower that cane, sir!
ROYLOTT: Holmes, the busybody! [waves cane in air]
[HOLMES chuckles louder]
WATSON: I say, lower it at once!
ROYLOTT: Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-Office! [makes as if to strike
HOLMES, who merely laughs aloud.]
WATSON: [Grabbing cane] I'll take that!
HOLMES: Hahaha! Thank you, Watson. Your conversation, Dr Roylott, is most
entertaining. When you go out. Please close the door, for there is a decided
drought.
ROYLOTT: I will go when I have my say. Don't you dare to meddle with my
affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. She has been here! I traced her! I am
a dangerous man to fall foul of! [Picks up poker from fireplace] See here, how I treat
this poker. [Bends poker into a loop] See that you keep yourself out of my grip,
[Thrusts poker down to floor and marches off, slamming door behind him]

MRS HUDSON: [Offstage, calling] If he breaks my doorknob, you’re paying for it,
Mr Holmes!

NARRATOR: And just like that, the storm had passed — but its thunder would soon
return. Holmes had found his case, and Helen Stoner her last, best chance at safety.

WATSON: He seems like the most amiable person.

HOLMES: Indeed, I am not quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have
shown him that my grip was not much more feeble than his own. [Picking up the
poker and, with a sudden effort, straightening it, and handing it to WATSON]
There's your damaged poker.
WATSON: Well done!
HOLMES: Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official detective
force! This incident gives zest to our investigation, however, and I only trust that our
little friend will not suffer from her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her.
And now, Watson, we shall order breakfast, and then make preparations for what
promises to be an adventurous evening in western Surrey.
NARRATOR: Thus began the adventure of the Speckled Band — a mystery that
would test even Sherlock Holmes’s genius against the darkest cunning of man.
CURTAIN
SCENE 4
 SCENE 4

(Dim afternoon light filters through the old windows of Stoke Moran. The air feels heavy
and still. HOLMES, WATSON, and HELEN enter quietly.)

NARRATOR: The sun hung low over the crumbling walls of Stoke Moran as Sherlock
Holmes, Dr Watson, and Helen Stoner crept once more into the house of secrets. The
walls seemed to listen; the silence itself felt alive.

HELEN: Well, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, you have now seen my own
bedroom—
HOLMES: With no obvious pressing need for repairs at the end-wall.
HELEN: Exactly—and Dr Roylott's bedroom.
HOLMES: A most interesting study. What did you make of it, Watson?
WATSON: Make of it?
HOLMES: Why, yes. Let us test your powers of observation. Pray relate what you saw
in the doctor's chamber.
NARRATOR: Watson straightened at once — this was his favourite game, though he
rarely won.
WATSON: Well, it is larger than this one—
HOLMES: Capital!
WATSON: —and is as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small shelf full of books,
mostly of a technical character, a couple of chairs, a round table, and a large iron safe
were the principal things which met my eye.
HOLMES: And on top of the safe?
WATSON: A small saucer of milk.
HOLMES: Excellent! Your powers are definitely growing. Miss Stoner, does your
stepfather keep a cat?
HELEN: Why, no. There is only the cheetah and gorilla I told you about.
HOLMES: Ah, yes, of course!

WATSON: What is a cheetah but a large cat?

HOLMES: Indeed, and yet a saucer of milk does not go far in satisfying its wants, I
dare say. And, Watson, did you observe the dog-lash hung on one corner of the bed?
WATSON: No, I did not.
HELEN: We do not keep a dog, either.
HOLMES: It was not intended for a dog. It was curled upon itself and fashioned into a
noose.
WATSON: What could that mean?
NARRATOR: Holmes did not answer. His eyes gleamed — that quick, dangerous spark
that appeared only when a truth began to take shape.
HOLMES: Ah, what indeed? It is a wicked world, and when a clever man turns his
brains to crime, it is the worst of all. Now, let us turn our attention to this chamber.
What do you make of that bell-pull, Watson?

WATSON: Ordinary enough.

HOLMES: Try pulling it.
WATSON: [Pulls bell-pull. There is no sound.] Why, it does not ring.
HOLMES: Of course not. It is not attached to anything. You can see that it simply
hangs from a hook, just below that ventilator.
HELEN: How very absurd! I never noticed that before.
HOLMES: The ventilator itself obviously does not communicate with the outside,
but with Dr Roylott's chamber.
WATSON: What a fool a builder must be to open a ventilator into another room,
when, with the same trouble, he might have communicated with the outside air!
HOLMES: You will note also, Doctor, that the bed is clamped to the floor. It cannot
be moved.
WATSON: Why, indeed, it is! For what reason, do you suppose?
HOLMES: For what reason indeed! A ventilator is made, a cord is hung, and the bed
beneath it is clamped to the floor.
WATSON: Holmes! I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We are only just in
time to prevent some subtle and horrible event.
HOLMES: Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does wrong, he is the
first of criminals.
NARRATOR: Helen’s face grew pale. Every word Holmes spoke seemed to draw her
closer to the truth — and to terror.
HELEN: These remarks are as unnerving as they are incomprehensible. What are
you saying?
HOLMES: Just this. Miss Stoner, it is very essential that you should absolutely
follow my advice in every respect.
HELEN: I shall most certainly do so.
HOLMES: The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend upon
your compliance.
HELEN: I assure you that I am in your hands.
HOLMES: You must confine yourself to the room on the pretence of a headache
when your stepfather comes back. Then, when you hear him retire for the night, you
must open the shutters of this window, undo the hasp, put your lamp here as a signal
to us, and then withdraw quietly with everything which you are likely to want into
the room which you used to occupy. I do not doubt that, despite the repairs, you
could manage there for one night.
HELEN: Oh, yes, easily.
HOLMES: The rest you will leave in our hands.
HELEN: But what will you do?
HOLMES: We shall spend the night in this room, and we shall determine the cause
of this noise which has disturbed you.
HELEN: I believe, Mr Holmes, that you have already made up your mind.
HOLMES: Perhaps I have.
HELEN: Then, for pity's sake, tell me—what was the cause of my sister's death?
HOLMES: I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak.
HELEN: You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct—that she
died of some sudden fright.

HOLMES: No, I think there was probably some more tangible cause. And now,
Miss Stoner, we must leave you. If Dr Roylott were to return and find us here, our
journey would be in vain. Please be brave. If you will do what I have told you to do,
you may rest assured that we shall soon drive away those dangers which threaten
you.

NARRATOR: And so they left the room in silence. The shadows deepened across the
floor as the afternoon light faded — and in that dim chamber, mystery itself seemed to
wait for nightfall.

(Lights fade.)

CURTAIN
SCENE 5
 SCENE 5
Same as SCENE 4. Late at night. HOMES and WATSON crouch in nearly total darkness,
the moonlight through the small window being just adequate so that they can be made
out. They speak in stage whispers. Offstage, the parish clock strikes three.
NARRATOR: Midnight gave way to the deepest hour of night — that strange hour
when the living world seems to sleep, and the unseen begins to stir. In the silence of
Stoke Moran, two figures waited, motionless, as the old house creaked around them.
WATSON: Three o'clock! We've crouched here for hours, Holmes. Surely you can
confide in what it is we are awaiting.
HOLMES: Patience, old fellow.
WATSON: If it weren't for the little bit of moonlight, we'd be in total darkness. I can just
make you out as it is.
HOLMES: That is how it must be.
NARRATOR: The clock struck three, each toll echoing like a heartbeat. Then — a sound
unlike any other — low, wild, and chilling.
A long, drawn-out cat-like call sounds offstage.
WATSON: My God! Did you hear it?
HOLMES: It is a nice household. That was the cheetah. But, wait. Do you not detect a
foreign odour?
WATSON: Why, yes. Like that of burning oil.
HOLMES: And of hot metal. He's lit a dark lantern. Now listen carefully.
NARRATOR: The room fell silent once more. And then — faint but steady — came the
hiss of death.
All is silent for a moment or two, then there is a steady hissing sound, as of steam
escaping from a kettle.
HOLMES: [Leaping up and speaking aloud] It comes! The match, Watson. Quick,
Watson, the match!
WATSON: [Lighting match and speaking aloud] Righto, Holmes. But what is coming?
HOLMES: [Lashing furiously with his cane at the bell-pull] You see it, Watson? You see
it?
WATSON: I see nothing. [A long, low, clear whistle sounds offstage] Good Lord! The
whistle! Just as Miss Stoner heard.
HOLMES: [No longer lashing] Just when I expected it. And now—
He is interrupted by a dreadful shriek offstage, which rises and falls but continues to
sound.
NARRATOR: The scream tore through the house — a cry of rage and horror all at once.
Something monstrous had turned upon its master.
WATSON: [Shouting, to be heard over the shriek] What can it mean?
HOLMES: It means that it is all over. And perhaps that is for the best. [Opening
door] Take your pistol, and we shall enter Dr Roylott's room.
[The shriek is getting closer] But no. He is coming here. This way, Doctor.
 ROYLOTT, clad in a dressing gown and carrying coiled dog-lash, staggers into the
room, a speckled band wrapped about his brow. He continues to shriek until he
collapses into a chair, gasping for breath.
NARRATOR: From the darkness came the man himself — Dr Grimesby Roylott —
his face twisted in terror, his fate wound tightly about his brow.
HOLMES: [Pointing] Behold! The speckled band.
WATSON: A most peculiar head wrapping. But I must administer to the poor man.
But wait, Holmes! [Stepping forward, and then stopping] Holmes, the band just
moved!
HOLMES: Indeed, it did. It is a swamp adder! [ROYLOTT's gasps are fading out]
Stand clear of it, my friend. It is the deadliest serpent in India, and there is nothing
you could do to help the man.
ROYLOTT expires. Dog-lash falls to the floor.

(Footsteps rush in from the hall. The inspector bursts through the door, revolver
drawn, followed by two constables with lanterns.)

INSPECTOR: Holmes! Watson! We heard the screams from the gatehouse — what
on earth — Great heavens!

HOLMES: You arrive just in time, Inspector, though your prisoner has escaped the
law’s grasp. Dr Grimesby Roylott — murderer in intention — is dead by his own
hand.

INSPECTOR: [Lowering revolver, stunned] That thing around his head — what is
it?

HOLMES: A swamp adder, brought from India. He sent it through the ventilator
each night to kill Miss Helen Stoner, hoping to keep her inheritance. When I struck at
it with my cane, the creature turned upon its master.

INSPECTOR: Poetic justice, I’d call it. The case will close itself.

HOLMES: Quite so — and see that Miss Stoner is never troubled with the details.
She has suffered enough.

INSPECTOR: [Nods solemnly] She’ll hear no more of it from Scotland Yard, Mr

Holmes.

WATSON: What a night. I swear I can still hear that whistle.

HOLMES: [Quietly] Let it fade with the dawn, Watson. The mystery of the Speckled
Band has been solved — and laid to rest.
NARRATOR: The house of Stoke Moran stood silent once more. The serpent was
slain, the wicked silenced, and justice — strange though it seemed—had done its
work. As the first light crept across the Surrey fields, Holmes and Watson stepped out
into the cold morning, the case of the Speckled Band forever closed.

(HOLMES, WATSON, and the INSPECTOR exit slowly. The constables cover
ROYLOTT’s body as the lights dim.)

FINAL CURTAIN