The Complete Sherlock Holmes
Arthur Conan Doyle
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Pictures for “The Adventure of the Dancing Men”, “The Adventure of the Priory School”, “The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez” and
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Table of contents
A Study In Scarlet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
1
The Sign of the Four . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
63
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
A Scandal in Bohemia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
119
The Red-Headed League . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
135
A Case of Identity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
149
The Boscombe Valley Mystery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
159
The Five Orange Pips . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
173
The Man with the Twisted Lip . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
185
The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
199
The Adventure of the Speckled Band . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
211
The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
225
The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
237
The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
249
The Adventure of the Copper Beeches . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
263
The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
Silver Blaze . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
279
The Yellow Face . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
293
The Stock-Broker’s Clerk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
305
The “Gloria Scott” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
315
The Musgrave Ritual . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
327
The Reigate Squires . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
339
The Crooked Man . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
351
The Resident Patient . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
361
The Greek Interpreter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
371
The Naval Treaty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
383
The Final Problem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
401
iii
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
The Adventure of the Empty House . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
415
The Adventure of the Norwood Builder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
427
The Adventure of the Dancing Men . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
441
The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Adventure of the Priory School . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
455
467
The Adventure of Black Peter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
483
The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
495
The Adventure of the Six Napoleons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
505
The Adventure of the Three Students . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
517
The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
527
The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
541
The Adventure of the Abbey Grange . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
553
The Adventure of the Second Stain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
567
The Hound of the Baskervilles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
581
The Valley Of Fear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
657
His Last Bow
iv
Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
739
The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
741
The Adventure of the Cardboard Box . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
759
The Adventure of the Red Circle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
771
The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
785
The Adventure of the Dying Detective . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
801
The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
811
The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
823
His Last Bow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
837
A Study In Scarlet
Table of contents
Part I
Mr. Sherlock Holmes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
7
The Science Of Deduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
10
The Lauriston Garden Mystery . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
14
What John Rance Had To Tell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
19
Our Advertisement Brings A Visitor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
22
Tobias Gregson Shows What He Can Do . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
25
Light In The Darkness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
29
Part II
On The Great Alkali Plain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
37
The Flower Of Utah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
41
John Ferrier Talks With The Prophet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
44
A Flight For Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
46
The Avenging Angels . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
51
A Continuation Of The Reminiscences Of John Watson, M.D. . . . . . . . . .
55
The Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
59
3
PART I.
(Being a reprint from the reminiscences of
John H. Watson, M.D.,
late of the Army Medical Department.)
Mr. Sherlock Holmes
I
CHAPTER I.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes
n the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor
of Medicine of the University of London,
and proceeded to Netley to go through the
course prescribed for surgeons in the army.
Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at
the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan
war had broken out. On landing at Bombay, I learned
that my corps had advanced through the passes, and
was already deep in the enemy’s country. I followed,
however, with many other officers who were in the
same situation as myself, and succeeded in reaching
Candahar in safety, where I found my regiment, and
at once entered upon my new duties.
The campaign brought honours and promotion
to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune
and disaster. I was removed from my brigade and
attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the
fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on the
shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone
and grazed the subclavian artery. I should have fallen
into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not
been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray,
my orderly, who threw me across a pack-horse, and
succeeded in bringing me safely to the British lines.
Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged
hardships which I had undergone, I was removed,
with a great train of wounded sufferers, to the base
hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied, and had already
improved so far as to be able to walk about the wards,
and even to bask a little upon the verandah, when I
was struck down by enteric fever, that curse of our Indian possessions. For months my life was despaired
of, and when at last I came to myself and became
convalescent, I was so weak and emaciated that a
medical board determined that not a day should be
lost in sending me back to England. I was dispatched,
accordingly, in the troopship Orontes, and landed a
month later on Portsmouth jetty, with my health irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a paternal
government to spend the next nine months in attempting to improve it.
I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was
therefore as free as air—or as free as an income of
eleven shillings and sixpence a day will permit a man
to be. Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all
the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly
drained. There I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless, meaningless
existence, and spending such money as I had, considerably more freely than I ought. So alarming did the
state of my finances become, that I soon realized that
I must either leave the metropolis and rusticate somewhere in the country, or that I must make a complete
alteration in my style of living. Choosing the latter
alternative, I began by making up my mind to leave
the hotel, and to take up my quarters in some less
pretentious and less expensive domicile.
On the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was standing at the Criterion Bar, when some
one tapped me on the shoulder, and turning round I
recognized young Stamford, who had been a dresser
under me at Bart’s. The sight of a friendly face in the
great wilderness of London is a pleasant thing indeed
to a lonely man. In old days Stamford had never
been a particular crony of mine, but now I hailed him
with enthusiasm, and he, in his turn, appeared to be
delighted to see me. In the exuberance of my joy, I
asked him to lunch with me at the Holborn, and we
started off together in a hansom.
“Whatever have you been doing with yourself,
Watson?” he asked in undisguised wonder, as we rattled through the crowded London streets. “You are
as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut.”
I gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and
had hardly concluded it by the time that we reached
our destination.
“Poor devil!” he said, commiseratingly, after he
had listened to my misfortunes. “What are you up to
now?”
“Looking for lodgings,” I answered. “Trying to
solve the problem as to whether it is possible to get
comfortable rooms at a reasonable price.”
“That’s a strange thing,” remarked my companion;
“you are the second man to-day that has used that
expression to me.”
“And who was the first?” I asked.
“A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital. He was bemoaning himself
this morning because he could not get someone to go
halves with him in some nice rooms which he had
found, and which were too much for his purse.”
“By Jove!” I cried, “if he really wants someone to
share the rooms and the expense, I am the very man
7
A Study In Scarlet
for him. I should prefer having a partner to being
alone.”
Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me
over his wine-glass. “You don’t know Sherlock
Holmes yet,” he said; “perhaps you would not care
for him as a constant companion.”
“Why, what is there against him?”
“Oh, I didn’t say there was anything against him.
He is a little queer in his ideas—an enthusiast in some
branches of science. As far as I know he is a decent
fellow enough.”
“A medical student, I suppose?” said I.
“No—I have no idea what he intends to go in for. I
believe he is well up in anatomy, and he is a first-class
chemist; but, as far as I know, he has never taken out
any systematic medical classes. His studies are very
desultory and eccentric, but he has amassed a lot of
out-of-the way knowledge which would astonish his
professors.”
“Did you never ask him what he was going in
for?” I asked.
“No; he is not a man that it is easy to draw out,
though he can be communicative enough when the
fancy seizes him.”
“I should like to meet him,” I said. “If I am to
lodge with anyone, I should prefer a man of studious
and quiet habits. I am not strong enough yet to stand
much noise or excitement. I had enough of both in
Afghanistan to last me for the remainder of my natural existence. How could I meet this friend of yours?”
“He is sure to be at the laboratory,” returned my
companion. “He either avoids the place for weeks,
or else he works there from morning to night. If you
like, we shall drive round together after luncheon.”
“Certainly,” I answered, and the conversation
drifted away into other channels.
As we made our way to the hospital after leaving
the Holborn, Stamford gave me a few more particulars about the gentleman whom I proposed to take as
a fellow-lodger.
“You mustn’t blame me if you don’t get on with
him,” he said; “I know nothing more of him than I
have learned from meeting him occasionally in the
laboratory. You proposed this arrangement, so you
must not hold me responsible.”
“If we don’t get on it will be easy to part company,” I answered. “It seems to me, Stamford,” I
added, looking hard at my companion, “that you
8
have some reason for washing your hands of the matter. Is this fellow’s temper so formidable, or what is
it? Don’t be mealy-mouthed about it.”
“It is not easy to express the inexpressible,” he answered with a laugh. “Holmes is a little too scientific
for my tastes—it approaches to cold-bloodedness. I
could imagine his giving a friend a little pinch of the
latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you
understand, but simply out of a spirit of inquiry in
order to have an accurate idea of the effects. To do
him justice, I think that he would take it himself with
the same readiness. He appears to have a passion for
definite and exact knowledge.”
“Very right too.”
“Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When it
comes to beating the subjects in the dissecting-rooms
with a stick, it is certainly taking rather a bizarre
shape.”
“Beating the subjects!”
“Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced
after death. I saw him at it with my own eyes.”
“And yet you say he is not a medical student?”
“No. Heaven knows what the objects of his studies
are. But here we are, and you must form your own impressions about him.” As he spoke, we turned down
a narrow lane and passed through a small side-door,
which opened into a wing of the great hospital. It was
familiar ground to me, and I needed no guiding as we
ascended the bleak stone staircase and made our way
down the long corridor with its vista of whitewashed
wall and dun-coloured doors. Near the further end a
low arched passage branched away from it and led to
the chemical laboratory.
This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with
countless bottles. Broad, low tables were scattered
about, which bristled with retorts, test-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickering flames.
There was only one student in the room, who was
bending over a distant table absorbed in his work. At
the sound of our steps he glanced round and sprang
to his feet with a cry of pleasure. “I’ve found it! I’ve
found it,” he shouted to my companion, running towards us with a test-tube in his hand. “I have found a
re-agent which is precipitated by hœmoglobin, and by
nothing else.” Had he discovered a gold mine, greater
delight could not have shone upon his features.
“Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Stamford,
introducing us.
“How are you?” he said cordially, gripping my
hand with a strength for which I should hardly have
given him credit. “You have been in Afghanistan, I
perceive.”
Mr. Sherlock Holmes
“How on earth did you know that?” I asked in
astonishment.
“Never mind,” said he, chuckling to himself. “The
question now is about hœmoglobin. No doubt you
see the significance of this discovery of mine?”
“It is interesting, chemically, no doubt,” I answered, “but practically—”
“Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal
discovery for years. Don’t you see that it gives us an
infallible test for blood stains. Come over here now!”
He seized me by the coat-sleeve in his eagerness, and
drew me over to the table at which he had been working. “Let us have some fresh blood,” he said, digging
a long bodkin into his finger, and drawing off the
resulting drop of blood in a chemical pipette. “Now,
I add this small quantity of blood to a litre of water. You perceive that the resulting mixture has the
appearance of pure water. The proportion of blood
cannot be more than one in a million. I have no doubt,
however, that we shall be able to obtain the characteristic reaction.” As he spoke, he threw into the vessel
a few white crystals, and then added some drops of a
transparent fluid. In an instant the contents assumed
a dull mahogany colour, and a brownish dust was
precipitated to the bottom of the glass jar.
“Ha! ha!” he cried, clapping his hands, and looking as delighted as a child with a new toy. “What do
you think of that?”
“It seems to be a very delicate test,” I remarked.
“Beautiful! beautiful! The old Guiacum test was
very clumsy and uncertain. So is the microscopic examination for blood corpuscles. The latter is valueless
if the stains are a few hours old. Now, this appears to
act as well whether the blood is old or new. Had this
test been invented, there are hundreds of men now
walking the earth who would long ago have paid the
penalty of their crimes.”
“Indeed!” I murmured.
“Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that
one point. A man is suspected of a crime months perhaps after it has been committed. His linen or clothes
are examined, and brownish stains discovered upon
them. Are they blood stains, or mud stains, or rust
stains, or fruit stains, or what are they? That is a question which has puzzled many an expert, and why?
Because there was no reliable test. Now we have the
Sherlock Holmes’ test, and there will no longer be
any difficulty.”
His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put
his hand over his heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his imagination.
“You are to be congratulated,” I remarked, considerably surprised at his enthusiasm.
“There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort
last year. He would certainly have been hung had
this test been in existence. Then there was Mason
of Bradford, and the notorious Muller, and Lefevre
of Montpellier, and Samson of new Orleans. I could
name a score of cases in which it would have been
decisive.”
“You seem to be a walking calendar of crime,” said
Stamford with a laugh. “You might start a paper on
those lines. Call it the ‘Police News of the Past.’ ”
“Very interesting reading it might be made, too,”
remarked Sherlock Holmes, sticking a small piece of
plaster over the prick on his finger. “I have to be careful,” he continued, turning to me with a smile, “for
I dabble with poisons a good deal.” He held out his
hand as he spoke, and I noticed that it was all mottled
over with similar pieces of plaster, and discoloured
with strong acids.
“We came here on business,” said Stamford, sitting down on a high three-legged stool, and pushing
another one in my direction with his foot. “My friend
here wants to take diggings, and as you were complaining that you could get no one to go halves with
you, I thought that I had better bring you together.”
Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of
sharing his rooms with me. “I have my eye on a suite
in Baker Street,” he said, “which would suit us down
to the ground. You don’t mind the smell of strong
tobacco, I hope?”
“I always smoke ‘ship’s’ myself,” I answered.
“That’s good enough. I generally have chemicals
about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that
annoy you?”
“By no means.”
“Let me see—what are my other shortcomings. I
get in the dumps at times, and don’t open my mouth
for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when
I do that. Just let me alone, and I’ll soon be right.
What have you to confess now? It’s just as well for
two fellows to know the worst of one another before
they begin to live together.”
I laughed at this cross-examination. “I keep a bull
pup,” I said, “and I object to rows because my nerves
are shaken, and I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours,
and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices
when I’m well, but those are the principal ones at
present.”
“Do you include violin-playing in your category
of rows?” he asked, anxiously.
9
A Study In Scarlet
“It depends on the player,” I answered. “A wellplayed violin is a treat for the gods—a badly-played
one—”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he cried, with a merry laugh.
“I think we may consider the thing as settled—that is,
if the rooms are agreeable to you.”
“When shall we see them?”
“Call for me here at noon to-morrow, and we’ll go
together and settle everything,” he answered.
“All right—noon exactly,” said I, shaking his hand.
We left him working among his chemicals, and we
walked together towards my hotel.
“By the way,” I asked suddenly, stopping and turning upon Stamford, “how the deuce did he know that
I had come from Afghanistan?”
My companion smiled an enigmatical smile.
“That’s just his little peculiarity,” he said. “A good
many people have wanted to know how he finds
things out.”
“Oh! a mystery is it?” I cried, rubbing my hands.
“This is very piquant. I am much obliged to you for
bringing us together. ‘The proper study of mankind
is man,’ you know.”
“You must study him, then,” Stamford said, as he
bade me good-bye. “You’ll find him a knotty problem,
though. I’ll wager he learns more about you than you
about him. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” I answered, and strolled on to my hotel, considerably interested in my new acquaintance.
CHAPTER II.
The Science Of Deduction
We met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at No. 221b, Baker Street, of which
he had spoken at our meeting. They consisted of a
couple of comfortable bed-rooms and a single large
airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by two broad windows. So desirable in every
way were the apartments, and so moderate did the
terms seem when divided between us, that the bargain was concluded upon the spot, and we at once
entered into possession. That very evening I moved
my things round from the hotel, and on the following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and portmanteaus. For a day or two we
were busily employed in unpacking and laying out
our property to the best advantage. That done, we
gradually began to settle down and to accommodate
ourselves to our new surroundings.
Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live
with. He was quiet in his ways, and his habits were
regular. It was rare for him to be up after ten at
night, and he had invariably breakfasted and gone
out before I rose in the morning. Sometimes he
spent his day at the chemical laboratory, sometimes in
the dissecting-rooms, and occasionally in long walks,
which appeared to take him into the lowest portions
10
of the City. Nothing could exceed his energy when
the working fit was upon him; but now and again
a reaction would seize him, and for days on end he
would lie upon the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly
uttering a word or moving a muscle from morning
to night. On these occasions I have noticed such a
dreamy, vacant expression in his eyes, that I might
have suspected him of being addicted to the use of
some narcotic, had not the temperance and cleanliness
of his whole life forbidden such a notion.
As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my
curiosity as to his aims in life, gradually deepened
and increased. His very person and appearance were
such as to strike the attention of the most casual observer. In height he was rather over six feet, and so
excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably
taller. His eyes were sharp and piercing, save during
those intervals of torpor to which I have alluded; and
his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression
an air of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had
the prominence and squareness which mark the man
of determination. His hands were invariably blotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was
possessed of extraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to observe when I watched him
The Science Of Deduction
manipulating his fragile philosophical instruments.
The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, when I confess how much this man stimulated
my curiosity, and how often I endeavoured to break
through the reticence which he showed on all that
concerned himself. Before pronouncing judgment,
however, be it remembered, how objectless was my
life, and how little there was to engage my attention.
My health forbade me from venturing out unless the
weather was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends
who would call upon me and break the monotony
of my daily existence. Under these circumstances, I
eagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around
my companion, and spent much of my time in endeavouring to unravel it.
He was not studying medicine. He had himself,
in reply to a question, confirmed Stamford’s opinion
upon that point. Neither did he appear to have pursued any course of reading which might fit him for
a degree in science or any other recognized portal
which would give him an entrance into the learned
world. Yet his zeal for certain studies was remarkable,
and within eccentric limits his knowledge was so extraordinarily ample and minute that his observations
have fairly astounded me. Surely no man would work
so hard or attain such precise information unless he
had some definite end in view. Desultory readers are
seldom remarkable for the exactness of their learning.
No man burdens his mind with small matters unless
he has some very good reason for doing so.
His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge.
Of contemporary literature, philosophy and politics
he appeared to know next to nothing. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired in the naivest way
who he might be and what he had done. My surprise
reached a climax, however, when I found incidentally
that he was ignorant of the Copernican Theory and
of the composition of the Solar System. That any civilized human being in this nineteenth century should
not be aware that the earth travelled round the sun
appeared to be to me such an extraordinary fact that
I could hardly realize it.
“You appear to be astonished,” he said, smiling at
my expression of surprise. “Now that I do know it I
shall do my best to forget it.”
“To forget it!”
“You see,” he explained, “I consider that a man’s
brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you
have to stock it with such furniture as you choose.
A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he
comes across, so that the knowledge which might be
useful to him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled
up with a lot of other things so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now the skilful
workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes
into his brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools
which may help him in doing his work, but of these
he has a large assortment, and all in the most perfect
order. It is a mistake to think that that little room has
elastic walls and can distend to any extent. Depend
upon it there comes a time when for every addition
of knowledge you forget something that you knew
before. It is of the highest importance, therefore, not
to have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones.”
“But the Solar System!” I protested.
“What the deuce is it to me?” he interrupted impatiently; “you say that we go round the sun. If we went
round the moon it would not make a pennyworth of
difference to me or to my work.”
I was on the point of asking him what that work
might be, but something in his manner showed me
that the question would be an unwelcome one. I
pondered over our short conversation, however, and
endeavoured to draw my deductions from it. He said
that he would acquire no knowledge which did not
bear upon his object. Therefore all the knowledge
which he possessed was such as would be useful to
him. I enumerated in my own mind all the various
points upon which he had shown me that he was
exceptionally well-informed. I even took a pencil and
jotted them down. I could not help smiling at the
document when I had completed it. It ran in this
way—
Sherlock Holmes—his limits.
1. Knowledge of Literature.—Nil.
2. Philosophy.—Nil.
3. Astronomy.—Nil.
4. Politics.—Feeble.
5. Botany.—Variable. Well up in belladonna,
opium, and poisons generally. Knows nothing
of practical gardening.
6. Geology.—Practical, but limited. Tells at a
glance different soils from each other. After
walks has shown me splashes upon his trousers,
and told me by their colour and consistence in
what part of London he had received them.
7. Chemistry.—Profound.
8. Anatomy.—Accurate, but unsystematic.
9. Sensational Literature.—Immense. He appears
to know every detail of every horror perpetrated
in the century.
10. Plays the violin well.
11
A Study In Scarlet
11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and
swordsman.
12. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.
When I had got so far in my list I threw it into the
fire in despair. “If I can only find what the fellow is
driving at by reconciling all these accomplishments,
and discovering a calling which needs them all,” I
said to myself, “I may as well give up the attempt at
once.”
I see that I have alluded above to his powers upon
the violin. These were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other accomplishments. That he
could play pieces, and difficult pieces, I knew well,
because at my request he has played me some of
Mendelssohn’s Lieder, and other favourites. When
left to himself, however, he would seldom produce
any music or attempt any recognized air. Leaning
back in his arm-chair of an evening, he would close
his eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle which
was thrown across his knee. Sometimes the chords
were sonorous and melancholy. Occasionally they
were fantastic and cheerful. Clearly they reflected the
thoughts which possessed him, but whether the music aided those thoughts, or whether the playing was
simply the result of a whim or fancy was more than I
could determine. I might have rebelled against these
exasperating solos had it not been that he usually terminated them by playing in quick succession a whole
series of my favourite airs as a slight compensation
for the trial upon my patience.
During the first week or so we had no callers,
and I had begun to think that my companion was as
friendless a man as I was myself. Presently, however,
I found that he had many acquaintances, and those
in the most different classes of society. There was one
little sallow rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade, and who came three
or four times in a single week. One morning a young
girl called, fashionably dressed, and stayed for half
an hour or more. The same afternoon brought a greyheaded, seedy visitor, looking like a Jew pedlar, who
appeared to me to be much excited, and who was
closely followed by a slipshod elderly woman. On
another occasion an old white-haired gentleman had
an interview with my companion; and on another a
railway porter in his velveteen uniform. When any of
these nondescript individuals put in an appearance,
Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the use of the sittingroom, and I would retire to my bed-room. He always
apologized to me for putting me to this inconvenience.
“I have to use this room as a place of business,” he
said, “and these people are my clients.” Again I had
12
an opportunity of asking him a point blank question,
and again my delicacy prevented me from forcing
another man to confide in me. I imagined at the time
that he had some strong reason for not alluding to it,
but he soon dispelled the idea by coming round to
the subject of his own accord.
It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to remember, that I rose somewhat earlier than
usual, and found that Sherlock Holmes had not yet
finished his breakfast. The landlady had become so
accustomed to my late habits that my place had not
been laid nor my coffee prepared. With the unreasonable petulance of mankind I rang the bell and gave
a curt intimation that I was ready. Then I picked up
a magazine from the table and attempted to while
away the time with it, while my companion munched
silently at his toast. One of the articles had a pencil
mark at the heading, and I naturally began to run my
eye through it.
Its somewhat ambitious title was “The Book of
Life,” and it attempted to show how much an observant man might learn by an accurate and systematic
examination of all that came in his way. It struck me
as being a remarkable mixture of shrewdness and of
absurdity. The reasoning was close and intense, but
the deductions appeared to me to be far-fetched and
exaggerated. The writer claimed by a momentary
expression, a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye,
to fathom a man’s inmost thoughts. Deceit, according
to him, was an impossibility in the case of one trained
to observation and analysis. His conclusions were
as infallible as so many propositions of Euclid. So
startling would his results appear to the uninitiated
that until they learned the processes by which he had
arrived at them they might well consider him as a
necromancer.
“From a drop of water,” said the writer, “a logician
could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara
without having seen or heard of one or the other. So
all life is a great chain, the nature of which is known
whenever we are shown a single link of it. Like all
other arts, the Science of Deduction and Analysis is
one which can only be acquired by long and patient
study nor is life long enough to allow any mortal to
attain the highest possible perfection in it. Before turning to those moral and mental aspects of the matter
which present the greatest difficulties, let the enquirer
begin by mastering more elementary problems. Let
him, on meeting a fellow-mortal, learn at a glance to
distinguish the history of the man, and the trade or
profession to which he belongs. Puerile as such an
The Science Of Deduction
exercise may seem, it sharpens the faculties of observation, and teaches one where to look and what to
look for. By a man’s finger nails, by his coat-sleeve,
by his boot, by his trouser knees, by the callosities of
his forefinger and thumb, by his expression, by his
shirt cuffs—by each of these things a man’s calling
is plainly revealed. That all united should fail to enlighten the competent enquirer in any case is almost
inconceivable.”
“What ineffable twaddle!” I cried, slapping the
magazine down on the table, “I never read such rubbish in my life.”
“What is it?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
“Why, this article,” I said, pointing at it with my
egg spoon as I sat down to my breakfast. “I see that
you have read it since you have marked it. I don’t
deny that it is smartly written. It irritates me though.
It is evidently the theory of some arm-chair lounger
who evolves all these neat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study. It is not practical. I should like
to see him clapped down in a third class carriage on
the Underground, and asked to give the trades of all
his fellow-travellers. I would lay a thousand to one
against him.”
“You would lose your money,” Sherlock Holmes
remarked calmly. “As for the article I wrote it myself.”
“You!”
“Yes, I have a turn both for observation and for
deduction. The theories which I have expressed there,
and which appear to you to be so chimerical are really
extremely practical—so practical that I depend upon
them for my bread and cheese.”
“And how?” I asked involuntarily.
“Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am
the only one in the world. I’m a consulting detective,
if you can understand what that is. Here in London
we have lots of Government detectives and lots of
private ones. When these fellows are at fault they
come to me, and I manage to put them on the right
scent. They lay all the evidence before me, and I am
generally able, by the help of my knowledge of the
history of crime, to set them straight. There is a strong
family resemblance about misdeeds, and if you have
all the details of a thousand at your finger ends, it
is odd if you can’t unravel the thousand and first.
Lestrade is a well-known detective. He got himself
into a fog recently over a forgery case, and that was
what brought him here.”
“And these other people?”
“They are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies. They are all people who are in trouble about
something, and want a little enlightening. I listen to
their story, they listen to my comments, and then I
pocket my fee.”
“But do you mean to say,” I said, “that without
leaving your room you can unravel some knot which
other men can make nothing of, although they have
seen every detail for themselves?”
“Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way.
Now and again a case turns up which is a little more
complex. Then I have to bustle about and see things
with my own eyes. You see I have a lot of special
knowledge which I apply to the problem, and which
facilitates matters wonderfully. Those rules of deduction laid down in that article which aroused your
scorn, are invaluable to me in practical work. Observation with me is second nature. You appeared to be
surprised when I told you, on our first meeting, that
you had come from Afghanistan.”
“You were told, no doubt.”
“Nothing of the sort. I knew you came from
Afghanistan. From long habit the train of thoughts
ran so swiftly through my mind, that I arrived at the
conclusion without being conscious of intermediate
steps. There were such steps, however. The train of
reasoning ran, ‘Here is a gentleman of a medical type,
but with the air of a military man. Clearly an army
doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for
his face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of his
skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as his haggard face says clearly.
His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a stiff
and unnatural manner. Where in the tropics could an
English army doctor have seen much hardship and
got his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.’ The
whole train of thought did not occupy a second. I
then remarked that you came from Afghanistan, and
you were astonished.”
“It is simple enough as you explain it,” I said, smiling. “You remind me of Edgar Allen Poe’s Dupin. I
had no idea that such individuals did exist outside of
stories.”
Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. “No doubt
you think that you are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin,” he observed. “Now, in my opinion,
Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of
breaking in on his friends’ thoughts with an apropos
remark after a quarter of an hour’s silence is really
very showy and superficial. He had some analytical
genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a
phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine.”
“Have you read Gaboriau’s works?” I asked.
“Does Lecoq come up to your idea of a detective?”
13
A Study In Scarlet
Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. “Lecoq was
a miserable bungler,” he said, in an angry voice; “he
had only one thing to recommend him, and that was
his energy. That book made me positively ill. The
question was how to identify an unknown prisoner. I
could have done it in twenty-four hours. Lecoq took
six months or so. It might be made a text-book for
detectives to teach them what to avoid.”
I felt rather indignant at having two characters
whom I had admired treated in this cavalier style. I
walked over to the window, and stood looking out
into the busy street. “This fellow may be very clever,”
I said to myself, “but he is certainly very conceited.”
“There are no crimes and no criminals in these
days,” he said, querulously. “What is the use of having brains in our profession? I know well that I have
it in me to make my name famous. No man lives or
has ever lived who has brought the same amount of
study and of natural talent to the detection of crime
which I have done. And what is the result? There is
no crime to detect, or, at most, some bungling villany
with a motive so transparent that even a Scotland
Yard official can see through it.”
I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation. I thought it best to change the topic.
“I wonder what that fellow is looking for?” I asked,
pointing to a stalwart, plainly-dressed individual who
was walking slowly down the other side of the street,
looking anxiously at the numbers. He had a large
blue envelope in his hand, and was evidently the
bearer of a message.
“You mean the retired sergeant of Marines,” said
Sherlock Holmes.
“Brag and bounce!” thought I to myself. “He
knows that I cannot verify his guess.”
The thought had hardly passed through my mind
when the man whom we were watching caught sight
of the number on our door, and ran rapidly across the
roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below,
and heavy steps ascending the stair.
“For Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, stepping into
the room and handing my friend the letter.
Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out
of him. He little thought of this when he made that
random shot. “May I ask, my lad,” I said, in the
blandest voice, “what your trade may be?”
“Commissionaire, sir,” he said, gruffly. “Uniform
away for repairs.”
“And you were?” I asked, with a slightly malicious
glance at my companion.
“A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir.
No answer? Right, sir.”
He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in a
salute, and was gone.
CHAPTER III.
The Lauriston Garden Mystery
I confess that I was considerably startled by this
fresh proof of the practical nature of my companion’s theories. My respect for his powers of analysis
increased wondrously. There still remained some lurking suspicion in my mind, however, that the whole
thing was a pre-arranged episode, intended to dazzle me, though what earthly object he could have in
taking me in was past my comprehension. When I
looked at him he had finished reading the note, and
his eyes had assumed the vacant, lack-lustre expression which showed mental abstraction.
“How in the world did you deduce that?” I asked.
14
“Deduce what?” said he, petulantly.
“Why, that he was a retired sergeant of Marines.”
“I have no time for trifles,” he answered,
brusquely; then with a smile, “Excuse my rudeness.
You broke the thread of my thoughts; but perhaps it
is as well. So you actually were not able to see that
that man was a sergeant of Marines?”
“No, indeed.”
“It was easier to know it than to explain why I
knew it. If you were asked to prove that two and two
made four, you might find some difficulty, and yet
you are quite sure of the fact. Even across the street
The Lauriston Garden Mystery
I could see a great blue anchor tattooed on the back
of the fellow’s hand. That smacked of the sea. He
had a military carriage, however, and regulation side
whiskers. There we have the marine. He was a man
with some amount of self-importance and a certain
air of command. You must have observed the way
in which he held his head and swung his cane. A
steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the face
of him—all facts which led me to believe that he had
been a sergeant.”
“Wonderful!” I ejaculated.
“Commonplace,” said Holmes, though I thought
from his expression that he was pleased at my evident
surprise and admiration. “I said just now that there
were no criminals. It appears that I am wrong—look
at this!” He threw me over the note which the commissionaire had brought.
“Why,” I cried, as I cast my eye over it, “this is
terrible!”
“It does seem to be a little out of the common,” he
remarked, calmly. “Would you mind reading it to me
aloud?”
This is the letter which I read to him—
“My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
“There has been a bad business during
the night at 3, Lauriston Gardens, off the
Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a
light there about two in the morning, and
as the house was an empty one, suspected
that something was amiss. He found the
door open, and in the front room, which
is bare of furniture, discovered the body
of a gentleman, well dressed, and having
cards in his pocket bearing the name of
‘Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A.’
There had been no robbery, nor is there
any evidence as to how the man met his
death. There are marks of blood in the
room, but there is no wound upon his person. We are at a loss as to how he came
into the empty house; indeed, the whole
affair is a puzzler. If you can come round
to the house any time before twelve, you
will find me there. I have left everything
in statu quo until I hear from you. If you
are unable to come I shall give you fuller
details, and would esteem it a great kindness if you would favour me with your
opinion.
— “Yours faithfully,
“Tobias Gregson.”
“Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders,”
my friend remarked; “he and Lestrade are the pick
of a bad lot. They are both quick and energetic, but
conventional—shockingly so. They have their knives
into one another, too. They are as jealous as a pair
of professional beauties. There will be some fun over
this case if they are both put upon the scent.”
I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled
on. “Surely there is not a moment to be lost,” I cried,
“shall I go and order you a cab?”
“I’m not sure about whether I shall go. I am the
most incurably lazy devil that ever stood in shoe
leather—that is, when the fit is on me, for I can be
spry enough at times.”
“Why, it is just such a chance as you have been
longing for.”
“My dear fellow, what does it matter to me. Supposing I unravel the whole matter, you may be sure
that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will pocket all the
credit. That comes of being an unofficial personage.”
“But he begs you to help him.”
“Yes. He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges it to me; but he would cut his tongue out
before he would own it to any third person. However,
we may as well go and have a look. I shall work it
out on my own hook. I may have a laugh at them if I
have nothing else. Come on!”
He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a
way that showed that an energetic fit had superseded
the apathetic one.
“Get your hat,” he said.
“You wish me to come?”
“Yes, if you have nothing better to do.” A minute
later we were both in a hansom, driving furiously for
the Brixton Road.
It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a duncoloured veil hung over the house-tops, looking like
the reflection of the mud-coloured streets beneath.
My companion was in the best of spirits, and prattled
away about Cremona fiddles, and the difference between a Stradivarius and an Amati. As for myself, I
was silent, for the dull weather and the melancholy
business upon which we were engaged, depressed
my spirits.
“You don’t seem to give much thought to the matter in hand,” I said at last, interrupting Holmes’ musical disquisition.
“No data yet,” he answered. “It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It
biases the judgment.”
15
A Study In Scarlet
“You will have your data soon,” I remarked, pointing with my finger; “this is the Brixton Road, and that
is the house, if I am not very much mistaken.”
“So it is. Stop, driver, stop!” We were still a hundred yards or so from it, but he insisted upon our
alighting, and we finished our journey upon foot.
Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened
and minatory look. It was one of four which stood
back some little way from the street, two being occupied and two empty. The latter looked out with
three tiers of vacant melancholy windows, which
were blank and dreary, save that here and there a
“To Let” card had developed like a cataract upon the
bleared panes. A small garden sprinkled over with a
scattered eruption of sickly plants separated each of
these houses from the street, and was traversed by a
narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and consisting
apparently of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The
whole place was very sloppy from the rain which had
fallen through the night. The garden was bounded
by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood rails
upon the top, and against this wall was leaning a
stalwart police constable, surrounded by a small knot
of loafers, who craned their necks and strained their
eyes in the vain hope of catching some glimpse of the
proceedings within.
I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at
once have hurried into the house and plunged into
a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared to be further from his intention. With an air of nonchalance
which, under the circumstances, seemed to me to border upon affectation, he lounged up and down the
pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky,
the opposite houses and the line of railings. Having finished his scrutiny, he proceeded slowly down
the path, or rather down the fringe of grass which
flanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the
ground. Twice he stopped, and once I saw him smile,
and heard him utter an exclamation of satisfaction.
There were many marks of footsteps upon the wet
clayey soil, but since the police had been coming and
going over it, I was unable to see how my companion
could hope to learn anything from it. Still I had had
such extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his
perceptive faculties, that I had no doubt that he could
see a great deal which was hidden from me.
At the door of the house we were met by a tall,
white-faced, flaxen-haired man, with a notebook in
his hand, who rushed forward and wrung my companion’s hand with effusion. “It is indeed kind of
you to come,” he said, “I have had everything left
untouched.”
16
“Except that!” my friend answered, pointing at
the pathway. “If a herd of buffaloes had passed along
there could not be a greater mess. No doubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson,
before you permitted this.”
“I have had so much to do inside the house,” the
detective said evasively. “My colleague, Mr. Lestrade,
is here. I had relied upon him to look after this.”
Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows
sardonically. “With two such men as yourself and
Lestrade upon the ground, there will not be much for
a third party to find out,” he said.
Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way.
“I think we have done all that can be done,” he answered; “it’s a queer case though, and I knew your
taste for such things.”
“You did not come here in a cab?” asked Sherlock
Holmes.
“No, sir.”
“Nor Lestrade?”
“No, sir.”
“Then let us go and look at the room.” With which
inconsequent remark he strode on into the house,
followed by Gregson, whose features expressed his
astonishment.
A short passage, bare planked and dusty, led to
the kitchen and offices. Two doors opened out of it to
the left and to the right. One of these had obviously
been closed for many weeks. The other belonged to
the dining-room, which was the apartment in which
the mysterious affair had occurred. Holmes walked
in, and I followed him with that subdued feeling at
my heart which the presence of death inspires.
It was a large square room, looking all the larger
from the absence of all furniture. A vulgar flaring
paper adorned the walls, but it was blotched in places
with mildew, and here and there great strips had
become detached and hung down, exposing the yellow plaster beneath. Opposite the door was a showy
fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of imitation
white marble. On one corner of this was stuck the
stump of a red wax candle. The solitary window was
so dirty that the light was hazy and uncertain, giving
a dull grey tinge to everything, which was intensified
by the thick layer of dust which coated the whole
apartment.
All these details I observed afterwards. At present
my attention was centred upon the single grim motionless figure which lay stretched upon the boards,
The Lauriston Garden Mystery
with vacant sightless eyes staring up at the discoloured ceiling. It was that of a man about fortythree or forty-four years of age, middle-sized, broad
shouldered, with crisp curling black hair, and a short
stubbly beard. He was dressed in a heavy broadcloth
frock coat and waistcoat, with light-coloured trousers,
and immaculate collar and cuffs. A top hat, well
brushed and trim, was placed upon the floor beside
him. His hands were clenched and his arms thrown
abroad, while his lower limbs were interlocked as
though his death struggle had been a grievous one.
On his rigid face there stood an expression of horror,
and as it seemed to me, of hatred, such as I have
never seen upon human features. This malignant and
terrible contortion, combined with the low forehead,
blunt nose, and prognathous jaw gave the dead man
a singularly simious and ape-like appearance, which
was increased by his writhing, unnatural posture. I
have seen death in many forms, but never has it appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than in that
dark grimy apartment, which looked out upon one of
the main arteries of suburban London.
Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the doorway, and greeted my companion and
myself.
“This case will make a stir, sir,” he remarked. “It
beats anything I have seen, and I am no chicken.”
“There is no clue?” said Gregson.
“None at all,” chimed in Lestrade.
Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and, kneeling down, examined it intently. “You are sure that
there is no wound?” he asked, pointing to numerous
gouts and splashes of blood which lay all round.
“Positive!” cried both detectives.
“Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second
individual—presumably the murderer, if murder has
been committed. It reminds me of the circumstances
attendant on the death of Van Jansen, in Utrecht, in
the year ’34. Do you remember the case, Gregson?”
“No, sir.”
“Read it up—you really should. There is nothing
new under the sun. It has all been done before.”
As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here,
there, and everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning,
examining, while his eyes wore the same far-away
expression which I have already remarked upon. So
swiftly was the examination made, that one would
hardly have guessed the minuteness with which it was
conducted. Finally, he sniffed the dead man’s lips,
and then glanced at the soles of his patent leather
boots.
“He has not been moved at all?” he asked.
“No more than was necessary for the purposes of
our examination.”
“You can take him to the mortuary now,” he said.
“There is nothing more to be learned.”
Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand.
At his call they entered the room, and the stranger
was lifted and carried out. As they raised him, a ring
tinkled down and rolled across the floor. Lestrade
grabbed it up and stared at it with mystified eyes.
“There’s been a woman here,” he cried. “It’s a
woman’s wedding-ring.”
He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his
hand. We all gathered round him and gazed at it.
There could be no doubt that that circlet of plain gold
had once adorned the finger of a bride.
“This complicates matters,” said Gregson.
“Heaven knows, they were complicated enough before.”
“You’re sure it doesn’t simplify them?” observed
Holmes. “There’s nothing to be learned by staring at
it. What did you find in his pockets?”
“We have it all here,” said Gregson, pointing to
a litter of objects upon one of the bottom steps of
the stairs. “A gold watch, No. 97163, by Barraud, of
London. Gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid.
Gold ring, with masonic device. Gold pin—bull-dog’s
head, with rubies as eyes. Russian leather card-case,
with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland, corresponding with the E. J. D. upon the linen. No purse,
but loose money to the extent of seven pounds thirteen. Pocket edition of Boccaccio’s ‘Decameron,’ with
name of Joseph Stangerson upon the fly-leaf. Two
letters—one addressed to E. J. Drebber and one to
Joseph Stangerson.”
“At what address?”
“American Exchange, Strand—to be left till called
for. They are both from the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to the sailing of their boats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate man was about
to return to New York.”
“Have you made any inquiries as to this man,
Stangerson?”
“I did it at once, sir,” said Gregson. “I have had
advertisements sent to all the newspapers, and one of
my men has gone to the American Exchange, but he
has not returned yet.”
17
A Study In Scarlet
“Have you sent to Cleveland?”
“We telegraphed this morning.”
“How did you word your inquiries?”
“We simply detailed the circumstances, and said
that we should be glad of any information which
could help us.”
“You did not ask for particulars on any point
which appeared to you to be crucial?”
“I asked about Stangerson.”
“Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which
this whole case appears to hinge? Will you not telegraph again?”
“I have said all I have to say,” said Gregson, in an
offended voice.
Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be about to make some remark, when
Lestrade, who had been in the front room while we
were holding this conversation in the hall, reappeared
upon the scene, rubbing his hands in a pompous and
self-satisfied manner.
“Mr. Gregson,” he said, “I have just made a discovery of the highest importance, and one which would
have been overlooked had I not made a careful examination of the walls.”
The little man’s eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he
was evidently in a state of suppressed exultation at
having scored a point against his colleague.
“Come here,” he said, bustling back into the room,
the atmosphere of which felt clearer since the removal
of its ghastly inmate. “Now, stand there!”
He struck a match on his boot and held it up
against the wall.
“Look at that!” he said, triumphantly.
I have remarked that the paper had fallen away
in parts. In this particular corner of the room a large
piece had peeled off, leaving a yellow square of coarse
plastering. Across this bare space there was scrawled
in blood-red letters a single word—
RACHE.
“What do you think of that?” cried the detective,
with the air of a showman exhibiting his show. “This
was overlooked because it was in the darkest corner
of the room, and no one thought of looking there. The
murderer has written it with his or her own blood.
See this smear where it has trickled down the wall!
That disposes of the idea of suicide anyhow. Why was
that corner chosen to write it on? I will tell you. See
that candle on the mantelpiece. It was lit at the time,
18
and if it was lit this corner would be the brightest
instead of the darkest portion of the wall.”
“And what does it mean now that you have found
it?” asked Gregson in a depreciatory voice.
“Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going
to put the female name Rachel, but was disturbed
before he or she had time to finish. You mark my
words, when this case comes to be cleared up you
will find that a woman named Rachel has something
to do with it. It’s all very well for you to laugh, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes. You may be very smart and clever,
but the old hound is the best, when all is said and
done.”
“I really beg your pardon!” said my companion,
who had ruffled the little man’s temper by bursting
into an explosion of laughter. “You certainly have the
credit of being the first of us to find this out, and, as
you say, it bears every mark of having been written
by the other participant in last night’s mystery. I have
not had time to examine this room yet, but with your
permission I shall do so now.”
As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a
large round magnifying glass from his pocket. With
these two implements he trotted noiselessly about the
room, sometimes stopping, occasionally kneeling, and
once lying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he
with his occupation that he appeared to have forgotten
our presence, for he chattered away to himself under
his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire
of exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of encouragement and of hope. As I watched
him I was irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded
well-trained foxhound as it dashes backwards and
forwards through the covert, whining in its eagerness,
until it comes across the lost scent. For twenty minutes or more he continued his researches, measuring
with the most exact care the distance between marks
which were entirely invisible to me, and occasionally
applying his tape to the walls in an equally incomprehensible manner. In one place he gathered up very
carefully a little pile of grey dust from the floor, and
packed it away in an envelope. Finally, he examined
with his glass the word upon the wall, going over
every letter of it with the most minute exactness. This
done, he appeared to be satisfied, for he replaced his
tape and his glass in his pocket.
“They say that genius is an infinite capacity for
taking pains,” he remarked with a smile. “It’s a very
bad definition, but it does apply to detective work.”
Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manœuvres of their amateur companion with considerable
What John Rance Had To Tell
curiosity and some contempt. They evidently failed to
appreciate the fact, which I had begun to realize, that
Sherlock Holmes’ smallest actions were all directed
towards some definite and practical end.
“What do you think of it, sir?” they both asked.
“It would be robbing you of the credit of the case
if I was to presume to help you,” remarked my friend.
“You are doing so well now that it would be a pity for
anyone to interfere.” There was a world of sarcasm
in his voice as he spoke. “If you will let me know
how your investigations go,” he continued, “I shall be
happy to give you any help I can. In the meantime I
should like to speak to the constable who found the
body. Can you give me his name and address?”
Lestrade glanced at his note-book. “John Rance,”
he said. “He is off duty now. You will find him at 46,
Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate.”
Holmes took a note of the address.
“Come along, Doctor,” he said; “we shall go and
look him up. I’ll tell you one thing which may help
you in the case,” he continued, turning to the two
detectives. “There has been murder done, and the
murderer was a man. He was more than six feet
high, was in the prime of life, had small feet for his
height, wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked
a Trichinopoly cigar. He came here with his victim
in a four-wheeled cab, which was drawn by a horse
with three old shoes and one new one on his off fore
leg. In all probability the murderer had a florid face,
and the finger-nails of his right hand were remarkably
long. These are only a few indications, but they may
assist you.”
Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with
an incredulous smile.
“If this man was murdered, how was it done?”
asked the former.
“Poison,” said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode
off. “One other thing, Lestrade,” he added, turning round at the door: “ ‘Rache,’ is the German for
‘revenge;’ so don’t lose your time looking for Miss
Rachel.”
With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving
the two rivals open-mouthed behind him.
CHAPTER IV.
What John Rance Had To Tell
It was one o’clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston
Gardens. Sherlock Holmes led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence he dispatched a long telegram.
He then hailed a cab, and ordered the driver to take
us to the address given us by Lestrade.
“There is nothing like first hand evidence,” he
remarked; “as a matter of fact, my mind is entirely
made up upon the case, but still we may as well learn
all that is to be learned.”
“You amaze me, Holmes,” said I. “Surely you are
not as sure as you pretend to be of all those particulars
which you gave.”
“There’s no room for a mistake,” he answered.
“The very first thing which I observed on arriving
there was that a cab had made two ruts with its wheels
close to the curb. Now, up to last night, we have had
no rain for a week, so that those wheels which left
such a deep impression must have been there during
the night. There were the marks of the horse’s hoofs,
too, the outline of one of which was far more clearly
cut than that of the other three, showing that that
was a new shoe. Since the cab was there after the
rain began, and was not there at any time during the
morning—I have Gregson’s word for that—it follows
that it must have been there during the night, and,
therefore, that it brought those two individuals to the
house.”
“That seems simple enough,” said I; “but how
about the other man’s height?”
“Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten,
can be told from the length of his stride. It is a simple
calculation enough, though there is no use my boring
you with figures. I had this fellow’s stride both on
the clay outside and on the dust within. Then I had a
way of checking my calculation. When a man writes
on a wall, his instinct leads him to write about the
19
A Study In Scarlet
level of his own eyes. Now that writing was just over
six feet from the ground. It was child’s play.”
“And his age?” I asked.
“Well, if a man can stride four and a-half feet without the smallest effort, he can’t be quite in the sere
and yellow. That was the breadth of a puddle on the
garden walk which he had evidently walked across.
Patent-leather boots had gone round, and Square-toes
had hopped over. There is no mystery about it at
all. I am simply applying to ordinary life a few of
those precepts of observation and deduction which I
advocated in that article. Is there anything else that
puzzles you?”
“The finger nails and the Trichinopoly,” I suggested.
“The writing on the wall was done with a man’s
forefinger dipped in blood. My glass allowed me
to observe that the plaster was slightly scratched in
doing it, which would not have been the case if the
man’s nail had been trimmed. I gathered up some
scattered ash from the floor. It was dark in colour and
flakey—such an ash as is only made by a Trichinopoly.
I have made a special study of cigar ashes—in fact, I
have written a monograph upon the subject. I flatter
myself that I can distinguish at a glance the ash of
any known brand, either of cigar or of tobacco. It is
just in such details that the skilled detective differs
from the Gregson and Lestrade type.”
“And the florid face?” I asked.
“Ah, that was a more daring shot, though I have
no doubt that I was right. You must not ask me that
at the present state of the affair.”
I passed my hand over my brow. “My head is
in a whirl,” I remarked; “the more one thinks of it
the more mysterious it grows. How came these two
men—if there were two men—into an empty house?
What has become of the cabman who drove them?
How could one man compel another to take poison?
Where did the blood come from? What was the object
of the murderer, since robbery had no part in it? How
came the woman’s ring there? Above all, why should
the second man write up the German word RACHE
before decamping? I confess that I cannot see any
possible way of reconciling all these facts.”
My companion smiled approvingly.
“You sum up the difficulties of the situation succinctly and well,” he said. “There is much that is
still obscure, though I have quite made up my mind
on the main facts. As to poor Lestrade’s discovery it
was simply a blind intended to put the police upon
20
a wrong track, by suggesting Socialism and secret
societies. It was not done by a German. The A, if
you noticed, was printed somewhat after the German
fashion. Now, a real German invariably prints in the
Latin character, so that we may safely say that this
was not written by one, but by a clumsy imitator who
overdid his part. It was simply a ruse to divert inquiry
into a wrong channel. I’m not going to tell you much
more of the case, Doctor. You know a conjuror gets
no credit when once he has explained his trick, and if
I show you too much of my method of working, you
will come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary
individual after all.”
“I shall never do that,” I answered; “you have
brought detection as near an exact science as it ever
will be brought in this world.”
My companion flushed up with pleasure at my
words, and the earnest way in which I uttered them.
I had already observed that he was as sensitive to
flattery on the score of his art as any girl could be of
her beauty.
“I’ll tell you one other thing,” he said. “Patentleathers and Square-toes came in the same cab, and
they walked down the pathway together as friendly as
possible—arm-in-arm, in all probability. When they
got inside they walked up and down the room—or
rather, Patent-leathers stood still while Square-toes
walked up and down. I could read all that in the dust;
and I could read that as he walked he grew more
and more excited. That is shown by the increased
length of his strides. He was talking all the while, and
working himself up, no doubt, into a fury. Then the
tragedy occurred. I’ve told you all I know myself now,
for the rest is mere surmise and conjecture. We have
a good working basis, however, on which to start. We
must hurry up, for I want to go to Halle’s concert to
hear Norman Neruda this afternoon.”
This conversation had occurred while our cab had
been threading its way through a long succession of
dingy streets and dreary by-ways. In the dingiest and
dreariest of them our driver suddenly came to a stand.
“That’s Audley Court in there,” he said, pointing to a
narrow slit in the line of dead-coloured brick. “You’ll
find me here when you come back.”
Audley Court was not an attractive locality. The
narrow passage led us into a quadrangle paved with
flags and lined by sordid dwellings. We picked our
way among groups of dirty children, and through
lines of discoloured linen, until we came to Number
46, the door of which was decorated with a small slip
of brass on which the name Rance was engraved. On
enquiry we found that the constable was in bed, and
What John Rance Had To Tell
we were shown into a little front parlour to await his
coming.
He appeared presently, looking a little irritable at
being disturbed in his slumbers. “I made my report
at the office,” he said.
Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and
played with it pensively. “We thought that we should
like to hear it all from your own lips,” he said.
“I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can,”
the constable answered with his eyes upon the little
golden disk.
“Just let us hear it all in your own way as it occurred.”
Rance sat down on the horsehair sofa, and knitted
his brows as though determined not to omit anything
in his narrative.
“I’ll tell it ye from the beginning,” he said. “My
time is from ten at night to six in the morning.
At eleven there was a fight at the ‘White Hart’;
but bar that all was quiet enough on the beat.
At one o’clock it began to rain, and I met Harry
Murcher—him who has the Holland Grove beat—and
we stood together at the corner of Henrietta Street
a-talkin’. Presently—maybe about two or a little after—I thought I would take a look round and see that
all was right down the Brixton Road. It was precious
dirty and lonely. Not a soul did I meet all the way
down, though a cab or two went past me. I was a
strollin’ down, thinkin’ between ourselves how uncommon handy a four of gin hot would be, when
suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the window of that same house. Now, I knew that them two
houses in Lauriston Gardens was empty on account
of him that owns them who won’t have the drains
seed to, though the very last tenant what lived in one
of them died o’ typhoid fever. I was knocked all in a
heap therefore at seeing a light in the window, and
I suspected as something was wrong. When I got to
the door—”
“You stopped, and then walked back to the garden
gate,” my companion interrupted. “What did you do
that for?”
Rance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock Holmes with the utmost amazement upon his
features.
“Why, that’s true, sir,” he said; “though how you
come to know it, Heaven only knows. Ye see, when I
got up to the door it was so still and so lonesome, that
I thought I’d be none the worse for some one with me.
I ain’t afeared of anything on this side o’ the grave;
but I thought that maybe it was him that died o’ the
typhoid inspecting the drains what killed him. The
thought gave me a kind o’ turn, and I walked back to
the gate to see if I could see Murcher’s lantern, but
there wasn’t no sign of him nor of anyone else.”
“There was no one in the street?”
“Not a livin’ soul, sir, nor as much as a dog. Then
I pulled myself together and went back and pushed
the door open. All was quiet inside, so I went into
the room where the light was a-burnin’. There was
a candle flickerin’ on the mantelpiece—a red wax
one—and by its light I saw—”
“Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked round
the room several times, and you knelt down by the
body, and then you walked through and tried the
kitchen door, and then—”
John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened
face and suspicion in his eyes. “Where was you hid
to see all that?” he cried. “It seems to me that you
knows a deal more than you should.”
Holmes laughed and threw his card across the
table to the constable. “Don’t get arresting me for the
murder,” he said. “I am one of the hounds and not
the wolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer for
that. Go on, though. What did you do next?”
Rance resumed his seat, without however losing
his mystified expression. “I went back to the gate and
sounded my whistle. That brought Murcher and two
more to the spot.”
“Was the street empty then?”
“Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of
any good goes.”
“What do you mean?”
The constable’s features broadened into a grin.
“I’ve seen many a drunk chap in my time,” he said,
“but never anyone so cryin’ drunk as that cove. He
was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin’ up ag’in the
railings, and a-singin’ at the pitch o’ his lungs about
Columbine’s New-fangled Banner, or some such stuff.
He couldn’t stand, far less help.”
“What sort of a man was he?” asked Sherlock
Holmes.
John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated at
this digression. “He was an uncommon drunk sort o’
man,” he said. “He’d ha’ found hisself in the station
if we hadn’t been so took up.”
“His face—his dress—didn’t you notice them?”
Holmes broke in impatiently.
“I should think I did notice them, seeing that I
had to prop him up—me and Murcher between us.
21
A Study In Scarlet
He was a long chap, with a red face, the lower part
muffled round—”
“That will do,” cried Holmes. “What became of
him?”
“We’d enough to do without lookin’ after him,”
the policeman said, in an aggrieved voice. “I’ll wager
he found his way home all right.”
“How was he dressed?”
“A brown overcoat.”
“Had he a whip in his hand?”
“A whip—no.”
“He must have left it behind,” muttered my companion. “You didn’t happen to see or hear a cab after
that?”
“No.”
“There’s a half-sovereign for you,” my companion
said, standing up and taking his hat. “I am afraid,
Rance, that you will never rise in the force. That head
of yours should be for use as well as ornament. You
might have gained your sergeant’s stripes last night.
The man whom you held in your hands is the man
who holds the clue of this mystery, and whom we are
seeking. There is no use of arguing about it now; I
tell you that it is so. Come along, Doctor.”
We started off for the cab together, leaving our
informant incredulous, but obviously uncomfortable.
“The blundering fool,” Holmes said, bitterly, as
we drove back to our lodgings. “Just to think of his
having such an incomparable bit of good luck, and
not taking advantage of it.”
“I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the
description of this man tallies with your idea of the
second party in this mystery. But why should he
come back to the house after leaving it? That is not
the way of criminals.”
“The ring, man, the ring: that was what he came
back for. If we have no other way of catching him, we
can always bait our line with the ring. I shall have
him, Doctor—I’ll lay you two to one that I have him.
I must thank you for it all. I might not have gone but
for you, and so have missed the finest study I ever
came across: a study in scarlet, eh? Why shouldn’t
we use a little art jargon. There’s the scarlet thread
of murder running through the colourless skein of
life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and
expose every inch of it. And now for lunch, and then
for Norman Neruda. Her attack and her bowing are
splendid. What’s that little thing of Chopin’s she
plays so magnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay.”
Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound
carolled away like a lark while I meditated upon the
many-sidedness of the human mind.
CHAPTER V.
Our Advertisement Brings A Visitor
Our morning’s exertions had been too much for
my weak health, and I was tired out in the afternoon.
After Holmes’ departure for the concert, I lay down
upon the sofa and endeavoured to get a couple of
hours’ sleep. It was a useless attempt. My mind had
been too much excited by all that had occurred, and
the strangest fancies and surmises crowded into it.
Every time that I closed my eyes I saw before me the
distorted baboon-like countenance of the murdered
man. So sinister was the impression which that face
had produced upon me that I found it difficult to
feel anything but gratitude for him who had removed
its owner from the world. If ever human features
22
bespoke vice of the most malignant type, they were
certainly those of Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland. Still
I recognized that justice must be done, and that the
depravity of the victim was no condonement in the
eyes of the law.
The more I thought of it the more extraordinary
did my companion’s hypothesis, that the man had
been poisoned, appear. I remembered how he had
sniffed his lips, and had no doubt that he had detected something which had given rise to the idea.
Then, again, if not poison, what had caused the man’s
death, since there was neither wound nor marks of
strangulation? But, on the other hand, whose blood
Our Advertisement Brings A Visitor
was that which lay so thickly upon the floor? There
were no signs of a struggle, nor had the victim any
weapon with which he might have wounded an antagonist. As long as all these questions were unsolved,
I felt that sleep would be no easy matter, either for
Holmes or myself. His quiet self-confident manner
convinced me that he had already formed a theory
which explained all the facts, though what it was I
could not for an instant conjecture.
He was very late in returning—so late, that I knew
that the concert could not have detained him all the
time. Dinner was on the table before he appeared.
“It was magnificent,” he said, as he took his seat.
“Do you remember what Darwin says about music?
He claims that the power of producing and appreciating it existed among the human race long before the
power of speech was arrived at. Perhaps that is why
we are so subtly influenced by it. There are vague
memories in our souls of those misty centuries when
the world was in its childhood.”
“That’s rather a broad idea,” I remarked.
“One’s ideas must be as broad as Nature if they
are to interpret Nature,” he answered. “What’s the
matter? You’re not looking quite yourself. This Brixton Road affair has upset you.”
“To tell the truth, it has,” I said. “I ought to be
more case-hardened after my Afghan experiences. I
saw my own comrades hacked to pieces at Maiwand
without losing my nerve.”
“I can understand. There is a mystery about this
which stimulates the imagination; where there is no
imagination there is no horror. Have you seen the
evening paper?”
“No.”
“It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does
not mention the fact that when the man was raised
up, a woman’s wedding ring fell upon the floor. It is
just as well it does not.”
“Why?”
“Look at this advertisement,” he answered. “I had
one sent to every paper this morning immediately
after the affair.”
He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at
the place indicated. It was the first announcement in
the “Found” column. “In Brixton Road, this morning,” it ran, “a plain gold wedding ring, found in
the roadway between the ‘White Hart’ Tavern and
Holland Grove. Apply Dr. Watson, 221b, Baker Street,
between eight and nine this evening.”
“Excuse my using your name,” he said. “If I used
my own some of these dunderheads would recognize
it, and want to meddle in the affair.”
“That is all right,” I answered. “But supposing
anyone applies, I have no ring.”
“Oh yes, you have,” said he, handing me one.
“This will do very well. It is almost a facsimile.”
“And who do you expect will answer this advertisement.”
“Why, the man in the brown coat—our florid
friend with the square toes. If he does not come
himself he will send an accomplice.”
“Would he not consider it as too dangerous?”
“Not at all. If my view of the case is correct, and I
have every reason to believe that it is, this man would
rather risk anything than lose the ring. According to
my notion he dropped it while stooping over Drebber’s body, and did not miss it at the time. After
leaving the house he discovered his loss and hurried
back, but found the police already in possession, owing to his own folly in leaving the candle burning.
He had to pretend to be drunk in order to allay the
suspicions which might have been aroused by his appearance at the gate. Now put yourself in that man’s
place. On thinking the matter over, it must have occurred to him that it was possible that he had lost
the ring in the road after leaving the house. What
would he do, then? He would eagerly look out for
the evening papers in the hope of seeing it among the
articles found. His eye, of course, would light upon
this. He would be overjoyed. Why should he fear
a trap? There would be no reason in his eyes why
the finding of the ring should be connected with the
murder. He would come. He will come. You shall see
him within an hour.”
“And then?” I asked.
“Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then. Have
you any arms?”
“I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges.”
“You had better clean it and load it. He will be a
desperate man, and though I shall take him unawares,
it is as well to be ready for anything.”
I went to my bedroom and followed his advice.
When I returned with the pistol the table had been
cleared, and Holmes was engaged in his favourite
occupation of scraping upon his violin.
“The plot thickens,” he said, as I entered; “I have
just had an answer to my American telegram. My
view of the case is the correct one.”
“And that is?” I asked eagerly.
23
A Study In Scarlet
“My fiddle would be the better for new strings,”
he remarked. “Put your pistol in your pocket. When
the fellow comes speak to him in an ordinary way.
Leave the rest to me. Don’t frighten him by looking
at him too hard.”
“It is eight o’clock now,” I said, glancing at my
watch.
“Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes.
Open the door slightly. That will do. Now put the
key on the inside. Thank you! This is a queer old
book I picked up at a stall yesterday—De Jure inter
Gentes—published in Latin at Liege in the Lowlands,
in 1642. Charles’ head was still firm on his shoulders
when this little brown-backed volume was struck off.”
“Who is the printer?”
“Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been.
On the fly-leaf, in very faded ink, is written ‘Ex libris Guliolmi Whyte.’ I wonder who William Whyte
was. Some pragmatical seventeenth century lawyer, I
suppose. His writing has a legal twist about it. Here
comes our man, I think.”
As he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell.
Sherlock Holmes rose softly and moved his chair in
the direction of the door. We heard the servant pass
along the hall, and the sharp click of the latch as she
opened it.
“Does Dr. Watson live here?” asked a clear but
rather harsh voice. We could not hear the servant’s
reply, but the door closed, and some one began to
ascend the stairs. The footfall was an uncertain and
shuffling one. A look of surprise passed over the face
of my companion as he listened to it. It came slowly
along the passage, and there was a feeble tap at the
door.
“Come in,” I cried.
At my summons, instead of the man of violence
whom we expected, a very old and wrinkled woman
hobbled into the apartment. She appeared to be dazzled by the sudden blaze of light, and after dropping
a curtsey, she stood blinking at us with her bleared
eyes and fumbling in her pocket with nervous, shaky
fingers. I glanced at my companion, and his face had
assumed such a disconsolate expression that it was
all I could do to keep my countenance.
The old crone drew out an evening paper, and
pointed at our advertisement. “It’s this as has brought
me, good gentlemen,” she said, dropping another
curtsey; “a gold wedding ring in the Brixton Road. It
belongs to my girl Sally, as was married only this time
twelvemonth, which her husband is steward aboard a
24
Union boat, and what he’d say if he comes ’ome and
found her without her ring is more than I can think,
he being short enough at the best o’ times, but more
especially when he has the drink. If it please you, she
went to the circus last night along with—”
“Is that her ring?” I asked.
“The Lord be thanked!” cried the old woman;
“Sally will be a glad woman this night. That’s the
ring.”
“And what may your address be?” I inquired, taking up a pencil.
“13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary way
from here.”
“The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus
and Houndsditch,” said Sherlock Holmes sharply.
The old woman faced round and looked keenly at
him from her little red-rimmed eyes. “The gentleman
asked me for my address,” she said. “Sally lives in
lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham.”
“And your name is—?”
“My name is Sawyer—her’s is Dennis, which Tom
Dennis married her—and a smart, clean lad, too, as
long as he’s at sea, and no steward in the company
more thought of; but when on shore, what with the
women and what with liquor shops—”
“Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer,” I interrupted, in
obedience to a sign from my companion; “it clearly
belongs to your daughter, and I am glad to be able to
restore it to the rightful owner.”
With many mumbled blessings and protestations
of gratitude the old crone packed it away in her
pocket, and shuffled off down the stairs. Sherlock
Holmes sprang to his feet the moment that she was
gone and rushed into his room. He returned in a
few seconds enveloped in an ulster and a cravat. “I’ll
follow her,” he said, hurriedly; “she must be an accomplice, and will lead me to him. Wait up for me.”
The hall door had hardly slammed behind our visitor before Holmes had descended the stair. Looking
through the window I could see her walking feebly
along the other side, while her pursuer dogged her
some little distance behind. “Either his whole theory
is incorrect,” I thought to myself, “or else he will be
led now to the heart of the mystery.” There was no
need for him to ask me to wait up for him, for I felt
that sleep was impossible until I heard the result of
his adventure.
It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no
idea how long he might be, but I sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and skipping over the pages of Henri
Murger’s Vie de Bohème. Ten o’clock passed, and I
heard the footsteps of the maid as they pattered off
Tobias Gregson Shows What He Can Do
to bed. Eleven, and the more stately tread of the landlady passed my door, bound for the same destination.
It was close upon twelve before I heard the sharp
sound of his latch-key. The instant he entered I saw
by his face that he had not been successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to be struggling for the
mastery, until the former suddenly carried the day,
and he burst into a hearty laugh.
“I wouldn’t have the Scotland Yarders know it for
the world,” he cried, dropping into his chair; “I have
chaffed them so much that they would never have let
me hear the end of it. I can afford to laugh, because I
know that I will be even with them in the long run.”
“What is it then?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t mind telling a story against myself.
That creature had gone a little way when she began to
limp and show every sign of being foot-sore. Presently
she came to a halt, and hailed a four-wheeler which
was passing. I managed to be close to her so as to
hear the address, but I need not have been so anxious,
for she sang it out loud enough to be heard at the
other side of the street, ‘Drive to 13, Duncan Street,
Houndsditch,’ she cried. This begins to look genuine,
I thought, and having seen her safely inside, I perched
myself behind. That’s an art which every detective
should be an expert at. Well, away we rattled, and
never drew rein until we reached the street in question. I hopped off before we came to the door, and
strolled down the street in an easy, lounging way. I
saw the cab pull up. The driver jumped down, and I
saw him open the door and stand expectantly. Nothing came out though. When I reached him he was
groping about frantically in the empty cab, and giving vent to the finest assorted collection of oaths that
ever I listened to. There was no sign or trace of his
passenger, and I fear it will be some time before he
gets his fare. On inquiring at Number 13 we found
that the house belonged to a respectable paperhanger,
named Keswick, and that no one of the name either
of Sawyer or Dennis had ever been heard of there.”
“You don’t mean to say,” I cried, in amazement,
“that that tottering, feeble old woman was able to get
out of the cab while it was in motion, without either
you or the driver seeing her?”
“Old woman be damned!” said Sherlock Holmes,
sharply. “We were the old women to be so taken
in. It must have been a young man, and an active
one, too, besides being an incomparable actor. The
get-up was inimitable. He saw that he was followed,
no doubt, and used this means of giving me the slip.
It shows that the man we are after is not as lonely as
I imagined he was, but has friends who are ready to
risk something for him. Now, Doctor, you are looking
done-up. Take my advice and turn in.”
I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his
injunction. I left Holmes seated in front of the smouldering fire, and long into the watches of the night I
heard the low, melancholy wailings of his violin, and
knew that he was still pondering over the strange
problem which he had set himself to unravel.
CHAPTER VI.
Tobias Gregson Shows What He Can Do
The papers next day were full of the “Brixton
Mystery,” as they termed it. Each had a long account
of the affair, and some had leaders upon it in addition. There was some information in them which was
new to me. I still retain in my scrap-book numerous
clippings and extracts bearing upon the case. Here is
a condensation of a few of them:—
The Daily Telegraph remarked that in the history
of crime there had seldom been a tragedy which presented stranger features. The German name of the
victim, the absence of all other motive, and the sinister
inscription on the wall, all pointed to its perpetration
by political refugees and revolutionists. The Socialists
had many branches in America, and the deceased had,
no doubt, infringed their unwritten laws, and been
tracked down by them. After alluding airily to the
Vehmgericht, aqua tofana, Carbonari, the Marchioness
de Brinvilliers, the Darwinian theory, the principles
of Malthus, and the Ratcliff Highway murders, the article concluded by admonishing the Government and
advocating a closer watch over foreigners in England.
25
A Study In Scarlet
The Standard commented upon the fact that lawless outrages of the sort usually occurred under a Liberal Administration. They arose from the unsettling
of the minds of the masses, and the consequent weakening of all authority. The deceased was an American
gentleman who had been residing for some weeks in
the Metropolis. He had stayed at the boarding-house
of Madame Charpentier, in Torquay Terrace, Camberwell. He was accompanied in his travels by his private
secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The two bade adieu
to their landlady upon Tuesday, the 4th inst., and
departed to Euston Station with the avowed intention of catching the Liverpool express. They were
afterwards seen together upon the platform. Nothing
more is known of them until Mr. Drebber’s body was,
as recorded, discovered in an empty house in the Brixton Road, many miles from Euston. How he came
there, or how he met his fate, are questions which are
still involved in mystery. Nothing is known of the
whereabouts of Stangerson. We are glad to learn that
Mr. Lestrade and Mr. Gregson, of Scotland Yard, are
both engaged upon the case, and it is confidently anticipated that these well-known officers will speedily
throw light upon the matter.
The Daily News observed that there was no doubt
as to the crime being a political one. The despotism
and hatred of Liberalism which animated the Continental Governments had had the effect of driving to
our shores a number of men who might have made
excellent citizens were they not soured by the recollection of all that they had undergone. Among these
men there was a stringent code of honour, any infringement of which was punished by death. Every
effort should be made to find the secretary, Stangerson, and to ascertain some particulars of the habits
of the deceased. A great step had been gained by
the discovery of the address of the house at which
he had boarded—a result which was entirely due to
the acuteness and energy of Mr. Gregson of Scotland
Yard.
Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices over together at breakfast, and they appeared to afford him
considerable amusement.
“I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade and
Gregson would be sure to score.”
“That depends on how it turns out.”
“Oh, bless you, it doesn’t matter in the least. If the
man is caught, it will be on account of their exertions;
if he escapes, it will be in spite of their exertions. It’s
heads I win and tails you lose. Whatever they do, they
will have followers. ‘Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot
qui l’admire.’ ”
26
“What on earth is this?” I cried, for at this moment
there came the pattering of many steps in the hall and
on the stairs, accompanied by audible expressions of
disgust upon the part of our landlady.
“It’s the Baker Street division of the detective police force,” said my companion, gravely; and as he
spoke there rushed into the room half a dozen of
the dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that ever I
clapped eyes on.
“’Tention!” cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and the
six dirty little scoundrels stood in a line like so many
disreputable statuettes. “In future you shall send up
Wiggins alone to report, and the rest of you must wait
in the street. Have you found it, Wiggins?”
“No, sir, we hain’t,” said one of the youths.
“I hardly expected you would. You must keep on
until you do. Here are your wages.” He handed each
of them a shilling. “Now, off you go, and come back
with a better report next time.”
He waved his hand, and they scampered away
downstairs like so many rats, and we heard their
shrill voices next moment in the street.
“There’s more work to be got out of one of those
little beggars than out of a dozen of the force,” Holmes
remarked. “The mere sight of an official-looking person seals men’s lips. These youngsters, however, go
everywhere and hear everything. They are as sharp
as needles, too; all they want is organisation.”
“Is it on this Brixton case that you are employing
them?” I asked.
“Yes; there is a point which I wish to ascertain.
It is merely a matter of time. Hullo! we are going
to hear some news now with a vengeance! Here is
Gregson coming down the road with beatitude written upon every feature of his face. Bound for us, I
know. Yes, he is stopping. There he is!”
There was a violent peal at the bell, and in a few
seconds the fair-haired detective came up the stairs,
three steps at a time, and burst into our sitting-room.
“My dear fellow,” he cried, wringing Holmes’ unresponsive hand, “congratulate me! I have made the
whole thing as clear as day.”
A shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my
companion’s expressive face.
“Do you mean that you are on the right track?” he
asked.
“The right track! Why, sir, we have the man under
lock and key.”
“And his name is?”
Tobias Gregson Shows What He Can Do
“Arthur Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her
Majesty’s navy,” cried Gregson, pompously, rubbing
his fat hands and inflating his chest.
Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief, and relaxed
into a smile.
“Take a seat, and try one of these cigars,” he said.
“We are anxious to know how you managed it. Will
you have some whiskey and water?”
“I don’t mind if I do,” the detective answered.
“The tremendous exertions which I have gone through
during the last day or two have worn me out. Not so
much bodily exertion, you understand, as the strain
upon the mind. You will appreciate that, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, for we are both brain-workers.”
“You do me too much honour,” said Holmes,
gravely. “Let us hear how you arrived at this most
gratifying result.”
The detective seated himself in the arm-chair, and
puffed complacently at his cigar. Then suddenly he
slapped his thigh in a paroxysm of amusement.
“The fun of it is,” he cried, “that that fool Lestrade,
who thinks himself so smart, has gone off upon the
wrong track altogether. He is after the secretary
Stangerson, who had no more to do with the crime
than the babe unborn. I have no doubt that he has
caught him by this time.”
The idea tickled Gregson so much that he laughed
until he choked.
“And how did you get your clue?”
“Ah, I’ll tell you all about it. Of course, Doctor
Watson, this is strictly between ourselves. The first difficulty which we had to contend with was the finding
of this American’s antecedents. Some people would
have waited until their advertisements were answered,
or until parties came forward and volunteered information. That is not Tobias Gregson’s way of going to
work. You remember the hat beside the dead man?”
“Yes,” said Holmes; “by John Underwood and
Sons, 129, Camberwell Road.”
Gregson looked quite crest-fallen.
“I had no idea that you noticed that,” he said.
“Have you been there?”
“No.”
“Ha!” cried Gregson, in a relieved voice; “you
should never neglect a chance, however small it may
seem.”
“To a great mind, nothing is little,” remarked
Holmes, sententiously.
“Well, I went to Underwood, and asked him if he
had sold a hat of that size and description. He looked
over his books, and came on it at once. He had sent
the hat to a Mr. Drebber, residing at Charpentier’s
Boarding Establishment, Torquay Terrace. Thus I got
at his address.”
“Smart—very smart!” murmured Sherlock
Holmes.
“I next called upon Madame Charpentier,” continued the detective. “I found her very pale and
distressed. Her daughter was in the room, too—an
uncommonly fine girl she is, too; she was looking red
about the eyes and her lips trembled as I spoke to
her. That didn’t escape my notice. I began to smell
a rat. You know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
when you come upon the right scent—a kind of thrill
in your nerves. ‘Have you heard of the mysterious
death of your late boarder Mr. Enoch J. Drebber, of
Cleveland?’ I asked.
“The mother nodded. She didn’t seem able to get
out a word. The daughter burst into tears. I felt more
than ever that these people knew something of the
matter.
“ ‘At what o’clock did Mr. Drebber leave your
house for the train?’ I asked.
“ ‘At eight o’clock,’ she said, gulping in her throat
to keep down her agitation. ‘His secretary, Mr.
Stangerson, said that there were two trains—one at
9.15 and one at 11. He was to catch the first.’
“ ‘And was that the last which you saw of him?’
“A terrible change came over the woman’s face as
I asked the question. Her features turned perfectly
livid. It was some seconds before she could get out
the single word ‘Yes’—and when it did come it was
in a husky unnatural tone.
“There was silence for a moment, and then the
daughter spoke in a calm clear voice.
“ ‘No good can ever come of falsehood, mother,’
she said. ‘Let us be frank with this gentleman. We did
see Mr. Drebber again.’
“ ‘God forgive you!’ cried Madame Charpentier,
throwing up her hands and sinking back in her chair.
‘You have murdered your brother.’
“ ‘Arthur would rather that we spoke the truth,’
the girl answered firmly.
“ ‘You had best tell me all about it now,’ I said.
‘Half-confidences are worse than none. Besides, you
do not know how much we know of it.’
“ ‘On your head be it, Alice!’ cried her mother;
and then, turning to me, ‘I will tell you all, sir. Do not
27
A Study In Scarlet
imagine that my agitation on behalf of my son arises
from any fear lest he should have had a hand in this
terrible affair. He is utterly innocent of it. My dread
is, however, that in your eyes and in the eyes of others
he may appear to be compromised. That however is
surely impossible. His high character, his profession,
his antecedents would all forbid it.’
“ ‘Your best way is to make a clean breast of the
facts,’ I answered. ‘Depend upon it, if your son is
innocent he will be none the worse.’
“ ‘Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us together,’
she said, and her daughter withdrew. ‘Now, sir,’ she
continued, ‘I had no intention of telling you all this,
but since my poor daughter has disclosed it I have no
alternative. Having once decided to speak, I will tell
you all without omitting any particular.’
“ ‘It is your wisest course,’ said I.
“ ‘Mr. Drebber has been with us nearly three weeks.
He and his secretary, Mr. Stangerson, had been travelling on the Continent. I noticed a “Copenhagen”
label upon each of their trunks, showing that that had
been their last stopping place. Stangerson was a quiet
reserved man, but his employer, I am sorry to say,
was far otherwise. He was coarse in his habits and
brutish in his ways. The very night of his arrival he
became very much the worse for drink, and, indeed,
after twelve o’clock in the day he could hardly ever
be said to be sober. His manners towards the maidservants were disgustingly free and familiar. Worst of
all, he speedily assumed the same attitude towards
my daughter, Alice, and spoke to her more than once
in a way which, fortunately, she is too innocent to understand. On one occasion he actually seized her in
his arms and embraced her—an outrage which caused
his own secretary to reproach him for his unmanly
conduct.’
“ ‘But why did you stand all this,’ I asked. ‘I suppose that you can get rid of your boarders when you
wish.’
“Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my pertinent question. ‘Would to God that I had given him notice on
the very day that he came,’ she said. ‘But it was a
sore temptation. They were paying a pound a day
each—fourteen pounds a week, and this is the slack
season. I am a widow, and my boy in the Navy has
cost me much. I grudged to lose the money. I acted
for the best. This last was too much, however, and I
gave him notice to leave on account of it. That was
the reason of his going.’
“ ‘Well?’
28
“ ‘My heart grew light when I saw him drive away.
My son is on leave just now, but I did not tell him
anything of all this, for his temper is violent, and he
is passionately fond of his sister. When I closed the
door behind them a load seemed to be lifted from my
mind. Alas, in less than an hour there was a ring at
the bell, and I learned that Mr. Drebber had returned.
He was much excited, and evidently the worse for
drink. He forced his way into the room, where I was
sitting with my daughter, and made some incoherent
remark about having missed his train. He then turned
to Alice, and before my very face, proposed to her
that she should fly with him. “You are of age,” he
said, “and there is no law to stop you. I have money
enough and to spare. Never mind the old girl here,
but come along with me now straight away. You shall
live like a princess.” Poor Alice was so frightened that
she shrunk away from him, but he caught her by the
wrist and endeavoured to draw her towards the door.
I screamed, and at that moment my son Arthur came
into the room. What happened then I do not know. I
heard oaths and the confused sounds of a scuffle. I
was too terrified to raise my head. When I did look
up I saw Arthur standing in the doorway laughing,
with a stick in his hand. “I don’t think that fine fellow will trouble us again,” he said. “I will just go
after him and see what he does with himself.” With
those words he took his hat and started off down the
street. The next morning we heard of Mr. Drebber’s
mysterious death.’
“This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier’s lips
with many gasps and pauses. At times she spoke so
low that I could hardly catch the words. I made shorthand notes of all that she said, however, so that there
should be no possibility of a mistake.”
“It’s quite exciting,” said Sherlock Holmes, with a
yawn. “What happened next?”
“When Mrs. Charpentier paused,” the detective
continued, “I saw that the whole case hung upon one
point. Fixing her with my eye in a way which I always
found effective with women, I asked her at what hour
her son returned.
“ ‘I do not know,’ she answered.
“ ‘Not know?’
“ ‘No; he has a latch-key, and he let himself in.’
“ ‘After you went to bed?’
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘When did you go to bed?’
“ ‘About eleven.’
“ ‘So your son was gone at least two hours?’
Light In The Darkness
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘Possibly four or five?’
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘What was he doing during that time?’
“ ‘I do not know,’ she answered, turning white to
her very lips.
“Of course after that there was nothing more to be
done. I found out where Lieutenant Charpentier was,
took two officers with me, and arrested him. When
I touched him on the shoulder and warned him to
come quietly with us, he answered us as bold as brass,
‘I suppose you are arresting me for being concerned
in the death of that scoundrel Drebber,’ he said. We
had said nothing to him about it, so that his alluding
to it had a most suspicious aspect.”
“Very,” said Holmes.
“He still carried the heavy stick which the mother
described him as having with him when he followed
Drebber. It was a stout oak cudgel.”
“What is your theory, then?”
“Well, my theory is that he followed Drebber as far
as the Brixton Road. When there, a fresh altercation
arose between them, in the course of which Drebber
received a blow from the stick, in the pit of the stomach, perhaps, which killed him without leaving any
mark. The night was so wet that no one was about, so
Charpentier dragged the body of his victim into the
empty house. As to the candle, and the blood, and
the writing on the wall, and the ring, they may all be
so many tricks to throw the police on to the wrong
scent.”
“Well done!” said Holmes in an encouraging voice.
“Really, Gregson, you are getting along. We shall
make something of you yet.”
“I flatter myself that I have managed it rather
neatly,” the detective answered proudly. “The young
man volunteered a statement, in which he said that after following Drebber some time, the latter perceived
him, and took a cab in order to get away from him.
On his way home he met an old shipmate, and took
a long walk with him. On being asked where this
old shipmate lived, he was unable to give any satisfactory reply. I think the whole case fits together
uncommonly well. What amuses me is to think of
Lestrade, who had started off upon the wrong scent.
I am afraid he won’t make much of—Why, by Jove,
here’s the very man himself!”
It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the
stairs while we were talking, and who now entered
the room. The assurance and jauntiness which generally marked his demeanour and dress were, however,
wanting. His face was disturbed and troubled, while
his clothes were disarranged and untidy. He had evidently come with the intention of consulting with
Sherlock Holmes, for on perceiving his colleague he
appeared to be embarrassed and put out. He stood
in the centre of the room, fumbling nervously with
his hat and uncertain what to do. “This is a most
extraordinary case,” he said at last—“a most incomprehensible affair.”
“Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!” cried Gregson,
triumphantly. “I thought you would come to that
conclusion. Have you managed to find the Secretary,
Mr. Joseph Stangerson?”
“The Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson,” said
Lestrade gravely, “was murdered at Halliday’s Private Hotel about six o’clock this morning.”
CHAPTER VII.
Light In The Darkness
The intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us
was so momentous and so unexpected, that we were
all three fairly dumbfounded. Gregson sprang out
of his chair and upset the remainder of his whiskey
and water. I stared in silence at Sherlock Holmes,
whose lips were compressed and his brows drawn
down over his eyes.
“Stangerson too!” he muttered. “The plot thickens.”
“It was quite thick enough before,” grumbled
29
A Study In Scarlet
Lestrade, taking a chair. “I seem to have dropped
into a sort of council of war.”
“Are you—are you sure of this piece of intelligence?” stammered Gregson.
“I have just come from his room,” said Lestrade.
“I was the first to discover what had occurred.”
“We have been hearing Gregson’s view of the matter,” Holmes observed. “Would you mind letting us
know what you have seen and done?”
“I have no objection,” Lestrade answered, seating
himself. “I freely confess that I was of the opinion
that Stangerson was concerned in the death of Drebber. This fresh development has shown me that I
was completely mistaken. Full of the one idea, I set
myself to find out what had become of the Secretary.
They had been seen together at Euston Station about
half-past eight on the evening of the third. At two in
the morning Drebber had been found in the Brixton
Road. The question which confronted me was to find
out how Stangerson had been employed between 8.30
and the time of the crime, and what had become of
him afterwards. I telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a
description of the man, and warning them to keep a
watch upon the American boats. I then set to work
calling upon all the hotels and lodging-houses in the
vicinity of Euston. You see, I argued that if Drebber
and his companion had become separated, the natural
course for the latter would be to put up somewhere
in the vicinity for the night, and then to hang about
the station again next morning.”
“They would be likely to agree on some meetingplace beforehand,” remarked Holmes.
“So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday
evening in making enquiries entirely without avail.
This morning I began very early, and at eight o’clock
I reached Halliday’s Private Hotel, in Little George
Street. On my enquiry as to whether a Mr. Stangerson
was living there, they at once answered me in the
affirmative.
“ ‘No doubt you are the gentleman whom he was
expecting,’ they said. ‘He has been waiting for a
gentleman for two days.’
“ ‘Where is he now?’ I asked.
“ ‘He is upstairs in bed. He wished to be called at
nine.’
“ ‘I will go up and see him at once,’ I said.
“It seemed to me that my sudden appearance
might shake his nerves and lead him to say something unguarded. The Boots volunteered to show me
the room: it was on the second floor, and there was a
30
small corridor leading up to it. The Boots pointed out
the door to me, and was about to go downstairs again
when I saw something that made me feel sickish, in
spite of my twenty years’ experience. From under the
door there curled a little red ribbon of blood, which
had meandered across the passage and formed a little
pool along the skirting at the other side. I gave a
cry, which brought the Boots back. He nearly fainted
when he saw it. The door was locked on the inside,
but we put our shoulders to it, and knocked it in.
The window of the room was open, and beside the
window, all huddled up, lay the body of a man in
his nightdress. He was quite dead, and had been for
some time, for his limbs were rigid and cold. When
we turned him over, the Boots recognized him at once
as being the same gentleman who had engaged the
room under the name of Joseph Stangerson. The
cause of death was a deep stab in the left side, which
must have penetrated the heart. And now comes the
strangest part of the affair. What do you suppose was
above the murdered man?”
I felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment
of coming horror, even before Sherlock Holmes answered.
“The word RACHE, written in letters of blood,”
he said.
“That was it,” said Lestrade, in an awe-struck
voice; and we were all silent for a while.
There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible about the deeds of this unknown assassin,
that it imparted a fresh ghastliness to his crimes. My
nerves, which were steady enough on the field of
battle tingled as I thought of it.
“The man was seen,” continued Lestrade. “A milk
boy, passing on his way to the dairy, happened to
walk down the lane which leads from the mews at
the back of the hotel. He noticed that a ladder, which
usually lay there, was raised against one of the windows of the second floor, which was wide open. After
passing, he looked back and saw a man descend the
ladder. He came down so quietly and openly that the
boy imagined him to be some carpenter or joiner at
work in the hotel. He took no particular notice of him,
beyond thinking in his own mind that it was early
for him to be at work. He has an impression that the
man was tall, had a reddish face, and was dressed
in a long, brownish coat. He must have stayed in
the room some little time after the murder, for we
found blood-stained water in the basin, where he had
washed his hands, and marks on the sheets where he
had deliberately wiped his knife.”
Light In The Darkness
I glanced at Holmes on hearing the description
of the murderer, which tallied so exactly with his
own. There was, however, no trace of exultation or
satisfaction upon his face.
“Did you find nothing in the room which could
furnish a clue to the murderer?” he asked.
“Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber’s purse in his
pocket, but it seems that this was usual, as he did
all the paying. There was eighty odd pounds in it,
but nothing had been taken. Whatever the motives of
these extraordinary crimes, robbery is certainly not
one of them. There were no papers or memoranda in
the murdered man’s pocket, except a single telegram,
dated from Cleveland about a month ago, and containing the words, ‘J. H. is in Europe.’ There was no
name appended to this message.”
“And there was nothing else?” Holmes asked.
“Nothing of any importance. The man’s novel,
with which he had read himself to sleep was lying
upon the bed, and his pipe was on a chair beside him.
There was a glass of water on the table, and on the
window-sill a small chip ointment box containing a
couple of pills.”
Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an
exclamation of delight.
“The last link,” he cried, exultantly. “My case is
complete.”
The two detectives stared at him in amazement.
“I have now in my hands,” my companion said,
confidently, “all the threads which have formed such
a tangle. There are, of course, details to be filled in,
but I am as certain of all the main facts, from the time
that Drebber parted from Stangerson at the station,
up to the discovery of the body of the latter, as if I
had seen them with my own eyes. I will give you a
proof of my knowledge. Could you lay your hand
upon those pills?”
“I have them,” said Lestrade, producing a small
white box; “I took them and the purse and the telegram, intending to have them put in a place of safety
at the Police Station. It was the merest chance my
taking these pills, for I am bound to say that I do not
attach any importance to them.”
“Give them here,” said Holmes. “Now, Doctor,”
turning to me, “are those ordinary pills?”
They certainly were not. They were of a pearly
grey colour, small, round, and almost transparent
against the light. “From their lightness and transparency, I should imagine that they are soluble in
water,” I remarked.
“Precisely so,” answered Holmes. “Now would
you mind going down and fetching that poor little
devil of a terrier which has been bad so long, and
which the landlady wanted you to put out of its pain
yesterday.”
I went downstairs and carried the dog upstair in
my arms. It’s laboured breathing and glazing eye
showed that it was not far from its end. Indeed, its
snow-white muzzle proclaimed that it had already
exceeded the usual term of canine existence. I placed
it upon a cushion on the rug.
“I will now cut one of these pills in two,” said
Holmes, and drawing his penknife he suited the action to the word. “One half we return into the box
for future purposes. The other half I will place in this
wine glass, in which is a teaspoonful of water. You
perceive that our friend, the Doctor, is right, and that
it readily dissolves.”
“This may be very interesting,” said Lestrade, in
the injured tone of one who suspects that he is being
laughed at, “I cannot see, however, what it has to do
with the death of Mr. Joseph Stangerson.”
“Patience, my friend, patience! You will find in
time that it has everything to do with it. I shall now
add a little milk to make the mixture palatable, and
on presenting it to the dog we find that he laps it up
readily enough.”
As he spoke he turned the contents of the wine
glass into a saucer and placed it in front of the terrier,
who speedily licked it dry. Sherlock Holmes’ earnest
demeanour had so far convinced us that we all sat in
silence, watching the animal intently, and expecting
some startling effect. None such appeared, however.
The dog continued to lie stretched upon the cushion,
breathing in a laboured way, but apparently neither
the better nor the worse for its draught.
Holmes had taken out his watch, and as minute
followed minute without result, an expression of the
utmost chagrin and disappointment appeared upon
his features. He gnawed his lip, drummed his fingers
upon the table, and showed every other symptom
of acute impatience. So great was his emotion, that
I felt sincerely sorry for him, while the two detectives smiled derisively, by no means displeased at this
check which he had met.
“It can’t be a coincidence,” he cried, at last springing from his chair and pacing wildly up and down
the room; “it is impossible that it should be a mere
coincidence. The very pills which I suspected in the
case of Drebber are actually found after the death of
Stangerson. And yet they are inert. What can it mean?
Surely my whole chain of reasoning cannot have been
31
A Study In Scarlet
false. It is impossible! And yet this wretched dog
is none the worse. Ah, I have it! I have it!” With a
perfect shriek of delight he rushed to the box, cut
the other pill in two, dissolved it, added milk, and
presented it to the terrier. The unfortunate creature’s
tongue seemed hardly to have been moistened in it
before it gave a convulsive shiver in every limb, and
lay as rigid and lifeless as if it had been struck by
lightning.
the man. I have made my case out, and it seems I
was wrong. Young Charpentier could not have been
engaged in this second affair. Lestrade went after his
man, Stangerson, and it appears that he was wrong
too. You have thrown out hints here, and hints there,
and seem to know more than we do, but the time has
come when we feel that we have a right to ask you
straight how much you do know of the business. Can
you name the man who did it?”
Sherlock Holmes drew a long breath, and wiped
the perspiration from his forehead. “I should have
more faith,” he said; “I ought to know by this time
that when a fact appears to be opposed to a long train
of deductions, it invariably proves to be capable of
bearing some other interpretation. Of the two pills in
that box one was of the most deadly poison, and the
other was entirely harmless. I ought to have known
that before ever I saw the box at all.”
“I cannot help feeling that Gregson is right, sir,”
remarked Lestrade. “We have both tried, and we have
both failed. You have remarked more than once since
I have been in the room that you had all the evidence
which you require. Surely you will not withhold it
any longer.”
This last statement appeared to me to be so
startling, that I could hardly believe that he was in his
sober senses. There was the dead dog, however, to
prove that his conjecture had been correct. It seemed
to me that the mists in my own mind were gradually clearing away, and I began to have a dim, vague
perception of the truth.
“All this seems strange to you,” continued Holmes,
“because you failed at the beginning of the inquiry
to grasp the importance of the single real clue which
was presented to you. I had the good fortune to
seize upon that, and everything which has occurred
since then has served to confirm my original supposition, and, indeed, was the logical sequence of it.
Hence things which have perplexed you and made
the case more obscure, have served to enlighten me
and to strengthen my conclusions. It is a mistake to
confound strangeness with mystery. The most commonplace crime is often the most mysterious because
it presents no new or special features from which
deductions may be drawn. This murder would have
been infinitely more difficult to unravel had the body
of the victim been simply found lying in the roadway
without any of those outré and sensational accompaniments which have rendered it remarkable. These
strange details, far from making the case more difficult, have really had the effect of making it less so.”
Mr. Gregson, who had listened to this address
with considerable impatience, could contain himself
no longer. “Look here, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he
said, “we are all ready to acknowledge that you are a
smart man, and that you have your own methods of
working. We want something more than mere theory
and preaching now, though. It is a case of taking
32
“Any delay in arresting the assassin,” I observed,
“might give him time to perpetrate some fresh atrocity.”
Thus pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of
irresolution. He continued to walk up and down the
room with his head sunk on his chest and his brows
drawn down, as was his habit when lost in thought.
“There will be no more murders,” he said at last,
stopping abruptly and facing us. “You can put that
consideration out of the question. You have asked
me if I know the name of the assassin. I do. The
mere knowing of his name is a small thing, however,
compared with the power of laying our hands upon
him. This I expect very shortly to do. I have good
hopes of managing it through my own arrangements;
but it is a thing which needs delicate handling, for
we have a shrewd and desperate man to deal with,
who is supported, as I have had occasion to prove, by
another who is as clever as himself. As long as this
man has no idea that anyone can have a clue there is
some chance of securing him; but if he had the slightest suspicion, he would change his name, and vanish
in an instant among the four million inhabitants of
this great city. Without meaning to hurt either of your
feelings, I am bound to say that I consider these men
to be more than a match for the official force, and that
is why I have not asked your assistance. If I fail I shall,
of course, incur all the blame due to this omission;
but that I am prepared for. At present I am ready
to promise that the instant that I can communicate
with you without endangering my own combinations,
I shall do so.”
Gregson and Lestrade seemed to be far from satisfied by this assurance, or by the depreciating allusion
to the detective police. The former had flushed up to
the roots of his flaxen hair, while the other’s beady
Light In The Darkness
eyes glistened with curiosity and resentment. Neither
of them had time to speak, however, before there was
a tap at the door, and the spokesman of the street
Arabs, young Wiggins, introduced his insignificant
and unsavoury person.
“Please, sir,” he said, touching his forelock, “I have
the cab downstairs.”
“Good boy,” said Holmes, blandly. “Why don’t
you introduce this pattern at Scotland Yard?” he continued, taking a pair of steel handcuffs from a drawer.
“See how beautifully the spring works. They fasten in
an instant.”
“The old pattern is good enough,” remarked
Lestrade, “if we can only find the man to put them
on.”
“Very good, very good,” said Holmes, smiling.
“The cabman may as well help me with my boxes.
Just ask him to step up, Wiggins.”
I was surprised to find my companion speaking
as though he were about to set out on a journey, since
he had not said anything to me about it. There was
a small portmanteau in the room, and this he pulled
out and began to strap. He was busily engaged at it
when the cabman entered the room.
“Just give me a help with this buckle, cabman,”
he said, kneeling over his task, and never turning his
head.
The fellow came forward with a somewhat sullen,
defiant air, and put down his hands to assist. At that
instant there was a sharp click, the jangling of metal,
and Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet again.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, with flashing eyes, “let me
introduce you to Mr. Jefferson Hope, the murderer of
Enoch Drebber and of Joseph Stangerson.”
The whole thing occurred in a moment—so
quickly that I had no time to realize it. I have a vivid
recollection of that instant, of Holmes’ triumphant
expression and the ring of his voice, of the cabman’s
dazed, savage face, as he glared at the glittering handcuffs, which had appeared as if by magic upon his
wrists. For a second or two we might have been a
group of statues. Then, with an inarticulate roar
of fury, the prisoner wrenched himself free from
Holmes’s grasp, and hurled himself through the window. Woodwork and glass gave way before him; but
before he got quite through, Gregson, Lestrade, and
Holmes sprang upon him like so many staghounds.
He was dragged back into the room, and then commenced a terrific conflict. So powerful and so fierce
was he, that the four of us were shaken off again and
again. He appeared to have the convulsive strength
of a man in an epileptic fit. His face and hands were
terribly mangled by his passage through the glass, but
loss of blood had no effect in diminishing his resistance. It was not until Lestrade succeeded in getting
his hand inside his neckcloth and half-strangling him
that we made him realize that his struggles were of
no avail; and even then we felt no security until we
had pinioned his feet as well as his hands. That done,
we rose to our feet breathless and panting.
“We have his cab,” said Sherlock Holmes. “It will
serve to take him to Scotland Yard. And now, gentlemen,” he continued, with a pleasant smile, “we have
reached the end of our little mystery. You are very
welcome to put any questions that you like to me now,
and there is no danger that I will refuse to answer
them.”
33
PART II.
The Country of the Saints.
On The Great Alkali Plain
CHAPTER I.
On The Great Alkali Plain
In the central portion of the great North American Continent there lies an arid and repulsive desert,
which for many a long year served as a barrier against
the advance of civilisation. From the Sierra Nevada
to Nebraska, and from the Yellowstone River in the
north to the Colorado upon the south, is a region of
desolation and silence. Nor is Nature always in one
mood throughout this grim district. It comprises
snow-capped and lofty mountains, and dark and
gloomy valleys. There are swift-flowing rivers which
dash through jagged cañons; and there are enormous
plains, which in winter are white with snow, and in
summer are grey with the saline alkali dust. They
all preserve, however, the common characteristics of
barrenness, inhospitality, and misery.
There are no inhabitants of this land of despair.
A band of Pawnees or of Blackfeet may occasionally
traverse it in order to reach other hunting-grounds,
but the hardiest of the braves are glad to lose sight of
those awesome plains, and to find themselves once
more upon their prairies. The coyote skulks among
the scrub, the buzzard flaps heavily through the air,
and the clumsy grizzly bear lumbers through the
dark ravines, and picks up such sustenance as it can
amongst the rocks. These are the sole dwellers in the
wilderness.
In the whole world there can be no more dreary
view than that from the northern slope of the Sierra
Blanco. As far as the eye can reach stretches the great
flat plain-land, all dusted over with patches of alkali,
and intersected by clumps of the dwarfish chaparral
bushes. On the extreme verge of the horizon lie a long
chain of mountain peaks, with their rugged summits
flecked with snow. In this great stretch of country
there is no sign of life, nor of anything appertaining to life. There is no bird in the steel-blue heaven,
no movement upon the dull, grey earth—above all,
there is absolute silence. Listen as one may, there is
no shadow of a sound in all that mighty wilderness;
nothing but silence—complete and heart-subduing
silence.
It has been said there is nothing appertaining to
life upon the broad plain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the Sierra Blanco, one sees a pathway
traced out across the desert, which winds away and is
lost in the extreme distance. It is rutted with wheels
and trodden down by the feet of many adventurers.
Here and there there are scattered white objects which
glisten in the sun, and stand out against the dull deposit of alkali. Approach, and examine them! They
are bones: some large and coarse, others smaller and
more delicate. The former have belonged to oxen, and
the latter to men. For fifteen hundred miles one may
trace this ghastly caravan route by these scattered
remains of those who had fallen by the wayside.
Looking down on this very scene, there stood
upon the fourth of May, eighteen hundred and fortyseven, a solitary traveller. His appearance was such
that he might have been the very genius or demon of
the region. An observer would have found it difficult
to say whether he was nearer to forty or to sixty. His
face was lean and haggard, and the brown parchmentlike skin was drawn tightly over the projecting bones;
his long, brown hair and beard were all flecked and
dashed with white; his eyes were sunken in his head,
and burned with an unnatural lustre; while the hand
which grasped his rifle was hardly more fleshy than
that of a skeleton. As he stood, he leaned upon his
weapon for support, and yet his tall figure and the
massive framework of his bones suggested a wiry
and vigorous constitution. His gaunt face, however,
and his clothes, which hung so baggily over his shrivelled limbs, proclaimed what it was that gave him
that senile and decrepit appearance. The man was
dying—dying from hunger and from thirst.
He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on
to this little elevation, in the vain hope of seeing some
signs of water. Now the great salt plain stretched
before his eyes, and the distant belt of savage mountains, without a sign anywhere of plant or tree, which
might indicate the presence of moisture. In all that
broad landscape there was no gleam of hope. North,
and east, and west he looked with wild questioning
eyes, and then he realised that his wanderings had
come to an end, and that there, on that barren crag,
he was about to die. “Why not here, as well as in a
feather bed, twenty years hence,” he muttered, as he
seated himself in the shelter of a boulder.
Before sitting down, he had deposited upon the
ground his useless rifle, and also a large bundle tied
up in a grey shawl, which he had carried slung over
his right shoulder. It appeared to be somewhat too
heavy for his strength, for in lowering it, it came down
on the ground with some little violence. Instantly
there broke from the grey parcel a little moaning cry,
and from it there protruded a small, scared face, with
37
A Study In Scarlet
very bright brown eyes, and two little speckled, dimpled fists.
“You’ve hurt me!” said a childish voice reproachfully.
“Have I though,” the man answered penitently, “I
didn’t go for to do it.” As he spoke he unwrapped the
grey shawl and extricated a pretty little girl of about
five years of age, whose dainty shoes and smart pink
frock with its little linen apron all bespoke a mother’s
care. The child was pale and wan, but her healthy
arms and legs showed that she had suffered less than
her companion.
“How is it now?” he answered anxiously, for she
was still rubbing the towsy golden curls which covered the back of her head.
“Kiss it and make it well,” she said, with perfect
gravity, shoving the injured part up to him. “That’s
what mother used to do. Where’s mother?”
“Mother’s gone. I guess you’ll see her before
long.”
“Gone, eh!” said the little girl. “Funny, she didn’t
say good-bye; she ’most always did if she was just
goin’ over to Auntie’s for tea, and now she’s been
away three days. Say, it’s awful dry, ain’t it? Ain’t
there no water, nor nothing to eat?”
“No, there ain’t nothing, dearie. You’ll just need
to be patient awhile, and then you’ll be all right. Put
your head up agin me like that, and then you’ll feel
bullier. It ain’t easy to talk when your lips is like
leather, but I guess I’d best let you know how the
cards lie. What’s that you’ve got?”
“Pretty things! fine things!” cried the little girl
enthusiastically, holding up two glittering fragments
of mica. “When we goes back to home I’ll give them
to brother Bob.”
“You’ll see prettier things than them soon,” said
the man confidently. “You just wait a bit. I was going
to tell you though—you remember when we left the
river?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Well, we reckoned we’d strike another river soon,
d’ye see. But there was somethin’ wrong; compasses,
or map, or somethin’, and it didn’t turn up. Water
ran out. Just except a little drop for the likes of you
and—and—”
“And you couldn’t wash yourself,” interrupted his
companion gravely, staring up at his grimy visage.
38
“No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the fust
to go, and then Indian Pete, and then Mrs. McGregor, and then Johnny Hones, and then, dearie, your
mother.”
“Then mother’s a deader too,” cried the little girl
dropping her face in her pinafore and sobbing bitterly.
“Yes, they all went except you and me. Then I
thought there was some chance of water in this direction, so I heaved you over my shoulder and we
tramped it together. It don’t seem as though we’ve
improved matters. There’s an almighty small chance
for us now!”
“Do you mean that we are going to die too?” asked
the child, checking her sobs, and raising her tearstained face.
“I guess that’s about the size of it.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?” she said, laughing gleefully. “You gave me such a fright. Why, of
course, now as long as we die we’ll be with mother
again.”
“Yes, you will, dearie.”
“And you too. I’ll tell her how awful good you’ve
been. I’ll bet she meets us at the door of Heaven with
a big pitcher of water, and a lot of buckwheat cakes,
hot, and toasted on both sides, like Bob and me was
fond of. How long will it be first?”
“I don’t know—not very long.” The man’s eyes
were fixed upon the northern horizon. In the blue
vault of the heaven there had appeared three little
specks which increased in size every moment, so
rapidly did they approach. They speedily resolved
themselves into three large brown birds, which circled
over the heads of the two wanderers, and then settled
upon some rocks which overlooked them. They were
buzzards, the vultures of the west, whose coming is
the forerunner of death.
“Cocks and hens,” cried the little girl gleefully,
pointing at their ill-omened forms, and clapping her
hands to make them rise. “Say, did God make this
country?”
“Of course He did,” said her companion, rather
startled by this unexpected question.
“He made the country down in Illinois, and He
made the Missouri,” the little girl continued. “I guess
somebody else made the country in these parts. It’s
not nearly so well done. They forgot the water and
the trees.”
“What would ye think of offering up prayer?” the
man asked diffidently.
“It ain’t night yet,” she answered.
On The Great Alkali Plain
“It don’t matter. It ain’t quite regular, but He
won’t mind that, you bet. You say over them ones
that you used to say every night in the waggon when
we was on the Plains.”
“Why don’t you say some yourself?” the child
asked, with wondering eyes.
“I disremember them,” he answered. “I hain’t said
none since I was half the height o’ that gun. I guess
it’s never too late. You say them out, and I’ll stand by
and come in on the choruses.”
“Then you’ll need to kneel down, and me too,” she
said, laying the shawl out for that purpose. “You’ve
got to put your hands up like this. It makes you feel
kind o’ good.”
It was a strange sight had there been anything but
the buzzards to see it. Side by side on the narrow
shawl knelt the two wanderers, the little prattling
child and the reckless, hardened adventurer. Her
chubby face, and his haggard, angular visage were
both turned up to the cloudless heaven in heartfelt
entreaty to that dread being with whom they were
face to face, while the two voices—the one thin and
clear, the other deep and harsh—united in the entreaty for mercy and forgiveness. The prayer finished,
they resumed their seat in the shadow of the boulder
until the child fell asleep, nestling upon the broad
breast of her protector. He watched over her slumber
for some time, but Nature proved to be too strong for
him. For three days and three nights he had allowed
himself neither rest nor repose. Slowly the eyelids
drooped over the tired eyes, and the head sunk lower
and lower upon the breast, until the man’s grizzled
beard was mixed with the gold tresses of his companion, and both slept the same deep and dreamless
slumber.
Had the wanderer remained awake for another
half hour a strange sight would have met his eyes.
Far away on the extreme verge of the alkali plain
there rose up a little spray of dust, very slight at first,
and hardly to be distinguished from the mists of the
distance, but gradually growing higher and broader
until it formed a solid, well-defined cloud. This cloud
continued to increase in size until it became evident
that it could only be raised by a great multitude of
moving creatures. In more fertile spots the observer
would have come to the conclusion that one of those
great herds of bisons which graze upon the prairie
land was approaching him. This was obviously impossible in these arid wilds. As the whirl of dust
drew nearer to the solitary bluff upon which the two
castaways were reposing, the canvas-covered tilts of
waggons and the figures of armed horsemen began
to show up through the haze, and the apparition revealed itself as being a great caravan upon its journey
for the West. But what a caravan! When the head
of it had reached the base of the mountains, the rear
was not yet visible on the horizon. Right across the
enormous plain stretched the straggling array, waggons and carts, men on horseback, and men on foot.
Innumerable women who staggered along under burdens, and children who toddled beside the waggons
or peeped out from under the white coverings. This
was evidently no ordinary party of immigrants, but
rather some nomad people who had been compelled
from stress of circumstances to seek themselves a new
country. There rose through the clear air a confused
clattering and rumbling from this great mass of humanity, with the creaking of wheels and the neighing
of horses. Loud as it was, it was not sufficient to rouse
the two tired wayfarers above them.
At the head of the column there rode a score or
more of grave ironfaced men, clad in sombre homespun garments and armed with rifles. On reaching
the base of the bluff they halted, and held a short
council among themselves.
“The wells are to the right, my brothers,” said one,
a hard-lipped, clean-shaven man with grizzly hair.
“To the right of the Sierra Blanco—so we shall
reach the Rio Grande,” said another.
“Fear not for water,” cried a third. “He who could
draw it from the rocks will not now abandon His own
chosen people.”
“Amen! Amen!” responded the whole party.
They were about to resume their journey when
one of the youngest and keenest-eyed uttered an exclamation and pointed up at the rugged crag above them.
From its summit there fluttered a little wisp of pink,
showing up hard and bright against the grey rocks
behind. At the sight there was a general reining up of
horses and unslinging of guns, while fresh horsemen
came galloping up to reinforce the vanguard. The
word “Redskins” was on every lip.
“There can’t be any number of Injuns here,” said
the elderly man who appeared to be in command.
“We have passed the Pawnees, and there are no other
tribes until we cross the great mountains.”
“Shall I go forward and see, Brother Stangerson,”
asked one of the band.
“And I,” “and I,” cried a dozen voices.
“Leave your horses below and we will await you
here,” the Elder answered. In a moment the young
fellows had dismounted, fastened their horses, and
were ascending the precipitous slope which led up
39
A Study In Scarlet
to the object which had excited their curiosity. They
advanced rapidly and noiselessly, with the confidence
and dexterity of practised scouts. The watchers from
the plain below could see them flit from rock to rock
until their figures stood out against the skyline. The
young man who had first given the alarm was leading
them. Suddenly his followers saw him throw up his
hands, as though overcome with astonishment, and
on joining him they were affected in the same way by
the sight which met their eyes.
On the little plateau which crowned the barren
hill there stood a single giant boulder, and against
this boulder there lay a tall man, long-bearded and
hard-featured, but of an excessive thinness. His placid
face and regular breathing showed that he was fast
asleep. Beside him lay a little child, with her round
white arms encircling his brown sinewy neck, and her
golden haired head resting upon the breast of his velveteen tunic. Her rosy lips were parted, showing the
regular line of snow-white teeth within, and a playful
smile played over her infantile features. Her plump
little white legs terminating in white socks and neat
shoes with shining buckles, offered a strange contrast
to the long shrivelled members of her companion. On
the ledge of rock above this strange couple there stood
three solemn buzzards, who, at the sight of the new
comers uttered raucous screams of disappointment
and flapped sullenly away.
The cries of the foul birds awoke the two sleepers
who stared about them in bewilderment. The man
staggered to his feet and looked down upon the plain
which had been so desolate when sleep had overtaken
him, and which was now traversed by this enormous
body of men and of beasts. His face assumed an expression of incredulity as he gazed, and he passed
his boney hand over his eyes. “This is what they call
delirium, I guess,” he muttered. The child stood beside him, holding on to the skirt of his coat, and said
nothing but looked all round her with the wondering
questioning gaze of childhood.
The rescuing party were speedily able to convince
the two castaways that their appearance was no delusion. One of them seized the little girl, and hoisted
her upon his shoulder, while two others supported
her gaunt companion, and assisted him towards the
waggons.
“My name is John Ferrier,” the wanderer explained; “me and that little un are all that’s left o’
twenty-one people. The rest is all dead o’ thirst and
hunger away down in the south.”
“Is she your child?” asked someone.
40
“I guess she is now,” the other cried, defiantly;
“she’s mine ’cause I saved her. No man will take her
from me. She’s Lucy Ferrier from this day on. Who
are you, though?” he continued, glancing with curiosity at his stalwart, sunburned rescuers; “there seems
to be a powerful lot of ye.”
“Nigh upon ten thousand,” said one of the young
men; “we are the persecuted children of God—the
chosen of the Angel Merona.”
“I never heard tell on him,” said the wanderer.
“He appears to have chosen a fair crowd of ye.”
“Do not jest at that which is sacred,” said the other
sternly. “We are of those who believe in those sacred
writings, drawn in Egyptian letters on plates of beaten
gold, which were handed unto the holy Joseph Smith
at Palmyra. We have come from Nauvoo, in the State
of Illinois, where we had founded our temple. We
have come to seek a refuge from the violent man and
from the godless, even though it be the heart of the
desert.”
The name of Nauvoo evidently recalled recollections to John Ferrier. “I see,” he said, “you are the
Mormons.”
“We are the Mormons,” answered his companions
with one voice.
“And where are you going?”
“We do not know. The hand of God is leading
us under the person of our Prophet. You must come
before him. He shall say what is to be done with
you.”
They had reached the base of the hill by this time,
and were surrounded by crowds of the pilgrims—palefaced meek-looking women, strong laughing children,
and anxious earnest-eyed men. Many were the cries
of astonishment and of commiseration which arose
from them when they perceived the youth of one of
the strangers and the destitution of the other. Their
escort did not halt, however, but pushed on, followed
by a great crowd of Mormons, until they reached a
waggon, which was conspicuous for its great size and
for the gaudiness and smartness of its appearance. Six
horses were yoked to it, whereas the others were furnished with two, or, at most, four a-piece. Beside the
driver there sat a man who could not have been more
than thirty years of age, but whose massive head and
resolute expression marked him as a leader. He was
reading a brown-backed volume, but as the crowd
approached he laid it aside, and listened attentively
to an account of the episode. Then he turned to the
two castaways.
“If we take you with us,” he said, in solemn words,
“it can only be as believers in our own creed. We shall
The Flower Of Utah
have no wolves in our fold. Better far that your bones
should bleach in this wilderness than that you should
prove to be that little speck of decay which in time
corrupts the whole fruit. Will you come with us on
these terms?”
“Guess I’ll come with you on any terms,” said Ferrier, with such emphasis that the grave Elders could
not restrain a smile. The leader alone retained his
stern, impressive expression.
“Take him, Brother Stangerson,” he said, “give
him food and drink, and the child likewise. Let it be
your task also to teach him our holy creed. We have
delayed long enough. Forward! On, on to Zion!”
“On, on to Zion!” cried the crowd of Mormons,
and the words rippled down the long caravan, passing from mouth to mouth until they died away in a
dull murmur in the far distance. With a cracking of
whips and a creaking of wheels the great waggons
got into motion, and soon the whole caravan was
winding along once more. The Elder to whose care
the two waifs had been committed, led them to his
waggon, where a meal was already awaiting them.
“You shall remain here,” he said. “In a few days
you will have recovered from your fatigues. In the
meantime, remember that now and forever you are of
our religion. Brigham Young has said it, and he has
spoken with the voice of Joseph Smith, which is the
voice of God.”
CHAPTER II.
The Flower Of Utah
This is not the place to commemorate the trials and privations endured by the immigrant Mormons before they came to their final haven. From
the shores of the Mississippi to the western slopes of
the Rocky Mountains they had struggled on with a
constancy almost unparalleled in history. The savage
man, and the savage beast, hunger, thirst, fatigue, and
disease—every impediment which Nature could place
in the way—had all been overcome with Anglo-Saxon
tenacity. Yet the long journey and the accumulated
terrors had shaken the hearts of the stoutest among
them. There was not one who did not sink upon his
knees in heartfelt prayer when they saw the broad
valley of Utah bathed in the sunlight beneath them,
and learned from the lips of their leader that this was
the promised land, and that these virgin acres were
to be theirs for evermore.
Young speedily proved himself to be a skilful administrator as well as a resolute chief. Maps were
drawn and charts prepared, in which the future city
was sketched out. All around farms were apportioned
and allotted in proportion to the standing of each individual. The tradesman was put to his trade and the
artisan to his calling. In the town streets and squares
sprang up, as if by magic. In the country there was
draining and hedging, planting and clearing, until
the next summer saw the whole country golden with
the wheat crop. Everything prospered in the strange
settlement. Above all, the great temple which they
had erected in the centre of the city grew ever taller
and larger. From the first blush of dawn until the closing of the twilight, the clatter of the hammer and the
rasp of the saw was never absent from the monument
which the immigrants erected to Him who had led
them safe through many dangers.
The two castaways, John Ferrier and the little girl
who had shared his fortunes and had been adopted
as his daughter, accompanied the Mormons to the
end of their great pilgrimage. Little Lucy Ferrier was
borne along pleasantly enough in Elder Stangerson’s
waggon, a retreat which she shared with the Mormon’s three wives and with his son, a headstrong
forward boy of twelve. Having rallied, with the elasticity of childhood, from the shock caused by her
mother’s death, she soon became a pet with the
women, and reconciled herself to this new life in
her moving canvas-covered home. In the meantime
Ferrier having recovered from his privations, distinguished himself as a useful guide and an indefatigable hunter. So rapidly did he gain the esteem of his
new companions, that when they reached the end of
their wanderings, it was unanimously agreed that he
41
A Study In Scarlet
should be provided with as large and as fertile a tract
of land as any of the settlers, with the exception of
Young himself, and of Stangerson, Kemball, Johnston,
and Drebber, who were the four principal Elders.
On the farm thus acquired John Ferrier built himself a substantial log-house, which received so many
additions in succeeding years that it grew into a
roomy villa. He was a man of a practical turn of
mind, keen in his dealings and skilful with his hands.
His iron constitution enabled him to work morning
and evening at improving and tilling his lands. Hence
it came about that his farm and all that belonged to
him prospered exceedingly. In three years he was
better off than his neighbours, in six he was well-todo, in nine he was rich, and in twelve there were not
half a dozen men in the whole of Salt Lake City who
could compare with him. From the great inland sea to
the distant Wahsatch Mountains there was no name
better known than that of John Ferrier.
There was one way and only one in which he offended the susceptibilities of his co-religionists. No
argument or persuasion could ever induce him to set
up a female establishment after the manner of his
companions. He never gave reasons for this persistent
refusal, but contented himself by resolutely and inflexibly adhering to his determination. There were some
who accused him of lukewarmness in his adopted religion, and others who put it down to greed of wealth
and reluctance to incur expense. Others, again, spoke
of some early love affair, and of a fair-haired girl who
had pined away on the shores of the Atlantic. Whatever the reason, Ferrier remained strictly celibate. In
every other respect he conformed to the religion of
the young settlement, and gained the name of being
an orthodox and straight-walking man.
Lucy Ferrier grew up within the log-house, and
assisted her adopted father in all his undertakings.
The keen air of the mountains and the balsamic odour
of the pine trees took the place of nurse and mother
to the young girl. As year succeeded to year she grew
taller and stronger, her cheek more rudy, and her
step more elastic. Many a wayfarer upon the high
road which ran by Ferrier’s farm felt long-forgotten
thoughts revive in their mind as they watched her
lithe girlish figure tripping through the wheatfields,
or met her mounted upon her father’s mustang, and
managing it with all the ease and grace of a true child
of the West. So the bud blossomed into a flower, and
the year which saw her father the richest of the farmers left her as fair a specimen of American girlhood
as could be found in the whole Pacific slope.
42
It was not the father, however, who first discovered that the child had developed into the woman. It
seldom is in such cases. That mysterious change is
too subtle and too gradual to be measured by dates.
Least of all does the maiden herself know it until the
tone of a voice or the touch of a hand sets her heart
thrilling within her, and she learns, with a mixture
of pride and of fear, that a new and a larger nature
has awoken within her. There are few who cannot
recall that day and remember the one little incident
which heralded the dawn of a new life. In the case
of Lucy Ferrier the occasion was serious enough in
itself, apart from its future influence on her destiny
and that of many besides.
It was a warm June morning, and the Latter Day
Saints were as busy as the bees whose hive they have
chosen for their emblem. In the fields and in the
streets rose the same hum of human industry. Down
the dusty high roads defiled long streams of heavilyladen mules, all heading to the west, for the gold
fever had broken out in California, and the Overland
Route lay through the City of the Elect. There, too,
were droves of sheep and bullocks coming in from the
outlying pasture lands, and trains of tired immigrants,
men and horses equally weary of their interminable
journey. Through all this motley assemblage, threading her way with the skill of an accomplished rider,
there galloped Lucy Ferrier, her fair face flushed with
the exercise and her long chestnut hair floating out
behind her. She had a commission from her father
in the City, and was dashing in as she had done
many a time before, with all the fearlessness of youth,
thinking only of her task and how it was to be performed. The travel-stained adventurers gazed after
her in astonishment, and even the unemotional Indians, journeying in with their pelties, relaxed their
accustomed stoicism as they marvelled at the beauty
of the pale-faced maiden.
She had reached the outskirts of the city when
she found the road blocked by a great drove of cattle, driven by a half-dozen wild-looking herdsmen
from the plains. In her impatience she endeavoured
to pass this obstacle by pushing her horse into what
appeared to be a gap. Scarcely had she got fairly into
it, however, before the beasts closed in behind her,
and she found herself completely imbedded in the
moving stream of fierce-eyed, long-horned bullocks.
Accustomed as she was to deal with cattle, she was
not alarmed at her situation, but took advantage of
every opportunity to urge her horse on in the hopes
of pushing her way through the cavalcade. Unfortunately the horns of one of the creatures, either by
The Flower Of Utah
accident or design, came in violent contact with the
flank of the mustang, and excited it to madness. In
an instant it reared up upon its hind legs with a snort
of rage, and pranced and tossed in a way that would
have unseated any but a most skilful rider. The situation was full of peril. Every plunge of the excited
horse brought it against the horns again, and goaded
it to fresh madness. It was all that the girl could do
to keep herself in the saddle, yet a slip would mean
a terrible death under the hoofs of the unwieldy and
terrified animals. Unaccustomed to sudden emergencies, her head began to swim, and her grip upon the
bridle to relax. Choked by the rising cloud of dust
and by the steam from the struggling creatures, she
might have abandoned her efforts in despair, but for
a kindly voice at her elbow which assured her of assistance. At the same moment a sinewy brown hand
caught the frightened horse by the curb, and forcing
a way through the drove, soon brought her to the
outskirts.
“You’re not hurt, I hope, miss,” said her preserver,
respectfully.
She looked up at his dark, fierce face, and laughed
saucily. “I’m awful frightened,” she said, naively;
“whoever would have thought that Poncho would
have been so scared by a lot of cows?”
“Thank God you kept your seat,” the other said
earnestly. He was a tall, savage-looking young fellow,
mounted on a powerful roan horse, and clad in the
rough dress of a hunter, with a long rifle slung over
his shoulders. “I guess you are the daughter of John
Ferrier,” he remarked, “I saw you ride down from his
house. When you see him, ask him if he remembers
the Jefferson Hopes of St. Louis. If he’s the same
Ferrier, my father and he were pretty thick.”
“Hadn’t you better come and ask yourself?” she
asked, demurely.
The young fellow seemed pleased at the suggestion, and his dark eyes sparkled with pleasure. “I’ll
do so,” he said, “we’ve been in the mountains for
two months, and are not over and above in visiting
condition. He must take us as he finds us.”
“He has a good deal to thank you for, and so have
I,” she answered, “he’s awful fond of me. If those
cows had jumped on me he’d have never got over it.”
“Neither would I,” said her companion.
“You! Well, I don’t see that it would make much
matter to you, anyhow. You ain’t even a friend of
ours.”
The young hunter’s dark face grew so gloomy
over this remark that Lucy Ferrier laughed aloud.
“There, I didn’t mean that,” she said; “of course,
you are a friend now. You must come and see us.
Now I must push along, or father won’t trust me with
his business any more. Good-bye!”
“Good-bye,” he answered, raising his broad sombrero, and bending over her little hand. She wheeled
her mustang round, gave it a cut with her riding-whip,
and darted away down the broad road in a rolling
cloud of dust.
Young Jefferson Hope rode on with his companions, gloomy and taciturn. He and they had been
among the Nevada Mountains prospecting for silver,
and were returning to Salt Lake City in the hope
of raising capital enough to work some lodes which
they had discovered. He had been as keen as any of
them upon the business until this sudden incident
had drawn his thoughts into another channel. The
sight of the fair young girl, as frank and wholesome as
the Sierra breezes, had stirred his volcanic, untamed
heart to its very depths. When she had vanished from
his sight, he realized that a crisis had come in his
life, and that neither silver speculations nor any other
questions could ever be of such importance to him as
this new and all-absorbing one. The love which had
sprung up in his heart was not the sudden, changeable fancy of a boy, but rather the wild, fierce passion
of a man of strong will and imperious temper. He had
been accustomed to succeed in all that he undertook.
He swore in his heart that he would not fail in this if
human effort and human perseverance could render
him successful.
He called on John Ferrier that night, and many
times again, until his face was a familiar one at the
farm-house. John, cooped up in the valley, and absorbed in his work, had had little chance of learning
the news of the outside world during the last twelve
years. All this Jefferson Hope was able to tell him,
and in a style which interested Lucy as well as her
father. He had been a pioneer in California, and
could narrate many a strange tale of fortunes made
and fortunes lost in those wild, halcyon days. He
had been a scout too, and a trapper, a silver explorer,
and a ranchman. Wherever stirring adventures were
to be had, Jefferson Hope had been there in search
of them. He soon became a favourite with the old
farmer, who spoke eloquently of his virtues. On such
occasions, Lucy was silent, but her blushing cheek
and her bright, happy eyes, showed only too clearly
that her young heart was no longer her own. Her
honest father may not have observed these symptoms,
but they were assuredly not thrown away upon the
man who had won her affections.
43
A Study In Scarlet
It was a summer evening when he came galloping
down the road and pulled up at the gate. She was at
the doorway, and came down to meet him. He threw
the bridle over the fence and strode up the pathway.
“I am off, Lucy,” he said, taking her two hands in
his, and gazing tenderly down into her face; “I won’t
ask you to come with me now, but will you be ready
to come when I am here again?”
“And when will that be?” she asked, blushing and
laughing.
“A couple of months at the outside. I will come
and claim you then, my darling. There’s no one who
can stand between us.”
“And how about father?” she asked.
“He has given his consent, provided we get these
mines working all right. I have no fear on that head.”
“Oh, well; of course, if you and father have arranged it all, there’s no more to be said,” she whispered, with her cheek against his broad breast.
“Thank God!” he said, hoarsely, stooping and kissing her. “It is settled, then. The longer I stay, the
harder it will be to go. They are waiting for me at the
cañon. Good-bye, my own darling—good-bye. In two
months you shall see me.”
He tore himself from her as he spoke, and, flinging himself upon his horse, galloped furiously away,
never even looking round, as though afraid that his
resolution might fail him if he took one glance at
what he was leaving. She stood at the gate, gazing
after him until he vanished from her sight. Then she
walked back into the house, the happiest girl in all
Utah.
CHAPTER III.
John Ferrier Talks With The Prophet
Three weeks had passed since Jefferson Hope
and his comrades had departed from Salt Lake City.
John Ferrier’s heart was sore within him when he
thought of the young man’s return, and of the impending loss of his adopted child. Yet her bright and
happy face reconciled him to the arrangement more
than any argument could have done. He had always
determined, deep down in his resolute heart, that
nothing would ever induce him to allow his daughter
to wed a Mormon. Such a marriage he regarded as
no marriage at all, but as a shame and a disgrace.
Whatever he might think of the Mormon doctrines,
upon that one point he was inflexible. He had to seal
his mouth on the subject, however, for to express an
unorthodox opinion was a dangerous matter in those
days in the Land of the Saints.
Yes, a dangerous matter—so dangerous that even
the most saintly dared only whisper their religious
opinions with bated breath, lest something which
fell from their lips might be misconstrued, and bring
down a swift retribution upon them. The victims
of persecution had now turned persecutors on their
own account, and persecutors of the most terrible
description. Not the Inquisition of Seville, nor the
44
German Vehmgericht, nor the Secret Societies of Italy,
were ever able to put a more formidable machinery
in motion than that which cast a cloud over the State
of Utah.
Its invisibility, and the mystery which was attached to it, made this organization doubly terrible.
It appeared to be omniscient and omnipotent, and yet
was neither seen nor heard. The man who held out
against the Church vanished away, and none knew
whither he had gone or what had befallen him. His
wife and his children awaited him at home, but no
father ever returned to tell them how he had fared
at the hands of his secret judges. A rash word or a
hasty act was followed by annihilation, and yet none
knew what the nature might be of this terrible power
which was suspended over them. No wonder that
men went about in fear and trembling, and that even
in the heart of the wilderness they dared not whisper
the doubts which oppressed them.
At first this vague and terrible power was exercised only upon the recalcitrants who, having embraced the Mormon faith, wished afterwards to pervert or to abandon it. Soon, however, it took a wider
range. The supply of adult women was running
John Ferrier Talks With The Prophet
short, and polygamy without a female population on
which to draw was a barren doctrine indeed. Strange
rumours began to be bandied about—rumours of
murdered immigrants and rifled camps in regions
where Indians had never been seen. Fresh women
appeared in the harems of the Elders—women who
pined and wept, and bore upon their faces the traces
of an unextinguishable horror. Belated wanderers
upon the mountains spoke of gangs of armed men,
masked, stealthy, and noiseless, who flitted by them
in the darkness. These tales and rumours took substance and shape, and were corroborated and recorroborated, until they resolved themselves into a
definite name. To this day, in the lonely ranches of the
West, the name of the Danite Band, or the Avenging
Angels, is a sinister and an ill-omened one.
Fuller knowledge of the organization which produced such terrible results served to increase rather
than to lessen the horror which it inspired in the
minds of men. None knew who belonged to this
ruthless society. The names of the participators in the
deeds of blood and violence done under the name of
religion were kept profoundly secret. The very friend
to whom you communicated your misgivings as to
the Prophet and his mission, might be one of those
who would come forth at night with fire and sword
to exact a terrible reparation. Hence every man feared
his neighbour, and none spoke of the things which
were nearest his heart.
One fine morning, John Ferrier was about to set
out to his wheatfields, when he heard the click of the
latch, and, looking through the window, saw a stout,
sandy-haired, middle-aged man coming up the pathway. His heart leapt to his mouth, for this was none
other than the great Brigham Young himself. Full
of trepidation—for he knew that such a visit boded
him little good—Ferrier ran to the door to greet the
Mormon chief. The latter, however, received his salutations coldly, and followed him with a stern face into
the sitting-room.
“Brother Ferrier,” he said, taking a seat, and eyeing the farmer keenly from under his light-coloured
eyelashes, “the true believers have been good friends
to you. We picked you up when you were starving in
the desert, we shared our food with you, led you safe
to the Chosen Valley, gave you a goodly share of land,
and allowed you to wax rich under our protection. Is
not this so?”
“It is so,” answered John Ferrier.
“In return for all this we asked but one condition: that was, that you should embrace the true faith,
1 Heber
and conform in every way to its usages. This you
promised to do, and this, if common report says truly,
you have neglected.”
“And how have I neglected it?” asked Ferrier,
throwing out his hands in expostulation. “Have I
not given to the common fund? Have I not attended
at the Temple? Have I not—?”
“Where are your wives?” asked Young, looking
round him. “Call them in, that I may greet them.”
“It is true that I have not married,” Ferrier answered. “But women were few, and there were many
who had better claims than I. I was not a lonely man:
I had my daughter to attend to my wants.”
“It is of that daughter that I would speak to you,”
said the leader of the Mormons. “She has grown to
be the flower of Utah, and has found favour in the
eyes of many who are high in the land.”
John Ferrier groaned internally.
“There are stories of her which I would fain disbelieve—stories that she is sealed to some Gentile. This
must be the gossip of idle tongues. What is the thirteenth rule in the code of the sainted Joseph Smith?
‘Let every maiden of the true faith marry one of the
elect; for if she wed a Gentile, she commits a grievous
sin.’ This being so, it is impossible that you, who
profess the holy creed, should suffer your daughter
to violate it.”
John Ferrier made no answer, but he played nervously with his riding-whip.
“Upon this one point your whole faith shall be
tested—so it has been decided in the Sacred Council
of Four. The girl is young, and we would not have
her wed grey hairs, neither would we deprive her of
all choice. We Elders have many heifers1 , but our
children must also be provided. Stangerson has a
son, and Drebber has a son, and either of them would
gladly welcome your daughter to their house. Let her
choose between them. They are young and rich, and
of the true faith. What say you to that?”
Ferrier remained silent for some little time with
his brows knitted.
“You will give us time,” he said at last. “My
daughter is very young—she is scarce of an age to
marry.”
“She shall have a month to choose,” said Young,
rising from his seat. “At the end of that time she shall
give her answer.”
He was passing through the door, when he turned,
with flushed face and flashing eyes. “It were better for
C. Kemball, in one of his sermons, alludes to his hundred wives under this endearing epithet.
45
A Study In Scarlet
you, John Ferrier,” he thundered, “that you and she
were now lying blanched skeletons upon the Sierra
Blanco, than that you should put your weak wills
against the orders of the Holy Four!”
With a threatening gesture of his hand, he turned
from the door, and Ferrier heard his heavy step
scrunching along the shingly path.
He was still sitting with his elbows upon his knees,
considering how he should broach the matter to his
daughter when a soft hand was laid upon his, and
looking up, he saw her standing beside him. One
glance at her pale, frightened face showed him that
she had heard what had passed.
“I could not help it,” she said, in answer to his
look. “His voice rang through the house. Oh, father,
father, what shall we do?”
“Don’t you scare yourself,” he answered, drawing her to him, and passing his broad, rough hand
caressingly over her chestnut hair. “We’ll fix it up
somehow or another. You don’t find your fancy kind
o’ lessening for this chap, do you?”
A sob and a squeeze of his hand was her only
answer.
“No; of course not. I shouldn’t care to hear you
say you did. He’s a likely lad, and he’s a Christian,
which is more than these folk here, in spite o’ all their
praying and preaching. There’s a party starting for
Nevada to-morrow, and I’ll manage to send him a
message letting him know the hole we are in. If I
know anything o’ that young man, he’ll be back here
with a speed that would whip electro-telegraphs.”
Lucy laughed through her tears at her father’s
description.
“When he comes, he will advise us for the best.
But it is for you that I am frightened, dear. One
hears—one hears such dreadful stories about those
who oppose the Prophet: something terrible always
happens to them.”
“But we haven’t opposed him yet,” her father answered. “It will be time to look out for squalls when
we do. We have a clear month before us; at the end of
that, I guess we had best shin out of Utah.”
“Leave Utah!”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“But the farm?”
“We will raise as much as we can in money, and
let the rest go. To tell the truth, Lucy, it isn’t the first
time I have thought of doing it. I don’t care about
knuckling under to any man, as these folk do to their
darned prophet. I’m a free-born American, and it’s
all new to me. Guess I’m too old to learn. If he comes
browsing about this farm, he might chance to run up
against a charge of buckshot travelling in the opposite
direction.”
“But they won’t let us leave,” his daughter objected.
“Wait till Jefferson comes, and we’ll soon manage
that. In the meantime, don’t you fret yourself, my
dearie, and don’t get your eyes swelled up, else he’ll
be walking into me when he sees you. There’s nothing
to be afeared about, and there’s no danger at all.”
John Ferrier uttered these consoling remarks in a
very confident tone, but she could not help observing
that he paid unusual care to the fastening of the doors
that night, and that he carefully cleaned and loaded
the rusty old shotgun which hung upon the wall of
his bedroom.
CHAPTER IV.
A Flight For Life
On the morning which followed his interview
with the Mormon Prophet, John Ferrier went in to Salt
Lake City, and having found his acquaintance, who
was bound for the Nevada Mountains, he entrusted
him with his message to Jefferson Hope. In it he told
46
the young man of the imminent danger which threatened them, and how necessary it was that he should
return. Having done thus he felt easier in his mind,
and returned home with a lighter heart.
As he approached his farm, he was surprised to
A Flight For Life
see a horse hitched to each of the posts of the gate.
Still more surprised was he on entering to find two
young men in possession of his sitting-room. One,
with a long pale face, was leaning back in the rockingchair, with his feet cocked up upon the stove. The
other, a bull-necked youth with coarse bloated features, was standing in front of the window with his
hands in his pocket, whistling a popular hymn. Both
of them nodded to Ferrier as he entered, and the one
in the rocking-chair commenced the conversation.
“Maybe you don’t know us,” he said. “This here is
the son of Elder Drebber, and I’m Joseph Stangerson,
who travelled with you in the desert when the Lord
stretched out His hand and gathered you into the true
fold.”
“As He will all the nations in His own good time,”
said the other in a nasal voice; “He grindeth slowly
but exceeding small.”
John Ferrier bowed coldly. He had guessed who
his visitors were.
“We have come,” continued Stangerson, “at the
advice of our fathers to solicit the hand of your daughter for whichever of us may seem good to you and to
her. As I have but four wives and Brother Drebber
here has seven, it appears to me that my claim is the
stronger one.”
“Nay, nay, Brother Stangerson,” cried the other;
“the question is not how many wives we have, but
how many we can keep. My father has now given
over his mills to me, and I am the richer man.”
“But my prospects are better,” said the other,
warmly. “When the Lord removes my father, I shall
have his tanning yard and his leather factory. Then I
am your elder, and am higher in the Church.”
“It will be for the maiden to decide,” rejoined
young Drebber, smirking at his own reflection in the
glass. “We will leave it all to her decision.”
During this dialogue, John Ferrier had stood fuming in the doorway, hardly able to keep his ridingwhip from the backs of his two visitors.
“Look here,” he said at last, striding up to them,
“when my daughter summons you, you can come, but
until then I don’t want to see your faces again.”
The two young Mormons stared at him in amazement. In their eyes this competition between them for
the maiden’s hand was the highest of honours both
to her and her father.
“There are two ways out of the room,” cried Ferrier; “there is the door, and there is the window.
Which do you care to use?”
His brown face looked so savage, and his gaunt
hands so threatening, that his visitors sprang to their
feet and beat a hurried retreat. The old farmer followed them to the door.
“Let me know when you have settled which it is
to be,” he said, sardonically.
“You shall smart for this!” Stangerson cried, white
with rage. “You have defied the Prophet and the
Council of Four. You shall rue it to the end of your
days.”
“The hand of the Lord shall be heavy upon you,”
cried young Drebber; “He will arise and smite you!”
“Then I’ll start the smiting,” exclaimed Ferrier furiously, and would have rushed upstairs for his gun
had not Lucy seized him by the arm and restrained
him. Before he could escape from her, the clatter
of horses’ hoofs told him that they were beyond his
reach.
“The young canting rascals!” he exclaimed, wiping
the perspiration from his forehead; “I would sooner
see you in your grave, my girl, than the wife of either
of them.”
“And so should I, father,” she answered, with
spirit; “but Jefferson will soon be here.”
“Yes. It will not be long before he comes. The
sooner the better, for we do not know what their next
move may be.”
It was, indeed, high time that someone capable of
giving advice and help should come to the aid of the
sturdy old farmer and his adopted daughter. In the
whole history of the settlement there had never been
such a case of rank disobedience to the authority of
the Elders. If minor errors were punished so sternly,
what would be the fate of this arch rebel. Ferrier knew
that his wealth and position would be of no avail to
him. Others as well known and as rich as himself had
been spirited away before now, and their goods given
over to the Church. He was a brave man, but he trembled at the vague, shadowy terrors which hung over
him. Any known danger he could face with a firm
lip, but this suspense was unnerving. He concealed
his fears from his daughter, however, and affected to
make light of the whole matter, though she, with the
keen eye of love, saw plainly that he was ill at ease.
He expected that he would receive some message
or remonstrance from Young as to his conduct, and
he was not mistaken, though it came in an unlookedfor manner. Upon rising next morning he found, to
his surprise, a small square of paper pinned on to
the coverlet of his bed just over his chest. On it was
printed, in bold straggling letters:—
47
A Study In Scarlet
“Twenty-nine days are given you for amendment,
and then—”
The dash was more fear-inspiring than any threat
could have been. How this warning came into his
room puzzled John Ferrier sorely, for his servants
slept in an outhouse, and the doors and windows had
all been secured. He crumpled the paper up and said
nothing to his daughter, but the incident struck a chill
into his heart. The twenty-nine days were evidently
the balance of the month which Young had promised.
What strength or courage could avail against an enemy armed with such mysterious powers? The hand
which fastened that pin might have struck him to the
heart, and he could never have known who had slain
him.
Still more shaken was he next morning. They had
sat down to their breakfast when Lucy with a cry of
surprise pointed upwards. In the centre of the ceiling was scrawled, with a burned stick apparently, the
number 28. To his daughter it was unintelligible, and
he did not enlighten her. That night he sat up with
his gun and kept watch and ward. He saw and he
heard nothing, and yet in the morning a great 27 had
been painted upon the outside of his door.
Thus day followed day; and as sure as morning
came he found that his unseen enemies had kept their
register, and had marked up in some conspicuous
position how many days were still left to him out of
the month of grace. Sometimes the fatal numbers
appeared upon the walls, sometimes upon the floors,
occasionally they were on small placards stuck upon
the garden gate or the railings. With all his vigilance
John Ferrier could not discover whence these daily
warnings proceeded. A horror which was almost superstitious came upon him at the sight of them. He
became haggard and restless, and his eyes had the
troubled look of some hunted creature. He had but
one hope in life now, and that was for the arrival of
the young hunter from Nevada.
Twenty had changed to fifteen and fifteen to ten,
but there was no news of the absentee. One by one
the numbers dwindled down, and still there came no
sign of him. Whenever a horseman clattered down the
road, or a driver shouted at his team, the old farmer
hurried to the gate thinking that help had arrived at
last. At last, when he saw five give way to four and
that again to three, he lost heart, and abandoned all
hope of escape. Single-handed, and with his limited
knowledge of the mountains which surrounded the
settlement, he knew that he was powerless. The morefrequented roads were strictly watched and guarded,
and none could pass along them without an order
48
from the Council. Turn which way he would, there
appeared to be no avoiding the blow which hung over
him. Yet the old man never wavered in his resolution
to part with life itself before he consented to what he
regarded as his daughter’s dishonour.
He was sitting alone one evening pondering
deeply over his troubles, and searching vainly for
some way out of them. That morning had shown the
figure 2 upon the wall of his house, and the next day
would be the last of the allotted time. What was to
happen then? All manner of vague and terrible fancies filled his imagination. And his daughter—what
was to become of her after he was gone? Was there no
escape from the invisible network which was drawn
all round them. He sank his head upon the table and
sobbed at the thought of his own impotence.
What was that? In the silence he heard a gentle
scratching sound—low, but very distinct in the quiet
of the night. It came from the door of the house. Ferrier crept into the hall and listened intently. There
was a pause for a few moments, and then the low insidious sound was repeated. Someone was evidently
tapping very gently upon one of the panels of the
door. Was it some midnight assassin who had come
to carry out the murderous orders of the secret tribunal? Or was it some agent who was marking up
that the last day of grace had arrived. John Ferrier
felt that instant death would be better than the suspense which shook his nerves and chilled his heart.
Springing forward he drew the bolt and threw the
door open.
Outside all was calm and quiet. The night was
fine, and the stars were twinkling brightly overhead.
The little front garden lay before the farmer’s eyes
bounded by the fence and gate, but neither there nor
on the road was any human being to be seen. With a
sigh of relief, Ferrier looked to right and to left, until
happening to glance straight down at his own feet
he saw to his astonishment a man lying flat upon his
face upon the ground, with arms and legs all asprawl.
So unnerved was he at the sight that he leaned up
against the wall with his hand to his throat to stifle
his inclination to call out. His first thought was that
the prostrate figure was that of some wounded or dying man, but as he watched it he saw it writhe along
the ground and into the hall with the rapidity and
noiselessness of a serpent. Once within the house the
man sprang to his feet, closed the door, and revealed
to the astonished farmer the fierce face and resolute
expression of Jefferson Hope.
“Good God!” gasped John Ferrier. “How you
scared me! Whatever made you come in like that.”
A Flight For Life
“Give me food,” the other said, hoarsely. “I have
had no time for bite or sup for eight-and-forty hours.”
He flung himself upon the cold meat and bread which
were still lying upon the table from his host’s supper,
and devoured it voraciously. “Does Lucy bear up
well?” he asked, when he had satisfied his hunger.
“Yes. She does not know the danger,” her father
answered.
“That is well. The house is watched on every side.
That is why I crawled my way up to it. They may be
darned sharp, but they’re not quite sharp enough to
catch a Washoe hunter.”
John Ferrier felt a different man now that he realized that he had a devoted ally. He seized the young
man’s leathery hand and wrung it cordially. “You’re
a man to be proud of,” he said. “There are not many
who would come to share our danger and our troubles.”
“You’ve hit it there, pard,” the young hunter answered. “I have a respect for you, but if you were
alone in this business I’d think twice before I put my
head into such a hornet’s nest. It’s Lucy that brings
me here, and before harm comes on her I guess there
will be one less o’ the Hope family in Utah.”
“What are we to do?”
“To-morrow is your last day, and unless you act
to-night you are lost. I have a mule and two horses
waiting in the Eagle Ravine. How much money have
you?”
“Two thousand dollars in gold, and five in notes.”
“That will do. I have as much more to add to it.
We must push for Carson City through the mountains.
You had best wake Lucy. It is as well that the servants
do not sleep in the house.”
While Ferrier was absent, preparing his daughter
for the approaching journey, Jefferson Hope packed
all the eatables that he could find into a small parcel,
and filled a stoneware jar with water, for he knew
by experience that the mountain wells were few and
far between. He had hardly completed his arrangements before the farmer returned with his daughter
all dressed and ready for a start. The greeting between the lovers was warm, but brief, for minutes
were precious, and there was much to be done.
“We must make our start at once,” said Jefferson
Hope, speaking in a low but resolute voice, like one
who realizes the greatness of the peril, but has steeled
his heart to meet it. “The front and back entrances are
watched, but with caution we may get away through
the side window and across the fields. Once on the
road we are only two miles from the Ravine where
the horses are waiting. By daybreak we should be
half-way through the mountains.”
“What if we are stopped,” asked Ferrier.
Hope slapped the revolver butt which protruded
from the front of his tunic. “If they are too many for
us we shall take two or three of them with us,” he
said with a sinister smile.
The lights inside the house had all been extinguished, and from the darkened window Ferrier
peered over the fields which had been his own, and
which he was now about to abandon for ever. He
had long nerved himself to the sacrifice, however,
and the thought of the honour and happiness of his
daughter outweighed any regret at his ruined fortunes. All looked so peaceful and happy, the rustling
trees and the broad silent stretch of grain-land, that it
was difficult to realize that the spirit of murder lurked
through it all. Yet the white face and set expression of
the young hunter showed that in his approach to the
house he had seen enough to satisfy him upon that
head.
Ferrier carried the bag of gold and notes, Jefferson Hope had the scanty provisions and water, while
Lucy had a small bundle containing a few of her
more valued possessions. Opening the window very
slowly and carefully, they waited until a dark cloud
had somewhat obscured the night, and then one by
one passed through into the little garden. With bated
breath and crouching figures they stumbled across
it, and gained the shelter of the hedge, which they
skirted until they came to the gap which opened
into the cornfields. They had just reached this point
when the young man seized his two companions and
dragged them down into the shadow, where they lay
silent and trembling.
It was as well that his prairie training had given
Jefferson Hope the ears of a lynx. He and his friends
had hardly crouched down before the melancholy
hooting of a mountain owl was heard within a few
yards of them, which was immediately answered by
another hoot at a small distance. At the same moment a vague shadowy figure emerged from the gap
for which they had been making, and uttered the
plaintive signal cry again, on which a second man
appeared out of the obscurity.
“To-morrow at midnight,” said the first who appeared to be in authority. “When the Whip-poor-Will
calls three times.”
“It is well,” returned the other. “Shall I tell Brother
Drebber?”
49
A Study In Scarlet
“Pass it on to him, and from him to the others.
Nine to seven!”
“Seven to five!” repeated the other, and the two
figures flitted away in different directions. Their concluding words had evidently been some form of sign
and countersign. The instant that their footsteps had
died away in the distance, Jefferson Hope sprang to
his feet, and helping his companions through the
gap, led the way across the fields at the top of his
speed, supporting and half-carrying the girl when her
strength appeared to fail her.
“Hurry on! hurry on!” he gasped from time to
time. “We are through the line of sentinels. Everything depends on speed. Hurry on!”
Once on the high road they made rapid progress.
Only once did they meet anyone, and then they managed to slip into a field, and so avoid recognition.
Before reaching the town the hunter branched away
into a rugged and narrow footpath which led to the
mountains. Two dark jagged peaks loomed above
them through the darkness, and the defile which led
between them was the Eagle Cañon in which the
horses were awaiting them. With unerring instinct Jefferson Hope picked his way among the great boulders
and along the bed of a dried-up watercourse, until he
came to the retired corner, screened with rocks, where
the faithful animals had been picketed. The girl was
placed upon the mule, and old Ferrier upon one of
the horses, with his money-bag, while Jefferson Hope
led the other along the precipitous and dangerous
path.
It was a bewildering route for anyone who was
not accustomed to face Nature in her wildest moods.
On the one side a great crag towered up a thousand
feet or more, black, stern, and menacing, with long
basaltic columns upon its rugged surface like the ribs
of some petrified monster. On the other hand a wild
chaos of boulders and debris made all advance impossible. Between the two ran the irregular track, so
50
narrow in places that they had to travel in Indian
file, and so rough that only practised riders could
have traversed it at all. Yet in spite of all dangers
and difficulties, the hearts of the fugitives were light
within them, for every step increased the distance
between them and the terrible despotism from which
they were flying.
They soon had a proof, however, that they were
still within the jurisdiction of the Saints. They had
reached the very wildest and most desolate portion
of the pass when the girl gave a startled cry, and
pointed upwards. On a rock which overlooked the
track, showing out dark and plain against the sky,
there stood a solitary sentinel. He saw them as soon
as they perceived him, and his military challenge of
“Who goes there?” rang through the silent ravine.
“Travellers for Nevada,” said Jefferson Hope, with
his hand upon the rifle which hung by his saddle.
They could see the lonely watcher fingering his
gun, and peering down at them as if dissatisfied at
their reply.
“By whose permission?” he asked.
“The Holy Four,” answered Ferrier. His Mormon
experiences had taught him that that was the highest
authority to which he could refer.
“Nine from seven,” cried the sentinel.
“Seven from five,” returned Jefferson Hope
promptly, remembering the countersign which he had
heard in the garden.
“Pass, and the Lord go with you,” said the voice
from above. Beyond his post the path broadened out,
and the horses were able to break into a trot. Looking back, they could see the solitary watcher leaning
upon his gun, and knew that they had passed the
outlying post of the chosen people, and that freedom
lay before them.
The Avenging Angels
CHAPTER V.
The Avenging Angels
All night their course lay through intricate defiles and over irregular and rock-strewn paths. More
than once they lost their way, but Hope’s intimate
knowledge of the mountains enabled them to regain
the track once more. When morning broke, a scene of
marvellous though savage beauty lay before them. In
every direction the great snow-capped peaks hemmed
them in, peeping over each other’s shoulders to the
far horizon. So steep were the rocky banks on either
side of them, that the larch and the pine seemed to
be suspended over their heads, and to need only a
gust of wind to come hurtling down upon them. Nor
was the fear entirely an illusion, for the barren valley
was thickly strewn with trees and boulders which
had fallen in a similar manner. Even as they passed,
a great rock came thundering down with a hoarse
rattle which woke the echoes in the silent gorges, and
startled the weary horses into a gallop.
As the sun rose slowly above the eastern horizon,
the caps of the great mountains lit up one after the
other, like lamps at a festival, until they were all ruddy
and glowing. The magnificent spectacle cheered the
hearts of the three fugitives and gave them fresh energy. At a wild torrent which swept out of a ravine
they called a halt and watered their horses, while they
partook of a hasty breakfast. Lucy and her father
would fain have rested longer, but Jefferson Hope
was inexorable. “They will be upon our track by this
time,” he said. “Everything depends upon our speed.
Once safe in Carson we may rest for the remainder of
our lives.”
During the whole of that day they struggled on
through the defiles, and by evening they calculated
that they were more than thirty miles from their
enemies. At night-time they chose the base of a
beetling crag, where the rocks offered some protection
from the chill wind, and there huddled together for
warmth, they enjoyed a few hours’ sleep. Before daybreak, however, they were up and on their way once
more. They had seen no signs of any pursuers, and
Jefferson Hope began to think that they were fairly
out of the reach of the terrible organization whose
enmity they had incurred. He little knew how far that
iron grasp could reach, or how soon it was to close
upon them and crush them.
About the middle of the second day of their flight
their scanty store of provisions began to run out. This
gave the hunter little uneasiness, however, for there
was game to be had among the mountains, and he
had frequently before had to depend upon his rifle for
the needs of life. Choosing a sheltered nook, he piled
together a few dried branches and made a blazing fire,
at which his companions might warm themselves, for
they were now nearly five thousand feet above the
sea level, and the air was bitter and keen. Having
tethered the horses, and bade Lucy adieu, he threw
his gun over his shoulder, and set out in search of
whatever chance might throw in his way. Looking
back he saw the old man and the young girl crouching
over the blazing fire, while the three animals stood
motionless in the back-ground. Then the intervening
rocks hid them from his view.
He walked for a couple of miles through one
ravine after another without success, though from
the marks upon the bark of the trees, and other indications, he judged that there were numerous bears in
the vicinity. At last, after two or three hours’ fruitless
search, he was thinking of turning back in despair,
when casting his eyes upwards he saw a sight which
sent a thrill of pleasure through his heart. On the
edge of a jutting pinnacle, three or four hundred feet
above him, there stood a creature somewhat resembling a sheep in appearance, but armed with a pair of
gigantic horns. The big-horn—for so it is called—was
acting, probably, as a guardian over a flock which
were invisible to the hunter; but fortunately it was
heading in the opposite direction, and had not perceived him. Lying on his face, he rested his rifle
upon a rock, and took a long and steady aim before
drawing the trigger. The animal sprang into the air,
tottered for a moment upon the edge of the precipice,
and then came crashing down into the valley beneath.
The creature was too unwieldy to lift, so the hunter
contented himself with cutting away one haunch and
part of the flank. With this trophy over his shoulder,
he hastened to retrace his steps, for the evening was
already drawing in. He had hardly started, however,
before he realized the difficulty which faced him. In
his eagerness he had wandered far past the ravines
which were known to him, and it was no easy matter
to pick out the path which he had taken. The valley
in which he found himself divided and sub-divided
into many gorges, which were so like each other that
it was impossible to distinguish one from the other.
He followed one for a mile or more until he came to
a mountain torrent which he was sure that he had
never seen before. Convinced that he had taken the
wrong turn, he tried another, but with the same result.
51
A Study In Scarlet
Night was coming on rapidly, and it was almost dark
before he at last found himself in a defile which was
familiar to him. Even then it was no easy matter to
keep to the right track, for the moon had not yet risen,
and the high cliffs on either side made the obscurity
more profound. Weighed down with his burden, and
weary from his exertions, he stumbled along, keeping
up his heart by the reflection that every step brought
him nearer to Lucy, and that he carried with him
enough to ensure them food for the remainder of
their journey.
He had now come to the mouth of the very defile in which he had left them. Even in the darkness
he could recognize the outline of the cliffs which
bounded it. They must, he reflected, be awaiting him
anxiously, for he had been absent nearly five hours.
In the gladness of his heart he put his hands to his
mouth and made the glen re-echo to a loud halloo
as a signal that he was coming. He paused and listened for an answer. None came save his own cry,
which clattered up the dreary silent ravines, and was
borne back to his ears in countless repetitions. Again
he shouted, even louder than before, and again no
whisper came back from the friends whom he had
left such a short time ago. A vague, nameless dread
came over him, and he hurried onwards frantically,
dropping the precious food in his agitation.
When he turned the corner, he came full in sight
of the spot where the fire had been lit. There was
still a glowing pile of wood ashes there, but it had
evidently not been tended since his departure. The
same dead silence still reigned all round. With his
fears all changed to convictions, he hurried on. There
was no living creature near the remains of the fire:
animals, man, maiden, all were gone. It was only
too clear that some sudden and terrible disaster had
occurred during his absence—a disaster which had
embraced them all, and yet had left no traces behind
it.
Bewildered and stunned by this blow, Jefferson
Hope felt his head spin round, and had to lean upon
his rifle to save himself from falling. He was essentially a man of action, however, and speedily recovered from his temporary impotence. Seizing a halfconsumed piece of wood from the smouldering fire,
he blew it into a flame, and proceeded with its help to
examine the little camp. The ground was all stamped
down by the feet of horses, showing that a large party
of mounted men had overtaken the fugitives, and the
direction of their tracks proved that they had afterwards turned back to Salt Lake City. Had they carried
back both of his companions with them? Jefferson
52
Hope had almost persuaded himself that they must
have done so, when his eye fell upon an object which
made every nerve of his body tingle within him. A little way on one side of the camp was a low-lying heap
of reddish soil, which had assuredly not been there
before. There was no mistaking it for anything but a
newly-dug grave. As the young hunter approached
it, he perceived that a stick had been planted on it,
with a sheet of paper stuck in the cleft fork of it. The
inscription upon the paper was brief, but to the point:
JOHN FERRIER,
Formerly of Salt Lake City,
Died August 4th, 1860.
The sturdy old man, whom he had left so short a time
before, was gone, then, and this was all his epitaph.
Jefferson Hope looked wildly round to see if there was
a second grave, but there was no sign of one. Lucy
had been carried back by their terrible pursuers to fulfil her original destiny, by becoming one of the harem
of the Elder’s son. As the young fellow realized the
certainty of her fate, and his own powerlessness to
prevent it, he wished that he, too, was lying with the
old farmer in his last silent resting-place.
Again, however, his active spirit shook off the
lethargy which springs from despair. If there was
nothing else left to him, he could at least devote his
life to revenge. With indomitable patience and perseverance, Jefferson Hope possessed also a power of
sustained vindictiveness, which he may have learned
from the Indians amongst whom he had lived. As he
stood by the desolate fire, he felt that the only one
thing which could assuage his grief would be thorough and complete retribution, brought by his own
hand upon his enemies. His strong will and untiring
energy should, he determined, be devoted to that one
end. With a grim, white face, he retraced his steps to
where he had dropped the food, and having stirred
up the smouldering fire, he cooked enough to last him
for a few days. This he made up into a bundle, and,
tired as he was, he set himself to walk back through
the mountains upon the track of the avenging angels.
For five days he toiled footsore and weary through
the defiles which he had already traversed on horseback. At night he flung himself down among the
rocks, and snatched a few hours of sleep; but before
daybreak he was always well on his way. On the sixth
day, he reached the Eagle Cañon, from which they
had commenced their ill-fated flight. Thence he could
look down upon the home of the saints. Worn and
exhausted, he leaned upon his rifle and shook his
gaunt hand fiercely at the silent widespread city beneath him. As he looked at it, he observed that there
The Avenging Angels
were flags in some of the principal streets, and other
signs of festivity. He was still speculating as to what
this might mean when he heard the clatter of horse’s
hoofs, and saw a mounted man riding towards him.
As he approached, he recognized him as a Mormon
named Cowper, to whom he had rendered services
at different times. He therefore accosted him when
he got up to him, with the object of finding out what
Lucy Ferrier’s fate had been.
“I am Jefferson Hope,” he said. “You remember
me.”
The Mormon looked at him with undisguised astonishment—indeed, it was difficult to recognize in
this tattered, unkempt wanderer, with ghastly white
face and fierce, wild eyes, the spruce young hunter
of former days. Having, however, at last, satisfied
himself as to his identity, the man’s surprise changed
to consternation.
“You are mad to come here,” he cried. “It is as
much as my own life is worth to be seen talking with
you. There is a warrant against you from the Holy
Four for assisting the Ferriers away.”
“I don’t fear them, or their warrant,” Hope said,
earnestly. “You must know something of this matter,
Cowper. I conjure you by everything you hold dear to
answer a few questions. We have always been friends.
For God’s sake, don’t refuse to answer me.”
“What is it?” the Mormon asked uneasily. “Be
quick. The very rocks have ears and the trees eyes.”
“What has become of Lucy Ferrier?”
“She was married yesterday to young Drebber.
Hold up, man, hold up, you have no life left in you.”
“Don’t mind me,” said Hope faintly. He was white
to the very lips, and had sunk down on the stone
against which he had been leaning. “Married, you
say?”
“Married yesterday—that’s what those flags are
for on the Endowment House. There was some words
between young Drebber and young Stangerson as to
which was to have her. They’d both been in the party
that followed them, and Stangerson had shot her father, which seemed to give him the best claim; but
when they argued it out in council, Drebber’s party
was the stronger, so the Prophet gave her over to him.
No one won’t have her very long though, for I saw
death in her face yesterday. She is more like a ghost
than a woman. Are you off, then?”
“Yes, I am off,” said Jefferson Hope, who had risen
from his seat. His face might have been chiselled out
of marble, so hard and set was its expression, while
its eyes glowed with a baleful light.
“Where are you going?”
“Never mind,” he answered; and, slinging his
weapon over his shoulder, strode off down the gorge
and so away into the heart of the mountains to the
haunts of the wild beasts. Amongst them all there
was none so fierce and so dangerous as himself.
The prediction of the Mormon was only too well
fulfilled. Whether it was the terrible death of her father or the effects of the hateful marriage into which
she had been forced, poor Lucy never held up her
head again, but pined away and died within a month.
Her sottish husband, who had married her principally for the sake of John Ferrier’s property, did not
affect any great grief at his bereavement; but his other
wives mourned over her, and sat up with her the
night before the burial, as is the Mormon custom.
They were grouped round the bier in the early hours
of the morning, when, to their inexpressible fear and
astonishment, the door was flung open, and a savagelooking, weather-beaten man in tattered garments
strode into the room. Without a glance or a word
to the cowering women, he walked up to the white
silent figure which had once contained the pure soul
of Lucy Ferrier. Stooping over her, he pressed his lips
reverently to her cold forehead, and then, snatching
up her hand, he took the wedding-ring from her finger. “She shall not be buried in that,” he cried with
a fierce snarl, and before an alarm could be raised
sprang down the stairs and was gone. So strange and
so brief was the episode, that the watchers might have
found it hard to believe it themselves or persuade
other people of it, had it not been for the undeniable fact that the circlet of gold which marked her as
having been a bride had disappeared.
For some months Jefferson Hope lingered among
the mountains, leading a strange wild life, and nursing in his heart the fierce desire for vengeance which
possessed him. Tales were told in the City of the
weird figure which was seen prowling about the suburbs, and which haunted the lonely mountain gorges.
Once a bullet whistled through Stangerson’s window
and flattened itself upon the wall within a foot of him.
On another occasion, as Drebber passed under a cliff
a great boulder crashed down on him, and he only
escaped a terrible death by throwing himself upon
his face. The two young Mormons were not long in
discovering the reason of these attempts upon their
lives, and led repeated expeditions into the mountains in the hope of capturing or killing their enemy,
but always without success. Then they adopted the
53
A Study In Scarlet
precaution of never going out alone or after nightfall,
and of having their houses guarded. After a time
they were able to relax these measures, for nothing
was either heard or seen of their opponent, and they
hoped that time had cooled his vindictiveness.
Far from doing so, it had, if anything, augmented
it. The hunter’s mind was of a hard, unyielding nature, and the predominant idea of revenge had taken
such complete possession of it that there was no room
for any other emotion. He was, however, above all
things practical. He soon realized that even his iron
constitution could not stand the incessant strain which
he was putting upon it. Exposure and want of wholesome food were wearing him out. If he died like a
dog among the mountains, what was to become of
his revenge then? And yet such a death was sure to
overtake him if he persisted. He felt that that was to
play his enemy’s game, so he reluctantly returned to
the old Nevada mines, there to recruit his health and
to amass money enough to allow him to pursue his
object without privation.
His intention had been to be absent a year at the
most, but a combination of unforeseen circumstances
prevented his leaving the mines for nearly five. At the
end of that time, however, his memory of his wrongs
and his craving for revenge were quite as keen as on
that memorable night when he had stood by John Ferrier’s grave. Disguised, and under an assumed name,
he returned to Salt Lake City, careless what became of
his own life, as long as he obtained what he knew to
be justice. There he found evil tidings awaiting him.
There had been a schism among the Chosen People a
few months before, some of the younger members of
the Church having rebelled against the authority of
the Elders, and the result had been the secession of a
certain number of the malcontents, who had left Utah
and become Gentiles. Among these had been Drebber
and Stangerson; and no one knew whither they had
gone. Rumour reported that Drebber had managed to
convert a large part of his property into money, and
that he had departed a wealthy man, while his companion, Stangerson, was comparatively poor. There
was no clue at all, however, as to their whereabouts.
Many a man, however vindictive, would have
54
abandoned all thought of revenge in the face of such
a difficulty, but Jefferson Hope never faltered for a
moment. With the small competence he possessed,
eked out by such employment as he could pick up,
he travelled from town to town through the United
States in quest of his enemies. Year passed into year,
his black hair turned grizzled, but still he wandered
on, a human bloodhound, with his mind wholly set
upon the one object upon which he had devoted his
life. At last his perseverance was rewarded. It was
but a glance of a face in a window, but that one glance
told him that Cleveland in Ohio possessed the men
whom he was in pursuit of. He returned to his miserable lodgings with his plan of vengeance all arranged.
It chanced, however, that Drebber, looking from his
window, had recognized the vagrant in the street, and
had read murder in his eyes. He hurried before a
justice of the peace, accompanied by Stangerson, who
had become his private secretary, and represented
to him that they were in danger of their lives from
the jealousy and hatred of an old rival. That evening
Jefferson Hope was taken into custody, and not being
able to find sureties, was detained for some weeks.
When at last he was liberated, it was only to find that
Drebber’s house was deserted, and that he and his
secretary had departed for Europe.
Again the avenger had been foiled, and again his
concentrated hatred urged him to continue the pursuit. Funds were wanting, however, and for some
time he had to return to work, saving every dollar
for his approaching journey. At last, having collected
enough to keep life in him, he departed for Europe,
and tracked his enemies from city to city, working his
way in any menial capacity, but never overtaking the
fugitives. When he reached St. Petersburg they had
departed for Paris; and when he followed them there
he learned that they had just set off for Copenhagen.
At the Danish capital he was again a few days late,
for they had journeyed on to London, where he at
last succeeded in running them to earth. As to what
occurred there, we cannot do better than quote the
old hunter’s own account, as duly recorded in Dr.
Watson’s Journal, to which we are already under such
obligations.
A Continuation Of The Reminiscences Of John Watson, M.D.
CHAPTER VI.
A Continuation Of The Reminiscences Of John Watson, M.D.
Our prisoner’s furious resistance did not apparently indicate any ferocity in his disposition towards ourselves, for on finding himself powerless, he
smiled in an affable manner, and expressed his hopes
that he had not hurt any of us in the scuffle. “I guess
you’re going to take me to the police-station,” he remarked to Sherlock Holmes. “My cab’s at the door. If
you’ll loose my legs I’ll walk down to it. I’m not so
light to lift as I used to be.”
Gregson and Lestrade exchanged glances as if
they thought this proposition rather a bold one; but
Holmes at once took the prisoner at his word, and
loosened the towel which we had bound round his
ankles. He rose and stretched his legs, as though
to assure himself that they were free once more. I
remember that I thought to myself, as I eyed him,
that I had seldom seen a more powerfully built man;
and his dark sunburned face bore an expression of
determination and energy which was as formidable
as his personal strength.
“If there’s a vacant place for a chief of the police, I
reckon you are the man for it,” he said, gazing with
undisguised admiration at my fellow-lodger. “The
way you kept on my trail was a caution.”
“You had better come with me,” said Holmes to
the two detectives.
“I can drive you,” said Lestrade.
“Good! and Gregson can come inside with me.
You too, Doctor, you have taken an interest in the case
and may as well stick to us.”
I assented gladly, and we all descended together.
Our prisoner made no attempt at escape, but stepped
calmly into the cab which had been his, and we followed him. Lestrade mounted the box, whipped up
the horse, and brought us in a very short time to our
destination. We were ushered into a small chamber
where a police Inspector noted down our prisoner’s
name and the names of the men with whose murder
he had been charged. The official was a white-faced
unemotional man, who went through his duties in a
dull mechanical way. “The prisoner will be put before
the magistrates in the course of the week,” he said;
“in the mean time, Mr. Jefferson Hope, have you anything that you wish to say? I must warn you that your
words will be taken down, and may be used against
you.”
“I’ve got a good deal to say,” our prisoner said
slowly. “I want to tell you gentlemen all about it.”
“Hadn’t you better reserve that for your trial?”
asked the Inspector.
“I may never be tried,” he answered. “You needn’t
look startled. It isn’t suicide I am thinking of. Are
you a Doctor?” He turned his fierce dark eyes upon
me as he asked this last question.
“Yes; I am,” I answered.
“Then put your hand here,” he said, with a smile,
motioning with his manacled wrists towards his chest.
I did so; and became at once conscious of an extraordinary throbbing and commotion which was going on inside. The walls of his chest seemed to thrill
and quiver as a frail building would do inside when
some powerful engine was at work. In the silence of
the room I could hear a dull humming and buzzing
noise which proceeded from the same source.
“Why,” I cried, “you have an aortic aneurism!”
“That’s what they call it,” he said, placidly. “I went
to a Doctor last week about it, and he told me that it is
bound to burst before many days passed. It has been
getting worse for years. I got it from over-exposure
and under-feeding among the Salt Lake Mountains.
I’ve done my work now, and I don’t care how soon
I go, but I should like to leave some account of the
business behind me. I don’t want to be remembered
as a common cut-throat.”
The Inspector and the two detectives had a hurried discussion as to the advisability of allowing him
to tell his story.
“Do you consider, Doctor, that there is immediate
danger?” the former asked.
“Most certainly there is,” I answered.
“In that case it is clearly our duty, in the interests
of justice, to take his statement,” said the Inspector.
“You are at liberty, sir, to give your account, which I
again warn you will be taken down.”
“I’ll sit down, with your leave,” the prisoner said,
suiting the action to the word. “This aneurism of
mine makes me easily tired, and the tussle we had
half an hour ago has not mended matters. I’m on the
brink of the grave, and I am not likely to lie to you.
Every word I say is the absolute truth, and how you
use it is a matter of no consequence to me.”
With these words, Jefferson Hope leaned back in
his chair and began the following remarkable statement. He spoke in a calm and methodical manner,
55
A Study In Scarlet
as though the events which he narrated were commonplace enough. I can vouch for the accuracy of the
subjoined account, for I have had access to Lestrade’s
note-book, in which the prisoner’s words were taken
down exactly as they were uttered.
“It don’t much matter to you why I hated these
men,” he said; “it’s enough that they were guilty of
the death of two human beings—a father and a daughter—and that they had, therefore, forfeited their own
lives. After the lapse of time that has passed since
their crime, it was impossible for me to secure a conviction against them in any court. I knew of their
guilt though, and I determined that I should be judge,
jury, and executioner all rolled into one. You’d have
done the same, if you have any manhood in you, if
you had been in my place.
“That girl that I spoke of was to have married me
twenty years ago. She was forced into marrying that
same Drebber, and broke her heart over it. I took the
marriage ring from her dead finger, and I vowed that
his dying eyes should rest upon that very ring, and
that his last thoughts should be of the crime for which
he was punished. I have carried it about with me, and
have followed him and his accomplice over two continents until I caught them. They thought to tire me
out, but they could not do it. If I die to-morrow, as
is likely enough, I die knowing that my work in this
world is done, and well done. They have perished,
and by my hand. There is nothing left for me to hope
for, or to desire.
“They were rich and I was poor, so that it was
no easy matter for me to follow them. When I got
to London my pocket was about empty, and I found
that I must turn my hand to something for my living.
Driving and riding are as natural to me as walking,
so I applied at a cabowner’s office, and soon got employment. I was to bring a certain sum a week to
the owner, and whatever was over that I might keep
for myself. There was seldom much over, but I managed to scrape along somehow. The hardest job was
to learn my way about, for I reckon that of all the
mazes that ever were contrived, this city is the most
confusing. I had a map beside me though, and when
once I had spotted the principal hotels and stations, I
got on pretty well.
“It was some time before I found out where my
two gentlemen were living; but I inquired and inquired until at last I dropped across them. They were
at a boarding-house at Camberwell, over on the other
side of the river. When once I found them out I knew
that I had them at my mercy. I had grown my beard,
and there was no chance of their recognizing me. I
56
would dog them and follow them until I saw my
opportunity. I was determined that they should not
escape me again.
“They were very near doing it for all that. Go
where they would about London, I was always at
their heels. Sometimes I followed them on my cab,
and sometimes on foot, but the former was the best,
for then they could not get away from me. It was only
early in the morning or late at night that I could earn
anything, so that I began to get behind hand with my
employer. I did not mind that, however, as long as I
could lay my hand upon the men I wanted.
“They were very cunning, though. They must have
thought that there was some chance of their being followed, for they would never go out alone, and never
after nightfall. During two weeks I drove behind them
every day, and never once saw them separate. Drebber himself was drunk half the time, but Stangerson
was not to be caught napping. I watched them late
and early, but never saw the ghost of a chance; but I
was not discouraged, for something told me that the
hour had almost come. My only fear was that this
thing in my chest might burst a little too soon and
leave my work undone.
“At last, one evening I was driving up and down
Torquay Terrace, as the street was called in which
they boarded, when I saw a cab drive up to their door.
Presently some luggage was brought out, and after a
time Drebber and Stangerson followed it, and drove
off. I whipped up my horse and kept within sight
of them, feeling very ill at ease, for I feared that they
were going to shift their quarters. At Euston Station
they got out, and I left a boy to hold my horse, and
followed them on to the platform. I heard them ask
for the Liverpool train, and the guard answer that
one had just gone and there would not be another
for some hours. Stangerson seemed to be put out at
that, but Drebber was rather pleased than otherwise.
I got so close to them in the bustle that I could hear
every word that passed between them. Drebber said
that he had a little business of his own to do, and
that if the other would wait for him he would soon
rejoin him. His companion remonstrated with him,
and reminded him that they had resolved to stick
together. Drebber answered that the matter was a
delicate one, and that he must go alone. I could not
catch what Stangerson said to that, but the other burst
out swearing, and reminded him that he was nothing
more than his paid servant, and that he must not
presume to dictate to him. On that the Secretary gave
it up as a bad job, and simply bargained with him
that if he missed the last train he should rejoin him at
A Continuation Of The Reminiscences Of John Watson, M.D.
Halliday’s Private Hotel; to which Drebber answered
that he would be back on the platform before eleven,
and made his way out of the station.
“The moment for which I had waited so long had
at last come. I had my enemies within my power. Together they could protect each other, but singly they
were at my mercy. I did not act, however, with undue
precipitation. My plans were already formed. There
is no satisfaction in vengeance unless the offender
has time to realize who it is that strikes him, and
why retribution has come upon him. I had my plans
arranged by which I should have the opportunity of
making the man who had wronged me understand
that his old sin had found him out. It chanced that
some days before a gentleman who had been engaged
in looking over some houses in the Brixton Road had
dropped the key of one of them in my carriage. It
was claimed that same evening, and returned; but in
the interval I had taken a moulding of it, and had a
duplicate constructed. By means of this I had access
to at least one spot in this great city where I could
rely upon being free from interruption. How to get
Drebber to that house was the difficult problem which
I had now to solve.
“He walked down the road and went into one or
two liquor shops, staying for nearly half-an-hour in
the last of them. When he came out he staggered in
his walk, and was evidently pretty well on. There
was a hansom just in front of me, and he hailed it.
I followed it so close that the nose of my horse was
within a yard of his driver the whole way. We rattled
across Waterloo Bridge and through miles of streets,
until, to my astonishment, we found ourselves back
in the Terrace in which he had boarded. I could not
imagine what his intention was in returning there;
but I went on and pulled up my cab a hundred yards
or so from the house. He entered it, and his hansom
drove away. Give me a glass of water, if you please.
My mouth gets dry with the talking.”
I handed him the glass, and he drank it down.
“That’s better,” he said. “Well, I waited for a quarter of an hour, or more, when suddenly there came a
noise like people struggling inside the house. Next
moment the door was flung open and two men appeared, one of whom was Drebber, and the other was
a young chap whom I had never seen before. This
fellow had Drebber by the collar, and when they came
to the head of the steps he gave him a shove and a
kick which sent him half across the road. ‘You hound,’
he cried, shaking his stick at him; ‘I’ll teach you to
insult an honest girl!’ He was so hot that I think he
would have thrashed Drebber with his cudgel, only
that the cur staggered away down the road as fast as
his legs would carry him. He ran as far as the corner,
and then, seeing my cab, he hailed me and jumped
in. ‘Drive me to Halliday’s Private Hotel,’ said he.
“When I had him fairly inside my cab, my heart
jumped so with joy that I feared lest at this last moment my aneurism might go wrong. I drove along
slowly, weighing in my own mind what it was best to
do. I might take him right out into the country, and
there in some deserted lane have my last interview
with him. I had almost decided upon this, when he
solved the problem for me. The craze for drink had
seized him again, and he ordered me to pull up outside a gin palace. He went in, leaving word that I
should wait for him. There he remained until closing
time, and when he came out he was so far gone that I
knew the game was in my own hands.
“Don’t imagine that I intended to kill him in cold
blood. It would only have been rigid justice if I had
done so, but I could not bring myself to do it. I had
long determined that he should have a show for his
life if he chose to take advantage of it. Among the
many billets which I have filled in America during
my wandering life, I was once janitor and sweeper
out of the laboratory at York College. One day the
professor was lecturing on poisons, and he showed
his students some alkaloid, as he called it, which he
had extracted from some South American arrow poison, and which was so powerful that the least grain
meant instant death. I spotted the bottle in which
this preparation was kept, and when they were all
gone, I helped myself to a little of it. I was a fairly
good dispenser, so I worked this alkaloid into small,
soluble pills, and each pill I put in a box with a similar pill made without the poison. I determined at
the time that when I had my chance, my gentlemen
should each have a draw out of one of these boxes,
while I ate the pill that remained. It would be quite as
deadly, and a good deal less noisy than firing across
a handkerchief. From that day I had always my pill
boxes about with me, and the time had now come
when I was to use them.
“It was nearer one than twelve, and a wild, bleak
night, blowing hard and raining in torrents. Dismal as
it was outside, I was glad within—so glad that I could
have shouted out from pure exultation. If any of you
gentlemen have ever pined for a thing, and longed
for it during twenty long years, and then suddenly
found it within your reach, you would understand
my feelings. I lit a cigar, and puffed at it to steady my
nerves, but my hands were trembling, and my temples throbbing with excitement. As I drove, I could
57
A Study In Scarlet
see old John Ferrier and sweet Lucy looking at me out
of the darkness and smiling at me, just as plain as I
see you all in this room. All the way they were ahead
of me, one on each side of the horse until I pulled up
at the house in the Brixton Road.
“There was not a soul to be seen, nor a sound to
be heard, except the dripping of the rain. When I
looked in at the window, I found Drebber all huddled
together in a drunken sleep. I shook him by the arm,
‘It’s time to get out,’ I said.
“ ‘All right, cabby,’ said he.
“I suppose he thought we had come to the hotel
that he had mentioned, for he got out without another
word, and followed me down the garden. I had to
walk beside him to keep him steady, for he was still a
little top-heavy. When we came to the door, I opened
it, and led him into the front room. I give you my
word that all the way, the father and the daughter
were walking in front of us.
“ ‘It’s infernally dark,’ said he, stamping about.
“ ‘We’ll soon have a light,’ I said, striking a match
and putting it to a wax candle which I had brought
with me. ‘Now, Enoch Drebber,’ I continued, turning
to him, and holding the light to my own face, ‘who
am I?’
“He gazed at me with bleared, drunken eyes for a
moment, and then I saw a horror spring up in them,
and convulse his whole features, which showed me
that he knew me. He staggered back with a livid face,
and I saw the perspiration break out upon his brow,
while his teeth chattered in his head. At the sight, I
leaned my back against the door and laughed loud
and long. I had always known that vengeance would
be sweet, but I had never hoped for the contentment
of soul which now possessed me.
“ ‘You dog!’ I said; ‘I have hunted you from Salt
Lake City to St. Petersburg, and you have always escaped me. Now, at last your wanderings have come to
an end, for either you or I shall never see to-morrow’s
sun rise.’ He shrunk still further away as I spoke, and
I could see on his face that he thought I was mad. So
I was for the time. The pulses in my temples beat like
sledge-hammers, and I believe I would have had a fit
of some sort if the blood had not gushed from my
nose and relieved me.
“ ‘What do you think of Lucy Ferrier now?’ I cried,
locking the door, and shaking the key in his face.
‘Punishment has been slow in coming, but it has overtaken you at last.’ I saw his coward lips tremble as
I spoke. He would have begged for his life, but he
knew well that it was useless.
58
“ ‘Would you murder me?’ he stammered.
“ ‘There is no murder,’ I answered. ‘Who talks of
murdering a mad dog? What mercy had you upon my
poor darling, when you dragged her from her slaughtered father, and bore her away to your accursed and
shameless harem.’
“ ‘It was not I who killed her father,’ he cried.
“ ‘But it was you who broke her innocent heart,’ I
shrieked, thrusting the box before him. ‘Let the high
God judge between us. Choose and eat. There is
death in one and life in the other. I shall take what
you leave. Let us see if there is justice upon the earth,
or if we are ruled by chance.’
“He cowered away with wild cries and prayers
for mercy, but I drew my knife and held it to his
throat until he had obeyed me. Then I swallowed the
other, and we stood facing one another in silence for a
minute or more, waiting to see which was to live and
which was to die. Shall I ever forget the look which
came over his face when the first warning pangs told
him that the poison was in his system? I laughed as
I saw it, and held Lucy’s marriage ring in front of
his eyes. It was but for a moment, for the action of
the alkaloid is rapid. A spasm of pain contorted his
features; he threw his hands out in front of him, staggered, and then, with a hoarse cry, fell heavily upon
the floor. I turned him over with my foot, and placed
my hand upon his heart. There was no movement.
He was dead!
“The blood had been streaming from my nose,
but I had taken no notice of it. I don’t know what
it was that put it into my head to write upon the
wall with it. Perhaps it was some mischievous idea
of setting the police upon a wrong track, for I felt
light-hearted and cheerful. I remembered a German
being found in New York with RACHE written up
above him, and it was argued at the time in the newspapers that the secret societies must have done it. I
guessed that what puzzled the New Yorkers would
puzzle the Londoners, so I dipped my finger in my
own blood and printed it on a convenient place on
the wall. Then I walked down to my cab and found
that there was nobody about, and that the night was
still very wild. I had driven some distance when I
put my hand into the pocket in which I usually kept
Lucy’s ring, and found that it was not there. I was
thunderstruck at this, for it was the only memento
that I had of her. Thinking that I might have dropped
it when I stooped over Drebber’s body, I drove back,
and leaving my cab in a side street, I went boldly up
to the house—for I was ready to dare anything rather
than lose the ring. When I arrived there, I walked
The Conclusion
right into the arms of a police-officer who was coming
out, and only managed to disarm his suspicions by
pretending to be hopelessly drunk.
“That was how Enoch Drebber came to his end.
All I had to do then was to do as much for Stangerson,
and so pay off John Ferrier’s debt. I knew that he
was staying at Halliday’s Private Hotel, and I hung
about all day, but he never came out. I fancy that he
suspected something when Drebber failed to put in
an appearance. He was cunning, was Stangerson, and
always on his guard. If he thought he could keep me
off by staying indoors he was very much mistaken.
I soon found out which was the window of his bedroom, and early next morning I took advantage of
some ladders which were lying in the lane behind the
hotel, and so made my way into his room in the grey
of the dawn. I woke him up and told him that the
hour had come when he was to answer for the life
he had taken so long before. I described Drebber’s
death to him, and I gave him the same choice of the
poisoned pills. Instead of grasping at the chance of
safety which that offered him, he sprang from his bed
and flew at my throat. In self-defence I stabbed him
to the heart. It would have been the same in any case,
for Providence would never have allowed his guilty
hand to pick out anything but the poison.
“I have little more to say, and it’s as well, for I am
about done up. I went on cabbing it for a day or so,
intending to keep at it until I could save enough to
take me back to America. I was standing in the yard
when a ragged youngster asked if there was a cabby
there called Jefferson Hope, and said that his cab was
wanted by a gentleman at 221b, Baker Street. I went
round, suspecting no harm, and the next thing I knew,
this young man here had the bracelets on my wrists,
and as neatly snackled as ever I saw in my life. That’s
the whole of my story, gentlemen. You may consider
me to be a murderer; but I hold that I am just as much
an officer of justice as you are.”
So thrilling had the man’s narrative been, and his
manner was so impressive that we had sat silent and
absorbed. Even the professional detectives, blase as
they were in every detail of crime, appeared to be
keenly interested in the man’s story. When he finished we sat for some minutes in a stillness which
was only broken by the scratching of Lestrade’s pencil as he gave the finishing touches to his shorthand
account.
“There is only one point on which I should like
a little more information,” Sherlock Holmes said at
last. “Who was your accomplice who came for the
ring which I advertised?”
The prisoner winked at my friend jocosely. “I can
tell my own secrets,” he said, “but I don’t get other
people into trouble. I saw your advertisement, and
I thought it might be a plant, or it might be the ring
which I wanted. My friend volunteered to go and see.
I think you’ll own he did it smartly.”
“Not a doubt of that,” said Holmes heartily.
“Now, gentlemen,” the Inspector remarked
gravely, “the forms of the law must be complied with.
On Thursday the prisoner will be brought before the
magistrates, and your attendance will be required.
Until then I will be responsible for him.” He rang the
bell as he spoke, and Jefferson Hope was led off by a
couple of warders, while my friend and I made our
way out of the Station and took a cab back to Baker
Street.
CHAPTER VII.
The Conclusion
We had all been warned to appear before the
magistrates upon the Thursday; but when the Thursday came there was no occasion for our testimony.
A higher Judge had taken the matter in hand, and
Jefferson Hope had been summoned before a tribunal
where strict justice would be meted out to him. On
the very night after his capture the aneurism burst,
and he was found in the morning stretched upon the
floor of the cell, with a placid smile upon his face,
as though he had been able in his dying moments to
look back upon a useful life, and on work well done.
“Gregson and Lestrade will be wild about his
59
A Study In Scarlet
death,” Holmes remarked, as we chatted it over next
evening. “Where will their grand advertisement be
now?”
“I don’t see that they had very much to do with
his capture,” I answered.
“What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence,” returned my companion, bitterly. “The
question is, what can you make people believe that
you have done. Never mind,” he continued, more
brightly, after a pause. “I would not have missed the
investigation for anything. There has been no better
case within my recollection. Simple as it was, there
were several most instructive points about it.”
“Simple!” I ejaculated.
“Well, really, it can hardly be described as otherwise,” said Sherlock Holmes, smiling at my surprise.
“The proof of its intrinsic simplicity is, that without
any help save a few very ordinary deductions I was
able to lay my hand upon the criminal within three
days.”
“That is true,” said I.
“I have already explained to you that what is out
of the common is usually a guide rather than a hindrance. In solving a problem of this sort, the grand
thing is to be able to reason backwards. That is a
very useful accomplishment, and a very easy one, but
people do not practise it much. In the every-day affairs of life it is more useful to reason forwards, and
so the other comes to be neglected. There are fifty
who can reason synthetically for one who can reason
analytically.”
“I confess,” said I, “that I do not quite follow you.”
“I hardly expected that you would. Let me see if
I can make it clearer. Most people, if you describe
a train of events to them, will tell you what the result would be. They can put those events together in
their minds, and argue from them that something will
come to pass. There are few people, however, who, if
you told them a result, would be able to evolve from
their own inner consciousness what the steps were
which led up to that result. This power is what I mean
when I talk of reasoning backwards, or analytically.”
“I understand,” said I.
“Now this was a case in which you were given
the result and had to find everything else for yourself. Now let me endeavour to show you the different
steps in my reasoning. To begin at the beginning.
I approached the house, as you know, on foot, and
with my mind entirely free from all impressions. I
naturally began by examining the roadway, and there,
60
as I have already explained to you, I saw clearly the
marks of a cab, which, I ascertained by inquiry, must
have been there during the night. I satisfied myself
that it was a cab and not a private carriage by the
narrow gauge of the wheels. The ordinary London
growler is considerably less wide than a gentleman’s
brougham.
“This was the first point gained. I then walked
slowly down the garden path, which happened to be
composed of a clay soil, peculiarly suitable for taking
impressions. No doubt it appeared to you to be a
mere trampled line of slush, but to my trained eyes
every mark upon its surface had a meaning. There is
no branch of detective science which is so important
and so much neglected as the art of tracing footsteps.
Happily, I have always laid great stress upon it, and
much practice has made it second nature to me. I
saw the heavy footmarks of the constables, but I saw
also the track of the two men who had first passed
through the garden. It was easy to tell that they had
been before the others, because in places their marks
had been entirely obliterated by the others coming
upon the top of them. In this way my second link
was formed, which told me that the nocturnal visitors
were two in number, one remarkable for his height
(as I calculated from the length of his stride), and the
other fashionably dressed, to judge from the small
and elegant impression left by his boots.
“On entering the house this last inference was confirmed. My well-booted man lay before me. The tall
one, then, had done the murder, if murder there was.
There was no wound upon the dead man’s person,
but the agitated expression upon his face assured me
that he had foreseen his fate before it came upon
him. Men who die from heart disease, or any sudden
natural cause, never by any chance exhibit agitation
upon their features. Having sniffed the dead man’s
lips I detected a slightly sour smell, and I came to the
conclusion that he had had poison forced upon him.
Again, I argued that it had been forced upon him
from the hatred and fear expressed upon his face. By
the method of exclusion, I had arrived at this result,
for no other hypothesis would meet the facts. Do
not imagine that it was a very unheard of idea. The
forcible administration of poison is by no means a
new thing in criminal annals. The cases of Dolsky in
Odessa, and of Leturier in Montpellier, will occur at
once to any toxicologist.
“And now came the great question as to the reason
why. Robbery had not been the object of the murder,
for nothing was taken. Was it politics, then, or was it
a woman? That was the question which confronted
The Conclusion
me. I was inclined from the first to the latter supposition. Political assassins are only too glad to do their
work and to fly. This murder had, on the contrary,
been done most deliberately, and the perpetrator had
left his tracks all over the room, showing that he had
been there all the time. It must have been a private
wrong, and not a political one, which called for such
a methodical revenge. When the inscription was discovered upon the wall I was more inclined than ever
to my opinion. The thing was too evidently a blind.
When the ring was found, however, it settled the question. Clearly the murderer had used it to remind his
victim of some dead or absent woman. It was at this
point that I asked Gregson whether he had enquired
in his telegram to Cleveland as to any particular point
in Mr. Drebber’s former career. He answered, you
remember, in the negative.
“I then proceeded to make a careful examination
of the room, which confirmed me in my opinion as
to the murderer’s height, and furnished me with the
additional details as to the Trichinopoly cigar and the
length of his nails. I had already come to the conclusion, since there were no signs of a struggle, that
the blood which covered the floor had burst from the
murderer’s nose in his excitement. I could perceive
that the track of blood coincided with the track of his
feet. It is seldom that any man, unless he is very fullblooded, breaks out in this way through emotion, so I
hazarded the opinion that the criminal was probably
a robust and ruddy-faced man. Events proved that I
had judged correctly.
“Having left the house, I proceeded to do what
Gregson had neglected. I telegraphed to the head of
the police at Cleveland, limiting my enquiry to the
circumstances connected with the marriage of Enoch
Drebber. The answer was conclusive. It told me that
Drebber had already applied for the protection of the
law against an old rival in love, named Jefferson Hope,
and that this same Hope was at present in Europe.
I knew now that I held the clue to the mystery in
my hand, and all that remained was to secure the
murderer.
“I had already determined in my own mind that
the man who had walked into the house with Drebber,
was none other than the man who had driven the cab.
The marks in the road showed me that the horse had
wandered on in a way which would have been impossible had there been anyone in charge of it. Where,
then, could the driver be, unless he were inside the
house? Again, it is absurd to suppose that any sane
man would carry out a deliberate crime under the
very eyes, as it were, of a third person, who was sure
to betray him. Lastly, supposing one man wished
to dog another through London, what better means
could he adopt than to turn cabdriver. All these considerations led me to the irresistible conclusion that
Jefferson Hope was to be found among the jarveys of
the Metropolis.
“If he had been one there was no reason to believe
that he had ceased to be. On the contrary, from his
point of view, any sudden chance would be likely to
draw attention to himself. He would, probably, for a
time at least, continue to perform his duties. There
was no reason to suppose that he was going under an
assumed name. Why should he change his name in a
country where no one knew his original one? I therefore organized my Street Arab detective corps, and
sent them systematically to every cab proprietor in
London until they ferreted out the man that I wanted.
How well they succeeded, and how quickly I took
advantage of it, are still fresh in your recollection.
The murder of Stangerson was an incident which was
entirely unexpected, but which could hardly in any
case have been prevented. Through it, as you know,
I came into possession of the pills, the existence of
which I had already surmised. You see the whole
thing is a chain of logical sequences without a break
or flaw.”
“It is wonderful!” I cried. “Your merits should be
publicly recognized. You should publish an account
of the case. If you won’t, I will for you.”
“You may do what you like, Doctor,” he answered.
“See here!” he continued, handing a paper over to me,
“look at this!”
It was the Echo for the day, and the paragraph to
which he pointed was devoted to the case in question.
“The public,” it said, “have lost a sensational treat
through the sudden death of the man Hope, who
was suspected of the murder of Mr. Enoch Drebber
and of Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The details of the case
will probably be never known now, though we are
informed upon good authority that the crime was the
result of an old standing and romantic feud, in which
love and Mormonism bore a part. It seems that both
the victims belonged, in their younger days, to the
Latter Day Saints, and Hope, the deceased prisoner,
hails also from Salt Lake City. If the case has had no
other effect, it, at least, brings out in the most striking
manner the efficiency of our detective police force,
and will serve as a lesson to all foreigners that they
will do wisely to settle their feuds at home, and not to
carry them on to British soil. It is an open secret that
the credit of this smart capture belongs entirely to the
61
A Study In Scarlet
well-known Scotland Yard officials, Messrs. Lestrade
and Gregson. The man was apprehended, it appears,
in the rooms of a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who
has himself, as an amateur, shown some talent in the
detective line, and who, with such instructors, may
hope in time to attain to some degree of their skill.
It is expected that a testimonial of some sort will be
presented to the two officers as a fitting recognition
of their services.”
62
“Didn’t I tell you so when we started?” cried Sherlock Holmes with a laugh. “That’s the result of all
our Study in Scarlet: to get them a testimonial!”
“Never mind,” I answered, “I have all the facts in
my journal, and the public shall know them. In the
meantime you must make yourself contented by the
consciousness of success, like the Roman miser—
“ ‘Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo
Ipse domi simul ac nummos contemplar in arca.’ ”
The Sign of the Four
Table of contents
The Science of Deduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
67
The Statement of the Case . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
70
In Quest of a Solution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Story of the Bald-Headed Man . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
73
75
The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
79
Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
82
The Episode of the Barrel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
86
The Baker Street Irregulars . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
91
A Break in the Chain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
95
The End of the Islander . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
99
The Great Agra Treasure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
103
The Strange Story of Jonathan Small . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
105
65
The Science of Deduction
S
CHAPTER I.
The Science of Deduction
herlock Holmes took his bottle from the
corner of the mantelpiece and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case.
With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled back his left
shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted
and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down
the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined
arm-chair with a long sigh of satisfaction.
Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance, but custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On the contrary, from day to
day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my
conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought
that I had lacked the courage to protest. Again and
again I had registered a vow that I should deliver
my soul upon the subject, but there was that in the
cool, nonchalant air of my companion which made
him the last man with whom one would care to take
anything approaching to a liberty. His great powers,
his masterly manner, and the experience which I had
had of his many extraordinary qualities, all made me
diffident and backward in crossing him.
Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the
Beaune which I had taken with my lunch, or the
additional exasperation produced by the extreme deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could
hold out no longer.
“Which is it to-day?” I asked,—“morphine or cocaine?”
He raised his eyes languidly from the old blackletter volume which he had opened. “It is cocaine,”
he said,—“a seven-per-cent solution. Would you care
to try it?”
“No, indeed,” I answered, brusquely. “My constitution has not got over the Afghan campaign yet. I
cannot afford to throw any extra strain upon it.”
He smiled at my vehemence. “Perhaps you are
right, Watson,” he said. “I suppose that its influence
is physically a bad one. I find it, however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind that its
secondary action is a matter of small moment.”
“But consider!” I said, earnestly. “Count the cost!
Your brain may, as you say, be roused and excited,
but it is a pathological and morbid process, which
involves increased tissue-change and may at last leave
a permanent weakness. You know, too, what a black
reaction comes upon you. Surely the game is hardly
worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with
which you have been endowed? Remember that I
speak not only as one comrade to another, but as a
medical man to one for whose constitution he is to
some extent answerable.”
He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he
put his fingertips together and leaned his elbows on
the arms of his chair, like one who has a relish for
conversation.
“My mind,” he said, “rebels at stagnation. Give
me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and
I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense
then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull
routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation.
That is why I have chosen my own particular profession,—or rather created it, for I am the only one in
the world.”
“The only unofficial detective?” I said, raising my
eyebrows.
“The only unofficial consulting detective,” he answered. “I am the last and highest court of appeal
in detection. When Gregson or Lestrade or Athelney
Jones are out of their depths—which, by the way, is
their normal state—the matter is laid before me. I
examine the data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist’s opinion. I claim no credit in such cases. My
name figures in no newspaper. The work itself, the
pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is
my highest reward. But you have yourself had some
experience of my methods of work in the Jefferson
Hope case.”
“Yes, indeed,” said I, cordially. “I was never so
struck by anything in my life. I even embodied it in
a small brochure with the somewhat fantastic title of
‘A Study in Scarlet.’ ”
He shook his head sadly. “I glanced over it,” said
he. “Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon it.
Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science, and
should be treated in the same cold and unemotional
manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you
worked a love-story or an elopement into the fifth
proposition of Euclid.”
“But the romance was there,” I remonstrated. “I
could not tamper with the facts.”
67
The Sign of the Four
“Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a
just sense of proportion should be observed in treating them. The only point in the case which deserved
mention was the curious analytical reasoning from
effects to causes by which I succeeded in unraveling
it.”
I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which
had been specially designed to please him. I confess,
too, that I was irritated by the egotism which seemed
to demand that every line of my pamphlet should be
devoted to his own special doings. More than once
during the years that I had lived with him in Baker
Street I had observed that a small vanity underlay my
companion’s quiet and didactic manner. I made no
remark, however, but sat nursing my wounded leg. I
had a Jezail bullet through it some time before, and,
though it did not prevent me from walking, it ached
wearily at every change of the weather.
“My practice has extended recently to the Continent,” said Holmes, after a while, filling up his old
brier-root pipe. “I was consulted last week by Francois Le Villard, who, as you probably know, has come
rather to the front lately in the French detective service. He has all the Celtic power of quick intuition,
but he is deficient in the wide range of exact knowledge which is essential to the higher developments
of his art. The case was concerned with a will, and
possessed some features of interest. I was able to refer
him to two parallel cases, the one at Riga in 1857, and
the other at St. Louis in 1871, which have suggested
to him the true solution. Here is the letter which I
had this morning acknowledging my assistance.” He
tossed over, as he spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign
notepaper. I glanced my eyes down it, catching a profusion of notes of admiration, with stray magnifiques,
coup-de-maı̂tres and tours-de-force, all testifying to the
ardent admiration of the Frenchman.
“He speaks as a pupil to his master,” said I.
“Oh, he rates my assistance too highly,” said Sherlock Holmes, lightly. “He has considerable gifts himself. He possesses two out of the three qualities necessary for the ideal detective. He has the power of
observation and that of deduction. He is only wanting
in knowledge; and that may come in time. He is now
translating my small works into French.”
“Your works?”
“Oh, didn’t you know?” he cried, laughing. “Yes,
I have been guilty of several monographs. They are
all upon technical subjects. Here, for example, is
one ‘Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccoes.’ In it I enumerate a hundred and forty
68
forms of cigar-, cigarette-, and pipe-tobacco, with colored plates illustrating the difference in the ash. It is
a point which is continually turning up in criminal
trials, and which is sometimes of supreme importance
as a clue. If you can say definitely, for example, that
some murder has been done by a man who was smoking an Indian lunkah, it obviously narrows your field
of search. To the trained eye there is as much difference between the black ash of a Trichinopoly and the
white fluff of bird’s-eye as there is between a cabbage
and a potato.”
“You have an extraordinary genius for minutiae,”
I remarked.
“I appreciate their importance. Here is my monograph upon the tracing of footsteps, with some remarks upon the uses of plaster of Paris as a preserver
of impresses. Here, too, is a curious little work upon
the influence of a trade upon the form of the hand,
with lithotypes of the hands of slaters, sailors, corkcutters, compositors, weavers, and diamond-polishers.
That is a matter of great practical interest to the scientific detective,—especially in cases of unclaimed
bodies, or in discovering the antecedents of criminals.
But I weary you with my hobby.”
“Not at all,” I answered, earnestly. “It is of the
greatest interest to me, especially since I have had the
opportunity of observing your practical application
of it. But you spoke just now of observation and deduction. Surely the one to some extent implies the
other.”
“Why, hardly,” he answered, leaning back luxuriously in his armchair, and sending up thick blue
wreaths from his pipe. “For example, observation
shows me that you have been to the Wigmore Street
Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets me know
that when there you dispatched a telegram.”
“Right!” said I. “Right on both points! But I confess that I don’t see how you arrived at it. It was a
sudden impulse upon my part, and I have mentioned
it to no one.”
“It is simplicity itself,” he remarked, chuckling at
my surprise,—“so absurdly simple that an explanation is superfluous; and yet it may serve to define the
limits of observation and of deduction. Observation
tells me that you have a little reddish mould adhering
to your instep. Just opposite the Seymour Street Office they have taken up the pavement and thrown up
some earth which lies in such a way that it is difficult
to avoid treading in it in entering. The earth is of
this peculiar reddish tint which is found, as far as I
The Science of Deduction
know, nowhere else in the neighborhood. So much is
observation. The rest is deduction.”
“How, then, did you deduce the telegram?”
“Why, of course I knew that you had not written
a letter, since I sat opposite to you all morning. I see
also in your open desk there that you have a sheet of
stamps and a thick bundle of postcards. What could
you go into the post-office for, then, but to send a
wire? Eliminate all other factors, and the one which
remains must be the truth.”
“In this case it certainly is so,” I replied, after a
little thought. “The thing, however, is, as you say, of
the simplest. Would you think me impertinent if I
were to put your theories to a more severe test?”
“On the contrary,” he answered, “it would prevent
me from taking a second dose of cocaine. I should be
delighted to look into any problem which you might
submit to me.”
“I have heard you say that it is difficult for a man
to have any object in daily use without leaving the
impress of his individuality upon it in such a way
that a trained observer might read it. Now, I have
here a watch which has recently come into my possession. Would you have the kindness to let me have
an opinion upon the character or habits of the late
owner?”
I handed him over the watch with some slight
feeling of amusement in my heart, for the test was, as
I thought, an impossible one, and I intended it as a
lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he
occasionally assumed. He balanced the watch in his
hand, gazed hard at the dial, opened the back, and
examined the works, first with his naked eyes and
then with a powerful convex lens. I could hardly keep
from smiling at his crestfallen face when he finally
snapped the case to and handed it back.
“There are hardly any data,” he remarked. “The
watch has been recently cleaned, which robs me of
my most suggestive facts.”
“You are right,” I answered. “It was cleaned before being sent to me.” In my heart I accused my
companion of putting forward a most lame and impotent excuse to cover his failure. What data could he
expect from an uncleaned watch?
“Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been
entirely barren,” he observed, staring up at the ceiling
with dreamy, lack-lustre eyes. “Subject to your correction, I should judge that the watch belonged to your
elder brother, who inherited it from your father.”
“That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. upon
the back?”
“Quite so. The W. suggests your own name. The
date of the watch is nearly fifty years back, and the
initials are as old as the watch: so it was made for the
last generation. Jewelry usually descents to the eldest
son, and he is most likely to have the same name as
the father. Your father has, if I remember right, been
dead many years. It has, therefore, been in the hands
of your eldest brother.”
“Right, so far,” said I. “Anything else?”
“He was a man of untidy habits,—very untidy
and careless. He was left with good prospects, but
he threw away his chances, lived for some time in
poverty with occasional short intervals of prosperity,
and finally, taking to drink, he died. That is all I can
gather.”
I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently
about the room with considerable bitterness in my
heart.
“This is unworthy of you, Holmes,” I said. “I
could not have believed that you would have descended to this. You have made inquires into the
history of my unhappy brother, and you now pretend
to deduce this knowledge in some fanciful way. You
cannot expect me to believe that you have read all this
from his old watch! It is unkind, and, to speak plainly,
has a touch of charlatanism in it.”
“My dear doctor,” said he, kindly, “pray accept my
apologies. Viewing the matter as an abstract problem,
I had forgotten how personal and painful a thing it
might be to you. I assure you, however, that I never
even knew that you had a brother until you handed
me the watch.”
“Then how in the name of all that is wonderful
did you get these facts? They are absolutely correct
in every particular.”
“Ah, that is good luck. I could only say what was
the balance of probability. I did not at all expect to be
so accurate.“
“But it was not mere guess-work?”
“No, no: I never guess.
It is a shocking
habit,—destructive to the logical faculty. What seems
strange to you is only so because you do not follow
my train of thought or observe the small facts upon
which large inferences may depend. For example, I
began by stating that your brother was careless. When
you observe the lower part of that watch-case you notice that it is not only dinted in two places, but it is
cut and marked all over from the habit of keeping
other hard objects, such as coins or keys, in the same
pocket. Surely it is no great feat to assume that a man
who treats a fifty-guinea watch so cavalierly must be a
69
The Sign of the Four
careless man. Neither is it a very far-fetched inference
that a man who inherits one article of such value is
pretty well provided for in other respects.”
I nodded, to show that I followed his reasoning.
“It is very customary for pawnbrokers in England,
when they take a watch, to scratch the number of the
ticket with a pin-point upon the inside of the case.
It is more handy than a label, as there is no risk of
the number being lost or transposed. There are no
less than four such numbers visible to my lens on the
inside of this case. Inference,—that your brother was
often at low water. Secondary inference,—that he had
occasional bursts of prosperity, or he could not have
redeemed the pledge. Finally, I ask you to look at
the inner plate, which contains the key-hole. Look at
the thousands of scratches all round the hole,—marks
where the key has slipped. What sober man’s key
could have scored those grooves? But you will never
see a drunkard’s watch without them. He winds it at
night, and he leaves these traces of his unsteady hand.
Where is the mystery in all this?”
“It is as clear as daylight,” I answered. “I regret
the injustice which I did you. I should have had more
faith in your marvellous faculty. May I ask whether
you have any professional inquiry on foot at present?”
“None. Hence the cocaine. I cannot live without
brain-work. What else is there to live for? Stand at the
window here. Was ever such a dreary, dismal, unprofitable world? See how the yellow fog swirls down the
street and drifts across the duncolored houses. What
could be more hopelessly prosaic and material? What
is the use of having powers, doctor, when one has
no field upon which to exert them? Crime is commonplace, existence is commonplace, and no qualities
save those which are commonplace have any function
upon earth.”
I had opened my mouth to reply to this tirade,
when with a crisp knock our landlady entered, bearing a card upon the brass salver.
“A young lady for you, sir,” she said, addressing
my companion.
“Miss Mary Morstan,” he read. “Hum! I have no
recollection of the name. Ask the young lady to step
up, Mrs. Hudson. Don’t go, doctor. I should prefer
that you remain.”
CHAPTER II.
The Statement of the Case
Miss Morstan entered the room with a firm step
and an outward composure of manner. She was a
blonde young lady, small, dainty, well gloved, and
dressed in the most perfect taste. There was, however, a plainness and simplicity about her costume
which bore with it a suggestion of limited means. The
dress was a sombre grayish beige, untrimmed and
unbraided, and she wore a small turban of the same
dull hue, relieved only by a suspicion of white feather
in the side. Her face had neither regularity of feature
nor beauty of complexion, but her expression was
sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly spiritual and sympathetic. In an experience of
women which extends over many nations and three
separate continents, I have never looked upon a face
which gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensitive nature. I could not but observe that as she took
the seat which Sherlock Holmes placed for her, her lip
70
trembled, her hand quivered, and she showed every
sign of intense inward agitation.
“I have come to you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, “because you once enabled my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic complication. She
was much impressed by your kindness and skill.”
“Mrs. Cecil Forrester,” he repeated thoughtfully.
“I believe that I was of some slight service to her. The
case, however, as I remember it, was a very simple
one.”
“She did not think so. But at least you cannot say
the same of mine. I can hardly imagine anything more
strange, more utterly inexplicable, than the situation
in which I find myself.”
Holmes rubbed his hands, and his eyes glistened.
He leaned forward in his chair with an expression of
The Statement of the Case
extraordinary concentration upon his clear-cut, hawklike features. “State your case,” said he, in brisk,
business tones.
I felt that my position was an embarrassing one.
“You will, I am sure, excuse me,” I said, rising from
my chair.
To my surprise, the young lady held up her gloved
hand to detain me. “If your friend,” she said, “would
be good enough to stop, he might be of inestimable
service to me.”
I relapsed into my chair.
“Briefly,” she continued, “the facts are these. My
father was an officer in an Indian regiment who sent
me home when I was quite a child. My mother was
dead, and I had no relative in England. I was placed,
however, in a comfortable boarding establishment at
Edinburgh, and there I remained until I was seventeen
years of age. In the year 1878 my father, who was senior captain of his regiment, obtained twelve months’
leave and came home. He telegraphed to me from
London that he had arrived all safe, and directed me
to come down at once, giving the Langham Hotel as
his address. His message, as I remember, was full of
kindness and love. On reaching London I drove to the
Langham, and was informed that Captain Morstan
was staying there, but that he had gone out the night
before and had not yet returned. I waited all day
without news of him. That night, on the advice of the
manager of the hotel, I communicated with the police,
and next morning we advertised in all the papers.
Our inquiries let to no result; and from that day to
this no word has ever been heard of my unfortunate
father. He came home with his heart full of hope, to
find some peace, some comfort, and instead—” She
put her hand to her throat, and a choking sob cut
short the sentence.
“The date?” asked Holmes, opening his note-book.
“He disappeared upon the 3d of December,
1878,—nearly ten years ago.”
“His luggage?”
“Remained at the hotel. There was nothing in it
to suggest a clue,—some clothes, some books, and a
considerable number of curiosities from the Andaman
Islands. He had been one of the officers in charge of
the convict-guard there.”
“Had he any friends in town?”
“Only one that we know of,—Major Sholto, of his
own regiment, the 34th Bombay Infantry. The major
had retired some little time before, and lived at Upper
Norwood. We communicated with him, of course,
but he did not even know that his brother officer was
in England.”
“A singular case,” remarked Holmes.
“I have not yet described to you the most singular part. About six years ago—to be exact, upon the
4th of May, 1882—an advertisement appeared in the
Times asking for the address of Miss Mary Morstan
and stating that it would be to her advantage to come
forward. There was no name or address appended. I
had at that time just entered the family of Mrs. Cecil
Forrester in the capacity of governess. By her advice I
published my address in the advertisement column.
The same day there arrived through the post a small
card-board box addressed to me, which I found to
contain a very large and lustrous pearl. No word of
writing was enclosed. Since then every year upon the
same date there has always appeared a similar box,
containing a similar pearl, without any clue as to the
sender. They have been pronounced by an expert to
be of a rare variety and of considerable value. You
can see for yourselves that they are very handsome.”
She opened a flat box as she spoke, and showed me
six of the finest pearls that I had ever seen.
“Your statement is most interesting,” said Sherlock
Holmes. “Has anything else occurred to you?”
“Yes, and no later than to-day. That is why I
have come to you. This morning I received this letter,
which you will perhaps read for yourself.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “The envelope too,
please. Postmark, London, S.W. Date, July 7. Hum!
Man’s thumb-mark on corner,—probably postman.
Best quality paper. Envelopes at sixpence a packet.
Particular man in his stationery. No address. ‘Be at
the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre to-night at seven o’clock. If you are distrustful,
bring two friends. You are a wronged woman, and
shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all
will be in vain. Your unknown friend.’ Well, really,
this is a very pretty little mystery. What do you intend
to do, Miss Morstan?”
“That is exactly what I want to ask you.”
“Then we shall most certainly go. You and I
and—yes, why, Dr. Watson is the very man. Your correspondent says two friends. He and I have worked
together before.”
“But would he come?” she asked, with something
appealing in her voice and expression.
“I should be proud and happy,” said I, fervently,
“if I can be of any service.”
“You are both very kind,” she answered. “I have
led a retired life, and have no friends whom I could
appeal to. If I am here at six it will do, I suppose?”
71
The Sign of the Four
“You must not be later,” said Holmes. “There is
one other point, however. Is this handwriting the
same as that upon the pearl-box addresses?”
“I have them here,” she answered, producing half
a dozen pieces of paper.
“You are certainly a model client. You have the
correct intuition. Let us see, now.” He spread out the
papers upon the table, and gave little darting glances
from one to the other. “They are disguised hands,
except the letter,” he said, presently, “but there can
be no question as to the authorship. See how the irrepressible Greek e will break out, and see the twirl of
the final s. They are undoubtedly by the same person.
I should not like to suggest false hopes, Miss Morstan,
but is there any resemblance between this hand and
that of your father?”
“Nothing could be more unlike.”
“I expected to hear you say so. We shall look out
for you, then, at six. Pray allow me to keep the papers. I may look into the matter before then. It is only
half-past three. Au revoir, then.”
“Au revoir,” said our visitor, and, with a bright,
kindly glance from one to the other of us, she replaced
her pearl-box in her bosom and hurried away. Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly
down the street, until the gray turban and white
feather were but a speck in the sombre crowd.
“What a very attractive woman!” I exclaimed, turning to my companion.
He had lit his pipe again, and was leaning back
with drooping eyelids. “Is she?” he said, languidly. “I
did not observe.”
“You really are an automaton,—a calculatingmachine!” I cried. “There is something positively
inhuman in you at times.”
He smiled gently. “It is of the first importance,” he
said, “not to allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities. A client is to me a mere unit,—a factor
in a problem. The emotional qualities are antagonistic
to clear reasoning. I assure you that the most winning
72
woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three
little children for their insurance-money, and the most
repellant man of my acquaintance is a philanthropist
who has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the
London poor.”
“In this case, however—”
“I never make exceptions. An exception disproves
the rule. Have you ever had occasion to study character in handwriting? What do you make of this fellow’s
scribble?”
“It is legible and regular,” I answered. “A man of
business habits and some force of character.”
Holmes shook his head. “Look at his long letters,”
he said. “They hardly rise above the common herd.
That d might be an a, and that l an e. Men of character
always differentiate their long letters, however illegibly they may write. There is vacillation in his k’s and
self-esteem in his capitals. I am going out now. I have
some few references to make. Let me recommend this
book,—one of the most remarkable ever penned. It is
Winwood Reade’s Martyrdom of Man. I shall be back
in an hour.”
I sat in the window with the volume in my hand,
but my thoughts were far from the daring speculations of the writer. My mind ran upon our late
visitor,—her smiles, the deep rich tones of her voice,
the strange mystery which overhung her life. If she
were seventeen at the time of her father’s disappearance she must be seven-and-twenty now,—a sweet
age, when youth has lost its self-consciousness and
become a little sobered by experience. So I sat and
mused, until such dangerous thoughts came into my
head that I hurried away to my desk and plunged
furiously into the latest treatise upon pathology. What
was I, an army surgeon with a weak leg and a weaker
banking-account, that I should dare to think of such
things? She was a unit, a factor,—nothing more. If
my future were black, it was better surely to face it
like a man than to attempt to brighten it by mere
will-o’-the-wisps of the imagination.
In Quest of a Solution
CHAPTER III.
In Quest of a Solution
It was half-past five before Holmes returned. He
was bright, eager, and in excellent spirits,—a mood
which in his case alternated with fits of the blackest
depression.
“There is no great mystery in this matter,” he said,
taking the cup of tea which I had poured out for him.
“The facts appear to admit of only one explanation.”
“What! you have solved it already?”
“Well, that would be too much to say. I have discovered a suggestive fact, that is all. It is, however,
very suggestive. The details are still to be added. I
have just found, on consulting the back files of the
Times, that Major Sholto, of Upper Norword, late of
the 34th Bombay Infantry, died upon the 28th of April,
1882.”
“I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see
what this suggests.”
“No? You surprise me. Look at it in this way,
then. Captain Morstan disappears. The only person in London whom he could have visited is Major
Sholto. Major Sholto denies having heard that he was
in London. Four years later Sholto dies. Within a
week of his death Captain Morstan’s daughter receives
a valuable present, which is repeated from year to
year, and now culminates in a letter which describes
her as a wronged woman. What wrong can it refer
to except this deprivation of her father? And why
should the presents begin immediately after Sholto’s
death, unless it is that Sholto’s heir knows something
of the mystery and desires to make compensation?
Have you any alternative theory which will meet the
facts?”
“But what a strange compensation! And how
strangely made! Why, too, should he write a letter
now, rather than six years ago? Again, the letter
speaks of giving her justice. What justice can she
have? It is too much to suppose that her father is still
alive. There is no other injustice in her case that you
know of.”
“There are difficulties; there are certainly difficulties,” said Sherlock Holmes, pensively. “But our
expedition of to-night will solve them all. Ah, here is
a four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan is inside. Are you
all ready? Then we had better go down, for it is a
little past the hour.”
I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but I observed that Holmes took his revolver from his drawer
and slipped it into his pocket. It was clear that he
thought that our night’s work might be a serious one.
Miss Morstan was muffled in a dark cloak, and
her sensitive face was composed, but pale. She must
have been more than woman if she did not feel some
uneasiness at the strange enterprise upon which we
were embarking, yet her self-control was perfect, and
she readily answered the few additional questions
which Sherlock Holmes put to her.
“Major Sholto was a very particular friend of
papa’s,” she said. “His letters were full of allusions
to the major. He and papa were in command of the
troops at the Andaman Islands, so they were thrown
a great deal together. By the way, a curious paper was
found in papa’s desk which no one could understand.
I don’t suppose that it is of the slightest importance,
but I thought you might care to see it, so I brought it
with me. It is here.”
Holmes unfolded the paper carefully and
smoothed it out upon his knee. He then very methodically examined it all over with his double lens.
“It is paper of native Indian manufacture,” he remarked. “It has at some time been pinned to a board.
The diagram upon it appears to be a plan of part of
a large building with numerous halls, corridors, and
passages. At one point is a small cross done in red ink,
and above it is ‘3.37 from left,’ in faded pencil-writing.
In the left-hand corner is a curious hieroglyphic like
four crosses in a line with their arms touching. Beside
it is written, in very rough and coarse characters, ‘The
sign of the four,—Jonathan Small, Mahomet Singh,
Abdullah Khan, Dost Akbar.’ No, I confess that I
do not see how this bears upon the matter. Yet it is
evidently a document of importance. It has been kept
carefully in a pocket-book; for the one side is as clean
as the other.”
“It was in his pocket-book that we found it.”
“Preserve it carefully, then, Miss Morstan, for it
may prove to be of use to us. I begin to suspect that
this matter may turn out to be much deeper and more
subtle than I at first supposed. I must reconsider
my ideas.” He leaned back in the cab, and I could
see by his drawn brow and his vacant eye that he
was thinking intently. Miss Morstan and I chatted in
an undertone about our present expedition and its
possible outcome, but our companion maintained his
impenetrable reserve until the end of our journey.
It was a September evening, and not yet seven
o’clock, but the day had been a dreary one, and a
73
The Sign of the Four
dense drizzly fog lay low upon the great city. Mudcolored clouds drooped sadly over the muddy streets.
Down the Strand the lamps were but misty splotches
of diffused light which threw a feeble circular glimmer upon the slimy pavement. The yellow glare
from the shop-windows streamed out into the steamy,
vaporous air, and threw a murky, shifting radiance
across the crowded thoroughfare. There was, to my
mind, something eerie and ghost-like in the endless
procession of faces which flitted across these narrow
bars of light,—sad faces and glad, haggard and merry.
Like all human kind, they flitted from the gloom into
the light, and so back into the gloom once more. I
am not subject to impressions, but the dull, heavy
evening, with the strange business upon which we
were engaged, combined to make me nervous and
depressed. I could see from Miss Morstan’s manner
that she was suffering from the same feeling. Holmes
alone could rise superior to petty influences. He held
his open note-book upon his knee, and from time to
time he jotted down figures and memoranda in the
light of his pocket-lantern.
At the Lyceum Theatre the crowds were already
thick at the side-entrances. In front a continuous
stream of hansoms and four-wheelers were rattling
up, discharging their cargoes of shirt-fronted men
and beshawled, bediamonded women. We had hardly
reached the third pillar, which was our rendezvous,
before a small, dark, brisk man in the dress of a coachman accosted us.
“Are you the parties who come with Miss
Morstan?” he asked.
“I am Miss Morstan, and these two gentlemen are
my friends,” said she.
He bent a pair of wonderfully penetrating and
questioning eyes upon us. “You will excuse me, miss,”
he said with a certain dogged manner, “but I was to
ask you to give me your word that neither of your
companions is a police-officer.”
“I give you my word on that,” she answered.
He gave a shrill whistle, on which a street Arab led
across a four-wheeler and opened the door. The man
who had addressed us mounted to the box, while we
took our places inside. We had hardly done so before
the driver whipped up his horse, and we plunged
away at a furious pace through the foggy streets.
The situation was a curious one. We were driving
to an unknown place, on an unknown errand. Yet our
invitation was either a complete hoax,—which was an
inconceivable hypothesis,—or else we had good reason to think that important issues might hang upon
74
our journey. Miss Morstan’s demeanor was as resolute and collected as ever. I endeavored to cheer
and amuse her by reminiscences of my adventures
in Afghanistan; but, to tell the truth, I was myself so
excited at our situation and so curious as to our destination that my stories were slightly involved. To this
day she declares that I told her one moving anecdote
as to how a musket looked into my tent at the dead of
night, and how I fired a double-barrelled tiger cub at
it. At first I had some idea as to the direction in which
we were driving; but soon, what with our pace, the
fog, and my own limited knowledge of London, I lost
my bearings, and knew nothing, save that we seemed
to be going a very long way. Sherlock Holmes was
never at fault, however, and he muttered the names
as the cab rattled through squares and in and out by
tortuous by-streets.
“Rochester Row,” said he. “Now Vincent Square.
Now we come out on the Vauxhall Bridge Road. We
are making for the Surrey side, apparently. Yes, I
thought so. Now we are on the bridge. You can catch
glimpses of the river.”
We did indeed bet a fleeting view of a stretch of
the Thames with the lamps shining upon the broad,
silent water; but our cab dashed on, and was soon
involved in a labyrinth of streets upon the other side.
“Wordsworth Road,” said my companion. “Priory
Road. Lark Hall Lane. Stockwell Place. Robert Street.
Cold Harbor Lane. Our quest does not appear to take
us to very fashionable regions.”
We had, indeed, reached a questionable and forbidding neighborhood. Long lines of dull brick
houses were only relieved by the coarse glare and
tawdry brilliancy of public houses at the corner. Then
came rows of two-storied villas each with a fronting of
miniature garden, and then again interminable lines
of new staring brick buildings,—the monster tentacles
which the giant city was throwing out into the country.
At last the cab drew up at the third house in a new
terrace. None of the other houses were inhabited, and
that at which we stopped was as dark as its neighbors, save for a single glimmer in the kitchen window.
On our knocking, however, the door was instantly
thrown open by a Hindoo servant clad in a yellow
turban, white loose-fitting clothes, and a yellow sash.
There was something strangely incongruous in this
Oriental figure framed in the commonplace door-way
of a third-rate suburban dwelling-house.
“The Sahib awaits you,” said he, and even as he
spoke there came a high piping voice from some inner room. “Show them in to me, khitmutgar,” it cried.
“Show them straight in to me.”
The Story of the Bald-Headed Man
CHAPTER IV.
The Story of the Bald-Headed Man
We followed the Indian down a sordid and common passage, ill lit and worse furnished, until he
came to a door upon the right, which he threw open.
A blaze of yellow light streamed out upon us, and in
the centre of the glare there stood a small man with
a very high head, a bristle of red hair all round the
fringe of it, and a bald, shining scalp which shot out
from among it like a mountain-peak from fir-trees.
He writhed his hands together as he stood, and his
features were in a perpetual jerk, now smiling, now
scowling, but never for an instant in repose. Nature
had given him a pendulous lip, and a too visible line
of yellow and irregular teeth, which he strove feebly
to conceal by constantly passing his hand over the
lower part of his face. In spite of his obtrusive baldness, he gave the impression of youth. In point of fact
he had just turned his thirtieth year.
“Your servant, Miss Morstan,” he kept repeating,
in a thin, high voice. “Your servant, gentlemen. Pray
step into my little sanctum. A small place, miss, but
furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art in the
howling desert of South London.”
We were all astonished by the appearance of the
apartment into which he invited us. In that sorry
house it looked as out of place as a diamond of the
first water in a setting of brass. The richest and glossiest of curtains and tapestries draped the walls, looped
back here and there to expose some richly-mounted
painting or Oriental vase. The carpet was of amberand-black, so soft and so thick that the foot sank
pleasantly into it, as into a bed of moss. Two great
tiger-skins thrown athwart it increased the suggestion
of Eastern luxury, as did a huge hookah which stood
upon a mat in the corner. A lamp in the fashion of a
silver dove was hung from an almost invisible golden
wire in the centre of the room. As it burned it filled
the air with a subtle and aromatic odor.
“Mr. Thaddeus Sholto,” said the little man, still
jerking and smiling. “That is my name. You are Miss
Morstan, of course. And these gentlemen—”
“This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson.”
“A doctor, eh?” cried he, much excited. “Have you
your stethoscope? Might I ask you—would you have
the kindness? I have grave doubts as to my mitral
valve, if you would be so very good. The aortic I may
rely upon, but I should value your opinion upon the
mitral.”
I listened to his heart, as requested, but was unable to find anything amiss, save indeed that he was
in an ecstasy of fear, for he shivered from head to foot.
“It appears to be normal,” I said. “You have no cause
for uneasiness.”
“You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan,” he
remarked, airily. “I am a great sufferer, and I have
long had suspicions as to that valve. I am delighted
to hear that they are unwarranted. Had your father,
Miss Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon
his heart, he might have been alive now.”
I could have struck the man across the face, so
hot was I at this callous and off-hand reference to so
delicate a matter. Miss Morstan sat down, and her
face grew white to the lips. “I knew in my heart that
he was dead,” said she.
“I can give you every information,” said he, “and,
what is more, I can do you justice; and I will, too,
whatever Brother Bartholomew may say. I am so glad
to have your friends here, not only as an escort to you,
but also as witnesses to what I am about to do and
say. The three of us can show a bold front to Brother
Bartholomew. But let us have no outsiders,—no police or officials. We can settle everything satisfactorily
among ourselves, without any interference. Nothing would annoy Brother Bartholomew more than
any publicity.” He sat down upon a low settee and
blinked at us inquiringly with his weak, watery blue
eyes.
“For my part,” said Holmes, “whatever you may
choose to say will go no further.”
I nodded to show my agreement.
“That is well! That is well!” said he. “May I
offer you a glass of Chianti, Miss Morstan? Or of
Tokay? I keep no other wines. Shall I open a flask?
No? Well, then, I trust that you have no objection
to tobacco-smoke, to the mild balsamic odor of the
Eastern tobacco. I am a little nervous, and I find my
hookah an invaluable sedative.” He applied a taper
to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbled merrily
through the rose-water. We sat all three in a semicircle, with our heads advanced, and our chins upon our
hands, while the strange, jerky little fellow, with his
high, shining head, puffed uneasily in the centre.
“When I first determined to make this communication to you,” said he, “I might have given you
my address, but I feared that you might disregard
my request and bring unpleasant people with you. I
took the liberty, therefore, of making an appointment
75
The Sign of the Four
in such a way that my man Williams might be able
to see you first. I have complete confidence in his
discretion, and he had orders, if he were dissatisfied,
to proceed no further in the matter. You will excuse
these precautions, but I am a man of somewhat retiring, and I might even say refined, tastes, and there is
nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman. I have a
natural shrinking from all forms of rough materialism.
I seldom come in contact with the rough crowd. I live,
as you see, with some little atmosphere of elegance
around me. I may call myself a patron of the arts. It
is my weakness. The landscape is a genuine Corot,
and, though a connoisseur might perhaps throw a
doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there cannot be the
least question about the Bouguereau. I am partial to
the modern French school.”
“You will excuse me, Mr. Sholto,” said Miss
Morstan, “but I am here at your request to learn
something which you desire to tell me. It is very late,
and I should desire the interview to be as short as
possible.”
“At the best it must take some time,” he answered;
“for we shall certainly have to go to Norwood and
see Brother Bartholomew. We shall all go and try if
we can get the better of Brother Bartholomew. He is
very angry with me for taking the course which has
seemed right to me. I had quite high words with him
last night. You cannot imagine what a terrible fellow
he is when he is angry.”
“If we are to go to Norwood it would perhaps be
as well to start at once,” I ventured to remark.
He laughed until his ears were quite red. “That
would hardly do,” he cried. “I don’t know what he
would say if I brought you in that sudden way. No, I
must prepare you by showing you how we all stand
to each other. In the first place, I must tell you that
there are several points in the story of which I am
myself ignorant. I can only lay the facts before you as
far as I know them myself.
“My father was, as you may have guessed, Major
John Sholto, once of the Indian army. He retired some
eleven years ago, and came to live at Pondicherry
Lodge in Upper Norwood. He had prospered in India, and brought back with him a considerable sum
of money, a large collection of valuable curiosities,
and a staff of native servants. With these advantages
he bought himself a house, and lived in great luxury.
My twin-brother Bartholomew and I were the only
children.
“I very well remember the sensation which was
caused by the disappearance of Captain Morstan. We
76
read the details in the papers, and, knowing that he
had been a friend of our father’s, we discussed the
case freely in his presence. He used to join in our
speculations as to what could have happened. Never
for an instant did we suspect that he had the whole
secret hidden in his own breast,—that of all men he
alone knew the fate of Arthur Morstan.
“We did know, however, that some mystery—some
positive danger—overhung our father. He was very
fearful of going out alone, and he always employed
two prize-fighters to act as porters at Pondicherry
Lodge. Williams, who drove you to-night, was one
of them. He was once light-weight champion of England. Our father would never tell us what it was he
feared, but he had a most marked aversion to men
with wooden legs. On one occasion he actually fired
his revolver at a wooden-legged man, who proved to
be a harmless tradesman canvassing for orders. We
had to pay a large sum to hush the matter up. My
brother and I used to think this a mere whim of my
father’s, but events have since led us to change our
opinion.
“Early in 1882 my father received a letter from
India which was a great shock to him. He nearly
fainted at the breakfast-table when he opened it, and
from that day he sickened to his death. What was in
the letter we could never discover, but I could see as
he held it that it was short and written in a scrawling
hand. He had suffered for years from an enlarged
spleen, but he now became rapidly worse, and towards the end of April we were informed that he was
beyond all hope, and that he wished to make a last
communication to us.
“When we entered his room he was propped up
with pillows and breathing heavily. He besought us
to lock the door and to come upon either side of the
bed. Then, grasping our hands, he made a remarkable
statement to us, in a voice which was broken as much
by emotion as by pain. I shall try and give it to you
in his own very words.
“ ‘I have only one thing,’ he said, ‘which weighs
upon my mind at this supreme moment. It is my treatment of poor Morstan’s orphan. The cursed greed
which has been my besetting sin through life has
withheld from her the treasure, half at least of which
should have been hers. And yet I have made no use
of it myself,—so blind and foolish a thing is avarice.
The mere feeling of possession has been so dear to me
that I could not bear to share it with another. See that
chaplet dipped with pearls beside the quinine-bottle.
Even that I could not bear to part with, although I had
got it out with the design of sending it to her. You, my
The Story of the Bald-Headed Man
sons, will give her a fair share of the Agra treasure.
But send her nothing—not even the chaplet—until I
am gone. After all, men have been as bad as this and
have recovered.
“ ‘I will tell you how Morstan died,’ he continued.
‘He had suffered for years from a weak heart, but he
concealed it from every one. I alone knew it. When
in India, he and I, through a remarkable chain of circumstances, came into possession of a considerable
treasure. I brought it over to England, and on the
night of Morstan’s arrival he came straight over here
to claim his share. He walked over from the station,
and was admitted by my faithful Lal Chowdar, who is
now dead. Morstan and I had a difference of opinion
as to the division of the treasure, and we came to
heated words. Morstan had sprung out of his chair in
a paroxysm of anger, when he suddenly pressed his
hand to his side, his face turned a dusky hue, and he
fell backwards, cutting his head against the corner of
the treasure-chest. When I stooped over him I found,
to my horror, that he was dead.
“ ‘For a long time I sat half distracted, wondering
what I should do. My first impulse was, of course,
to call for assistance; but I could not but recognize
that there was every chance that I would be accused
of his murder. His death at the moment of a quarrel,
and the gash in his head, would be black against me.
Again, an official inquiry could not be made without
bringing out some facts about the treasure, which I
was particularly anxious to keep secret. He had told
me that no soul upon earth knew where he had gone.
There seemed to be no necessity why any soul ever
should know.
“ ‘I was still pondering over the matter, when, looking up, I saw my servant, Lal Chowdar, in the doorway. He stole in and bolted the door behind him.
“Do not fear, Sahib,” he said. “No one need know
that you have killed him. Let us hide him away, and
who is the wiser?” “I did not kill him,” said I. Lal
Chowdar shook his head and smiled. “I heard it all,
Sahib,” said he. “I heard you quarrel, and I heard
the blow. But my lips are sealed. All are asleep in
the house. Let us put him away together.” That was
enough to decide met. If my own servant could not
believe my innocence, how could I hope to make it
good before twelve foolish tradesmen in a jury-box?
Lal Chowdar and I disposed of the body that night,
and within a few days the London papers were full
of the mysterious disappearance of Captain Morstan.
You will see from what I say that I can hardly be
blamed in the matter. My fault lies in the fact that
we concealed not only the body, but also the treasure,
and that I have clung to Morstan’s share as well as to
my own. I wish you, therefore, to make restitution.
Put your ears down to my mouth. The treasure is
hidden in—At this instant a horrible change came
over his expression; his eyes stared wildly, his jaw
dropped, and he yelled, in a voice which I can never
forget, ‘Keep him out! For Christ’s sake keep him
out’! We both stared round at the window behind us
upon which his gaze was fixed. A face was looking in
at us out of the darkness. We could see the whitening
of the nose where it was pressed against the glass. It
was a bearded, hairy face, with wild cruel eyes and an
expression of concentrated malevolence. My brother
and I rushed towards the window, but the man was
gone. When we returned to my father his head had
dropped and his pulse had ceased to beat.
“We searched the garden that night, but found no
sign of the intruder, save that just under the window
a single footmark was visible in the flower-bed. But
for that one trace, we might have thought that our
imaginations had conjured up that wild, fierce face.
We soon, however, had another and a more striking
proof that there were secret agencies at work all round
us. The window of my father’s room was found open
in the morning, his cupboards and boxes had been
rifled, and upon his chest was fixed a torn piece of
paper, with the words ‘The sign of the four’ scrawled
across it. What the phrase meant, or who our secret
visitor may have been, we never knew. As far as we
can judge, none of my father’s property had been
actually stolen, though everything had been turned
out. My brother and I naturally associated this peculiar incident with the fear which haunted my father
during his life; but it is still a complete mystery to
us.”
The little man stopped to relight his hookah and
puffed thoughtfully for a few moments. We had all sat
absorbed, listening to his extraordinary narrative. At
the short account of her father’s death Miss Morstan
had turned deadly white, and for a moment I feared
that she was about to faint. She rallied however, on
drinking a glass of water which I quietly poured out
for her from a Venetian carafe upon the side-table.
Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair with an
abstracted expression and the lids drawn low over
his glittering eyes. As I glanced at him I could not
but think how on that very day he had complained
bitterly of the commonplaceness of life. Here at least
was a problem which would tax his sagacity to the
utmost. Mr. Thaddeus Sholto looked from one to the
other of us with an obvious pride at the effect which
his story had produced, and then continued between
77
The Sign of the Four
the puffs of his overgrown pipe.
“My brother and I,” said he, “were, as you may
imagine, much excited as to the treasure which my
father had spoken of. For weeks and for months we
dug and delved in every part of the garden, without
discovering its whereabouts. It was maddening to
think that the hiding-place was on his very lips at the
moment that he died. We could judge the splendor of
the missing riches by the chaplet which he had taken
out. Over this chaplet my brother Bartholomew and I
had some little discussion. The pearls were evidently
of great value, and he was averse to part with them,
for, between friends, my brother was himself a little
inclined to my father’s fault. He thought, too, that
if we parted with the chaplet it might give rise to
gossip and finally bring us into trouble. It was all that
I could do to persuade him to let me find out Miss
Morstan’s address and send her a detached pearl at
fixed intervals, so that at least she might never feel
destitute.”
“It was a kindly thought,” said our companion,
earnestly. “It was extremely good of you.”
The little man waved his hand deprecatingly. “We
were your trustees,” he said. ”That was the view
which I took of it, though Brother Bartholomew could
not altogether see it in that light. We had plenty
of money ourselves. I desired no more. Besides, it
would have been such bad taste to have treated a
young lady in so scurvy a fashion. ‘Le mauvais goût
mène au crime.’ The French have a very neat way of
putting these things. Our difference of opinion on
this subject went so far that I thought it best to set up
rooms for myself: so I left Pondicherry Lodge, taking
the old khitmutgar and Williams with me. Yesterday,
however, I learn that an event of extreme importance
has occurred. The treasure has been discovered. I
instantly communicated with Miss Morstan, and it
only remains for us to drive out to Norwood and
demand our share. I explained my views last night to
Brother Bartholomew: so we shall be expected, if not
welcome, visitors.”
Mr. Thaddeus Sholto ceased, and sat twitching
on his luxurious settee. We all remained silent, with
our thoughts upon the new development which the
mysterious business had taken. Holmes was the first
to spring to his feet.
“You have done well, sir, from first to last,” said he.
“It is possible that we may be able to make you some
small return by throwing some light upon that which
is still dark to you. But, as Miss Morstan remarked
just now, it is late, and we had best put the matter
through without delay.”
78
Our new acquaintance very deliberately coiled up
the tube of his hookah, and produced from behind a
curtain a very long befrogged topcoat with Astrakhan
collar and cuffs. This he buttoned tightly up, in spite
of the extreme closeness of the night, and finished his
attire by putting on a rabbit-skin cap with hanging
lappets which covered the ears, so that no part of
him was visible save his mobile and peaky face. “My
health is somewhat fragile,” he remarked, as he led
the way down the passage. “I am compelled to be a
valetudinarian.”
Our cab was awaiting us outside, and our programme was evidently prearranged, for the driver
started off at once at a rapid pace. Thaddeus Sholto
talked incessantly, in a voice which rose high above
the rattle of the wheels.
“Bartholomew is a clever fellow,” said he. “How
do you think he found out where the treasure was?
He had come to the conclusion that it was somewhere
indoors: so he worked out all the cubic space of the
house, and made measurements everywhere, so that
not one inch should be unaccounted for. Among other
things, he found that the height of the building was
seventy-four feet, but on adding together the heights
of all the separate rooms, and making every allowance
for the space between, which he ascertained by borings, he could not bring the total to more than seventy
feet. There were four feet unaccounted for. These
could only be at the top of the building. He knocked
a hole, therefore, in the lath-and-plaster ceiling of the
highest room, and there, sure enough, he came upon
another little garret above it, which had been sealed
up and was known to no one. In the centre stood the
treasure-chest, resting upon two rafters. He lowered
it through the hole, and there it lies. He computes
the value of the jewels at not less than half a million
sterling.”
At the mention of this gigantic sum we all stared
at one another open-eyed. Miss Morstan, could we
secure her rights, would change from a needy governess to the richest heiress in England. Surely it was
the place of a loyal friend to rejoice at such news;
yet I am ashamed to say that selfishness took me by
the soul, and that my heart turned as heavy as lead
within me. I stammered out some few halting words
of congratulation, and then sat downcast, with my
head drooped, deaf to the babble of our new acquaintance. He was clearly a confirmed hypochondriac,
and I was dreamily conscious that he was pouring
forth interminable trains of symptoms, and imploring information as to the composition and action of
innumerable quack nostrums, some of which he bore
The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge
about in a leather case in his pocket. I trust that he
may not remember any of the answers which I gave
him that night. Holmes declares that he overheard me
caution him against the great danger of taking more
than two drops of castor oil, while I recommended
strychnine in large doses as a sedative. However that
may be, I was certainly relieved when our cab pulled
up with a jerk and the coachman sprang down to
open the door.
“This, Miss Morstan, is Pondicherry Lodge,” said
Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, as he handed her out.
CHAPTER V.
The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge
It was nearly eleven o’clock when we reached
this final stage of our night’s adventures. We had
left the damp fog of the great city behind us, and the
night was fairly fine. A warm wind blew from the
westward, and heavy clouds moved slowly across the
sky, with half a moon peeping occasionally through
the rifts. It was clear enough to see for some distance,
but Thaddeus Sholto took down one of the side-lamps
from the carriage to give us a better light upon our
way.
Pondicherry Lodge stood in its own grounds, and
was girt round with a very high stone wall topped
with broken glass. A single narrow iron-clamped
door formed the only means of entrance. On this our
guide knocked with a peculiar postman-like rat-tat.
“Who is there?” cried a gruff voice from within.
“It is I, McMurdo. You surely know my knock by
this time.”
There was a grumbling sound and a clanking and
jarring of keys. The door swung heavily back, and a
short, deep-chested man stood in the opening, with
the yellow light of the lantern shining upon his protruded face and twinkling distrustful eyes.
“That you, Mr. Thaddeus? But who are the others?
I had no orders about them from the master.”
“No, McMurdo? You surprise me! I told my
brother last night that I should bring some friends.
“He ain’t been out o’ his room to-day, Mr. Thaddeus, and I have no orders. You know very well that
I must stick to regulations. I can let you in, but your
friends must just stop where they are.”
This was an unexpected obstacle. Thaddeus Sholto
looked about him in a perplexed and helpless manner.
“This is too bad of you, McMurdo!” he said. “If I
guarantee them, that is enough for you. There is the
young lady, too. She cannot wait on the public road
at this hour.”
“Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus,” said the porter, inexorably. “Folk may be friends o’ yours, and yet no
friends o’ the master’s. He pays me well to do my
duty, and my duty I’ll do. I don’t know none o’ your
friends.”
“Oh, yes you do, McMurdo,” cried Sherlock
Holmes, genially. “I don’t think you can have forgotten me. Don’t you remember the amateur who
fought three rounds with you at Alison’s rooms on
the night of your benefit four years back?”
“Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” roared the prizefighter. “God’s truth! how could I have mistook
you? If instead o’ standin’ there so quiet you had
just stepped up and given me that cross-hit of yours
under the jaw, I’d ha’ known you without a question.
Ah, you’re one that has wasted your gifts, you have!
You might have aimed high, if you had joined the
fancy.”
“You see, Watson, if all else fails me I have still one
of the scientific professions open to me,” said Holmes,
laughing. “Our friend won’t keep us out in the cold
now, I am sure.”
“In you come, sir, in you come,—you and your
friends,” he answered. “Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus,
but orders are very strict. Had to be certain of your
friends before I let them in.”
Inside, a gravel path wound through desolate
grounds to a huge clump of a house, square and
prosaic, all plunged in shadow save where a moonbeam struck one corner and glimmered in a garret
79
The Sign of the Four
window. The vast size of the building, with its gloom
and its deathly silence, struck a chill to the heart. Even
Thaddeus Sholto seemed ill at ease, and the lantern
quivered and rattled in his hand.
“I cannot understand it,” he said. “There must
be some mistake. I distinctly told Bartholomew that
we should be here, and yet there is no light in his
window. I do not know what to make of it.”
“Does he always guard the premises in this way?”
asked Holmes.
“Yes; he has followed my father’s custom. He was
the favorite son, you know, and I sometimes think
that my father may have told him more than he ever
told me. That is Bartholomew’s window up there
where the moonshine strikes. It is quite bright, but
there is no light from within, I think.”
“None,” said Holmes. “But I see the glint of a
light in that little window beside the door.”
“Ah, that is the housekeeper’s room. That is where
old Mrs. Bernstone sits. She can tell us all about it.
But perhaps you would not mind waiting here for a
minute or two, for if we all go in together and she
has no word of our coming she may be alarmed. But
hush! what is that?”
He held up the lantern, and his hand shook until
the circles of light flickered and wavered all round us.
Miss Morstan seized my wrist, and we all stood with
thumping hearts, straining our ears. From the great
black house there sounded through the silent night
the saddest and most pitiful of sounds,—the shrill,
broken whimpering of a frightened woman.
“It is Mrs. Bernstone,” said Sholto. “She is the
only woman in the house. Wait here. I shall be back
in a moment.” He hurried for the door, and knocked
in his peculiar way. We could see a tall old woman
admit him, and sway with pleasure at the very sight
of him.
“Oh, Mr. Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have
come! I am so glad you have come, Mr. Thaddeus,
sir!” We heard her reiterated rejoicings until the door
was closed and her voice died away into a muffled
monotone.
Our guide had left us the lantern. Holmes swung
it slowly round, and peered keenly at the house,
and at the great rubbish-heaps which cumbered the
grounds. Miss Morstan and I stood together, and
her hand was in mine. A wondrous subtle thing is
love, for here were we two who had never seen each
other before that day, between whom no word or even
look of affection had ever passed, and yet now in an
80
hour of trouble our hands instinctively sought for
each other. I have marvelled at it since, but at the
time it seemed the most natural thing that I should
go out to her so, and, as she has often told me, there
was in her also the instinct to turn to me for comfort
and protection. So we stood hand in hand, like two
children, and there was peace in our hearts for all the
dark things that surrounded us.
“What a strange place!” she said, looking round.
“It looks as though all the moles in England had
been let loose in it. I have seen something of the sort
on the side of a hill near Ballarat, where the prospectors had been at work.”
“And from the same cause,” said Holmes. “These
are the traces of the treasure-seekers. You must remember that they were six years looking for it. No
wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-pit.”
At that moment the door of the house burst open,
and Thaddeus Sholto came running out, with his
hands thrown forward and terror in his eyes.
“There is something amiss with Bartholomew!” he
cried. “I am frightened! My nerves cannot stand it.”
He was, indeed, half blubbering with fear, and his
twitching feeble face peeping out from the great Astrakhan collar had the helpless appealing expression
of a terrified child.
“Come into the house,” said Holmes, in his crisp,
firm way.
“Yes, do!” pleaded Thaddeus Sholto. “I really do
not feel equal to giving directions.”
We all followed him into the housekeeper’s room,
which stood upon the left-hand side of the passage.
The old woman was pacing up and down with a
scared look and restless picking fingers, but the sight
of Miss Morstan appeared to have a soothing effect
upon her.
“God bless your sweet calm face!” she cried, with
an hysterical sob. “It does me good to see you. Oh,
but I have been sorely tried this day!”
Our companion patted her thin, work-worn hand,
and murmured some few words of kindly womanly
comfort which brought the color back into the others
bloodless cheeks.
“Master has locked himself in and will now answer me,” she explained. “All day I have waited to
hear from him, for he often likes to be alone; but an
hour ago I feared that something was amiss, so I went
up and peeped through the key-hole. You must go
up, Mr. Thaddeus,—you must go up and look for
yourself. I have seen Mr. Bartholomew Sholto in joy
and in sorrow for ten long years, but I never saw him
with such a face on him as that.”
The Tragedy of Pondicherry Lodge
Sherlock Holmes took the lamp and led the way,
for Thaddeus Sholto’s teeth were chattering in his
head. So shaken was he that I had to pass my hand
under his arm as we went up the stairs, for his knees
were trembling under him. Twice as we ascended
Holmes whipped his lens out of his pocket and carefully examined marks which appeared to me to be
mere shapeless smudges of dust upon the cocoa-nut
matting which served as a stair-carpet. He walked
slowly from step to step, holding the lamp, and shooting keen glances to right and left. Miss Morstan had
remained behind with the frightened housekeeper.
The third flight of stairs ended in a straight passage of some length, with a great picture in Indian
tapestry upon the right of it and three doors upon
the left. Holmes advanced along it in the same slow
and methodical way, while we kept close at his heels,
with our long black shadows streaming backwards
down the corridor. The third door was that which we
were seeking. Holmes knocked without receiving any
answer, and then tried to turn the handle and force
it open. It was locked on the inside, however, and
by a broad and powerful bolt, as we could see when
we set our lamp up against it. The key being turned,
however, the hole was not entirely closed. Sherlock
Holmes bent down to it, and instantly rose again with
a sharp intaking of the breath.
“There is something devilish in this, Watson,” said
he, more moved than I had ever before seen him.
“What do you make of it?”
I stooped to the hole, and recoiled in horror. Moonlight was streaming into the room, and it was bright
with a vague and shifty radiance. Looking straight
at me, and suspended, as it were, in the air, for all
beneath was in shadow, there hung a face,—the very
face of our companion Thaddeus. There was the same
high, shining head, the same circular bristle of red
hair, the same bloodless countenance. The features
were set, however, in a horrible smile, a fixed and
unnatural grin, which in that still and moonlit room
was more jarring to the nerves than any scowl or contortion. So like was the face to that of our little friend
that I looked round at him to make sure that he was
indeed with us. Then I recalled to mind that he had
mentioned to us that his brother and he were twins.
“This is terrible!” I said to Holmes. “What is to be
done?”
“The door must come down,” he answered, and,
springing against it, he put all his weight upon the
lock. It creaked and groaned, but did not yield. Together we flung ourselves upon it once more, and this
time it gave way with a sudden snap, and we found
ourselves within Bartholomew Sholto’s chamber.
It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical
laboratory. A double line of glass-stoppered bottles
was drawn up upon the wall opposite the door, and
the table was littered over with Bunsen burners, testtubes, and retorts. In the corners stood carboys of acid
in wicker baskets. One of these appeared to leak or to
have been broken, for a stream of dark-colored liquid
had trickled out from it, and the air was heavy with a
peculiarly pungent, tar-like odor. A set of steps stood
at one side of the room, in the midst of a litter of lath
and plaster, and above them there was an opening in
the ceiling large enough for a man to pass through.
At the foot of the steps a long coil of rope was thrown
carelessly together.
By the table, in a wooden arm-chair, the master of
the house was seated all in a heap, with his head sunk
upon his left shoulder, and that ghastly, inscrutable
smile upon his face. He was stiff and cold, and had
clearly been dead many hours. It seemed to me that
not only his features but all his limbs were twisted
and turned in the most fantastic fashion. By his hand
upon the table there lay a peculiar instrument,—a
brown, close-grained stick, with a stone head like a
hammer, rudely lashed on with coarse twine. Beside
it was a torn sheet of note-paper with some words
scrawled upon it. Holmes glanced at it, and then
handed it to me.
“You see,” he said, with a significant raising of the
eyebrows.
In the light of the lantern I read, with a thrill of
horror, “The sign of the four.”
“In God’s name, what does it all mean?” I asked.
“It means murder,” said he, stooping over the
dead man. “Ah, I expected it. Look here!” He pointed
to what looked like a long, dark thorn stuck in the
skin just above the ear.
“It looks like a thorn,” said I.
“It is a thorn. You may pick it out. But be careful,
for it is poisoned.”
I took it up between my finger and thumb. It came
away from the skin so readily that hardly any mark
was left behind. One tiny speck of blood showed
where the puncture had been.
“This is all an insoluble mystery to me,” said I. “It
grows darker instead of clearer.”
“On the contrary,” he answered, “it clears every
instant. I only require a few missing links to have an
entirely connected case.”
81
The Sign of the Four
We had almost forgotten our companion’s presence since we entered the chamber. He was still standing in the door-way, the very picture of terror, wringing his hands and moaning to himself. Suddenly,
however, he broke out into a sharp, querulous cry.
“The treasure is gone!” he said. “They have robbed
him of the treasure! There is the hole through which
we lowered it. I helped him to do it! I was the last
person who saw him! I left him here last night, and I
heard him lock the door as I came down-stairs.”
“What time was that?”
“It was ten o’clock. And now he is dead, and the
police will be called in, and I shall be suspected of
having had a hand in it. Oh, yes, I am sure I shall. But
you don’t think so, gentlemen? Surely you don’t think
that it was I? Is it likely that I would have brought
you here if it were I? Oh, dear! oh, dear! I know that
I shall go mad!” He jerked his arms and stamped his
feet in a kind of convulsive frenzy.
“You have no reason for fear, Mr. Sholto,” said
Holmes, kindly, putting his hand upon his shoulder.
“Take my advice, and drive down to the station to
report this matter to the police. Offer to assist them
in every way. We shall wait here until your return.”
The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fashion,
and we heard him stumbling down the stairs in the
dark.
CHAPTER VI.
Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration
“Now, Watson,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands,
“we have half an hour to ourselves. Let us make
good use of it. My case is, as I have told you, almost
complete; but we must not err on the side of overconfidence. Simple as the case seems now, there may
be something deeper underlying it.”
“Simple!” I ejaculated.
“Surely,” said he, with something of the air of a
clinical professor expounding to his class. “Just sit in
the corner there, that your footprints may not complicate matters. Now to work! In the first place, how
did these folk come, and how did they go? The door
has not been opened since last night. How of the window?” He carried the lamp across to it, muttering his
observations aloud the while, but addressing them to
himself rather than to me. “Window is snibbed on
the inner side. Framework is solid. No hinges at the
side. Let us open it. No water-pipe near. Roof quite
out of reach. Yet a man has mounted by the window.
It rained a little last night. Here is the print of a foot
in mould upon the sill. And here is a circular muddy
mark, and here again upon the floor, and here again
by the table. See here, Watson! This is really a very
pretty demonstration.”
I looked at the round, well-defined muddy discs.
“This is not a footmark,” said I.
82
“It is something much more valuable to us. It
is the impression of a wooden stump. You see here
on the sill is the boot-mark, a heavy boot with the
broad metal heel, and beside it is the mark of the
timber-toe.”
“It is the wooden-legged man.”
“Quite so. But there has been some one else,—a
very able and efficient ally. Could you scale that wall,
doctor?”
I looked out of the open window. The moon still
shone brightly on that angle of the house. We were
a good sixty feet from the ground, and, look where
I would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a
crevice in the brick-work.
“It is absolutely impossible,” I answered.
“Without aid it is so. But suppose you had a friend
up here who lowered you this good stout rope which
I see in the corner, securing one end of it to this great
hook in the wall. Then, I think, if you were an active
man, you might swarm up, wooden leg and all. You
would depart, of course, in the same fashion, and
your ally would draw up the rope, untie it from the
hook, shut the window, snib it on the inside, and
get away in the way that he originally came. As a
minor point it may be noted,” he continued, fingering
the rope, “that our wooden-legged friend, though a
Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration
fair climber, was not a professional sailor. His hands
were far from horny. My lens discloses more than one
blood-mark, especially towards the end of the rope,
from which I gather that he slipped down with such
velocity that he took the skin off his hand.”
“This is all very well,” said I, “but the thing becomes more unintelligible than ever. How about this
mysterious ally? How came he into the room?”
“Yes, the ally!” repeated Holmes, pensively.
“There are features of interest about this ally. He
lifts the case from the regions of the commonplace.
I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the annals of crime in this country,—though parallel cases
suggest themselves from India, and, if my memory
serves me, from Senegambia.”
“How came he, then?” I reiterated. “The door is
locked, the window is inaccessible. Was it through
the chimney?”
“The grate is much too small,” he answered. “I
had already considered that possibility.”
“How then?” I persisted.
“You will not apply my precept,” he said, shaking
his head. “How often have I said to you that when
you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains,
however improbable, must be the truth? We know that
he did not come through the door, the window, or the
chimney. We also know that he could not have been
concealed in the room, as there is no concealment
possible. Whence, then, did he come?”
“He came through the hole in the roof,” I cried.
“Of course he did. He must have done so. If
you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for
me, we shall now extend our researches to the room
above,—the secret room in which the treasure was
found.”
He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung himself up into the garret. Then,
lying on his face, he reached down for the lamp and
held it while I followed him.
The chamber in which we found ourselves was
about ten feet one way and six the other. The floor
was formed by the rafters, with thin lath-and-plaster
between, so that in walking one had to step from
beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was
evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the house.
There was no furniture of any sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor.
“Here you are, you see,” said Sherlock Holmes,
putting his hand against the sloping wall. “This is a
trap-door which leads out on to the roof. I can press
it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle
angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One
entered. Let us see if we can find one other traces of
his individuality.”
He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he
did so I saw for the second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face. For myself,
as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my
clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints
of a naked foot,—clear, well defined, perfectly formed,
but scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man.
“Holmes,” I said, in a whisper, “a child has done
the horrid thing.”
He had recovered his self-possession in an instant.
“I was staggered for the moment,” he said, “but the
thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I
should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing
more to be learned here. Let us go down.”
“What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?”
I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the lower
room once more.
“My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself,”
said he, with a touch of impatience. “You know my
methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to
compare results.”
“I cannot conceive anything which will cover the
facts,” I answered.
“It will be clear enough to you soon,” he said, in
an off-hand way. “I think that there is nothing else
of importance here, but I will look.” He whipped out
his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about the
room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining,
with his long thin nose only a few inches from the
planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and deep-set
like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and furtive were
his movements, like those of a trained blood-hound
picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a
terrible criminal he would have made had he turned
his energy and sagacity against the law, instead of
exerting them in its defense. As he hunted about, he
kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out
into a loud crow of delight.
“We are certainly in luck,” said he. “We ought to
have very little trouble now. Number One has had
the misfortune to tread in the creosote. You can see
the outline of the edge of his small foot here at the
side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been
cracked, You see, and the stuff has leaked out.”
“What then?” I asked.
“Why, we have got him, that’s all,” said he. “I
know a dog that would follow that scent to the world’s
end. If a pack can track a trailed herring across a shire,
83
The Sign of the Four
how far can a specially-trained hound follow so pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule
of three. The answer should give us the—But halloo!
here are the accredited representatives of the law.”
Heavy steps and the clamor of loud voices were
audible from below, and the hall door shut with a
loud crash.
“Before they come,” said Holmes, “just put your
hand here on this poor fellow’s arm, and here on his
leg. What do you feel?”
“The muscles are as hard as a board,” I answered.
“Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding the usual rigor mortis. Coupled
with this distortion of the face, this Hippocratic smile,
or ‘risus sardonicus,’ as the old writers called it, what
conclusion would it suggest to your mind?”
“Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid,”
I answered,—“some strychnine-like substance which
would produce tetanus.”
“That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn muscles of the face. On getting
into the room I at once looked for the means by which
the poison had entered the system. As you saw, I discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with
no great force into the scalp. You observe that the part
struck was that which would be turned towards the
hole in the ceiling if the man were erect in his chair.
Now examine the thorn.”
I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the
lantern. It was long, sharp, and black, with a glazed
look near the point as though some gummy substance
had dried upon it. The blunt end had been trimmed
and rounded off with a knife.
“Is that an English thorn?” he asked.
“No, it certainly is not.”
“With all these data you should be able to draw
some just inference. But here are the regulars: so the
auxiliary forces may beat a retreat.”
As he spoke, the steps which had been coming
nearer sounded loudly on the passage, and a very
stout, portly man in a gray suit strode heavily into the
room. He was red-faced, burly and plethoric, with a
pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly
out from between swollen and puffy pouches. He was
closely followed by an inspector in uniform, and by
the still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto.
“Here’s a business!” he cried, in a muffled, husky
voice. “Here’s a pretty business! But who are all
these? Why, the house seems to be as full as a rabbitwarren!”
84
“I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney
Jones,” said Holmes, quietly.
“Why, of course I do!” he wheezed. “It’s Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the theorist. Remember you! I’ll never
forget how you lectured us all on causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case. It’s
true you set us on the right track; but you’ll own now
that it was more by good luck than good guidance.”
“It was a piece of very simple reasoning.”
“Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to own
up. But what is all this? Bad business! Bad business!
Stern facts here,—no room for theories. How lucky
that I happened to be out at Norwood over another
case! I was at the station when the message arrived.
What d’you think the man died of?”
“Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorize over,”
said Holmes, dryly.
“No, no. Still, we can’t deny that you hit the nail
on the head sometimes. Dear me! Door locked, I understand. Jewels worth half a million missing. How
was the window?”
“Fastened; but there are steps on the sill.”
“Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could have
nothing to do with the matter. That’s common sense.
Man might have died in a fit; but then the jewels are
missing. Ha! I have a theory. These flashes come
upon me at times.—Just step outside, sergeant, and
you, Mr. Sholto. Your friend can remain.—What do
you think of this, Holmes? Sholto was, on his own
confession, with his brother last night. The brother
died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off with the
treasure. How’s that?”
“On which the dead man very considerately got
up and locked the door on the inside.”
“Hum! There’s a flaw there. Let us apply common
sense to the matter. This Thaddeus Sholto was with
his brother; there was a quarrel; so much we know.
The brother is dead and the jewels are gone. So much
also we know. No one saw the brother from the time
Thaddeus left him. His bed had not been slept in.
Thaddeus is evidently in a most disturbed state of
mind. His appearance is—well, not attractive. You
see that I am weaving my web round Thaddeus. The
net begins to close upon him.”
“You are not quite in possession of the facts yet,”
said Holmes. “This splinter of wood, which I have
every reason to believe to be poisoned, was in the
man’s scalp where you still see the mark; this card,
inscribed as you see it, was on the table; and beside it
lay this rather curious stone-headed instrument. How
does all that fit into your theory?”
Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration
“Confirms it in every respect,” said the fat detective, pompously. “House is full of Indian curiosities.
Thaddeus brought this up, and if this splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may as well have made murderous
use of it as any other man. The card is some hocuspocus,—a blind, as like as not. The only question is,
how did he depart? Ah, of course, here is a hole in
the roof.” With great activity, considering his bulk,
he sprang up the steps and squeezed through into
the garret, and immediately afterwards we heard his
exulting voice proclaiming that he had found the trapdoor.
“He can find something,” remarked Holmes,
shrugging his shoulders. “He has occasional glimmerings of reason. Il n’y a pas des sots si incommodes
que ceux qui ont de l’esprit!”
“You see!” said Athelney Jones, reappearing down
the steps again. “Facts are better than mere theories,
after all. My view of the case is confirmed. There is
a trap-door communicating with the roof, and it is
partly open.”
“It was I who opened it.”
“Oh, indeed! You did notice it, then?” He seemed
a little crestfallen at the discovery. “Well, whoever
noticed it, it shows how our gentleman got away. Inspector!”
“Yes, sir,” from the passage.
“Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way.—Mr. Sholto, it
is my duty to inform you that anything which you
may say will be used against you. I arrest you in
the Queen’s name as being concerned in the death of
your brother.”
“There, now! Didn’t I tell you!” cried the poor
little man, throwing out his hands, and looking from
one to the other of us.
“Don’t trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto,” said
Holmes. “I think that I can engage to clear you of the
charge.”
“Don’t promise too much, Mr. Theorist,—don’t
promise too much!” snapped the detective. “You may
find it a harder matter than you think.”
“Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will
make you a free present of the name and description
of one of the two people who were in this room last
night. His name, I have every reason to believe, is
Jonathan Small. He is a poorly-educated man, small,
active, with his right leg off, and wearing a wooden
stump which is worn away upon the inner side. His
left boot has a coarse, square-toed sole, with an iron
band round the heel. He is a middle-aged man, much
sunburned, and has been a convict. These few indications may be of some assistance to you, coupled with
the fact that there is a good deal of skin missing from
the palm of his hand. The other man—”
“Ah! the other man—?” asked Athelney Jones, in a
sneering voice, but impressed none the less, as I could
easily see, by the precision of the other’s manner.
“Is a rather curious person,” said Sherlock Holmes,
turning upon his heel. “I hope before very long to
be able to introduce you to the pair of them. A word
with you, Watson.”
He led me out to the head of the stair. “This unexpected occurrence,” he said, “has caused us rather to
lose sight of the original purpose of our journey.”
“I have just been thinking so,” I answered. “It
is not right that Miss Morstan should remain in this
stricken house.”
“No. You must escort her home. She lives with
Mrs. Cecil Forrester, in Lower Camberwell: so it is
not very far. I will wait for you here if you will drive
out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?”
“By no means. I don’t think I could rest until I
know more of this fantastic business. I have seen
something of the rough side of life, but I give you my
word that this quick succession of strange surprises
to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I should
like, however, to see the matter through with you,
now that I have got so far.”
“Your presence will be of great service to me,” he
answered. “We shall work the case out independently,
and leave this fellow Jones to exult over any mare’snest which he may choose to construct. When you
have dropped Miss Morstan I wish you to go on to
No. 3 Pinchin Lane, down near the water’s edge at
Lambeth. The third house on the right-hand side is
a bird-stuffer’s: Sherman is the name. You will see a
weasel holding a young rabbit in the window. Knock
old Sherman up, and tell him, with my compliments,
that I want Toby at once. You will bring Toby back in
the cab with you.”
“A dog, I suppose.”
“Yes,—a queer mongrel, with a most amazing
power of scent. I would rather have Toby’s help than
that of the whole detective force of London.”
“I shall bring him, then,” said I. “It is one now.
I ought to be back before three, if I can get a fresh
horse.”
“And I,” said Holmes, “shall see what I can learn
from Mrs. Bernstone, and from the Indian servant,
who, Mr. Thaddeus tell me, sleeps in the next garret.
Then I shall study the great Jones’s methods and listen
to his not too delicate sarcasms. ‘Wir sind gewohnt, daß
die Menschen verhöhnen was sie nicht verstehen.’ Goethe
is always pithy.”
85
The Sign of the Four
CHAPTER VII.
The Episode of the Barrel
The police had brought a cab with them, and in
this I escorted Miss Morstan back to her home. After
the angelic fashion of women, she had borne trouble
with a calm face as long as there was some one weaker
than herself to support, and I had found her bright
and placid by the side of the frightened housekeeper.
In the cab, however, she first turned faint, and then
burst into a passion of weeping,—so sorely had she
been tried by the adventures of the night. She has
told me since that she thought me cold and distant
upon that journey. She little guessed the struggle
within my breast, or the effort of self-restraint which
held me back. My sympathies and my love went out
to her, even as my hand had in the garden. I felt
that years of the conventionalities of life could not
teach me to know her sweet, brave nature as had this
one day of strange experiences. Yet there were two
thoughts which sealed the words of affection upon
my lips. She was weak and helpless, shaken in mind
and nerve. It was to take her at a disadvantage to
obtrude love upon her at such a time. Worse still, she
was rich. If Holmes’s researches were successful, she
would be an heiress. Was it fair, was it honorable, that
a half-pay surgeon should take such advantage of an
intimacy which chance had brought about? Might she
not look upon me as a mere vulgar fortune-seeker?
I could not bear to risk that such a thought should
cross her mind. This Agra treasure intervened like an
impassable barrier between us.
It was nearly two o’clock when we reached Mrs.
Cecil Forrester’s. The servants had retired hours
ago, but Mrs. Forrester had been so interested by
the strange message which Miss Morstan had received that she had sat up in the hope of her return.
She opened the door herself, a middle-aged, graceful woman, and it gave me joy to see how tenderly
her arm stole round the other’s waist and how motherly was the voice in which she greeted her. She
was clearly no mere paid dependant, but an honored
friend. I was introduced, and Mrs. Forrester earnestly
begged me to step in and tell her our adventures. I
explained, however, the importance of my errand, and
promised faithfully to call and report any progress
which we might make with the case. As we drove
away I stole a glance back, and I still seem to see that
little group on the step, the two graceful, clinging
figures, the half-opened door, the hall light shining
through stained glass, the barometer, and the bright
stair-rods. It was soothing to catch even that passing
86
glimpse of a tranquil English home in the midst of
the wild, dark business which had absorbed us.
And the more I thought of what had happened,
the wilder and darker it grew. I reviewed the whole
extraordinary sequence of events as I rattled on
through the silent gas-lit streets. There was the original problem: that at least was pretty clear now. The
death of Captain Morstan, the sending of the pearls,
the advertisement, the letter,—we had had light upon
all those events. They had only led us, however, to a
deeper and far more tragic mystery. The Indian treasure, the curious plan found among Morstan’s baggage, the strange scene at Major Sholto’s death, the
rediscovery of the treasure immediately followed by
the murder of the discoverer, the very singular accompaniments to the crime, the footsteps, the remarkable
weapons, the words upon the card, corresponding
with those upon Captain Morstan’s chart,—here was
indeed a labyrinth in which a man less singularly
endowed than my fellow-lodger might well despair
of ever finding the clue.
Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby two-storied
brick houses in the lower quarter of Lambeth. I had
to knock for some time at No. 3 before I could make
my impression. At last, however, there was the glint
of a candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at
the upper window.
“Go on, you drunken vagabone,” said the face. “If
you kick up any more row I’ll open the kennels and
let out forty-three dogs upon you.”
“If you’ll let one out it’s just what I have come for,”
said I.
“Go on!” yelled the voice. “So help me gracious, I
have a wiper in the bag, an’ I’ll drop it on your ’ead
if you don’t hook it.”
“But I want a dog,” I cried.
“I won’t be argued with!” shouted Mr. Sherman.
“Now stand clear, for when I say ‘three,’ down goes
the wiper.”
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes—” I began, but the words
had a most magical effect, for the window instantly
slammed down, and within a minute the door was
unbarred and open. Mr. Sherman was a lanky, lean
old man, with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck, and
blue-tinted glasses.
“A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome,” said
he. “Step in, sir. Keep clear of the badger; for he bites.
The Episode of the Barrel
Ah, naughty, naughty, would you take a nip at the
gentleman?” This to a stoat which thrust its wicked
head and red eyes between the bars of its cage. “Don’t
mind that, sir: it’s only a slow-worm. It hain’t got no
fangs, so I gives it the run o’ the room, for it keeps the
bettles down. You must not mind my bein’ just a little
short wi’ you at first, for I’m guyed at by the children,
and there’s many a one just comes down this lane to
knock me up. What was it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes
wanted, sir?”
“He wanted a dog of yours.”
“Ah! that would be Toby.”
“Yes, Toby was the name.”
“Toby lives at No. 7 on the left here.” He moved
slowly forward with his candle among the queer animal family which he had gathered round him. In
the uncertain, shadowy light I could see dimly that
there were glancing, glimmering eyes peeping down
at us from every cranny and corner. Even the rafters
above our heads were lined by solemn fowls, who
lazily shifted their weight from one leg to the other
as our voices disturbed their slumbers.
Toby proved to an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared
creature, half spaniel and half lurcher, brown-andwhite in color, with a very clumsy waddling gait. It
accepted after some hesitation a lump of sugar which
the old naturalist handed to me, and, having thus
sealed an alliance, it followed me to the cab, and
made no difficulties about accompanying me. It had
just struck three on the Palace clock when I found
myself back once more at Pondicherry Lodge. The
ex-prize-fighter McMurdo had, I found, been arrested
as an accessory, and both he and Mr. Sholto had been
marched off to the station. Two constables guarded
the narrow gate, but they allowed me to pass with the
dog on my mentioning the detective’s name.
Holmes was standing on the door-step, with his
hands in his pockets, smoking his pipe.
“Ah, you have him there!” said he. “Good dog,
then! Athelney Jones has gone. We have had an
immense display of energy since you left. He has arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper,
the housekeeper, and the Indian servant. We have the
place to ourselves, but for a sergeant up-stairs. Leave
the dog here, and come up.”
We tied Toby to the hall table, and reascended
the stairs. The room was as we had left it, save that
a sheet had been draped over the central figure. A
weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the corner.
“Lend me your bull’s-eye, sergeant,” said my companion. “Now tie this bit of card round my neck,
so as to hang it in front of me. Thank you. Now I
must kick off my boots and stockings.—Just you carry
them down with you, Watson. I am going to do a
little climbing. And dip my handkerchief into the
creasote. That will do. Now come up into the garret
with me for a moment.”
We clambered up through the hole. Holmes
turned his light once more upon the footsteps in the
dust.
“I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks,”
he said. “Do you observe anything noteworthy about
them?”
“They belong,” I said, “to a child or a small
woman.”
“Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing
else?”
“They appear to be much as other footmarks.”
“Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right
foot in the dust. Now I make one with my naked foot
beside it. What is the chief difference?”
“Your toes are all cramped together. The other
print has each toe distinctly divided.”
“Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind.
Now, would you kindly step over to that flap-window
and smell the edge of the wood-work? I shall stay
here, as I have this handkerchief in my hand.”
I did as he directed, and was instantly conscious
of a strong tarry smell.
“That is where he put his foot in getting out. If
you can trace him, I should think that Toby will have
no difficulty. Now run down-stairs, loose the dog,
and look out for Blondin.”
By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on the roof, and I could see him
like an enormous glow-worm crawling very slowly
along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack
of chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then
vanished once more upon the opposite side. When I
made my way round there I found him seated at one
of the corner eaves.
“That You, Watson?” he cried.
“Yes.”
“This is the place. What is that black thing down
there?”
“A water-barrel.”
“Top on it?”
“Yes.”
“No sign of a ladder?”
“No.”
87
The Sign of the Four
“Confound the fellow! It’s a most break-neck
place. I ought to be able to come down where he
could climb up. The water-pipe feels pretty firm.
Here goes, anyhow.”
There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come steadily down the side of the wall. Then
with a light spring he came on to the barrel, and from
there to the earth.
“It was easy to follow him,” he said, drawing on
his stockings and boots. “Tiles were loosened the
whole way along, and in his hurry he had dropped
this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express
it.”
The object which he held up to me was a small
pocket or pouch woven out of colored grasses and
with a few tawdry beads strung round it. In shape
and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were
half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end
and rounded at the other, like that which had struck
Bartholomew Sholto.
“They are hellish things,” said he. “Look out that
you don’t prick yourself. I’m delighted to have them,
for the chances are that they are all he has. There
is the less fear of you or me finding one in our skin
before long. I would sooner face a Martini bullet,
myself. Are you game for a six-mile trudge, Watson?”
“Certainly,” I answered.
“Your leg will stand it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Here you are, doggy! Good old Toby! Smell it,
Toby, smell it!” He pushed the creasote handkerchief
under the dog’s nose, while the creature stood with
its fluffy legs separated, and with a most comical cock
to its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the bouquet
of a famous vintage. Holmes then threw the handkerchief to a distance, fastened a stout cord to the
mongrel’s collar, and let him to the foot of the waterbarrel. The creature instantly broke into a succession
of high, tremulous yelps, and, with his nose on the
ground, and his tail in the air, pattered off upon the
trail at a pace which strained his leash and kept us at
the top of our speed.
The east had been gradually whitening, and we
could now see some distance in the cold gray light.
The square, massive house, with its black, empty
windows and high, bare walls, towered up, sad and
forlorn, behind us. Our course let right across the
grounds, in and out among the trenches and pits
with which they were scarred and intersected. The
whole place, with its scattered dirt-heaps and illgrown shrubs, had a blighted, ill-omened look which
88
harmonized with the black tragedy which hung over
it.
On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along,
whining eagerly, underneath its shadow, and stopped
finally in a corner screened by a young beech. Where
the two walls joined, several bricks had been loosened,
and the crevices left were worn down and rounded
upon the lower side, as though they had frequently
been used as a ladder. Holmes clambered up, and,
taking the dog from me, he dropped it over upon the
other side.
“There’s the print of wooden-leg’s hand,” he remarked, as I mounted up beside him. “You see the
slight smudge of blood upon the white plaster. What
a lucky thing it is that we have had no very heavy
rain since yesterday! The scent will lie upon the road
in spite of their eight-and-twenty hours’ start.”
I confess that I had my doubts myself when I reflected upon the great traffic which had passed along
the London road in the interval. My fears were soon
appeased, however. Toby never hesitated or swerved,
but waddled on in his peculiar rolling fashion. Clearly,
the pungent smell of the creasote rose high above all
other contending scents.
“Do not imagine,” said Holmes, “that I depend for
my success in this case upon the mere chance of one
of these fellows having put his foot in the chemical. I
have knowledge now which would enable me to trace
them in many different ways. This, however, is the
readiest and, since fortune has put it into our hands,
I should be culpable if I neglected it. It has, however,
prevented the case from becoming the pretty little
intellectual problem which it at one time promised to
be. There might have been some credit to be gained
out of it, but for this too palpable clue.”
“There is credit, and to spare,” said I. “I assure
you, Holmes, that I marvel at the means by which
you obtain your results in this case, even more than I
did in the Jefferson Hope Murder. The thing seems
to me to be deeper and more inexplicable. How, for
example, could you describe with such confidence the
wooden-legged man?”
“Pshaw, my dear boy! it was simplicity itself. I
don’t wish to be theatrical. It is all patent and aboveboard. Two officers who are in command of a convictguard learn an important secret as to buried treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman
named Jonathan Small. You remember that we saw
the name upon the chart in Captain Morstan’s possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself and
his associates,—the sign of the four, as he somewhat
The Episode of the Barrel
dramatically called it. Aided by this chart, the officers—or one of them—gets the treasure and brings it
to England, leaving, we will suppose, some condition
under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then,
why did not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself?
The answer is obvious. The chart is dated at a time
when Morstan was brought into close association with
convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure because he and his associates were themselves convicts
and could not get away.”
“But that is mere speculation,” said I.
“It is more than that. It is the only hypothesis
which covers the facts. Let us see how it fits in with
the sequel. Major Sholto remains at peace for some
years, happy in the possession of his treasure. Then
he receives a letter from India which gives him a great
fright. What was that?”
“A letter to say that the men whom he had
wronged had been set free.”
“Or had escaped. That is much more likely, for
he would have known what their term of imprisonment was. It would not have been a surprise to him.
What does he do then? He guards himself against a
wooden-legged man,—a white man, mark you, for he
mistakes a white tradesman for him, and actually fires
a pistol at him. Now, only one white man’s name is on
the chart. The others are Hindoos or Mohammedans.
There is no other white man. Therefore we may say
with confidence that the wooden-legged man is identical with Jonathan Small. Does the reasoning strike
yo as being faulty?”
“No: it is clear and concise.”
“Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of
Jonathan Small. Let us look at it from his point of
view. He comes to England with the double idea of
regaining what he would consider to be his rights
and of having his revenge upon the man who had
wronged him. He found out where Sholto lived, and
very possibly he established communications with
some one inside the house. There is this butler, Lal
Rao, whom we have not seen. Mrs. Bernstone gives
him far from a good character. Small could not find
out, however, where the treasure was hid, for no one
ever knew, save the major and one faithful servant
who had died. Suddenly Small learns that the major
is on his death-bed. In a frenzy lest the secret of the
treasure die with him, he runs the gauntlet of the
guards, makes his way to the dying man’s window,
and is only deterred from entering by the presence
of his two sons. Mad with hate, however, against the
dead man, he enters the room that night, searches his
private papers in the hope of discovering some memorandum relating to the treasure, and finally leaves
a memento of his visit in the short inscription upon
the card. He had doubtless planned beforehand that
should he slay the major he would leave some such
record upon the body as a sign that it was not a common murder, but, from the point of view of the four
associates, something in the nature of an act of justice. Whimsical and bizarre conceits of this kind are
common enough in the annals of crime, and usually
afford valuable indications as to the criminal. Do you
follow all this?”
“Very clearly.”
“Now, what could Jonathan Small do? He could
only continue to keep a secret watch upon the efforts
made to find the treasure. Possibly he leaves England
and only comes back at intervals. Then comes the
discovery of the garret, and he is instantly informed
of it. We again trace the presence of some confederate
in the household. Jonathan, with his wooden leg, is
utterly unable to reach the lofty room of Bartholomew
Sholto. He takes with him, however, a rather curious
associate, who gets over this difficulty, but dips his
naked foot into creasote, whence come Toby, and a
six-mile limp for a half-pay officer with a damaged
tendo Achillis.”
“But it was the associate, and not Jonathan, who
committed the crime.”
“Quite so. And rather to Jonathan’s disgust, to
judge by the way the stamped about when he got into
the room. He bore no grudge against Bartholomew
Sholto, and would have preferred if he could have
been simply bound and gagged. He did not wish
to put his head in a halter. There was no help for it,
however: the savage instincts of his companion had
broken out, and the poison had done its work: so
Jonathan Small left his record, lowered the treasurebox to the ground, and followed it himself. That
was the train of events as far as I can decipher them.
Of course as to his personal appearance he must be
middle-aged, and must be sunburned after serving
his time in such an oven as the Andamans. His height
is readily calculated from the length of his stride, and
we know that he was bearded. His hairiness was
the one point which impressed itself upon Thaddeus
Sholto when he saw him at the window. I don’t know
that there is anything else.”
“The associate?”
“Ah, well, there is no great mystery in that. But
you will know all about it soon enough. How sweet
the morning air is! See how that one little cloud floats
89
The Sign of the Four
like a pink feather from some gigantic flamingo. Now
the red rim of the sun pushes itself over the London
cloud-bank. It shines on a good many folk, but on
none, I dare bet, who are on a stranger errand than
you and I. How small we feel with our petty ambitions
and strivings in the presence of the great elemental
forces of nature! Are you well up in your Jean Paul?”
“Fairly so. I worked back to him through Carlyle.”
“That was like following the brook to the parent
lake. He makes one curious but profound remark. It
is that the chief proof of man’s real greatness lies in
his perception of his own smallness. It argues, you
see, a power of comparison and of appreciation which
is in itself a proof of nobility. There is much food for
thought in Richter. You have not a pistol, have you?”
“I have my stick.”
“It is just possible that we may need something of
the sort if we get to their lair. Jonathan I shall leave
to you, but if the other turns nasty I shall shoot him
dead.” He took out his revolver as he spoke, and,
having loaded two of the chambers, he put it back
into the right-hand pocket of his jacket.
We had during this time been following the guidance of Toby down the half-rural villa-lined roads
which lead to the metropolis. Now, however, we were
beginning to come among continuous streets, where
laborers and dockmen were already astir, and slatternly women were taking down shutters and brushing door-steps. At the square-topped corner public houses business was just beginning, and roughlooking men were emerging, rubbing their sleeves
across their beards after their morning wet. Strange
dogs sauntered up and stared wonderingly at us as
we passed, but our inimitable Toby looked neither to
the right nor to the left, but trotted onwards with his
nose to the ground and an occasional eager whine
which spoke of a hot scent.
We had traversed Streatham, Brixton, Camberwell,
and now found ourselves in Kennington Lane, having
borne away through the side-streets to the east of the
Oval. The men whom we pursued seemed to have
taken a curiously zigzag road, with the idea probably
of escaping observation. They had never kept to the
90
main road if a parallel side-street would serve their
turn. At the foot of Kennington Lane they had edged
away to the left through Bond Street and Miles Street.
Where the latter street turns into Knight’s Place, Toby
ceased to advance, but began to run backwards and
forwards with one ear cocked and the other drooping,
the very picture of canine indecision. Then he waddled round in circles, looking up to us from time to
time, as if to ask for sympathy in his embarrassment.
“What the deuce is the matter with the dog?”
growled Holmes. “They surely would not take a
cab, or go off in a balloon.”
“Perhaps they stood here for some time,” I suggested.
“Ah! it’s all right. He’s off again,” said my companion, in a tone of relief.
He was indeed off, for after sniffing round again
he suddenly made up his mind, and darted away
with an energy and determination such as he had not
yet shown. The scent appeared to be much hotter
than before, for he had not even to put his nose on the
ground, but tugged at his leash and tried to break into
a run. I cold see by the gleam in Holmes’s eyes that
he thought we were nearing the end of our journey.
Our course now ran down Nine Elms until we
came to Broderick and Nelson’s large timber-yard,
just past the White Eagle tavern. Here the dog, frantic
with excitement, turned down through the side-gate
into the enclosure, where the sawyers were already
at work. On the dog raced through sawdust and
shavings, down an alley, round a passage, between
two wood-piles, and finally, with a triumphant yelp,
sprang upon a large barrel which still stood upon
the hand-trolley on which it had been brought. With
lolling tongue and blinking eyes, Toby stood upon the
cask, looking from one to the other of us for some
sign of appreciation. The staves of the barrel and
the wheels of the trolley were smeared with a dark
liquid, and the whole air was heavy with the smell of
creasote.
Sherlock Holmes and I looked blankly at each
other, and then burst simultaneously into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
The Baker Street Irregulars
CHAPTER VIII.
The Baker Street Irregulars
“What now?” I asked. “Toby has lost his character
for infallibility.”
“He acted according to his lights,” said Holmes,
lifting him down from the barrel and walking him
out of the timber-yard. “If you consider how much
creasote is carted about London in one day, it is no
great wonder that our trail should have been crossed.
It is much used now, especially for the seasoning of
wood. Poor Toby is not to blame.”
“We must get on the main scent again, I suppose.”
“Yes. And, fortunately, we have no distance to
go. Evidently what puzzled the dog at the corner of
Knight’s Place was that there were two different trails
running in opposite directions. We took the wrong
one. It only remains to follow the other.”
There was no difficulty about this. On leading
Toby to the place where he had committed his fault,
he cast about in a wide circle and finally dashed off
in a fresh direction.
“We must take care that he does not now bring us
to the place where the creasote-barrel came from,” I
observed.
“I had thought of that. But you notice that he
keeps on the pavement, whereas the barrel passed
down the roadway. No, we are on the true scent
now.”
It tended down towards the river-side, running
through Belmont Place and Prince’s Street. At the end
of Broad Street it ran right down to the water’s edge,
where there was a small wooden wharf. Toby led
us to the very edge of this, and there stood whining,
looking out on the dark current beyond.
“We are out of luck,” said Holmes. “They have
taken to a boat here.” Several small punts and skiffs
were lying about in the water and on the edge of
the wharf. We took Toby round to each in turn, but,
though he sniffed earnestly, he made no sign.
Close to the rude landing-stage was a small brick
house, with a wooden placard slung out through the
second window. “Mordecai Smith” was printed across
it in large letters, and, underneath, “Boats to hire by
the hour or day.” A second inscription above the door
informed us that a steam launch was kept,—a statement which was confirmed by a great pile of coke
upon the jetty. Sherlock Holmes looked slowly round,
and his face assumed an ominous expression.
“This looks bad,” said he. “These fellows are
sharper than I expected. They seem to have covered
their tracks. There has, I fear, been preconcerted management here.”
He was approaching the door of the house, when
it opened, and a little, curly-headed lad of six came
running out, followed by a stoutish, red-faced woman
with a large sponge in her hand.
“You come back and be washed, Jack,” she
shouted. “Come back, you young imp; for if your
father comes home and finds you like that, he’ll let us
hear of it.”
“Dear little chap!” said Holmes, strategically.
“What a rosy-cheeked young rascal! Now, Jack, is
there anything you would like?”
The youth pondered for a moment. “I’d like a
shillin’,” said he.
“Nothing you would like better?”
“I’d like two shillin’ better,” the prodigy answered,
after some thought.
“Here you are, then! Catch!—A fine child, Mrs.
Smith!”
“Lor’ bless you, sir, he is that, and forward. He
gets a’most too much for me to manage, ’specially
when my man is away days at a time.”
“Away, is he?” said Holmes, in a disappointed
voice. “I am sorry for that, for I wanted to speak to
Mr. Smith.”
“He’s been away since yesterday mornin’, sir, and,
truth to tell, I am beginnin’ to feel frightened about
him. But if it was about a boat, sir, maybe I could
serve as well.”
“I wanted to hire his steam launch.”
“Why, bless you, sir, it is in the steam launch that
he has gone. That’s what puzzles me; for I know
there ain’t more coals in her than would take her to
about Woolwich and back. If he’d been away in the
barge I’d ha’ thought nothin’; for many a time a job
has taken him as far as Gravesend, and then if there
was much doin’ there he might ha’ stayed over. But
what good is a steam launch without coals?”
“He might have bought some at a wharf down the
river.”
“He might, sir, but it weren’t his way. Many a
time I’ve heard him call out at the prices they charge
for a few odd bags. Besides, I don’t like that woodenlegged man, wi’ his ugly face and outlandish talk.
What did he want always knockin’ about here for?”
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The Sign of the Four
“A wooden-legged man?” said Holmes, with
bland surprise.
“Yes, sir, a brown, monkey-faced chap that’s called
more’n once for my old man. It was him that roused
him up yesternight, and, what’s more, my man knew
he was comin’, for he had steam up in the launch.
I tell you straight, sir, I don’t feel easy in my mind
about it.”
“But, my dear Mrs. Smith,” said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, “You are frightening yourself
about nothing. How could you possibly tell that it
was the wooden-legged man who came in the night?
I don’t quite understand how you can be so sure.”
“His voice, sir. I knew his voice, which is kind
o’ thick and foggy. He tapped at the winder,—about
three it would be. ‘Show a leg, matey,’ says he: ‘time
to turn out guard.’ My old man woke up Jim,—that’s
my eldest,—and away they went, without so much as
a word to me. I could hear the wooden leg clackin’
on the stones.”
“And was this wooden-legged man alone?”
“Couldn’t say, I am sure, sir. I didn’t hear no one
else.”
“I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam
launch, and I have heard good reports of the—Let me
see, what is her name?”
“The Aurora, sir.”
“Ah! She’s not that old green launch with a yellow
line, very broad in the beam?”
“No, indeed. She’s as trim a little thing as any on
the river. She’s been fresh painted, black with two red
streaks.”
“Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr.
Smith. I am going down the river; and if I should see
anything of the Aurora I shall let him know that you
are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?”
“No, sir. Black with a white band.”
“Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black.
Good-morning, Mrs. Smith.—There is a boatman here
with a wherry, Watson. We shall take it and cross the
river.
“The main thing with people of that sort,” said
Holmes, as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, “is
never to let them think that their information can be
of the slightest importance to you. If you do, they will
instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them
under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get
what you want.”
“Our course now seems pretty clear,” said I.
92
“What would you do, then?”
“I would engage a launch and go down the river
on the track of the Aurora.”
“My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She
may have touched at any wharf on either side of
the stream between here and Greenwich. Below the
bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places
for miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust
them, if you set about it alone.”
“Employ the police, then.”
“No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the
last moment. He is not a bad fellow, and I should not
like to do anything which would injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out myself,
now that we have gone so far.”
“Could we advertise, then, asking for information
from wharfingers?”
“Worse and worse! Our men would know that the
chase was hot at their heels, and they would be off
out of the country. As it is, they are likely enough to
leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly safe
they will be in no hurry. Jones’s energy will be of use
to us there, for his view of the case is sure to push
itself into the daily press, and the runaways will think
that every one is off on the wrong scent.”
“What are we to do, then?” I asked, as we landed
near Millbank Penitentiary.
“Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour’s sleep. It is quite on the
cards that we may be afoot to-night again. Stop at
a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he
may be of use to us yet.”
We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office,
and Holmes despatched his wire. “Whom do you
think that is to?” he asked, as we resumed our journey.
“I am sure I don’t know.”
“You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force whom I employed in the Jefferson
Hope case?”
“Well,” said I, laughing.
“This is just the case where they might be invaluable. If they fail, I have other resources; but I shall try
them first. That wire was to my dirty little lieutenant,
Wiggins, and I expect that he and his gang will be
with us before we have finished our breakfast.”
It was between eight and nine o’clock now, and
I was conscious of a strong reaction after the successive excitements of the night. I was limp and weary,
befogged in mind and fatigued in body. I had not
The Baker Street Irregulars
the professional enthusiasm which carried my companion on, nor could I look at the matter as a mere
abstract intellectual problem. As far as the death of
Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard little good
of him, and could feel no intense antipathy to his
murderers. The treasure, however, was a different
matter. That, or part of it, belonged rightfully to Miss
Morstan. While there was a chance of recovering it I
was ready to devote my life to the one object. True, if
I found it it would probably put her forever beyond
my reach. Yet it would be a petty and selfish love
which would be influenced by such a thought as that.
If Holmes could work to find the criminals, I had
a tenfold stronger reason to urge me on to find the
treasure.
A bath at Baker Street and a complete change
freshened me up wonderfully. When I came down
to our room I found the breakfast laid and Holmes
pouring out the coffee.
“Here it is,” said he, laughing, and pointing to
an open newspaper. “The energetic Jones and the
ubiquitous reporter have fixed it up between them.
But you have had enough of the case. Better have
your ham and eggs first.”
I took the paper from him and read the short
notice, which was headed “Mysterious Business at
Upper Norwood.”
“About twelve o’clock last night,” said the Standard, “Mr. Bartholomew Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge,
Upper Norwood, was found dead in his room under
circumstances which point to foul play. As far as we
can learn, no actual traces of violence were found
upon Mr. Sholto’s person, but a valuable collection
of Indian gems which the deceased gentleman had
inherited from his father has been carried off. The
discovery was first made by Mr. Sherlock Holmes
and Dr. Watson, who had called at the house with
Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, brother of the deceased. By a
singular piece of good fortune, Mr. Athelney Jones,
the well-known member of the detective police force,
happened to be at the Norwood Police Station, and
was on the ground within half an hour of the first
alarm. His trained and experienced faculties were
at once directed towards the detection of the criminals, with the gratifying result that the brother, Thaddeus Sholto, has already been arrested, together with
the housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone, an Indian butler
named Lal Rao, and a porter, or gatekeeper, named
McMurdo. It is quite certain that the thief or thieves
were well acquainted with the house, for Mr. Jones’s
well-known technical knowledge and his powers of
minute observation have enabled him to prove conclusively that the miscreants could not have entered by
the door or by the window, but must have made their
way across the roof of the building, and so through
a trap-door into a room which communicated with
that in which the body was found. This fact, which
has been very clearly made out, proves conclusively
that it was no mere haphazard burglary. The prompt
and energetic action of the officers of the law shows
the great advantage of the presence on such occasions
of a single vigorous and masterful mind. We cannot
but think that it supplies an argument to those who
would wish to see our detectives more decentralized,
and so brought into closer and more effective touch
with the cases which it is their duty to investigate.”
“Isn’t it gorgeous!” said Holmes, grinning over his
coffee-cup. “What do you think of it?”
“I think that we have had a close shave ourselves
of being arrested for the crime.”
“So do I. I wouldn’t answer for our safety now, if
he should happen to have another of his attacks of
energy.”
At this moment there was a loud ring at the bell,
and I could hear Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, raising
her voice in a wail of expostulation and dismay.
“By heaven, Holmes,” I said, half rising, “I believe
that they are really after us.”
“No, it’s not quite so bad as that. It is the unofficial
force,—the Baker Street irregulars.”
As he spoke, there came a swift pattering of naked
feet upon the stairs, a clatter of high voices, and in
rushed a dozen dirty and ragged little street-Arabs.
There was some show of discipline among them, despite their tumultuous entry, for they instantly drew
up in line and stood facing us with expectant faces.
One of their number, taller and older than the others, stood forward with an air of lounging superiority
which was very funny in such a disreputable little
carecrow.
“Got your message, sir,” said he, “and brought
’em on sharp. Three bob and a tanner for tickets.”
“Here you are,” said Holmes, producing some silver. “In future they can report to you, Wiggins, and
you to me. I cannot have the house invaded in this
way. However, it is just as well that you should all
hear the instructions. I want to find the whereabouts
of a steam launch called the Aurora, owner Mordecai
Smith, black with two red streaks, funnel black with
a white band. She is down the river somewhere. I
want one boy to be at Mordecai Smith’s landing-stage
opposite Millbank to say if the boat comes back. You
must divide it out among yourselves, and do both
93
The Sign of the Four
banks thoroughly. Let me know the moment you have
news. Is that all clear?”
“Yes, guv’nor,” said Wiggins.
“The old scale of pay, and a guinea to the boy who
finds the boat. Here’s a day in advance. Now off you
go!” He handed them a shilling each, and away they
buzzed down the stairs, and I saw them a moment
later streaming down the street.
“If the launch is above water they will find her,”
said Holmes, as he rose from the table and lit his pipe.
“They can go everywhere, see everything, overhear
every one. I expect to hear before evening that they
have spotted her. In the mean while, we can do nothing but await results. We cannot pick up the broken
trail until we find either the Aurora or Mr. Mordecai
Smith.”
“Toby could eat these scraps, I dare say. Are you
going to bed, Holmes?”
“No: I am not tired. I have a curious constitution.
I never remember feeling tired by work, though idleness exhausts me completely. I am going to smoke
and to think over this queer business to which my
fair client has introduced us. If ever man had an easy
task, this of ours ought to be. Wooden-legged men
are not so common, but the other man must, I should
think, be absolutely unique.”
“That other man again!”
“I have no wish to make a mystery of him,—to
you, anyway. But you must have formed your own
opinion. Now, do consider the data. Diminutive
footmarks, toes never fettered by boots, naked feet,
stone-headed wooden mace, great agility, small poisoned darts. What do you make of all this?”
“A savage!” I exclaimed. “Perhaps one of those
Indians who were the associates of Jonathan Small.”
“Hardly that,” said he. “When first I saw signs of
strange weapons I was inclined to think so; but the
remarkable character of the footmarks caused me to
reconsider my views. Some of the inhabitants of the
Indian Peninsula are small men, but none could have
left such marks as that. The Hindoo proper has long
and thin feet. The sandal-wearing Mohammedan has
the great toe well separated from the others, because
the thong is commonly passed between. These little
darts, too, could only be shot in one way. They are
from a blow-pipe. Now, then, where are we to find
our savage?”
“South American,” I hazarded.
He stretched his hand up, and took down a bulky
volume from the shelf. “This is the first volume of a
94
gazetteer which is now being published. It may be
looked upon as the very latest authority. What have
we here? ‘Andaman Islands, situated 340 miles to
the north of Sumatra, in the Bay of Bengal.’ Hum!
hum! What’s all this? Moist climate, coral reefs,
sharks, Port Blair, convict-barracks, Rutland Island,
cottonwoods—Ah, here we are. ‘The aborigines of the
Andaman Islands may perhaps claim the distinction
of being the smallest race upon this earth, though
some anthropologists prefer the Bushmen of Africa,
the Digger Indians of America, and the Terra del Fuegians. The average height is rather below four feet,
although many full-grown adults may be found who
are very much smaller than this. They are a fierce,
morose, and intractable people, though capable of
forming most devoted friendships when their confidence has once been gained.’ Mark that, Watson.
Now, then, listen to this. ‘They are naturally hideous,
having large, misshapen heads, small, fierce eyes, and
distorted features. Their feet and hands, however, are
remarkably small. So intractable and fierce are they
that all the efforts of the British official have failed to
win them over in any degree. They have always been
a terror to shipwrecked crews, braining the survivors
with their stone-headed clubs, or shooting them with
their poisoned arrows. These massacres are invariably concluded by a cannibal feast.’ Nice, amiable
people, Watson! If this fellow had been left to his own
unaided devices this affair might have taken an even
more ghastly turn. I fancy that, even as it is, Jonathan
Small would give a good deal not to have employed
him.”
“But how came he to have so singular a companion?”
“Ah, that is more than I can tell. Since, however,
we had already determined that Small had come from
the Andamans, it is not so very wonderful that this
islander should be with him. No doubt we shall know
all about it in time. Look here, Watson; you look regularly done. Lie down there on the sofa, and see if I
can put you to sleep.”
He took up his violin from the corner, and as
I stretched myself out he began to play some low,
dreamy, melodious air,—his own, no doubt, for he
had a remarkable gift for improvisation. I have a
vague remembrance of his gaunt limbs, his earnest
face, and the rise and fall of his bow. Then I seemed to
be floated peacefully away upon a soft sea of sound,
until I found myself in dream-land, with the sweet
face of Mary Morstan looking down upon me.
A Break in the Chain
CHAPTER IX.
A Break in the Chain
It was late in the afternoon before I woke,
strengthened and refreshed. Sherlock Holmes still
sat exactly as I had left him, save that he had laid
aside his violin and was deep in a book. He looked
across at me, as I stirred, and I noticed that his face
was dark and troubled.
“You have slept soundly,” he said. “I feared that
our talk would wake you.”
“I heard nothing,” I answered. “Have you had
fresh news, then?”
“Unfortunately, no. I confess that I am surprised
and disappointed. I expected something definite by
this time. Wiggins has just been up to report. He
says that no trace can be found of the launch. It is a
provoking check, for every hour is of importance.”
“Can I do anything? I am perfectly fresh now, and
quite ready for another night’s outing.”
“No, we can do nothing. We can only wait. If we
go ourselves, the message might come in our absence,
and delay be caused. You can do what you will, but I
must remain on guard.”
“Then I shall run over to Camberwell and call
upon Mrs. Cecil Forrester. She asked me to, yesterday.”
“On Mrs. Cecil Forrester?” asked Holmes, with
the twinkle of a smile in his eyes.
“Well, of course Miss Morstan too. They were
anxious to hear what happened.”
“I would not tell them too much,” said Holmes.
“Women are never to be entirely trusted,—not the best
of them.”
I did not pause to argue over this atrocious sentiment. “I shall be back in an hour or two,” I remarked.
“All right! Good luck! But, I say, if you are crossing the river you may as well return Toby, for I don’t
think it is at all likely that we shall have any use for
him now.”
I took our mongrel accordingly, and left him, together with a half-sovereign, at the old naturalist’s in
Pinchin Lane. At Camberwell I found Miss Morstan
a little weary after her night’s adventures, but very
eager to hear the news. Mrs. Forrester, too, was full
of curiosity. I told them all that we had done, suppressing, however, the more dreadful parts of the
tragedy. Thus, although I spoke of Mr. Sholto’s death,
I said nothing of the exact manner and method of it.
With all my omissions, however, there was enough to
startle and amaze them.
“It is a romance!” cried Mrs. Forrester. “An injured lady, half a million in treasure, a black cannibal,
and a wooden-legged ruffian. They take the place of
the conventional dragon or wicked earl.”
“And two knight-errants to the rescue,” added
Miss Morstan, with a bright glance at me.
“Why, Mary, your fortune depends upon the issue
of this search. I don’t think that you are nearly excited
enough. Just imagine what it must be to be so rich,
and to have the world at your feet!”
It sent a little thrill of joy to my heart to notice that
she showed no sign of elation at the prospect. On the
contrary, she gave a toss of her proud head, as though
the matter were one in which she took small interest.
“It is for Mr. Thaddeus Sholto that I am anxious,”
she said. “Nothing else is of any consequence; but I
think that he has behaved most kindly and honorably
throughout. It is our duty to clear him of this dreadful
and unfounded charge.”
It was evening before I left Camberwell, and quite
dark by the time I reached home. My companion’s
book and pipe lay by his chair, but he had disappeared. I looked about in the hope of seeing a note,
but there was none.
“I suppose that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has gone
out,” I said to Mrs. Hudson as she came up to lower
the blinds.
“No, sir. He has gone to his room, sir. Do you
know, sir,” sinking her voice into an impressive whisper, “I am afraid for his health?”
“Why so, Mrs. Hudson?”
“Well, he’s that strange, sir. After you was gone
he walked and he walked, up and down, and up and
down, until I was weary of the sound of his footstep.
Then I heard him talking to himself and muttering,
and every time the bell rang out he came on the stairhead, with ‘What is that, Mrs. Hudson?’ And now
he has slammed off to his room, but I can hear him
walking away the same as ever. I hope he’s not going
to be ill, sir. I ventured to say something to him about
cooling medicine, but he turned on me, sir, with such
a look that I don’t know how ever I got out of the
room.”
“I don’t think that you have any cause to be uneasy, Mrs. Hudson,” I answered. “I have seen him like
this before. He has some small matter upon his mind
95
The Sign of the Four
which makes him restless.” I tried to speak lightly to
our worthy landlady, but I was myself somewhat uneasy when through the long night I still from time to
time heard the dull sound of his tread, and knew how
his keen spirit was chafing against this involuntary
inaction.
At breakfast-time he looked worn and haggard,
with a little fleck of feverish color upon either cheek.
“You are knocking yourself up, old man,” I remarked. “I heard you marching about in the night.”
“No, I could not sleep,” he answered. “This infernal problem is consuming me. It is too much to be
balked by so petty an obstacle, when all else had been
overcome. I know the men, the launch, everything;
and yet I can get no news. I have set other agencies
at work, and used every means at my disposal. The
whole river has been searched on either side, but there
is no news, nor has Mrs. Smith heard of her husband.
I shall come to the conclusion soon that they have
scuttled the craft. But there are objections to that.”
“Or that Mrs. Smith has put us on a wrong scent.”
“No, I think that may be dismissed. I had inquiries
made, and there is a launch of that description.”
“Could it have gone up the river?”
“I have considered that possibility too, and there is
a search-party who will work up as far as Richmond.
If no news comes to-day, I shall start off myself tomorrow, and go for the men rather than the boat. But
surely, surely, we shall hear something.”
We did not, however. Not a word came to us either from Wiggins or from the other agencies. There
were articles in most of the papers upon the Norwood
tragedy. They all appeared to be rather hostile to the
unfortunate Thaddeus Sholto. No fresh details were
to be found, however, in any of them, save that an inquest was to be held upon the following day. I walked
over to Camberwell in the evening to report our ill success to the ladies, and on my return I found Holmes
dejected and somewhat morose. He would hardly
reply to my questions, and busied himself all evening
in an abstruse chemical analysis which involved much
heating of retorts and distilling of vapors, ending at
last in a smell which fairly drove me out of the apartment. Up to the small hours of the morning I could
hear the clinking of his test-tubes which told me that
he was still engaged in his malodorous experiment.
In the early dawn I woke with a start, and was
surprised to find him standing by my bedside, clad
in a rude sailor dress with a pea-jacket, and a coarse
red scarf round his neck.
96
“I am off down the river, Watson,” said he. “I have
been turning it over in my mind, and I can see only
one way out of it. It is worth trying, at all events.”
“Surely I can come with you, then?” said I.
“No; you can be much more useful if you will
remain here as my representative. I am loath to go,
for it is quite on the cards that some message may
come during the day, though Wiggins was despondent about it last night. I want you to open all notes
and telegrams, and to act on your own judgment if
any news should come. Can I rely upon you?”
“Most certainly.”
“I am afraid that you will not be able to wire to
me, for I can hardly tell yet where I may find myself.
If I am in luck, however, I may not be gone so very
long. I shall have news of some sort or other before I
get back.”
I had heard nothing of him by breakfast-time. On
opening the Standard, however, I found that there was
a fresh allusion to the business.
“With reference to the Upper Norwood
tragedy,” it remarked, “we have reason to believe that the matter promises to be even more
complex and mysterious than was originally
supposed. Fresh evidence has shown that it
is quite impossible that Mr. Thaddeus Sholto
could have been in any way concerned in the
matter. He and the housekeeper, Mrs. Bernstone, were both released yesterday evening.
It is believed, however, that the police have a
clue as to the real culprits, and that it is being prosecuted by Mr. Athelney Jones, of Scotland Yard, with all his well-known energy and
sagacity. Further arrests may be expected at
any moment.”
“That is satisfactory so far as it goes,” thought I.
“Friend Sholto is safe, at any rate. I wonder what the
fresh clue may be; though it seems to be a stereotyped
form whenever the police have made a blunder.”
I tossed the paper down upon the table, but at
that moment my eye caught an advertisement in the
agony column. It ran in this way:
“Lost.—Whereas Mordecai Smith, boatman,
and his son, Jim, left Smith’s Wharf at or
about three o’clock last Tuesday morning in
the steam launch Aurora, black with two red
stripes, funnel black with a white band, the
sum of five pounds will be paid to any one
who can give information to Mrs. Smith, at
Smith’s Wharf, or at 221b Baker Street, as to
the whereabouts of the said Mordecai Smith
and the launch Aurora.”
A Break in the Chain
This was clearly Holmes’s doing. The Baker Street
address was enough to prove that. It struck me as
rather ingenious, because it might be read by the fugitives without their seeing in it more than the natural
anxiety of a wife for her missing husband.
It was a long day. Every time that a knock came to
the door, or a sharp step passed in the street, I imagined that it was either Holmes returning or an answer
to his advertisement. I tried to read, but my thoughts
would wander off to our strange quest and to the illassorted and villainous pair whom we were pursuing.
Could there be, I wondered, some radical flaw in my
companion’s reasoning. Might he be suffering from
some huge self-deception? Was it not possible that his
nimble and speculative mind had built up this wild
theory upon faulty premises? I had never known
him to be wrong; and yet the keenest reasoner may
occasionally be deceived. He was likely, I thought,
to fall into error through the over-refinement of his
logic,—his preference for a subtle and bizarre explanation when a plainer and more commonplace one
lay ready to his hand. Yet, on the other hand, I had
myself seen the evidence, and I had heard the reasons
for his deductions. When I looked back on the long
chain of curious circumstances, many of them trivial
in themselves, but all tending in the same direction, I
could not disguise from myself that even if Holmes’s
explanation were incorrect the true theory must be
equally outré and startling.
At three o’clock in the afternoon there was a loud
peal at the bell, an authoritative voice in the hall, and,
to my surprise, no less a person than Mr. Athelney
Jones was shown up to me. Very different was he,
however, from the brusque and masterful professor
of common sense who had taken over the case so
confidently at Upper Norwood. His expression was
downcast, and his bearing meek and even apologetic.
“Good-day, sir; good-day,” said he. “Mr. Sherlock
Holmes is out, I understand.”
“Yes, and I cannot be sure when he will be back.
But perhaps you would care to wait. Take that chair
and try one of these cigars.”
“Thank you; I don’t mind if I do,” said he, mopping his face with a red bandanna handkerchief.
“And a whiskey-and-soda?”
“Well, half a glass. It is very hot for the time of
year; and I have had a good deal to worry and try me.
You know my theory about this Norwood case?”
“I remember that you expressed one.”
“Well, I have been obliged to reconsider it. I had
my net drawn tightly round Mr. Sholto, sir, when
pop he went through a hole in the middle of it. He
was able to prove an alibi which could not be shaken.
From the time that he left his brother’s room he was
never out of sight of some one or other. So it could not
be he who climbed over roofs and through trap-doors.
It’s a very dark case, and my professional credit is at
stake. I should be very glad of a little assistance.”
“We all need help sometimes,” said I.
“Your friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes is a wonderful
man, sir,” said he, in a husky and confidential voice.
“He’s a man who is not to be beat. I have known that
young man go into a good many cases, but I never
saw the case yet that he could not throw a light upon.
He is irregular in his methods, and a little quick perhaps in jumping at theories, but, on the whole, I think
he would have made a most promising officer, and
I don’t care who knows it. I have had a wire from
him this morning, by which I understand that he has
got some clue to this Sholto business. Here is the
message.”
He took the telegram out of his pocket, and
handed it to me. It was dated from Poplar at twelve
o’clock. “Go to Baker Street at once,” it said. “If I
have not returned, wait for me. I am close on the track
of the Sholto gang. You can come with us to-night if
you want to be in at the finish.”
“This sounds well. He has evidently picked up
the scent again,” said I.
“Ah, then he has been at fault too,” exclaimed
Jones, with evident satisfaction. “Even the best of us
are thrown off sometimes. Of course this may prove
to be a false alarm; but it is my duty as an officer of
the law to allow no chance to slip. But there is some
one at the door. Perhaps this is he.”
A heavy step was heard ascending the stair, with
a great wheezing and rattling as from a man who was
sorely put to it for breath. Once or twice he stopped,
as though the climb were too much for him, but at last
he made his way to our door and entered. His appearance corresponded to the sounds which we had heard.
He was an aged man, clad in seafaring garb, with an
old pea-jacket buttoned up to his throat. His back was
bowed, his knees were shaky, and his breathing was
painfully asthmatic. As he leaned upon a thick oaken
cudgel his shoulders heaved in the effort to draw the
air into his lungs. He had a colored scarf round his
chin, and I could see little of his face save a pair of
keen dark eyes, overhung by bushy white brows, and
long gray side-whiskers. Altogether he gave me the
impression of a respectable master mariner who had
fallen into years and poverty.
“What is it, my man?” I asked.
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The Sign of the Four
He looked about him in the slow methodical fashion of old age.
“Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?” said he.
“No; but I am acting for him. You can tell me any
message you have for him.”
“It was to him himself I was to tell it,” said he.
“But I tell you that I am acting for him. Was it
about Mordecai Smith’s boat?”
“Yes. I knows well where it is. An’ I knows where
the men he is after are. An’ I knows where the treasure is. I knows all about it.”
“Then tell me, and I shall let him know.”
“It was to him I was to tell it,” he repeated, with
the petulant obstinacy of a very old man.
“Well, you must wait for him.”
“No, no; I ain’t goin’ to lose a whole day to please
no one. If Mr. Holmes ain’t here, then Mr. Holmes
must find it all out for himself. I don’t care about the
look of either of you, and I won’t tell a word.”
He shuffled towards the door, but Athelney Jones
got in front of him.
“Wait a bit, my friend,” said he. “You have important information, and you must not walk off. We shall
keep you, whether you like or not, until our friend
returns.”
The old man made a little run towards the door,
but, as Athelney Jones put his broad back up against
it, he recognized the uselessness of resistance.
“Pretty sort o’ treatment this!” he cried, stamping
his stick. “I come here to see a gentleman, and you
two, who I never saw in my life, seize me and treat
me in this fashion!”
“You will be none the worse,” I said. “We shall
recompense you for the loss of your time. Sit over
here on the sofa, and you will not have long to wait.”
He came across sullenly enough, and seated himself with his face resting on his hands. Jones and I
resumed our cigars and our talk. Suddenly, however,
Holmes’s voice broke in upon us.
“I think that you might offer me a cigar too,” he
said.
We both started in our chairs. There was Holmes
sitting close to us with an air of quiet amusement.
“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “You here! But where is
the old man?”
“Here is the old man,” said he, holding out a heap
of white hair. “Here he is,—wig, whiskers, eyebrows,
98
and all. I thought my disguise was pretty good, but I
hardly expected that it would stand that test.”
“Ah, you rogue!” cried Jones, highly delighted.
“You would have made an actor, and a rare one. You
had the proper workhouse cough, and those weak
legs of yours are worth ten pound a week. I thought
I knew the glint of your eye, though. You didn’t get
away from us so easily, you see.”
“I have been working in that get-up all day,” said
he, lighting his cigar. “You see, a good many of the
criminal classes begin to know me,—especially since
our friend here took to publishing some of my cases:
so I can only go on the war-path under some simple
disguise like this. You got my wire?”
“Yes; that was what brought me here.”
“How has your case prospered?”
“It has all come to nothing. I have had to release
two of my prisoners, and there is no evidence against
the other two.”
“Never mind. We shall give you two others in
the place of them. But you must put yourself under
my orders. You are welcome to all the official credit,
but you must act on the line that I point out. Is that
agreed?”
“Entirely, if you will help me to the men.”
“Well, then, in the first place I shall want a fast
police-boat—a steam launch—to be at the Westminster Stairs at seven o’clock.”
“That is easily managed. There is always one
about there; but I can step across the road and telephone to make sure.”
“Then I shall want two stanch men, in case of
resistance.”
“There will be two or three in the boat. What
else?”
“When we secure the men we shall get the treasure.
I think that it would be a pleasure to my friend here
to take the box round to the young lady to whom half
of it rightfully belongs. Let her be the first to open
it.—Eh, Watson?”
“It would be a great pleasure to me.”
“Rather an irregular proceeding,” said Jones, shaking his head. “However, the whole thing is irregular,
and I suppose we must wink at it. The treasure must
afterwards be handed over to the authorities until
after the official investigation.”
“Certainly. That is easily managed. One other
point. I should much like to have a few details about
this matter from the lips of Jonathan Small himself.
You know I like to work the detail of my cases out.
The End of the Islander
There is no objection to my having an unofficial interview with him, either here in my rooms or elsewhere,
as long as he is efficiently guarded?”
“Well, you are master of the situation. I have had
no proof yet of the existence of this Jonathan Small.
However, if you can catch him I don’t see how I can
refuse you an interview with him.”
“That is understood, then?”
“Perfectly. Is there anything else?”
“Only that I insist upon your dining with us. It
will be ready in half an hour. I have oysters and
a brace of grouse, with something a little choice in
white wines.—Watson, you have never yet recognized
my merits as a housekeeper.”
CHAPTER X.
The End of the Islander
Our meal was a merry one. Holmes coud talk
exceedingly well when he chose, and that night he
did choose. He appeared to be in a state of nervous
exaltation. I have never known him so brilliant. He
spoke on a quick succession of subjects,—on miracleplays, on medieval pottery, on Stradivarius violins,
on the Buddhism of Ceylon, and on the war-ships of
the future,—handling each as though he had made
a special study of it. His bright humor marked the
reaction from his black depression of the preceding
days. Athelney Jones proved to be a sociable soul
in his hours of relaxation, and face his dinner with
the air of a bon vivant. For myself, I felt elated at the
thought that we were nearing the end of our task,
and I caught something of Holmes’s gaiety. None
of us alluded during dinner to the cause which had
brought us together.
When the cloth was cleared, Holmes glanced at
this watch, and filled up three glasses with port. “One
bumper,” said he, “to the success of our little expedition. And now it is high time we were off. Have you
a pistol, Watson?”
“I have my old service-revolver in my desk.”
“You had best take it, then. It is well to be prepared. I see that the cab is at the door. I ordered it for
half-past six.”
It was a little past seven before we reached the
Westminster wharf, and found our launch awaiting
us. Holmes eyed it critically.
“Is there anything to mark it as a police-boat?”
“Yes,—that green lamp at the side.”
“Then take it off.”
The small change was made, we stepped on board,
and the ropes were cast off. Jones, Holmes, and I sat
in the stern. There was one man at the rudder, one
to tend the engines, and two burly police-inspectors
forward.
“Where to?” asked Jones.
“To the Tower. Tell them to stop opposite Jacobson’s Yard.”
Our craft was evidently a very fast one. We shot
past the long lines of loaded barges as though they
were stationary. Holmes smiled with satisfaction as
we overhauled a river steamer and left her behind us.
“We ought to be able to catch anything on the
river,” he said.
“Well, hardly that. But there are not many
launches to beat us.”
“We shall have to catch the Aurora, and she has
a name for being a clipper. I will tell you how the
land lies, Watson. You recollect how annoyed I was at
being balked by so small a thing?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I gave my mind a thorough rest by plunging into a chemical analysis. One of our greatest
statesmen has said that a change of work is the best
rest. So it is. When I had succeeded in dissolving the
hydrocarbon which I was at work at, I came back to
our problem of the Sholtos, and thought the whole
matter out again. My boys had been up the river and
down the river without result. The launch was not
at any landing-stage or wharf, nor had it returned.
Yet it could hardly have been scuttled to hide their
traces,—though that always remained as a possible
hypothesis if all else failed. I knew this man Small
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The Sign of the Four
had a certain degree of low cunning, but I did not
think him capable of anything in the nature of delicate
finesse. That is usually a product of higher education.
I then reflected that since he had certainly been in
London some time—as we had evidence that he maintained a continual watch over Pondicherry Lodge—he
could hardly leave at a moment’s notice, but would
need some little time, if it were only a day, to arrange
his affairs. That was the balance of probability, at any
rate.”
“It seems to me to be a little weak,” said I. “It is
more probable that he had arranged his affairs before
ever he set out upon his expedition.”
“No, I hardly think so. This lair of his would be
too valuable a retreat in case of need for him to give
it up until he was sure that he could do without it.
But a second consideration struck me. Jonathan Small
must have felt that the peculiar appearance of his
companion, however much he may have top-coated
him, would give rise to gossip, and possibly be associated with this Norwood tragedy. He was quite
sharp enough to see that. They had started from their
head-quarters under cover of darkness, and he would
wish to get back before it was broad light. Now, it
was past three o’clock, according to Mrs. Smith, when
they got the boat. It would be quite bright, and people would be about in an hour or so. Therefore, I
argued, they did not go very far. They paid Smith
well to hold his tongue, reserved his launch for the
final escape, and hurried to their lodgings with the
treasure-box. In a couple of nights, when they had
time to see what view the papers took, and whether
there was any suspicion, they would make their way
under cover of darkness to some ship at Gravesend
or in the Downs, where no doubt they had already
arranged for passages to America or the Colonies.”
“But the launch? They could not have taken that
to their lodgings.”
“Quite so. I argued that the launch must be no
great way off, in spite of its invisibility. I then put myself in the place of Small, and looked at it as a man of
his capacity would. He would probably consider that
to send back the launch or to keep it at a wharf would
make pursuit easy if the police did happen to get on
his track. How, then, could he conceal the launch and
yet have her at hand when wanted? I wondered what
I should do myself if I were in his shoes. I could only
think of one way of doing it. I might land the launch
over to some boat-builder or repairer, with directions
to make a trifling change in her. She would then be
removed to his shed or hard, and so be effectually
100
concealed, while at the same time I could have her at
a few hours’ notice.”
“That seems simple enough.”
“It is just these very simple things which are extremely liable to be overlooked. However, I determined to act on the idea. I started at once in this
harmless seaman’s rig and inquired at all the yards
down the river. I drew blank at fifteen, but at the
sixteenth—Jacobson’s—I learned that the Aurora had
been handed over to them two days ago by a woodenlegged man, with some trivial directions as to her
rudder. ‘There ain’t naught amiss with her rudder,’
said the foreman. ‘There she lies, with the red streaks.’
At that moment who should come down but Mordecai Smith, the missing owner? He was rather the
worse for liquor. I should not, of course, have known
him, but he bellowed out his name and the name of
his launch. ‘I want her to-night at eight o’clock,’ said
he,—‘eight o’clock sharp, mind, for I have two gentlemen who won’t be kept waiting.’ They had evidently
paid him well, for he was very flush of money, chucking shillings about to the men. I followed him some
distance, but he subsided into an ale-house: so I went
back to the yard, and, happening to pick up one of
my boys on the way, I stationed him as a sentry over
the launch. He is to stand at water’s edge and wave
his handkerchief to us when they start. We shall be
lying off in the stream, and it will be a strange thing
if we do not take men, treasure, and all.”
“You have planned it all very neatly, whether they
are the right men or not,” said Jones; “but if the affair
were in my hands I should have had a body of police in Jacobson’s Yard, and arrested them when they
came down.”
“Which would have been never. This man Small
is a pretty shrewd fellow. He would send a scout on
ahead, and if anything made him suspicious lie snug
for another week.”
“But you might have stuck to Mordecai Smith, and
so been led to their hiding-place,” said I.
“In that case I should have wasted my day. I think
that it is a hundred to one against Smith knowing
where they live. As long as he has liquor and good
pay, why should he ask questions? They send him
messages what to do. No, I thought over every possible course, and this is the best.”
While this conversation had been proceeding, we
had been shooting the long series of bridges which
span the Thames. As we passed the City the last rays
of the sun were gilding the cross upon the summit
of St. Paul’s. It was twilight before we reached the
Tower.
The End of the Islander
“That is Jacobson’s Yard,” said Holmes, pointing
to a bristle of masts and rigging on the Surrey side.
“Cruise gently up and down here under cover of this
string of lighters.” He took a pair of night-glasses
from his pocket and gazed some time at the shore. “I
see my sentry at his post,” he remarked, “but no sign
of a handkerchief.”
“Suppose we go down-stream a short way and lie
in wait for them,” said Jones, eagerly. We were all eager by this time, even the policemen and stokers, who
had a very vague idea of what was going forward.
“We have no right to take anything for granted,”
Holmes answered. “It is certainly ten to one that they
go down-stream, but we cannot be certain. From this
point we can see the entrance of the yard, and they
can hardly see us. It will be a clear night and plenty
of light. We must stay where we are. See how the folk
swarm over yonder in the gaslight.”
“They are coming from work in the yard.”
“Dirty-looking rascals, but I suppose every one
has some little immortal spark concealed about him.
You would not think it, to look at them. There is no a
priori probability about it. A strange enigma is man!”
“Some one calls him a soul concealed in an animal,” I suggested.
“Winwood Reade is good upon the subject,” said
Holmes. “He remarks that, while the individual man
is an insoluble puzzle, in the aggregate he becomes a
mathematical certainty. You can, for example, never
foretell what any one man will do, but you can say
with precision what an average number will be up
to. Individuals vary, but percentages remain constant.
So says the statistician. But do I see a handkerchief?
Surely there is a white flutter over yonder.”
“Yes, it is your boy,” I cried. “I can see him
plainly.”
“And there is the Aurora,” exclaimed Holmes,
“and going like the devil! Full speed ahead, engineer. Make after that launch with the yellow light. By
heaven, I shall never forgive myself if she proves to
have the heels of us!”
She had slipped unseen through the yard-entrance
and passed behind two or three small craft, so that she
had fairly got her speed up before we saw her. Now
she was flying down the stream, near in to the shore,
going at a tremendous rate. Jones looked gravely at
her and shook his head.
“She is very fast,” he said. “I doubt if we shall
catch her.”
“We must catch her!” cried Holmes, between his
teeth. “Heap it on, stokers! Make her do all she can!
If we burn the boat we must have them!”
We were fairly after her now. The furnaces roared,
and the powerful engines whizzed and clanked, like
a great metallic heart. Her sharp, steep prow cut
through the river-water and sent two rolling waves to
right and to left of us. With every throb of the engines
we sprang and quivered like a living thing. One great
yellow lantern in our bows threw a long, flickering
funnel of light in front of us. Right ahead a dark
blur upon the water showed where the Aurora lay,
and the swirl of white foam behind her spoke of the
pace at which she was going. We flashed past barges,
steamers, merchant-vessels, in and out, behind this
one and round the other. Voices hailed us out of the
darkness, but still the Aurora thundered on, and still
we followed close upon her track.
“Pile it on, men, pile it on!” cried Holmes, looking down into the engine-room, while the fierce glow
from below beat upon his eager, aquiline face. “Get
every pound of steam you can.”
“I think we gain a little,” said Jones, with his eyes
on the Aurora.
“I am sure of it,” said I. “We shall be up with her
in a very few minutes.”
At that moment, however, as our evil fate would
have it, a tug with three barges in tow blundered in
between us. It was only by putting our helm hard
down that we avoided a collision, and before we
could round them and recover our way the Aurora
had gained a good two hundred yards. She was still,
however, well in view, and the murky uncertain twilight was setting into a clear starlit night. Our boilers
were strained to their utmost, and the frail shell vibrated and creaked with the fierce energy which was
driving us along. We had shot through the Pool, past
the West India Docks, down the long Deptford Reach,
and up again after rounding the Isle of Dogs. The dull
blur in front of us resolved itself now clearly enough
into the dainty Aurora. Jones turned our search-light
upon her, so that we could plainly see the figures
upon her deck. One man sat by the stern, with something black between his knees over which he stooped.
Beside him lay a dark mass which looked like a Newfoundland dog. The boy held the tiller, while against
the red glare of the furnace I could see old Smith,
stripped to the waist, and shovelling coals for dear
life. They may have had some doubt at first as to
whether we were really pursuing them, but now as
we followed every winding and turning which they
101
The Sign of the Four
took there could no longer be any question about it.
At Greenwich we were about three hundred paces
behind them. At Blackwall we could not have been
more than two hundred and fifty. I have coursed
many creatures in many countries during my checkered career, but never did sport give me such a wild
thrill as this mad, flying man-hunt down the Thames.
Steadily we drew in upon them, yard by yard. In the
silence of the night we could hear the panting and
clanking of their machinery. The man in the stern still
crouched upon the deck, and his arms were moving
as though he were busy, while every now and then
he would look up and measure with a glance the
distance which still separated us. Nearer we came
and nearer. Jones yelled to them to stop. We were
not more than four boat’s lengths behind them, both
boats flying at a tremendous pace. It was a clear reach
of the river, with Barking Level upon one side and
the melancholy Plumstead Marshes upon the other.
At our hail the man in the stern sprang up from the
deck and shook his two clinched fists at us, cursing
the while in a high, cracked voice. He was a goodsized, powerful man, and as he stood poising himself
with legs astride I could see that from the thigh downwards there was but a wooden stump upon the right
side. At the sound of his strident, angry cries there
was movement in the huddled bundle upon the deck.
It straightened itself into a little black man—the smallest I have ever seen—with a great, misshapen head
and a shock of tangled, dishevelled hair. Holmes had
already drawn his revolver, and I whipped out mine
at the sight of this savage, distorted creature. He was
wrapped in some sort of dark ulster or blanket, which
left only his face exposed; but that face was enough
to give a man a sleepless night. Never have I seen features so deeply marked with all bestiality and cruelty.
His small eyes glowed and burned with a sombre
light, and his thick lips were writhed back from his
teeth, which grinned and chattered at us with a half
animal fury.
“Fire if he raises his hand,” said Holmes, quietly.
We were within a boat’s-length by this time, and almost within touch of our quarry. I can see the two of
them now as they stood, the white man with his legs
far apart, shrieking out curses, and the unhallowed
dwarf with his hideous face, and his strong yellow
teeth gnashing at us in the light of our lantern.
It was well that we had so clear a view of him.
Even as we looked he plucked out from under his
covering a short, round piece of wood, like a schoolruler, and clapped it to his lips. Our pistols rang
102
out together. He whirled round, threw up his arms,
and with a kind of choking cough fell sideways into
the stream. I caught one glimpse of his venomous,
menacing eyes amid the white swirl of the waters.
At the same moment the wooden-legged man threw
himself upon the rudder and put it hard down, so
that his boat made straight in for the southern bank,
while we shot past her stern, only clearing her by a
few feet. We were round after her in an instant, but
she was already nearly at the bank. It was a wild and
desolate place, where the moon glimmered upon a
wide expanse of marsh-land, with pools of stagnant
water and beds of decaying vegetation. The launch
with a dull thud ran up upon the mud-bank, with
her bow in the air and her stern flush with the water. The fugitive sprang out, but his stump instantly
sank its whole length into the sodden soil. In vain
he struggled and writhed. Not one step could he
possibly take either forwards or backwards. He yelled
in impotent rage, and kicked frantically into the mud
with his other foot, but his struggles only bored his
wooden pin the deeper into the sticky bank. When
we brought our launch alongside he was so firmly
anchored that it was only by throwing the end of a
rope over his shoulders that we were able to haul him
out, and to drag him, like some evil fish, over our
side. The two Smiths, father and son, sat sullenly in
their launch, but came aboard meekly enough when
commanded. The Aurora herself we hauled off and
made fast to our stern. A solid iron chest of Indian
workmanship stood upon the deck. This, there could
be no question, was the same that had contained the
ill-omened treasure of the Sholtos. There was no key,
but it was of considerable weight, so we transferred
it carefully to our own little cabin. As we steamed
slowly up-stream again, we flashed our search-light
in every direction, but there was no sign of the Islander. Somewhere in the dark ooze at the bottom of
the Thames lie the bones of that strange visitor to our
shores.
“See here,” said Holmes, pointing to the wooden
hatchway. “We were hardly quick enough with our
pistols.” There, sure enough, just behind where we
had been standing, stuck one of those murderous
darts which we knew so well. It must have whizzed
between us at the instant that we fired. Holmes smiled
at it and shrugged his shoulders in his easy fashion,
but I confess that it turned me sick to think of the
horrible death which had passed so close to us that
night.
The Great Agra Treasure
CHAPTER XI.
The Great Agra Treasure
Our captive sat in the cabin opposite to the iron
box which he had done so much and waited so long
to gain. He was a sunburned, reckless-eyed fellow,
with a net-work of lines and wrinkles all over his mahogany features, which told of a hard, open-air life.
There was a singular prominence about his bearded
chin which marked a man who was not to be easily
turned from his purpose. His age may have been fifty
or thereabouts, for his black, curly hair was thickly
shot with gray. His face in repose was not an unpleasing one, though his heavy brows and aggressive chin
gave him, as I had lately seen, a terrible expression
when moved to anger. He sat now with his handcuffed hands upon his lap, and his head sunk upon
his breast, while he looked with his keen, twinkling
eyes at the box which had been the cause of his illdoings. It seemed to me that there was more sorrow
than anger in his rigid and contained countenance.
Once he looked up at me with a gleam of something
like humour in his eyes.
“Well, Jonathan Small,” said Holmes, lighting a
cigar, “I am sorry that it has come to this.”
“And so am I, sir,” he answered, frankly. “I don’t
believe that I can swing over the job. I give you my
word on the book that I never raised hand against Mr.
Sholto. It was that little hell-hound Tonga who shot
one of his cursed darts into him. I had no part in it, sir.
I was as grieved as if it had been my blood-relation. I
welted the little devil with the slack end of the rope
for it, but it was done, and I could not undo it again.”
“Have a cigar,” said Holmes; “and you had best
take a pull out of my flask, for you are very wet. How
could you expect so small and weak a man as this
black fellow to overpower Mr. Sholto and hold him
while you were climbing the rope?”
“You seem to know as much about it as if you
were there, sir. The truth is that I hoped to find the
room clear. I knew the habits of the house pretty well,
and it was the time when Mr. Sholto usually went
down to his supper. I shall make no secret of the
business. The best defence that I can make is just
the simple truth. Now, if it had been the old major I
would have swung for him with a light heart. I would
have thought no more of knifing him than of smoking
this cigar. But it’s cursed hard that I should be lagged
over this young Sholto, with whom I had no quarrel
whatever.”
“You are under the charge of Mr. Athelney Jones,
of Scotland Yard. He is going to bring you up to my
rooms, and I shall ask you for a true account of the
matter. You must make a clean breast of it, for if you
do I hope that I may be of use to you. I think I can
prove that the poison acts so quickly that the man
was dead before ever you reached the room.”
“That he was, sir. I never got such a turn in my
life as when I saw him grinning at me with his head
on his shoulder as I climbed through the window. It
fairly shook me, sir. I’d have half killed Tonga for it if
he had not scrambled off. That was how he came to
leave his club, and some of his darts too, as he tells
me, which I dare say helped to put you on our track;
though how you kept on it is more than I can tell. I
don’t feel no malice against you for it. But it does
seem a queer thing,” he added, with a bitter smile,
“that I who have a fair claim to nigh upon half a million of money should spend the first half of my life
building a breakwater in the Andamans, and am like
to spend the other half digging drains at Dartmoor. It
was an evil day for me when first I clapped eyes upon
the merchant Achmet and had to do with the Agra
treasure, which never brought anything but a curse
yet upon the man who owned it. To him it brought
murder, to Major Sholto it brought fear and guilt, to
me it has meant slavery for life.”
At this moment Athelney Jones thrust his broad
face and heavy shoulders into the tiny cabin. “Quite
a family party,” he remarked. “I think I shall have a
pull at that flask, Holmes. Well, I think we may all
congratulate each other. Pity we didn’t take the other
alive; but there was no choice. I say, Holmes, you
must confess that you cut it rather fine. It was all we
could do to overhaul her.”
“All is well that ends well,” said Holmes. “But
I certainly did not know that the Aurora was such a
clipper.”
“Smith says she is one of the fastest launches on
the river, and that if he had had another man to help
him with the engines we should never have caught
her. He swears he knew nothing of this Norwood
business.”
“Neither he did,” cried our prisoner,—“not a word.
I chose his launch because I heard that she was a flier.
We told him nothing, but we paid him well, and he
was to get something handsome if we reached our
103
The Sign of the Four
vessel, the Esmeralda, at Gravesend, outward bound
for the Brazils.”
“Well, if he has done no wrong we shall see that
no wrong comes to him. If we are pretty quick in
catching our men, we are not so quick in condemning
them.” It was amusing to notice how the consequential Jones was already beginning to give himself airs
on the strength of the capture. From the slight smile
which played over Sherlock Holmes’s face, I could see
that the speech had not been lost upon him.
“We will be at Vauxhall Bridge presently,” said
Jones, “and shall land you, Dr. Watson, with the
treasure-box. I need hardly tell you that I am taking a very grave responsibility upon myself in doing
this. It is most irregular; but of course an agreement
is an agreement. I must, however, as a matter of
duty, send an inspector with you, since you have so
valuable a charge. You will drive, no doubt?”
“Yes, I shall drive.”
“It is a pity there is no key, that we may make an
inventory first. You will have to break it open. Where
is the key, my man?”
“At the bottom of the river,” said Small, shortly.
“Hum! There was no use your giving this unnecessary trouble. We have had work enough already
through you. However, doctor, I need not warn you to
be careful. Bring the box back with you to the Baker
Street rooms. You will find us there, on our way to
the station.”
They landed me at Vauxhall, with my heavy iron
box, and with a bluff, genial inspector as my companion. A quarter of an hour’s drive brought us to
Mrs. Cecil Forrester’s. The servant seemed surprised
at so late a visitor. Mrs. Cecil Forrester was out for
the evening, she explained, and likely to be very late.
Miss Morstan, however, was in the drawing-room: so
to the drawing-room I went, box in hand, leaving the
obliging inspector in the cab.
She was seated by the open window, dressed in
some sort of white diaphanous material, with a little
touch of scarlet at the neck and waist. The soft light of
a shaded lamp fell upon her as she leaned back in the
basket chair, playing over her sweet, grave face, and
tinting with a dull, metallic sparkle the rich coils of
her luxuriant hair. One white arm and hand drooped
over the side of the chair, and her whole pose and figure spoke of an absorbing melancholy. At the sound
of my foot-fall she sprang to her feet, however, and a
bright flush of surprise and of pleasure colored her
pale cheeks.
104
“I heard a cab drive up,” she said. “I thought that
Mrs. Forrester had come back very early, but I never
dreamed that it might be you. What news have you
brought me?”
“I have brought something better than news,” said
I, putting down the box upon the table and speaking
jovially and boisterously, though my heart was heavy
within me. “I have brought you something which is
worth all the news in the world. I have brought you a
fortune.”
She glanced at iron box. “Is that the treasure,
then?” she asked, coolly enough.
“Yes, this is the great Agra treasure. Half of it is
yours and half is Thaddeus Sholto’s. You will have a
couple of hundred thousand each. Think of that! An
annuity of ten thousand pounds. There will be few
richer young ladies in England. Is it not glorious?”
I think that I must have been rather overacting my
delight, and that she detected a hollow ring in my
congratulations, for I saw her eyebrows rise a little,
and she glanced at me curiously.
“If I have it,” said she, “I owe it to you.”
“No, no,” I answered, “not to me, but to my friend
Sherlock Holmes. With all the will in the world, I
could never have followed up a clue which has taxed
even his analytical genius. As it was, we very nearly
lost it at the last moment.”
“Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Dr. Watson,” said she.
I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had
seen her last,—Holmes’s new method of search, the
discovery of the Aurora, the appearance of Athelney
Jones, our expedition in the evening, and the wild
chase down the Thames. She listened with parted
lips and shining eyes to my recital of our adventures.
When I spoke of the dart which had so narrowly
missed us, she turned so white that I feared that she
was about to faint.
“It is nothing,” she said, as I hastened to pour her
out some water. “I am all right again. It was a shock
to me to hear that I had placed my friends in such
horrible peril.”
“That is all over,” I answered. “It was nothing. I
will tell you no more gloomy details. Let us turn to
something brighter. There is the treasure. What could
be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it with me,
thinking that it would interest you to be the first to
see it.”
“It would be of the greatest interest to me,” she
said. There was no eagerness in her voice, however.
The Strange Story of Jonathan Small
It had struck her, doubtless, that it might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize which
had cost so much to win.
metal or jewelry lay within it. It was absolutely and
completely empty.
“What a pretty box!” she said, stooping over it.
“This is Indian work, I suppose?”
As I listened to the words and realized what they
meant, a great shadow seemed to pass from my soul.
I did not know how this Agra treasure had weighed
me down, until now that it was finally removed. It
was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could
realize nothing save that the golden barrier was gone
from between us. “Thank God!” I ejaculated from my
very heart.
“Yes; it is Benares metal-work.”
“And so heavy!” she exclaimed, trying to raise it.
“The box alone must be of some value. Where is the
key?”
“Small threw it into the Thames,” I answered. “I
must borrow Mrs. Forrester’s poker.” There was in
the front a thick and broad hasp, wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust the end
of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The
hasp sprang open with a loud snap. With trembling
fingers I flung back the lid. We both stood gazing in
astonishment. The box was empty!
No wonder that it was heavy. The iron-work was
two-thirds of an inch thick all round. It was massive,
well made, and solid, like a chest constructed to carry
things of great price, but not one shred or crumb of
“The treasure is lost,” said Miss Morstan, calmly.
She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile.
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
“Because you are within my reach again,” I said,
taking her hand. She did not withdraw it. “Because I
love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man loved a woman.
Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my lips.
Now that they are gone I can tell you how I love you.
That is why I said, ‘Thank God.’ ”
“Then I say, ‘Thank God,’ too,” she whispered, as
I drew her to my side. Whoever had lost a treasure, I
knew that night that I had gained one.
CHAPTER XII.
The Strange Story of Jonathan Small
A very patient man was that inspector in the cab,
for it was a weary time before I rejoined him. His face
clouded over when I showed him the empty box.
“There goes the reward!” said he, gloomily.
“Where there is no money there is no pay. This night’s
work would have been worth a tenner each to Sam
Brown and me if the treasure had been there.”
“Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man,” I said. “He
will see that you are rewarded, treasure or no.”
The inspector shook his head despondently, however. “It’s a bad job,” he repeated; “and so Mr. Athelney Jones will think.”
His forecast proved to be correct, for the detective looked blank enough when I got to Baker Street
and showed him the empty box. They had only just
arrived, Holmes, the prisoner, and he, for they had
changed their plans so far as to report themselves at
a station upon the way. My companion lounged in
his arm-chair with his usual listless expression, while
Small sat stolidly opposite to him with his wooden
leg cocked over his sound one. As I exhibited the
empty box he leaned back in his chair and laughed
aloud.
“This is your doing, Small,” said Athelney Jones,
angrily.
“Yes, I have put it away where you shall never lay
hand upon it,” he cried, exultantly. “It is my treasure;
and if I can’t have the loot I’ll take darned good care
that no one else does. I tell you that no living man
has any right to it, unless it is three men who are in
the Andaman convict-barracks and myself. I know
now that I cannot have the use of it, and I know that
they cannot. I have acted all through for them as
much as for myself. It’s been the sign of four with us
always. Well I know that they would have had me do
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The Sign of the Four
just what I have done, and throw the treasure into the
Thames rather than let it go to kith or kin of Sholto or
of Morstan. It was not to make them rich that we did
for Achmet. You’ll find the treasure where the key
is, and where little Tonga is. When I saw that your
launch must catch us, I put the loot away in a safe
place. There are no rupees for you this journey.”
“You are deceiving us, Small,” said Athelney Jones,
sternly. “If you had wished to throw the treasure into
the Thames it would have been easier for you to have
thrown box and all.”
“Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover,” he answered, with a shrewd, sidelong look.
“The man that was clever enough to hunt me down is
clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of
a river. Now that they are scattered over five miles or
so, it may be a harder job. It went to my heart to do it,
though. I was half mad when you came up with us.
However, there’s no good grieving over it. I’ve had
ups in my life, and I’ve had downs, but I’ve learned
not to cry over spilled milk.”
“This is a very serious matter, Small,” said the detective. “If you had helped justice, instead of thwarting it in this way, you would have had a better chance
at your trial.”
“Justice!” snarled the ex-convict. “A pretty justice! Whose loot is this, if it is not ours? Where is
the justice that I should give it up to those who have
never earned it? Look how I have earned it! Twenty
long years in that fever-ridden swamp, all day at work
under the mangrove-tree, all night chained up in the
filthy convict-huts, bitten by mosquitoes, racked with
ague, bullied by every cursed black-faced policeman
who loved to take it out of a white man. That was
how I earned the Agra treasure; and you talk to me of
justice because I cannot bear to feel that I have paid
this price only that another may enjoy it! I would
rather swing a score of times, or have one of Tonga’s
darts in my hide, than live in a convict’s cell and feel
that another man is at his ease in a palace with the
money that should be mine.” Small had dropped his
mask of stoicism, and all this came out in a wild whirl
of words, while his eyes blazed, and the handcuffs
clanked together with the impassioned movement of
his hands. I could understand, as I saw the fury and
the passion of the man, that it was no groundless or
unnatural terror which had possessed Major Sholto
when he first learned that the injured convict was
upon his track.
“You forget that we know nothing of all this,” said
Holmes quietly. “We have not heard your story, and
106
we cannot tell how far justice may originally have
been on your side.”
“Well, sir, you have been very fair-spoken to me,
though I can see that I have you to thank that I have
these bracelets upon my wrists. Still, I bear no grudge
for that. It is all fair and above-board. If you want to
hear my story I have no wish to hold it back. What
I say to you is God’s truth, every word of it. Thank
you; you can put the glass beside me here, and I’ll
put my lips to it if I am dry.
“I am a Worcestershire man myself,—born near
Pershore. I dare say you would find a heap of Smalls
living there now if you were to look. I have often
thought of taking a look round there, but the truth is
that I was never much of a credit to the family, and I
doubt if they would be so very glad to see me. They
were all steady, chapel-going folk, small farmers, well
known and respected over the country-side, while I
was always a bit of a rover. At last, however, when I
was about eighteen, I gave them no more trouble, for
I got into a mess over a girl, and could only get out
of it again by taking the queen’s shilling and joining
the 3d Buffs, which was just starting for India.
“I wasn’t destined to do much soldiering, however. I had just got past the goose-step, and learned
to handle my musket, when I was fool enough to go
swimming in the Ganges. Luckily for me, my company sergeant, John Holder, was in the water at the
same time, and he was one of the finest swimmers in
the service. A crocodile took me, just as I was halfway across, and nipped off my right leg as clean as a
surgeon could have done it, just above the knee. What
with the shock and the loss of blood, I fainted, and
should have drowned if Holder had not caught hold
of me and paddled for the bank. I was five months in
hospital over it, and when at last I was able to limp
out of it with this timber toe strapped to my stump I
found myself invalided out of the army and unfitted
for any active occupation.
“I was, as you can imagine, pretty down on my
luck at this time, for I was a useless cripple though
not yet in my twentieth year. However, my misfortune soon proved to be a blessing in disguise. A man
named Abelwhite, who had come out there as an
indigo-planter, wanted an overseer to look after his
coolies and keep them up to their work. He happened
to be a friend of our colonel’s, who had taken an interest in me since the accident. To make a long story
short, the colonel recommended me strongly for the
post and, as the work was mostly to be done on horseback, my leg was no great obstacle, for I had enough
knee left to keep good grip on the saddle. What I had
The Strange Story of Jonathan Small
to do was to ride over the plantation, to keep an eye
on the men as they worked, and to report the idlers.
The pay was fair, I had comfortable quarters, and
altogether I was content to spend the remainder of
my life in indigo-planting. Mr. Abelwhite was a kind
man, and he would often drop into my little shanty
and smoke a pipe with me, for white folk out there
feel their hearts warm to each other as they never do
here at home.
“Well, I was never in luck’s way long. Suddenly,
without a note of warning, the great mutiny broke
upon us. One month India lay as still and peaceful,
to all appearance, as Surrey or Kent; the next there
were two hundred thousand black devils let loose,
and the country was a perfect hell. Of course you
know all about it, gentlemen,—a deal more than I
do, very like, since reading is not in my line. I only
know what I saw with my own eyes. Our plantation
was at a place called Muttra, near the border of the
Northwest Provinces. Night after night the whole sky
was alight with the burning bungalows, and day after
day we had small companies of Europeans passing
through our estate with their wives and children, on
their way to Agra, where were the nearest troops. Mr.
Abelwhite was an obstinate man. He had it in his
head that the affair had been exaggerated, and that
it would blow over as suddenly as it had sprung up.
There he sat on his veranda, drinking whiskey-pegs
and smoking cheroots, while the country was in a
blaze about him. Of course we stuck by him, I and
Dawson, who, with his wife, used to do the bookwork and the managing. Well, one fine day the crash
came. I had been away on a distant plantation, and
was riding slowly home in the evening, when my
eye fell upon something all huddled together at the
bottom of a steep nullah. I rode down to see what
it was, and the cold struck through my heart when I
found it was Dawson’s wife, all cut into ribbons, and
half eaten by jackals and native dogs. A little further
up the road Dawson himself was lying on his face,
quite dead, with an empty revolver in his hand and
four Sepoys lying across each other in front of him. I
reined up my horse, wondering which way I should
turn, but at that moment I saw thick smoke curling up
from Abelwhite’s bungalow and the flames beginning
to burst through the roof. I knew then that I could
do my employer no good, but would only throw my
own life away if I meddled in the matter. From where
I stood I could see hundreds of the black fiends, with
their red coats still on their backs, dancing and howling round the burning house. Some of them pointed
at me, and a couple of bullets sang past my head; so I
broke away across the paddy-fields, and found myself
late at night safe within the walls at Agra.
“As it proved, however, there was no great safety
there, either. The whole country was up like a swarm
of bees. Wherever the English could collect in little bands they held just the ground that their guns
commanded. Everywhere else they were helpless
fugitives. It was a fight of the millions against the
hundreds; and the cruellest part of it was that these
men that we fought against, foot, horse, and gunners, were our own picked troops, whom we had
taught and trained, handling our own weapons, and
blowing our own bugle-calls. At Agra there were the
3d Bengal Fusiliers, some Sikhs, two troops of horse,
and a battery of artillery. A volunteer corps of clerks
and merchants had been formed, and this I joined,
wooden leg and all. We went out to meet the rebels at
Shahgunge early in July, and we beat them back for
a time, but our powder gave out, and we had to fall
back upon the city. Nothing but the worst news came
to us from every side,—which is not to be wondered
at, for if you look at the map you will see that we were
right in the heart of it. Lucknow is rather better than a
hundred miles to the east, and Cawnpore about as far
to the south. From every point on the compass there
was nothing but torture and murder and outrage.
“The city of Agra is a great place, swarming with
fanatics and fierce devil-worshippers of all sorts. Our
handful of men were lost among the narrow, winding
streets. Our leader moved across the river, therefore,
and took up his position in the old fort at Agra. I
don’t know if any of you gentlemen have ever read
or heard anything of that old fort. It is a very queer
place,—the queerest that ever I was in, and I have
been in some rum corners, too. First of all, it is enormous in size. I should think that the enclosure must
be acres and acres. There is a modern part, which
took all our garrison, women, children, stores, and
everything else, with plenty of room over. But the
modern part is nothing like the size of the old quarter,
where nobody goes, and which is given over to the
scorpions and the centipedes. It is all full of great
deserted halls, and winding passages, and long corridors twisting in and out, so that it is easy enough
for folk to get lost in it. For this reason it was seldom
that any one went into it, though now and again a
party with torches might go exploring.
“The river washes along the front of the old fort,
and so protects it, but on the sides and behind there
are many doors, and these had to be guarded, of
course, in the old quarter as well as in that which was
actually held by our troops. We were short-handed,
with hardly men enough to man the angles of the
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The Sign of the Four
building and to serve the guns. It was impossible for
us, therefore, to station a strong guard at every one of
the innumerable gates. What we did was to organize
a central guard-house in the middle of the fort, and
to leave each gate under the charge of one white man
and two or three natives. I was selected to take charge
during certain hours of the night of a small isolated
door upon the southwest side of the building. Two
Sikh troopers were placed under my command, and
I was instructed if anything went wrong to fire my
musket, when I might rely upon help coming at once
from the central guard. As the guard was a good
two hundred paces away, however, and as the space
between was cut up into a labyrinth of passages and
corridors, I had great doubts as to whether they could
arrive in time to be of any use in case of an actual
attack.
“Well, I was pretty proud at having this small
command given me, since I was a raw recruit, and a
game-legged one at that. For two nights I kept the
watch with my Punjaubees. They were tall, fiercelooking chaps, Mahomet Singh and Abdullah Khan
by name, both old fighting-men who had borne arms
against us at Chilian-wallah. They could talk English
pretty well, but I could get little out of them. They
preferred to stand together and jabber all night in
their queer Sikh lingo. For myself, I used to stand
outside the gate-way, looking down on the broad,
winding river and on the twinkling lights of the great
city. The beating of drums, the rattle of tomtoms, and
the yells and howls of the rebels, drunk with opium
and with bang, were enough to remind us all night
of our dangerous neighbors across the stream. Every
two hours the officer of the night used to come round
to all the posts, to make sure that all was well.
“The third night of my watch was dark and dirty,
with a small, driving rain. It was dreary work standing in the gate-way hour after hour in such weather. I
tried again and again to make my Sikhs talk, but without much success. At two in the morning the rounds
passed, and broke for a moment the weariness of the
night. Finding that my companions would not be led
into conversation, I took out my pipe, and laid down
my musket to strike the match. In an instant the two
Sikhs were upon me. One of them snatched my firelock up and levelled it at my head, while the other
held a great knife to my throat and swore between
his teeth that he would plunge it into me if I moved a
step.
“My first thought was that these fellows were in
league with the rebels, and that this was the beginning of an assault. If our door were in the hands
108
of the Sepoys the place must fall, and the women
and children be treated as they were in Cawnpore.
Maybe you gentlemen think that I am just making out
a case for myself, but I give you my word that when I
thought of that, though I felt the point of the knife at
my throat, I opened my mouth with the intention of
giving a scream, if it was my last one, which might
alarm the main guard. The man who held me seemed
to know my thoughts; for, even as I braced myself
to it, he whispered, ‘Don’t make a noise. The fort
is safe enough. There are no rebel dogs on this side
of the river.’ There was the ring of truth in what he
said, and I knew that if I raised my voice I was a dead
man. I could read it in the fellow’s brown eyes. I
waited, therefore, in silence, to see what it was that
they wanted from me.
“ ‘Listen to me, Sahib,’ said the taller and fiercer
of the pair, the one whom they called Abdullah Khan.
‘You must either be with us now or you must be silenced forever. The thing is too great a one for us
to hesitate. Either you are heart and soul with us
on your oath on the cross of the Christians, or your
body this night shall be thrown into the ditch and
we shall pass over to our brothers in the rebel army.
There is no middle way. Which is it to be, death or
life? We can only give you three minutes to decide,
for the time is passing, and all must be done before
the rounds come again.’
“ ‘How can I decide?’ said I. ‘You have not told
me what you want of me. But I tell you now that if
it is anything against the safety of the fort I will have
no truck with it, so you can drive home your knife
and welcome.’
“ ‘It is nothing against the fort,’ said he. ‘We only
ask you to do that which your countrymen come to
this land for. We ask you to be rich. If you will be
one of us this night, we will swear to you upon the
naked knife, and by the threefold oath which no Sikh
was ever known to break, that you shall have your
fair share of the loot. A quarter of the treasure shall
be yours. We can say no fairer.’
“ ‘But what is the treasure, then?’ I asked. ‘I am as
ready to be rich as you can be, if you will but show
me how it can be done.’
“ ‘You will swear, then,’ said he, ‘by the bones of
your father, by the honor of your mother, by the cross
of your faith, to raise no hand and speak no word
against us, either now or afterwards?’
“ ‘I will swear it,’ I answered, ‘provided that the
fort is not endangered.’
The Strange Story of Jonathan Small
“ ‘Then my comrade and I will swear that you
shall have a quarter of the treasure which shall be
equally divided among the four of us.’
“ ‘There are but three,’ said I.
“ ‘No; Dost Akbar must have his share. We can tell
the tale to you while we await them. Do you stand
at the gate, Mahomet Singh, and give notice of their
coming. The thing stands thus, Sahib, and I tell it to
you because I know that an oath is binding upon a
Feringhee, and that we may trust you. Had you been
a lying Hindoo, though you had sworn by all the
gods in their false temples, your blood would have
been upon the knife, and your body in the water. But
the Sikh knows the Englishman, and the Englishman
knows the Sikh. Hearken, then, to what I have to say.
“ ‘There is a rajah in the northern provinces who
has much wealth, though his lands are small. Much
has come to him from his father, and more still he has
set by himself, for he is of a low nature and hoards his
gold rather than spend it. When the troubles broke
out he would be friends both with the lion and the
tiger,—with the Sepoy and with the Company’s raj.
Soon, however, it seemed to him that the white men’s
day was come, for through all the land he could hear
of nothing but of their death and their overthrow. Yet,
being a careful man, he made such plans that, come
what might, half at least of his treasure should be left
to him. That which was in gold and silver he kept by
him in the vaults of his palace, but the most precious
stones and the choicest pearls that he had he put in an
iron box, and sent it by a trusty servant who, under
the guise of a merchant, should take it to the fort at
Agra, there to lie until the land is at peace. Thus,
if the rebels won he would have his money, but if
the Company conquered his jewels would be saved to
him. Having thus divided his hoard, he threw himself
into the cause of the Sepoys, since they were strong
upon his borders. By doing this, mark you, Sahib, his
property becomes the due of those who have been
true to their salt.
“ ‘This pretended merchant, who travels under the
name of Achmet, is now in the city of Agra, and desires to gain his way into the fort. He has with him as
travelling-companion my foster-brother Dost Akbar,
who knows his secret. Dost Akbar has promised this
night to lead him to a side-postern of the fort, and has
chosen this one for his purpose. Here he will come
presently, and here he will find Mahomet Singh and
myself awaiting him. The place is lonely, and none
shall know of his coming. The world shall know of
the merchant Achmet no more, but the great treasure
of the rajah shall be divided among us. What say you
to it, Sahib?’
“In Worcestershire the life of a man seems a great
and a sacred thing; but it is very different when there
is fire and blood all round you and you have been
used to meeting death at every turn. Whether Achmet
the merchant lived or died was a thing as light as air
to me, but at the talk about the treasure my heart
turned to it, and I thought of what I might do in the
old country with it, and how my folk would stare
when they saw their ne’er-do-well coming back with
his pockets full of gold moidores. I had, therefore,
already made up my mind. Abdullah Khan, however,
thinking that I hesitated, pressed the matter more
closely.
“ ‘Consider, Sahib,’ said he, ‘that if this man is
taken by the commandant he will be hung or shot,
and his jewels taken by the government, so that no
man will be a rupee the better for them. Now, since
we do the taking of him, why should we not do the
rest as well? The jewels will be as well with us as in
the Company’s coffers. There will be enough to make
every one of us rich men and great chiefs. No one can
know about the matter, for here we are cut off from
all men. What could be better for the purpose? Say
again, then, Sahib, whether you are with us, or if we
must look upon you as an enemy.’
“ ‘I am with you heart and soul,’ said I.
“ ‘It is well,’ he answered, handing me back my
firelock. ‘You see that we trust you, for your word,
like ours, is not to be broken. We have now only to
wait for my brother and the merchant.’
“ ‘Does your brother know, then, of what you will
do?’ I asked.
“ ‘The plan is his. He has devised it. We will go to
the gate and share the watch with Mahomet Singh.’
“The rain was still falling steadily, for it was just
the beginning of the wet season. Brown, heavy clouds
were drifting across the sky, and it was hard to see
more than a stone-cast. A deep moat lay in front of
our door, but the water was in places nearly dried up,
and it could easily be crossed. It was strange to me
to be standing there with those two wild Punjaubees
waiting for the man who was coming to his death.
“Suddenly my eye caught the glint of a shaded
lantern at the other side of the moat. It vanished
among the mound-heaps, and then appeared again
coming slowly in our direction.
“ ‘Here they are!’ I exclaimed.
“ ‘You will challenge him, Sahib, as usual,’ whispered Abdullah. ‘Give him no cause for fear. Send us
in with him, and we shall do the rest while you stay
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The Sign of the Four
here on guard. Have the lantern ready to uncover,
that we may be sure that it is indeed the man.’
“The light had flickered onwards, now stopping
and now advancing, until I could see two dark figures
upon the other side of the moat. I let them scramble
down the sloping bank, splash through the mire, and
climb half-way up to the gate, before I challenged
them.
“ ‘Who goes there?’ said I, in a subdued voice.
“ ‘Friends,’ came the answer. I uncovered my
lantern and threw a flood of light upon them. The
first was an enormous Sikh, with a black beard which
swept nearly down to his cummerbund. Outside of a
show I have never seen so tall a man. The other was
a little, fat, round fellow, with a great yellow turban,
and a bundle in his hand, done up in a shawl. He
seemed to be all in a quiver with fear, for his hands
twitched as if he had the ague, and his head kept
turning to left and right with two bright little twinkling eyes, like a mouse when he ventures out from
his hole. It gave me the chills to think of killing him,
but I thought of the treasure, and my heart set as
hard as a flint within me. When he saw my white
face he gave a little chirrup of joy and came running
up towards me.
“ ‘Your protection, Sahib,’ he panted,—‘your protection for the unhappy merchant Achmet. I have
travelled across Rajpootana that I might seek the shelter of the fort at Agra. I have been robbed and beaten
and abused because I have been the friend of the Company. It is a blessed night this when I am once more
in safety,—I and my poor possessions.’
“ ‘What have you in the bundle?’ I asked.
“ ‘An iron box,’ he answered, ‘which contains one
or two little family matters which are of no value to
others, but which I should be sorry to lose. Yet I am
not a beggar; and I shall reward you, young Sahib,
and your governor also, if he will give me the shelter
I ask.’
“I could not trust myself to speak longer with the
man. The more I looked at his fat, frightened face, the
harder did it seem that we should slay him in cold
blood. It was best to get it over.
“ ‘Take him to the main guard,’ said I. The two
Sikhs closed in upon him on each side, and the giant walked behind, while they marched in through
the dark gate-way. Never was a man so compassed
round with death. I remained at the gate-way with
the lantern.
110
“I could hear the measured tramp of their footsteps sounding through the lonely corridors. Suddenly it ceased, and I heard voices, and a scuffle, with
the sound of blows. A moment later there came, to
my horror, a rush of footsteps coming in my direction,
with the loud breathing of a running man. I turned
my lantern down the long, straight passage, and there
was the fat man, running like the wind, with a smear
of blood across his face, and close at his heels, bounding like a tiger, the great black-bearded Sikh, with a
knife flashing in his hand. I have never seen a man
run so fast as that little merchant. He was gaining on
the Sikh, and I could see that if he once passed me
and got to the open air he would save himself yet. My
heart softened to him, but again the thought of his
treasure turned me hard and bitter. I cast my firelock
between his legs as he raced past, and he rolled twice
over like a shot rabbit. Ere he could stagger to his feet
the Sikh was upon him, and buried his knife twice
in his side. The man never uttered moan nor moved
muscle, but lay were he had fallen. I think myself
that he may have broken his neck with the fall. You
see, gentlemen, that I am keeping my promise. I am
telling you every work of the business just exactly as
it happened, whether it is in my favor or not.”
He stopped, and held out his manacled hands for
the whiskey-and-water which Holmes had brewed for
him. For myself, I confess that I had now conceived
the utmost horror of the man, not only for this coldblooded business in which he had been concerned,
but even more for the somewhat flippant and careless
way in which he narrated it. Whatever punishment
was in store for him, I felt that he might expect no
sympathy from me. Sherlock Holmes and Jones sat
with their hands upon their knees, deeply interested
in the story, but with the same disgust written upon
their faces. He may have observed it, for there was
a touch of defiance in his voice and manner as he
proceeded.
“It was all very bad, no doubt,” said he. “I should
like to know how many fellows in my shoes would
have refused a share of this loot when they knew
that they would have their throats cut for their pains.
Besides, it was my life or his when once he was in
the fort. If he had got out, the whole business would
come to light, and I should have been court-martialled
and shot as likely as not; for people were not very
lenient at a time like that.”
“Go on with your story,” said Holmes, shortly.
“Well, we carried him in, Abdullah, Akbar, and I.
A fine weight he was, too, for all that he was so short.
Mahomet Singh was left to guard the door. We took
The Strange Story of Jonathan Small
him to a place which the Sikhs had already prepared.
It was some distance off, where a winding passage
leads to a great empty hall, the brick walls of which
were all crumbling to pieces. The earth floor had sunk
in at one place, making a natural grave, so we left
Achmet the merchant there, having first covered him
over with loose bricks. This done, we all went back to
the treasure.
“It lay where he had dropped it when he was
first attacked. The box was the same which now lies
open upon your table. A key was hung by a silken
cord to that carved handle upon the top. We opened
it, and the light of the lantern gleamed upon a collection of gems such as I have read of and thought
about when I was a little lad at Pershore. It was blinding to look upon them. When we had feasted our
eyes we took them all out and made a list of them.
There were one hundred and forty-three diamonds of
the first water, including one which has been called,
I believe, ‘the Great Mogul’ and is said to be the
second largest stone in existence. Then there were
ninety-seven very fine emeralds, and one hundred
and seventy rubies, some of which, however, were
small. There were forty carbuncles, two hundred and
ten sapphires, sixty-one agates, and a great quantity
of beryls, onyxes, cats’-eyes, turquoises, and other
stones, the very names of which I did not know at the
time, though I have become more familiar with them
since. Besides this, there were nearly three hundred
very fine pearls, twelve of which were set in a gold
coronet. By the way, these last had been taken out of
the chest and were not there when I recovered it.
“After we had counted our treasures we put them
back into the chest and carried them to the gate-way
to show them to Mahomet Singh. Then we solemnly
renewed our oath to stand by each other and be true
to our secret. We agreed to conceal our loot in a safe
place until the country should be at peace again, and
then to divide it equally among ourselves. There was
no use dividing it at present, for if gems of such value
were found upon us it would cause suspicion, and
there was no privacy in the fort nor any place where
we could keep them. We carried the box, therefore,
into the same hall where we had buried the body,
and there, under certain bricks in the best-preserved
wall, we made a hollow and put our treasure. We
made careful note of the place, and next day I drew
four plans, one for each of us, and put the sign of the
four of us at the bottom, for we had sworn that we
should each always act for all, so that none might take
advantage. That is an oath that I can put my hand to
my heart and swear that I have never broken.
“Well, there’s no use my telling you gentlemen
what came of the Indian mutiny. After Wilson took
Delhi and Sir Colin relieved Lucknow the back of the
business was broken. Fresh troops came pouring in,
and Nana Sahib made himself scarce over the frontier. A flying column under Colonel Greathed came
round to Agra and cleared the Pandies away from it.
Peace seemed to be settling upon the country, and
we four were beginning to hope that the time was at
hand when we might safely go off with our shares of
the plunder. In a moment, however, our hopes were
shattered by our being arrested as the murderers of
Achmet.
“It came about in this way. When the rajah put his
jewels into the hands of Achmet he did it because he
knew that he was a trusty man. They are suspicious
folk in the East, however: so what does this rajah do
but take a second even more trusty servant and set
him to play the spy upon the first? This second man
was ordered never to let Achmet out of his sight, and
he followed him like his shadow. He went after him
that night and saw him pass through the doorway.
Of course he thought he had taken refuge in the fort,
and applied for admission there himself next day, but
could find no trace of Achmet. This seemed to him so
strange that he spoke about it to a sergeant of guides,
who brought it to the ears of the commandant. A
thorough search was quickly made, and the body was
discovered. Thus at the very moment that we thought
that all was safe we were all four seized and brought
to trial on a charge of murder,—three of us because
we had held the gate that night, and the fourth because he was known to have been in the company
of the murdered man. Not a word about the jewels
came out at the trial, for the rajah had been deposed
and driven out of India: so no one had any particular
interest in them. The murder, however, was clearly
made out, and it was certain that we must all have
been concerned in it. The three Sikhs got penal servitude for life, and I was condemned to death, though
my sentence was afterwards commuted into the same
as the others.
“It was rather a queer position that we found ourselves in then. There we were all four tied by the leg
and with precious little chance of ever getting out
again, while we each held a secret which might have
put each of us in a palace if we could only have made
use of it. It was enough to make a man eat his heart
out to have to stand the kick and the cuff of every
petty jack-in-office, to have rice to eat and water to
drink, when that gorgeous fortune was ready for him
outside, just waiting to be picked up. It might have
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The Sign of the Four
driven me mad; but I was always a pretty stubborn
one, so I just held on and bided my time.
“At last it seemed to me to have come. I was
changed from Agra to Madras, and from there to Blair
Island in the Andamans. There are very few white
convicts at this settlement, and, as I had behaved well
from the first, I soon found myself a sort of privileged
person. I was given a hut in Hope Town, which is a
small place on the slopes of Mount Harriet, and I was
left pretty much to myself. It is a dreary, fever-stricken
place, and all beyond our little clearings was infested
with wild cannibal natives, who were ready enough
to blow a poisoned dart at us if they saw a chance.
There was digging, and ditching, and yam-planting,
and a dozen other things to be done, so we were busy
enough all day; though in the evening we had a little time to ourselves. Among other things, I learned
to dispense drugs for the surgeon, and picked up a
smattering of his knowledge. All the time I was on
the lookout for a chance of escape; but it is hundreds
of miles from any other land, and there is little or no
wind in those seas: so it was a terribly difficult job to
get away.
“The surgeon, Dr. Somerton, was a fast, sporting young chap, and the other young officers would
meet in his rooms of an evening and play cards. The
surgery, where I used to make up my drugs, was next
to his sitting-room, with a small window between us.
Often, if I felt lonesome, I used to turn out the lamp
in the surgery, and then, standing there, I could hear
their talk and watch their play. I am fond of a hand
at cards myself, and it was almost as good as having
one to watch the others. There was Major Sholto, Captain Morstan, and Lieutenant Bromley Brown, who
were in command of the native troops, and there was
the surgeon himself, and two or three prison-officials,
crafty old hands who played a nice sly safe game. A
very snug little party they used to make.
“Well, there was one thing which very soon struck
me, and that was that the soldiers used always to
lose and the civilians to win. Mind, I don’t say that
there was anything unfair, but so it was. These prisonchaps had done little else than play cards ever since
they had been at the Andamans, and they knew each
other’s game to a point, while the others just played
to pass the time and threw their cards down anyhow.
Night after night the soldiers got up poorer men, and
the poorer they got the more keen they were to play.
Major Sholto was the hardest hit. He used to pay in
notes and gold at first, but soon it came to notes of
hand and for big sums. He sometimes would win for
a few deals, just to give him heart, and then the luck
112
would set in against him worse than ever. All day he
would wander about as black as thunder, and he took
to drinking a deal more than was good for him.
“One night he lost even more heavily than usual.
I was sitting in my hut when he and Captain Morstan
came stumbling along on the way to their quarters.
They were bosom friends, those two, and never far
apart. The major was raving about his losses.
“ ‘It’s all up, Morstan,’ he was saying, as they
passed my hut. ‘I shall have to send in my papers. I
am a ruined man.’
“ ‘Nonsense, old chap!’ said the other, slapping
him upon the shoulder. ‘I’ve had a nasty facer myself,
but—’ That was all I could hear, but it was enough to
set me thinking.
A couple of days later Major Sholto was strolling
on the beach: so I took the chance of speaking to him.
“ ‘I wish to have your advice, major,’ said I.
“ ‘Well, Small, what is it?’ he asked, taking his
cheroot from his lips.
“ ‘I wanted to ask you, sir,’ said I, ‘who is the
proper person to whom hidden treasure should be
handed over. I know where half a million worth lies,
and, as I cannot use it myself, I thought perhaps the
best thing that I could do would be to hand it over to
the proper authorities, and then perhaps they would
get my sentence shortened for me.’
“ ‘Half a million, Small?’ he gasped, looking hard
at me to see if I was in earnest.
“ ‘Quite that, sir,—in jewels and pearls. It lies there
ready for anyone. And the queer thing about it is that
the real owner is outlawed and cannot hold property,
so that it belongs to the first comer.’
“ ‘To government, Small,’ he stammered,—‘to government.’ But he said it in a halting fashion, and I
knew in my heart that I had got him.
“ ‘You think, then, sir, that I should give the information to the Governor-General?’ said I, quietly.
“ ‘Well, well, you must not do anything rash, or
that you might repent. Let me hear all about it, Small.
Give me the facts.’
“I told him the whole story, with small changes
so that he could not identify the places. When I had
finished he stood stock still and full of thought. I
could see by the twitch of his lip that there was a
struggle going on within him.
“ ‘This is a very important matter, Small,’ he said,
at last. ‘You must not say a word to any one about it,
and I shall see you again soon.’
The Strange Story of Jonathan Small
“Two nights later he and his friend Captain
Morstan came to my hut in the dead of the night
with a lantern.
“ ‘I want you just to let Captain Morstan hear that
story from your own lips, Small,’ said he.
“I repeated it as I had told it before.
“ ‘It rings true, eh?’ said he. ‘It’s good enough to
act upon?’
“Captain Morstan nodded.
“ ‘Look here, Small,’ said the major. ‘We have been
talking it over, my friend here and I, and we have
come to the conclusion that this secret of yours is
hardly a government matter, after all, but is a private
concern of your own, which of course you have the
power of disposing of as you think best. Now, the
question is, what price would you ask for it? We
might be inclined to take it up, and at least look into
it, if we could agree as to terms.’ He tried to speak in
a cool, careless way, but his eyes were shining with
excitement and greed.
“ ‘Why, as to that, gentlemen,’ I answered, trying
also to be cool, but feeling as excited as he did, ‘there
is only one bargain which a man in my position can
make. I shall want you to help me to my freedom,
and to help my three companions to theirs. We shall
then take yo into partnership, and give you a fifth
share to divide between you.’
“ ‘Hum!’ said he. ‘A fifth share! That is not very
tempting.’
“ ‘It would come to fifty thousand apiece,’ said I.
“ ‘But how can we gain your freedom? You know
very well that you ask an impossibility.’
“ ‘Nothing of the sort,’ I answered. ‘I have thought
it all out to the last detail. The only bar to our escape
is that we can get no boat fit for the voyage, and no
provisions to last us for so long a time. There are
plenty of little yachts and yawls at Calcutta or Madras
which would serve our turn well. Do you bring one
over. We shall engage to get aboard her by night, and
if you will drop us on any part of the Indian coast
you will have done your part of the bargain.’
“ ‘If there were only one,’ he said.
“ ‘None or all,’ I answered. ‘We have sworn it. The
four of us must always act together.’
“ ‘You see, Morstan,’ said he, ‘Small is a man of
his word. He does not flinch from his friend. I think
we may very well trust him.’
“ ‘It’s a dirty business,’ the other answered. ‘Yet,
as you say, the money would save our commissions
handsomely.’
“ ‘Well, Small,’ said the major, ‘we must, I suppose,
try and meet you. We must first, of course, test the
truth of your story. Tell me where the box is hid, and
I shall get leave of absence and go back to India in the
monthly relief-boat to inquire into the affair.’
“ ‘Not so fast,’ said I, growing colder as he got hot.
‘I must have the consent of my three comrades. I tell
you that it is four or none with us.’
“ ‘Nonsense!’ he broke in. ‘What have three black
fellows to do with our agreement?’
“ ‘Black or blue,’ said I, ‘they are in with me, and
we all go together.’
“Well, the matter ended by a second meeting, at
which Mahomet Singh, Abdullah Khan, and Dost Akbar were all present. We talked the matter over again,
and at last we came to an arrangement. We were to
provide both the officers with charts of the part of the
Agra fort and mark the place in the wall where the
treasure was hid. Major Sholto was to go to India to
test our story. If he found the box he was to leave it
there, to send out a small yacht provisioned for a voyage, which was to lie off Rutland Island, and to which
we were to make our way, and finally to return to his
duties. Captain Morstan was then to apply for leave
of absence, to meet us at Agra, and there we were
to have a final division of the treasure, he taking the
major’s share as well as his own. All this we sealed
by the most solemn oaths that the mind could think
or the lips utter. I sat up all night with paper and ink,
and by the morning I had the two charts all ready,
signed with the sign of four,—that is, of Abdullah,
Akbar, Mahomet, and myself.
“Well, gentlemen, I weary you with my long story,
and I know that my friend Mr. Jones is impatient to
get me safely stowed in chokey. I’ll make it as short
as I can. The villain Sholto went off to India, but he
never came back again. Captain Morstan showed me
his name among a list of passengers in one of the
mail-boats very shortly afterwards. His uncle had
died, leaving him a fortune, and he had left the army,
yet he could stoop to treat five men as he had treated
us. Morstan went over to Agra shortly afterwards,
and found, as we expected, that the treasure was indeed gone. The scoundrel had stolen it all, without
carrying out one of the conditions on which we had
sold him the secret. From that day I lived only for
vengeance. I thought of it by day and I nursed it by
night. It became an overpowering, absorbing passion
with me. I cared nothing for the law,—nothing for
the gallows. To escape, to track down Sholto, to have
my hand upon his throat,—that was my one thought.
113
The Sign of the Four
Even the Agra treasure had come to be a smaller thing
in my mind than the slaying of Sholto.
“Well, I have set my mind on many things in this
life, and never one which I did not carry out. But it
was weary years before my time came. I have told
you that I had picked up something of medicine. One
day when Dr. Somerton was down with a fever a little
Andaman Islander was picked up by a convict-gang
in the woods. He was sick to death, and had gone
to a lonely place to die. I took him in hand, though
he was as venomous as a young snake, and after a
couple of months I got him all right and able to walk.
He took a kind of fancy to me then, and would hardly
go back to his woods, but was always hanging about
my hut. I learned a little of his lingo from him, and
this made him all the fonder of me.
“Tonga—for that was his name—was a fine boatman, and owned a big, roomy canoe of his own.
When I found that he was devoted to me and would
do anything to serve me, I saw my chance of escape.
I talked it over with him. He was to bring his boat
round on a certain night to an old wharf which was
never guarded, and there he was to pick me up. I
gave him directions to have several gourds of water
and a lot of yams, cocoa-nuts, and sweet potatoes.
“He was stanch and true, was little Tonga. No
man ever had a more faithful mate. At the night
named he had his boat at the wharf. As it chanced,
however, there was one of the convict-guard down
there,—a vile Pathan who had never missed a chance
of insulting and injuring me. I had always vowed
vengeance, and now I had my chance. It was as if fate
had placed him in my way that I might pay my debt
before I left the island. He stood on the bank with his
back to me, and his carbine on his shoulder. I looked
about for a stone to beat out his brains with, but none
could I see.
“Then a queer thought came into my head and
showed me where I could lay my hand on a weapon. I
sat down in the darkness and unstrapped my wooden
leg. With three long hops I was on him. He put his
carbine to his shoulder, but I struck him full, and
knocked the whole front of his skull in. You can see
the split in the wood now where I hit him. We both
went down together, for I could not keep my balance,
but when I got up I found him still lying quiet enough.
I made for the boat, and in an hour we were well out
at sea. Tonga had brought all his earthly possessions
with him, his arms and his gods. Among other things,
he had a long bamboo spear, and some Andaman
cocoa-nut matting, with which I made a sort of sail.
For ten days we were beating about, trusting to luck,
114
and on the eleventh we were picked up by a trader
which was going from Singapore to Jiddah with a
cargo of Malay pilgrims. They were a rum crowd,
and Tonga and I soon managed to settle down among
them. They had one very good quality: they let you
alone and asked no questions.
“Well, if I were to tell you all the adventures that
my little chum and I went through, you would not
thank me, for I would have you here until the sun was
shining. Here and there we drifted about the world,
something always turning up to keep us from London.
All the time, however, I never lost sight of my purpose. I would dream of Sholto at night. A hundred
times I have killed him in my sleep. At last, however,
some three or four years ago, we found ourselves in
England. I had no great difficulty in finding where
Sholto lived, and I set to work to discover whether he
had realized the treasure, or if he still had it. I made
friends with someone who could help me,—I name
no names, for I don’t want to get any one else in a
hole,—and I soon found that he still had the jewels.
Then I tried to get at him in many ways; but he was
pretty sly, and had always two prize-fighters, besides
his sons and his khitmutgar, on guard over him.
“One day, however, I got word that he was dying.
I hurried at once to the garden, mad that he should
slip out of my clutches like that, and, looking through
the window, I saw him lying in his bed, with his
sons on each side of him. I’d have come through and
taken my chance with the three of them, only even
as I looked at him his jaw dropped, and I knew that
he was gone. I got into his room that same night,
though, and I searched his papers to see if there was
any record of where he had hidden our jewels. There
was not a line, however: so I came away, bitter and
savage as a man could be. Before I left I bethought
me that if I ever met my Sikh friends again it would
be a satisfaction to know that I had left some mark of
our hatred: so I scrawled down the sign of the four
of us, as it had been on the chart, and I pinned it on
his bosom. It was too much that he should be taken
to the grave without some token from the men whom
he had robbed and befooled.
“We earned a living at this time by my exhibiting poor Tonga at fairs and other such places as the
black cannibal. He would eat raw meat and dance
his war-dance: so we always had a hatful of pennies
after a day’s work. I still heard all the news from
Pondicherry Lodge, and for some years there was
no news to hear, except that they were hunting for
the treasure. At last, however, came what we had
waited for so long. The treasure had been found. It
The Strange Story of Jonathan Small
was up at the top of the house, in Mr. Bartholomew
Sholto’s chemical laboratory. I came at once and had
a look at the place, but I could not see how with
my wooden leg I was to make my way up to it. I
learned, however, about a trap-door in the roof, and
also about Mr. Sholto’s supper-hour. It seemed to me
that I could manage the thing easily through Tonga.
I brought him out with me with a long rope wound
round his waist. He could climb like a cat, and he
soon made his way through the roof, but, as ill luck
would have it, Bartholomew Sholto was still in the
room, to his cost. Tonga thought he had done something very clever in killing him, for when I came up
by the rope I found him strutting about as proud as a
peacock. Very much surprised was he when I made
at him with the rope’s end and cursed him for a little
blood-thirsty imp. I took the treasure-box and let it
down, and then slid down myself, having first left
the sign of the four upon the table, to show that the
jewels had come back at last to those who had most
right to them. Tonga then pulled up the rope, closed
the window, and made off the way that he had come.
“I don’t know that I have anything else to tell you.
I had heard a waterman speak of the speed of Smith’s
launch, the Aurora, so I thought she would be a handy
craft for our escape. I engaged with old Smith, and
was to give him a big sum if he got us safe to our
ship. He knew, no doubt, that there was some screw
loose, but he was not in our secrets. All this is the
truth, and if I tell it to you, gentlemen, it is not to
amuse you,—for you have not done me a very good
turn,—but it is because I believe the best defence I
can make is just to hold back nothing, but let all the
world know how badly I have myself been served by
Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the death of
his son.”
“A very remarkable account,” said Sherlock
Holmes. “A fitting wind-up to an extremely interesting case. There is nothing at all new to me in the
latter part of your narrative, except that you brought
your own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I
had hoped that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he
managed to shoot one at us in the boat.”
“He had lost them all, sir, except the one which
was in his blow-pipe at the time.”
“Ah, of course,” said Holmes. “I had not thought
of that.”
“Is there any other point which you would like to
ask about?” asked the convict, affably.
“I think not, thank you,” my companion answered.
“Well, Holmes,” said Athelney Jones, “You are a
man to be humored, and we all know that you are
a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have
gone rather far in doing what you and your friend
asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have
our story-teller here safe under lock and key. The cab
still waits, and there are two inspectors down-stairs. I
am much obliged to you both for your assistance. Of
course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to
you.”
“Good-night, gentlemen both,” said Jonathan
Small.
“You first, Small,” remarked the wary Jones as
they left the room. “I’ll take particular care that you
don’t club me with your wooden leg, whatever you
may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman
Isles.”
“Well, and there is the end of our little drama,”
I remarked, after we had set some time smoking in
silence. “I fear that it may be the last investigation
in which I shall have the chance of studying your
methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honor to
accept me as a husband in prospective.”
He gave a most dismal groan. “I feared as much,”
said he. “I really cannot congratulate you.”
I was a little hurt. “Have you any reason to be
dissatisfied with my choice?” I asked.
“Not at all. I think she is one of the most charming
young ladies I ever met, and might have been most
useful in such work as we have been doing. She had
a decided genius that way: witness the way in which
she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her father. But love is an emotional thing, and
whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold
reason which I place above all things. I should never
marry myself, lest I bias my judgment.”
“I trust,” said I, laughing, “that my judgment may
survive the ordeal. But you look weary.”
“Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall be
as limp as a rag for a week.”
“Strange,” said I, “how terms of what in another
man I should call laziness alternate with your fits of
splendid energy and vigor.”
“Yes,” he answered, “there are in me the makings
of a very fine loafer and also of a pretty spry sort of
fellow. I often think of those lines of old Goethe,—
Schade, daß die Natur nur
einen Mensch aus Dir schuf,
Denn zum würdigen Mann war
und zum Schelmen der Stoff.
115
The Sign of the Four
“By the way, a propos of this Norwood business,
you see that they had, as I surmised, a confederate in
the house, who could be none other than Lal Rao, the
butler: so Jones actually has the undivided honor of
having caught one fish in his great haul.”
“The division seems rather unfair,” I remarked.
116
“You have done all the work in this business. I get a
wife out of it, Jones gets the credit, pray what remains
for you?”
“For me,” said Sherlock Holmes, “there still remains the cocaine-bottle.” And he stretched his long
white hand up for it.
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
A Scandal in Bohemia
Table of contents
Chapter 1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
123
Chapter 2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
127
Chapter 3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
132
121
Chapter I
T
CHAPTER I.
o Sherlock Holmes she is always the
woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes
she eclipses and predominates the whole
of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin
to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one
particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but
admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most
perfect reasoning and observing machine that the
world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed
himself in a false position. He never spoke of the
softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They
were admirable things for the observer—excellent for
drawing the veil from men’s motives and actions. But
for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into
his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was
to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a
doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive
instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power
lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong
emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was
but one woman to him, and that woman was the late
Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.
I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had
drifted us away from each other. My own complete
happiness, and the home-centred interests which rise
up around the man who first finds himself master of
his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all
my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form
of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained
in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old
books, and alternating from week to week between
cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug,
and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was
still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime,
and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary
powers of observation in following out those clues,
and clearing up those mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time
to time I heard some vague account of his doings:
of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff
murder, of his clearing up of the singular tragedy of
the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of
the mission which he had accomplished so delicately
and successfully for the reigning family of Holland.
Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I
merely shared with all the readers of the daily press,
I knew little of my former friend and companion.
One night—it was on the twentieth of March,
1888—I was returning from a journey to a patient
(for I had now returned to civil practice), when my
way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the
well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark
incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a
keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he
was employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms
were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw
his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette
against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly,
eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his
hands clasped behind him. To me, who knew his
every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told
their own story. He was at work again. He had risen
out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the
scent of some new problem. I rang the bell and was
shown up to the chamber which had formerly been
in part my own.
His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but
he was glad, I think, to see me. With hardly a word
spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved me to an
armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then
he stood before the fire and looked me over in his
singular introspective fashion.
“Wedlock suits you,” he remarked. “I think, Watson, that you have put on seven and a half pounds
since I saw you.”
“Seven!” I answered.
“Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just
a trifle more, I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I
observe. You did not tell me that you intended to go
into harness.”
“Then, how do you know?”
“I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you
have been getting yourself very wet lately, and that
you have a most clumsy and careless servant girl?”
“My dear Holmes,” said I, “this is too much. You
would certainly have been burned, had you lived a
few centuries ago. It is true that I had a country walk
on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but
as I have changed my clothes I can’t imagine how you
deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and
my wife has given her notice, but there, again, I fail
to see how you work it out.”
He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together.
“It is simplicity itself,” said he; “my eyes tell me
that on the inside of your left shoe, just where the
firelight strikes it, the leather is scored by six almost
123
A Scandal in Bohemia
parallel cuts. Obviously they have been caused by
someone who has very carelessly scraped round the
edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud
from it. Hence, you see, my double deduction that
you had been out in vile weather, and that you had a
particularly malignant boot-slitting specimen of the
London slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman
walks into my rooms smelling of iodoform, with a
black mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the right side of his top-hat to
show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must
be dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce him to be an
active member of the medical profession.”
of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your
chamber then at that hour, and do not take it amiss if
your visitor wear a mask.”
I could not help laughing at the ease with which
he explained his process of deduction. “When I hear
you give your reasons,” I remarked, “the thing always
appears to me to be so ridiculously simple that I could
easily do it myself, though at each successive instance
of your reasoning I am baffled until you explain your
process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good
as yours.”
“The man who wrote it was presumably well to
do,” I remarked, endeavouring to imitate my companion’s processes. “Such paper could not be bought
under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong
and stiff.”
“Quite so,” he answered, lighting a cigarette, and
throwing himself down into an armchair. “You see,
but you do not observe. The distinction is clear. For
example, you have frequently seen the steps which
lead up from the hall to this room.”
“Frequently.”
“How often?”
“Well, some hundreds of times.”
“Then how many are there?”
“How many? I don’t know.”
“Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you
have seen. That is just my point. Now, I know that
there are seventeen steps, because I have both seen
and observed. By-the-way, since you are interested in
these little problems, and since you are good enough
to chronicle one or two of my trifling experiences, you
may be interested in this.” He threw over a sheet of
thick, pink-tinted note-paper which had been lying
open upon the table. “It came by the last post,” said
he. “Read it aloud.”
The note was undated, and without either signature or address.
“There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to
eight o’clock,” it said, “a gentleman who desires to
consult you upon a matter of the very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses
of Europe have shown that you are one who may
safely be trusted with matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated. This account
124
“This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked. “What do
you imagine that it means?”
“I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to
twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit
facts. But the note itself. What do you deduce from
it?”
I carefully examined the writing, and the paper
upon which it was written.
“Peculiar—that is the very word,” said Holmes.
“It is not an English paper at all. Hold it up to the
light.”
I did so, and saw a large “E” with a small “g,” a
“P,” and a large “G” with a small “t” woven into the
texture of the paper.
“What do you make of that?” asked Holmes.
“The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.”
“Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for
‘Gesellschaft,’ which is the German for ‘Company.’
It is a customary contraction like our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of
course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now for the ‘Eg.’ Let us
glance at our Continental Gazetteer.” He took down
a heavy brown volume from his shelves. “Eglow,
Eglonitz—here we are, Egria. It is in a Germanspeaking country—in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. ‘Remarkable as being the scene of the death of
Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass-factories and
paper-mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of
that?” His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue
triumphant cloud from his cigarette.
“The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said.
“Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is
a German. Do you note the peculiar construction of
the sentence—‘This account of you we have from all
quarters received.’ A Frenchman or Russian could
not have written that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to
discover what is wanted by this German who writes
upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask
to showing his face. And here he comes, if I am not
mistaken, to resolve all our doubts.”
Chapter I
As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses’
hoofs and grating wheels against the curb, followed
by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes whistled.
“A pair, by the sound,” said he. “Yes,” he continued, glancing out of the window. “A nice little
brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred and fifty
guineas apiece. There’s money in this case, Watson, if
there is nothing else.”
“I think that I had better go, Holmes.”
“Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am
lost without my Boswell. And this promises to be
interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.”
“But your client—”
“Never mind him. I may want your help, and so
may he. Here he comes. Sit down in that armchair,
Doctor, and give us your best attention.”
A slow and heavy step, which had been heard
upon the stairs and in the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and
authoritative tap.
“Come in!” said Holmes.
A man entered who could hardly have been less
than six feet six inches in height, with the chest and
limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich with a richness
which would, in England, be looked upon as akin to
bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed
across the sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted
coat, while the deep blue cloak which was thrown
over his shoulders was lined with flame-coloured
silk and secured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended
halfway up his calves, and which were trimmed at
the tops with rich brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was suggested by his
whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat
in his hand, while he wore across the upper part of
his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black
vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted that
very moment, for his hand was still raised to it as he
entered. From the lower part of the face he appeared
to be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging
lip, and a long, straight chin suggestive of resolution
pushed to the length of obstinacy.
“You had my note?” he asked with a deep harsh
voice and a strongly marked German accent. “I told
you that I would call.” He looked from one to the
other of us, as if uncertain which to address.
“Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend
and colleague, Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good
enough to help me in my cases. Whom have I the
honour to address?”
“You may address me as the Count Von Kramm,
a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and discretion,
whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme
importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone.”
I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist
and pushed me back into my chair. “It is both, or
none,” said he. “You may say before this gentleman
anything which you may say to me.”
The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I
must begin,” said he, “by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of that time the
matter will be of no importance. At present it is not
too much to say that it is of such weight it may have
an influence upon European history.”
“I promise,” said Holmes.
“And I.”
“You will excuse this mask,” continued our
strange visitor. “The august person who employs
me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I
may confess at once that the title by which I have just
called myself is not exactly my own.”
“I was aware of it,” said Holmes dryly.
“The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to be taken to quench what might
grow to be an immense scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To
speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House
of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia.”
“I was also aware of that,” murmured Holmes,
settling himself down in his armchair and closing his
eyes.
Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise
at the languid, lounging figure of the man who had
been no doubt depicted to him as the most incisive
reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes
slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at
his gigantic client.
“If your Majesty would condescend to state your
case,” he remarked, “I should be better able to advise
you.”
The man sprang from his chair and paced up and
down the room in uncontrollable agitation. Then,
with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask from
his face and hurled it upon the ground. “You are
right,” he cried; “I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal it?”
125
A Scandal in Bohemia
“Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes.
“Your
Majesty had not spoken before I was aware that I
was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von
Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia.”
“But you can understand,” said our strange visitor,
sitting down once more and passing his hand over his
high white forehead, “you can understand that I am
not accustomed to doing such business in my own
person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could
not confide it to an agent without putting myself in
his power. I have come incognito from Prague for the
purpose of consulting you.”
“Then, pray consult,” said Holmes, shutting his
eyes once more.
“The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago,
during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known adventuress, Irene Adler. The
name is no doubt familiar to you.”
“Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor,” murmured Holmes without opening his eyes. For many
years he had adopted a system of docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was
difficult to name a subject or a person on which he
could not at once furnish information. In this case I
found her biography sandwiched in between that of
a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who
had written a monograph upon the deep-sea fishes.
“Let me see!” said Holmes. “Hum! Born in
New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto—hum! La
Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw—yes! Retired from operatic stage—ha! Living
in London—quite so! Your Majesty, as I understand,
became entangled with this young person, wrote her
some compromising letters, and is now desirous of
getting those letters back.”
“Precisely so. But how—”
“Was there a secret marriage?”
“None.”
“No legal papers or certificates?”
“None.”
“Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young
person should produce her letters for blackmailing or
other purposes, how is she to prove their authenticity?”
“There is the writing.”
“Pooh, pooh! Forgery.”
“My private note-paper.”
“Stolen.”
126
“My own seal.”
“Imitated.”
“My photograph.”
“Bought.”
“We were both in the photograph.”
“Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has
indeed committed an indiscretion.”
“I was mad—insane.”
“You have compromised yourself seriously.”
“I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am
but thirty now.”
“It must be recovered.”
“We have tried and failed.”
“Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought.”
“She will not sell.”
“Stolen, then.”
“Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars
in my pay ransacked her house. Once we diverted
her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has been
waylaid. There has been no result.”
“No sign of it?”
“Absolutely none.”
Holmes laughed. “It is quite a pretty little problem,” said he.
“But a very serious one to me,” returned the King
reproachfully.
“Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do
with the photograph?”
“To ruin me.”
“But how?”
“I am about to be married.”
“So I have heard.”
“To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second
daughter of the King of Scandinavia. You may know
the strict principles of her family. She is herself the
very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my
conduct would bring the matter to an end.”
“And Irene Adler?”
“Threatens to send them the photograph. And she
will do it. I know that she will do it. You do not know
her, but she has a soul of steel. She has the face of the
most beautiful of women, and the mind of the most
resolute of men. Rather than I should marry another
woman, there are no lengths to which she would not
go—none.”
“You are sure that she has not sent it yet?”
“I am sure.”
Chapter II
“And why?”
“And for present expenses?”
“Because she has said that she would send it on
the day when the betrothal was publicly proclaimed.
That will be next Monday.”
“Oh, then we have three days yet,” said Holmes
with a yawn. “That is very fortunate, as I have one or
two matters of importance to look into just at present.
Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London for the
present?”
“Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under
the name of the Count Von Kramm.”
“Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how
we progress.”
“Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety.”
“Then, as to money?”
“You have carte blanche.”
“Absolutely?”
“I tell you that I would give one of the provinces
of my kingdom to have that photograph.”
The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from
under his cloak and laid it on the table.
“There are three hundred pounds in gold and
seven hundred in notes,” he said.
Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his
note-book and handed it to him.
“And Mademoiselle’s address?” he asked.
“Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s
Wood.”
Holmes took a note of it. “One other question,”
said he. “Was the photograph a cabinet?”
“It was.”
“Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that
we shall soon have some good news for you. And
good-night, Watson,” he added, as the wheels of the
royal brougham rolled down the street. “If you will
be good enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three
o’clock I should like to chat this little matter over with
you.”
CHAPTER II.
At three o’clock precisely I was at Baker Street,
but Holmes had not yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the house shortly after
eight o’clock in the morning. I sat down beside the
fire, however, with the intention of awaiting him, however long he might be. I was already deeply interested in his inquiry, for, though it was surrounded
by none of the grim and strange features which were
associated with the two crimes which I have already
recorded, still, the nature of the case and the exalted
station of his client gave it a character of its own. Indeed, apart from the nature of the investigation which
my friend had on hand, there was something in his
masterly grasp of a situation, and his keen, incisive
reasoning, which made it a pleasure to me to study
his system of work, and to follow the quick, subtle
methods by which he disentangled the most inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable
success that the very possibility of his failing had
ceased to enter into my head.
It was close upon four before the door opened,
and a drunken-looking groom, ill-kempt and sidewhiskered, with an inflamed face and disreputable
clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as I was
to my friend’s amazing powers in the use of disguises,
I had to look three times before I was certain that
it was indeed he. With a nod he vanished into the
bedroom, whence he emerged in five minutes tweedsuited and respectable, as of old. Putting his hands
into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of
the fire and laughed heartily for some minutes.
“Well, really!” he cried, and then he choked and
laughed again until he was obliged to lie back, limp
and helpless, in the chair.
“What is it?”
“It’s quite too funny. I am sure you could never
guess how I employed my morning, or what I ended
by doing.”
“I can’t imagine. I suppose that you have been
watching the habits, and perhaps the house, of Miss
Irene Adler.”
127
A Scandal in Bohemia
“Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I
will tell you, however. I left the house a little after
eight o’clock this morning in the character of a groom
out of work. There is a wonderful sympathy and
freemasonry among horsey men. Be one of them, and
you will know all that there is to know. I soon found
Briony Lodge. It is a bijou villa, with a garden at the
back, but built out in front right up to the road, two
stories. Chubb lock to the door. Large sitting-room
on the right side, well furnished, with long windows
almost to the floor, and those preposterous English
window fasteners which a child could open. Behind
there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage
window could be reached from the top of the coachhouse. I walked round it and examined it closely from
every point of view, but without noting anything else
of interest.
“I then lounged down the street and found, as I
expected, that there was a mews in a lane which runs
down by one wall of the garden. I lent the ostlers
a hand in rubbing down their horses, and received
in exchange twopence, a glass of half and half, two
fills of shag tobacco, and as much information as I
could desire about Miss Adler, to say nothing of half a
dozen other people in the neighbourhood in whom I
was not in the least interested, but whose biographies
I was compelled to listen to.”
“And what of Irene Adler?” I asked.
“Oh, she has turned all the men’s heads down in
that part. She is the daintiest thing under a bonnet
on this planet. So say the Serpentine-mews, to a man.
She lives quietly, sings at concerts, drives out at five
every day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner. Seldom goes out at other times, except when she sings.
Has only one male visitor, but a good deal of him.
He is dark, handsome, and dashing, never calls less
than once a day, and often twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey
Norton, of the Inner Temple. See the advantages of a
cabman as a confidant. They had driven him home
a dozen times from Serpentine-mews, and knew all
about him. When I had listened to all they had to tell,
I began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge once
more, and to think over my plan of campaign.
“This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important
factor in the matter. He was a lawyer. That sounded
ominous. What was the relation between them, and
what the object of his repeated visits? Was she his
client, his friend, or his mistress? If the former, she
had probably transferred the photograph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less likely. On the issue of
this question depended whether I should continue
my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my attention to the
128
gentleman’s chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate
point, and it widened the field of my inquiry. I fear
that I bore you with these details, but I have to let you
see my little difficulties, if you are to understand the
situation.”
“I am following you closely,” I answered.
“I was still balancing the matter in my mind when
a hansom cab drove up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was a remarkably handsome
man, dark, aquiline, and moustached—evidently the
man of whom I had heard. He appeared to be in
a great hurry, shouted to the cabman to wait, and
brushed past the maid who opened the door with the
air of a man who was thoroughly at home.
“He was in the house about half an hour, and I
could catch glimpses of him in the windows of the
sitting-room, pacing up and down, talking excitedly,
and waving his arms. Of her I could see nothing.
Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried
than before. As he stepped up to the cab, he pulled a
gold watch from his pocket and looked at it earnestly,
‘Drive like the devil,’ he shouted, ‘first to Gross &
Hankey’s in Regent Street, and then to the Church of
St. Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if
you do it in twenty minutes!’
“Away they went, and I was just wondering
whether I should not do well to follow them when up
the lane came a neat little landau, the coachman with
his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under his ear,
while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of
the buckles. It hadn’t pulled up before she shot out
of the hall door and into it. I only caught a glimpse
of her at the moment, but she was a lovely woman,
with a face that a man might die for.
“ ‘The Church of St. Monica, John,’ she cried, ‘and
half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.’
“This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was
just balancing whether I should run for it, or whether
I should perch behind her landau when a cab came
through the street. The driver looked twice at such
a shabby fare, but I jumped in before he could object. ‘The Church of St. Monica,’ said I, ‘and half a
sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.’ It was
twenty-five minutes to twelve, and of course it was
clear enough what was in the wind.
“My cabby drove fast. I don’t think I ever drove
faster, but the others were there before us. The cab
and the landau with their steaming horses were in
front of the door when I arrived. I paid the man
and hurried into the church. There was not a soul
there save the two whom I had followed and a surpliced clergyman, who seemed to be expostulating
Chapter II
with them. They were all three standing in a knot in
front of the altar. I lounged up the side aisle like any
other idler who has dropped into a church. Suddenly,
to my surprise, the three at the altar faced round to
me, and Godfrey Norton came running as hard as he
could towards me.
“ ‘Thank God,’ he cried. ‘You’ll do. Come! Come!’
“ ‘What then?’ I asked.
“ ‘Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it
won’t be legal.’
“I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before
I knew where I was I found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear, and vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally
assisting in the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was all done in
an instant, and there was the gentleman thanking me
on the one side and the lady on the other, while the
clergyman beamed on me in front. It was the most
preposterous position in which I ever found myself in
my life, and it was the thought of it that started me
laughing just now. It seems that there had been some
informality about their license, that the clergyman
absolutely refused to marry them without a witness
of some sort, and that my lucky appearance saved the
bridegroom from having to sally out into the streets in
search of a best man. The bride gave me a sovereign,
and I mean to wear it on my watch-chain in memory
of the occasion.”
“This is a very unexpected turn of affairs,” said I;
“and what then?”
“Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced.
It looked as if the pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate very prompt and energetic
measures on my part. At the church door, however,
they separated, he driving back to the Temple, and
she to her own house. ‘I shall drive out in the park
at five as usual,’ she said as she left him. I heard no
more. They drove away in different directions, and I
went off to make my own arrangements.”
“Which are?”
“Some cold beef and a glass of beer,” he answered,
ringing the bell. “I have been too busy to think of
food, and I am likely to be busier still this evening.
By the way, Doctor, I shall want your co-operation.”
“I shall be delighted.”
“You don’t mind breaking the law?”
“Not in the least.”
“Nor running a chance of arrest?”
“Not in a good cause.”
“Oh, the cause is excellent!”
“Then I am your man.”
“I was sure that I might rely on you.”
“But what is it you wish?”
“When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will
make it clear to you. Now,” he said as he turned
hungrily on the simple fare that our landlady had
provided, “I must discuss it while I eat, for I have
not much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours
we must be on the scene of action. Miss Irene, or
Madame, rather, returns from her drive at seven. We
must be at Briony Lodge to meet her.”
“And what then?”
“You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to occur. There is only one point on
which I must insist. You must not interfere, come
what may. You understand?”
“I am to be neutral?”
“To do nothing whatever. There will probably be
some small unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will
end in my being conveyed into the house. Four or
five minutes afterwards the sitting-room window will
open. You are to station yourself close to that open
window.”
“Yes.”
“You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you.”
“Yes.”
“And when I raise my hand—so—you will throw
into the room what I give you to throw, and will, at
the same time, raise the cry of fire. You quite follow
me?”
“Entirely.”
“It is nothing very formidable,” he said, taking
a long cigar-shaped roll from his pocket. “It is an
ordinary plumber’s smoke-rocket, fitted with a cap
at either end to make it self-lighting. Your task is
confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire, it
will be taken up by quite a number of people. You
may then walk to the end of the street, and I will
rejoin you in ten minutes. I hope that I have made
myself clear?”
“I am to remain neutral, to get near the window,
to watch you, and at the signal to throw in this object,
then to raise the cry of fire, and to wait you at the
corner of the street.”
“Precisely.”
“Then you may entirely rely on me.”
“That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost
time that I prepare for the new role I have to play.”
129
A Scandal in Bohemia
He disappeared into his bedroom and returned
in a few minutes in the character of an amiable and
simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman. His broad
black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and benevolent curiosity were such as Mr. John Hare alone could
have equalled. It was not merely that Holmes changed
his costume. His expression, his manner, his very soul
seemed to vary with every fresh part that he assumed.
The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute
reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime.
It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street,
and it still wanted ten minutes to the hour when we
found ourselves in Serpentine Avenue. It was already
dusk, and the lamps were just being lighted as we
paced up and down in front of Briony Lodge, waiting
for the coming of its occupant. The house was just
such as I had pictured it from Sherlock Holmes’ succinct description, but the locality appeared to be less
private than I expected. On the contrary, for a small
street in a quiet neighbourhood, it was remarkably
animated. There was a group of shabbily dressed
men smoking and laughing in a corner, a scissorsgrinder with his wheel, two guardsmen who were
flirting with a nurse-girl, and several well-dressed
young men who were lounging up and down with
cigars in their mouths.
“You see,” remarked Holmes, as we paced to and
fro in front of the house, “this marriage rather simplifies matters. The photograph becomes a doubleedged weapon now. The chances are that she would
be as averse to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton, as our client is to its coming to the eyes of his
princess. Now the question is—Where are we to find
the photograph?”
“Where, indeed?”
“It is most unlikely that she carries it about with
her. It is cabinet size. Too large for easy concealment
about a woman’s dress. She knows that the King is
capable of having her waylaid and searched. Two
attempts of the sort have already been made. We may
take it, then, that she does not carry it about with
her.”
“Where, then?”
“Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility. But I am inclined to think neither.
Women are naturally secretive, and they like to do
their own secreting. Why should she hand it over
to anyone else? She could trust her own guardianship, but she could not tell what indirect or political
influence might be brought to bear upon a business
130
man. Besides, remember that she had resolved to use
it within a few days. It must be where she can lay her
hands upon it. It must be in her own house.”
“But it has twice been burgled.”
“Pshaw! They did not know how to look.”
“But how will you look?”
“I will not look.”
“What then?”
“I will get her to show me.”
“But she will refuse.”
“She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of
wheels. It is her carriage. Now carry out my orders
to the letter.”
As he spoke the gleam of the side-lights of a carriage came round the curve of the avenue. It was a
smart little landau which rattled up to the door of
Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of the loafing
men at the corner dashed forward to open the door
in the hope of earning a copper, but was elbowed
away by another loafer, who had rushed up with the
same intention. A fierce quarrel broke out, which was
increased by the two guardsmen, who took sides with
one of the loungers, and by the scissors-grinder, who
was equally hot upon the other side. A blow was
struck, and in an instant the lady, who had stepped
from her carriage, was the centre of a little knot of
flushed and struggling men, who struck savagely at
each other with their fists and sticks. Holmes dashed
into the crowd to protect the lady; but just as he
reached her he gave a cry and dropped to the ground,
with the blood running freely down his face. At his
fall the guardsmen took to their heels in one direction and the loungers in the other, while a number of
better-dressed people, who had watched the scuffle
without taking part in it, crowded in to help the lady
and to attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will
still call her, had hurried up the steps; but she stood
at the top with her superb figure outlined against the
lights of the hall, looking back into the street.
“Is the poor gentleman much hurt?” she asked.
“He is dead,” cried several voices.
“No, no, there’s life in him!” shouted another. “But
he’ll be gone before you can get him to hospital.”
“He’s a brave fellow,” said a woman. “They would
have had the lady’s purse and watch if it hadn’t been
for him. They were a gang, and a rough one, too. Ah,
he’s breathing now.”
“He can’t lie in the street. May we bring him in,
marm?”
“Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is
a comfortable sofa. This way, please!”
Chapter II
Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony
Lodge and laid out in the principal room, while I
still observed the proceedings from my post by the
window. The lamps had been lit, but the blinds had
not been drawn, so that I could see Holmes as he lay
upon the couch. I do not know whether he was seized
with compunction at that moment for the part he was
playing, but I know that I never felt more heartily
ashamed of myself in my life than when I saw the
beautiful creature against whom I was conspiring, or
the grace and kindliness with which she waited upon
the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest
treachery to Holmes to draw back now from the part
which he had intrusted to me. I hardened my heart,
and took the smoke-rocket from under my ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We are but
preventing her from injuring another.
Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw
him motion like a man who is in need of air. A maid
rushed across and threw open the window. At the
same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the signal I tossed my rocket into the room with a cry of
“Fire!” The word was no sooner out of my mouth
than the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and
ill—gentlemen, ostlers, and servant-maids—joined
in a general shriek of “Fire!” Thick clouds of smoke
curled through the room and out at the open window.
I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a moment
later the voice of Holmes from within assuring them
that it was a false alarm. Slipping through the shouting crowd I made my way to the corner of the street,
and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find my friend’s
arm in mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar. He walked swiftly and in silence for some few
minutes until we had turned down one of the quiet
streets which lead towards the Edgeware Road.
“You did it very nicely, Doctor,” he remarked.
“Nothing could have been better. It is all right.”
“You have the photograph?”
“I know where it is.”
“And how did you find out?”
“She showed me, as I told you she would.”
“I am still in the dark.”
“I do not wish to make a mystery,” said he, laughing. “The matter was perfectly simple. You, of course,
saw that everyone in the street was an accomplice.
They were all engaged for the evening.”
“I guessed as much.”
“Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist
red paint in the palm of my hand. I rushed forward,
fell down, clapped my hand to my face, and became
a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick.”
“That also I could fathom.”
“Then they carried me in. She was bound to have
me in. What else could she do? And into her sittingroom, which was the very room which I suspected.
It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was determined to see which. They laid me on a couch, I
motioned for air, they were compelled to open the
window, and you had your chance.”
“How did that help you?”
“It was all-important. When a woman thinks that
her house is on fire, her instinct is at once to rush
to the thing which she values most. It is a perfectly
overpowering impulse, and I have more than once
taken advantage of it. In the case of the Darlington
substitution scandal it was of use to me, and also in
the Arnsworth Castle business. A married woman
grabs at her baby; an unmarried one reaches for her
jewel-box. Now it was clear to me that our lady of
to-day had nothing in the house more precious to
her than what we are in quest of. She would rush to
secure it. The alarm of fire was admirably done. The
smoke and shouting were enough to shake nerves of
steel. She responded beautifully. The photograph is
in a recess behind a sliding panel just above the right
bell-pull. She was there in an instant, and I caught
a glimpse of it as she half-drew it out. When I cried
out that it was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced
at the rocket, rushed from the room, and I have not
seen her since. I rose, and, making my excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated whether to attempt
to secure the photograph at once; but the coachman
had come in, and as he was watching me narrowly it
seemed safer to wait. A little over-precipitance may
ruin all.”
“And now?” I asked.
“Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with
the King to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come
with us. We will be shown into the sitting-room to
wait for the lady, but it is probable that when she
comes she may find neither us nor the photograph. It
might be a satisfaction to his Majesty to regain it with
his own hands.”
“And when will you call?”
“At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so
that we shall have a clear field. Besides, we must
be prompt, for this marriage may mean a complete
change in her life and habits. I must wire to the King
without delay.”
131
A Scandal in Bohemia
We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at
the door. He was searching his pockets for the key
when someone passing said:
“Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes.”
There were several people on the pavement at the
time, but the greeting appeared to come from a slim
youth in an ulster who had hurried by.
“I’ve heard that voice before,” said Holmes, staring down the dimly lit street. “Now, I wonder who
the deuce that could have been.”
CHAPTER III.
I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were
engaged upon our toast and coffee in the morning
when the King of Bohemia rushed into the room.
“You have really got it!” he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by either shoulder and looking eagerly
into his face.
“Not yet.”
“But you have hopes?”
The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon the steps. She watched us
with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the brougham.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?” said she.
“I am Mr. Holmes,” answered my companion,
looking at her with a questioning and rather startled
gaze.
“I have hopes.”
“Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone.”
“We must have a cab.”
“No, my brougham is waiting.”
“Then that will simplify matters.” We descended
and started off once more for Briony Lodge.
“Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely
to call. She left this morning with her husband by the
5.15 train from Charing Cross for the Continent.”
“What!” Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white
with chagrin and surprise. “Do you mean that she
has left England?”
“Irene Adler is married,” remarked Holmes.
“Married! When?”
“Yesterday.”
“But to whom?”
“Never to return.”
“And the papers?” asked the King hoarsely. “All
is lost.”
“To an English lawyer named Norton.”
“But she could not love him.”
“I am in hopes that she does.”
“And why in hopes?”
“Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of
future annoyance. If the lady loves her husband, she
does not love your Majesty. If she does not love your
Majesty, there is no reason why she should interfere
with your Majesty’s plan.”
“It is true. And yet—Well! I wish she had been
of my own station! What a queen she would have
made!” He relapsed into a moody silence, which was
not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue.
132
“We shall see.” He pushed past the servant and
rushed into the drawing-room, followed by the King
and myself. The furniture was scattered about in
every direction, with dismantled shelves and open
drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them
before her flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore
back a small sliding shutter, and, plunging in his
hand, pulled out a photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening dress,
the letter was superscribed to “Sherlock Holmes, Esq.
To be left till called for.” My friend tore it open and
we all three read it together. It was dated at midnight
of the preceding night and ran in this way:
Chapter III
“My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
“You really did it very well. You took
me in completely. Until after the alarm of
fire, I had not a suspicion. But then, when
I found how I had betrayed myself, I began to think. I had been warned against
you months ago. I had been told that if the
King employed an agent it would certainly
be you. And your address had been given
me. Yet, with all this, you made me reveal
what you wanted to know. Even after I became suspicious, I found it hard to think
evil of such a dear, kind old clergyman.
But, you know, I have been trained as an
actress myself. Male costume is nothing
new to me. I often take advantage of the
freedom which it gives. I sent John, the
coachman, to watch you, ran up stairs, got
into my walking-clothes, as I call them,
and came down just as you departed.
“What a woman—oh, what a woman!” cried the
King of Bohemia, when we had all three read this
epistle. “Did I not tell you how quick and resolute
she was? Would she not have made an admirable
queen? Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?”
“From what I have seen of the lady she seems
indeed to be on a very different level to your Majesty,”
said Holmes coldly. “I am sorry that I have not been
able to bring your Majesty’s business to a more successful conclusion.”
“On the contrary, my dear sir,” cried the King;
“nothing could be more successful. I know that her
word is inviolate. The photograph is now as safe as if
it were in the fire.”
“I am glad to hear your Majesty say so.”
“I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in
what way I can reward you. This ring—” He slipped
an emerald snake ring from his finger and held it out
upon the palm of his hand.
“Well, I followed you to your door, and
so made sure that I was really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Then I, rather imprudently,
wished you good-night, and started for
the Temple to see my husband.
“Your Majesty has something which I should value
even more highly,” said Holmes.
“We both thought the best resource was
flight, when pursued by so formidable an
antagonist; so you will find the nest empty
when you call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace. I
love and am loved by a better man than
he. The King may do what he will without
hindrance from one whom he has cruelly
wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will
always secure me from any steps which
he might take in the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to possess;
and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
“Irene’s photograph!” he cried. “Certainly, if you
wish it.”
— “Very truly yours,
“Irene Norton, née Adler.”
“You have but to name it.”
“This photograph!”
The King stared at him in amazement.
“I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to
be done in the matter. I have the honour to wish
you a very good-morning.” He bowed, and, turning
away without observing the hand which the King had
stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his
chambers.
And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohemia, and how the best plans
of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman’s
wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of
women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And
when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to
her photograph, it is always under the honourable
title of the woman.
133
The Red-Headed League
I
had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year
and found him in deep conversation with a
very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman
with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion,
I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled me
abruptly into the room and closed the door behind
me.
“You could not possibly have come at a better time,
my dear Watson,” he said cordially.
“I was afraid that you were engaged.”
“So I am. Very much so.”
“Then I can wait in the next room.”
“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been
my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the
utmost use to me in yours also.”
The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and
gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning
glance from his small fat-encircled eyes.
“Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his
armchair and putting his fingertips together, as was
his custom when in judicial moods. “I know, my dear
Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre
and outside the conventions and humdrum routine
of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by
the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle,
and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to
embellish so many of my own little adventures.”
“Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,” I observed.
“You will remember that I remarked the other day,
just before we went into the very simple problem
presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange
effects and extraordinary combinations we must go
to life itself, which is always far more daring than any
effort of the imagination.”
“A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.”
“You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come
round to my view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your reason breaks
down under them and acknowledges me to be right.
Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough
to call upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular
which I have listened to for some time. You have
heard me remark that the strangest and most unique
things are very often connected not with the larger
but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed,
where there is room for doubt whether any positive
crime has been committed. As far as I have heard it is
impossible for me to say whether the present case is
an instance of crime or not, but the course of events
is certainly among the most singular that I have ever
listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have
the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I
ask you not merely because my friend Dr. Watson
has not heard the opening part but also because the
peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have
every possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when
I have heard some slight indication of the course of
events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of
other similar cases which occur to my memory. In the
present instance I am forced to admit that the facts
are, to the best of my belief, unique.”
The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some little pride and pulled a dirty and
wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his
greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement
column, with his head thrust forward and the paper
flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at
the man and endeavoured, after the fashion of my
companion, to read the indications which might be
presented by his dress or appearance.
I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore every mark of being an average
commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous,
and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd’s
check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a
heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit
of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed
top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled
velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether,
look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about
the man save his blazing red head, and the expression
of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.
Sherlock Holmes’ quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head with a smile as he noticed
my questioning glances. “Beyond the obvious facts
that he has at some time done manual labour, that he
takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been
in China, and that he has done a considerable amount
of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his
forefinger upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.
“How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know
all that, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “How did you know,
for example, that I did manual labour. It’s as true as
gospel, for I began as a ship’s carpenter.”
137
The Red-Headed League
“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite
a size larger than your left. You have worked with it,
and the muscles are more developed.”
“What on earth does this mean?” I ejaculated after
I had twice read over the extraordinary announcement.
“Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?”
Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was
his habit when in high spirits. “It is a little off the
beaten track, isn’t it?” said he. “And now, Mr. Wilson,
off you go at scratch and tell us all about yourself,
your household, and the effect which this advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make a
note, Doctor, of the paper and the date.”
“I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how
I read that, especially as, rather against the strict rules
of your order, you use an arc-and-compass breastpin.”
“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?”
“What else can be indicated by that right cuff so
very shiny for five inches, and the left one with the
smooth patch near the elbow where you rest it upon
the desk?”
“Well, but China?”
“The fish that you have tattooed immediately
above your right wrist could only have been done in
China. I have made a small study of tattoo marks and
have even contributed to the literature of the subject.
That trick of staining the fishes’ scales of a delicate
pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I
see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain,
the matter becomes even more simple.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I never!”
said he. “I thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see that there was nothing in it,
after all.”
“I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that
I make a mistake in explaining. ‘Omne ignotum pro
magnifico,’ you know, and my poor little reputation,
such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid.
Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”
“Yes, I have got it now,” he answered with his
thick red finger planted halfway down the column.
“Here it is. This is what began it all. You just read it
for yourself, sir.”
I took the paper from him and read as follows:
“To the Red-headed League: On account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah
Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S.
A., there is now another vacancy open
which entitles a member of the League to a
salary of £4 a week for purely nominal services. All red-headed men who are sound
in body and mind and above the age of
twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply in
person on Monday, at eleven o’clock, to
Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League,
7 Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.”
138
“It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just
two months ago.”
“Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?”
“Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson, mopping his
forehead; “I have a small pawnbroker’s business at
Coburg Square, near the City. It’s not a very large
affair, and of late years it has not done more than
just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two
assistants, but now I only keep one; and I would have
a job to pay him but that he is willing to come for half
wages so as to learn the business.”
“What is the name of this obliging youth?” asked
Sherlock Holmes.
“His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not such
a youth, either. It’s hard to say his age. I should not
wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very
well that he could better himself and earn twice what
I am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied,
why should I put ideas in his head?”
“Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having
an employee who comes under the full market price.
It is not a common experience among employers in
this age. I don’t know that your assistant is not as
remarkable as your advertisement.”
“Oh, he has his faults, too,” said Mr. Wilson.
“Never was such a fellow for photography. Snapping
away with a camera when he ought to be improving
his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like
a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is
his main fault, but on the whole he’s a good worker.
There’s no vice in him.”
“He is still with you, I presume?”
“Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit
of simple cooking and keeps the place clean—that’s
all I have in the house, for I am a widower and never
had any family. We live very quietly, sir, the three of
us; and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our
debts, if we do nothing more.
“The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he came down into the office just
this day eight weeks, with this very paper in his hand,
and he says:
“ ‘I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a
red-headed man.’
“ ‘Why that?’ I asks.
“ ‘Why,’ says he, ‘here’s another vacancy on the
League of the Red-headed Men. It’s worth quite a
little fortune to any man who gets it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are
men, so that the trustees are at their wits’ end what
to do with the money. If my hair would only change
colour, here’s a nice little crib all ready for me to step
into.’
“ ‘Why, what is it, then?’ I asked. You see, Mr.
Holmes, I am a very stay-at-home man, and as my
business came to me instead of my having to go to
it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot
over the door-mat. In that way I didn’t know much
of what was going on outside, and I was always glad
of a bit of news.
“ ‘Have you never heard of the League of the Redheaded Men?’ he asked with his eyes open.
“ ‘Never.’
“ ‘Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the vacancies.’
“ ‘And what are they worth?’ I asked.
“ ‘Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the
work is slight, and it need not interfere very much
with one’s other occupations.’
“Well, you can easily think that that made me
prick up my ears, for the business has not been overgood for some years, and an extra couple of hundred
would have been very handy.
“ ‘Tell me all about it,’ said I.
“ ‘Well,’ said he, showing me the advertisement,
‘you can see for yourself that the League has a vacancy,
and there is the address where you should apply for
particulars. As far as I can make out, the League
was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah
Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was
himself red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for
all red-headed men; so when he died it was found
that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of
trustees, with instructions to apply the interest to the
providing of easy berths to men whose hair is of that
colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay and very
little to do.’
“ ‘But,’ said I, ‘there would be millions of redheaded men who would apply.’
“ ‘Not so many as you might think,’ he answered.
‘You see it is really confined to Londoners, and to
grown men. This American had started from London
when he was young, and he wanted to do the old
town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no
use your applying if your hair is light red, or dark red,
or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if
you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk
in; but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while
to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a few
hundred pounds.’
“Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for
yourselves, that my hair is of a very full and rich tint,
so that it seemed to me that if there was to be any
competition in the matter I stood as good a chance
as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding
seemed to know so much about it that I thought he
might prove useful, so I just ordered him to put up
the shutters for the day and to come right away with
me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut
the business up and started off for the address that
was given us in the advertisement.
“I never hope to see such a sight as that again,
Mr. Holmes. From north, south, east, and west every
man who had a shade of red in his hair had tramped
into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet Street
was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope’s Court
looked like a coster’s orange barrow. I should not
have thought there were so many in the whole country as were brought together by that single advertisement. Every shade of colour they were—straw,
lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as
Spaulding said, there were not many who had the
real vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how many
were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but
Spaulding would not hear of it. How he did it I could
not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted
until he got me through the crowd, and right up to
the steps which led to the office. There was a double
stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and
some coming back dejected; but we wedged in as well
as we could and soon found ourselves in the office.”
“Your experience has been a most entertaining
one,” remarked Holmes as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff. “Pray
continue your very interesting statement.”
“There was nothing in the office but a couple of
wooden chairs and a deal table, behind which sat a
small man with a head that was even redder than
139
The Red-Headed League
mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he
came up, and then he always managed to find some
fault in them which would disqualify them. Getting a
vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy matter,
after all. However, when our turn came the little man
was much more favourable to me than to any of the
others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that
he might have a private word with us.
“ ‘This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,’ said my assistant, ‘and
he is willing to fill a vacancy in the League.’
“ ‘And he is admirably suited for it,’ the other answered. ‘He has every requirement. I cannot recall
when I have seen anything so fine.’ He took a step
backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at
my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he
plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated
me warmly on my success.
“ ‘It would be injustice to hesitate,’ said he. ‘You
will, however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.’ With that he seized my hair in both
his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the pain.
‘There is water in your eyes,’ said he as he released
me. ‘I perceive that all is as it should be. But we have
to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs
and once by paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler’s
wax which would disgust you with human nature.’
He stepped over to the window and shouted through
it at the top of his voice that the vacancy was filled.
A groan of disappointment came up from below, and
the folk all trooped away in different directions until
there was not a red-head to be seen except my own
and that of the manager.
“ ‘My name,’ said he, ‘is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I
am myself one of the pensioners upon the fund left
by our noble benefactor. Are you a married man, Mr.
Wilson? Have you a family?’
“I answered that I had not.
“His face fell immediately.
“ ‘Dear me!’ he said gravely, ‘that is very serious
indeed! I am sorry to hear you say that. The fund
was, of course, for the propagation and spread of the
red-heads as well as for their maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor.’
“My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I
thought that I was not to have the vacancy after all;
but after thinking it over for a few minutes he said
that it would be all right.
“ ‘In the case of another,’ said he, ‘the objection
might be fatal, but we must stretch a point in favour
of a man with such a head of hair as yours. When
shall you be able to enter upon your new duties?’
140
“ ‘Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business
already,’ said I.
“ ‘Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!’ said
Vincent Spaulding. ‘I should be able to look after that
for you.’
“ ‘What would be the hours?’ I asked.
“ ‘Ten to two.’
“Now a pawnbroker’s business is mostly done of
an evening, Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before pay-day; so it would
suit me very well to earn a little in the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and
that he would see to anything that turned up.
“ ‘That would suit me very well,’ said I. ‘And the
pay?’
“ ‘Is £4 a week.’
“ ‘And the work?’
“ ‘Is purely nominal.’
“ ‘What do you call purely nominal?’
“ ‘Well, you have to be in the office, or at least
in the building, the whole time. If you leave, you
forfeit your whole position forever. The will is very
clear upon that point. You don’t comply with the
conditions if you budge from the office during that
time.’
“ ‘It’s only four hours a day, and I should not think
of leaving,’ said I.
“ ‘No excuse will avail,’ said Mr. Duncan Ross; ‘neither sickness nor business nor anything else. There
you must stay, or you lose your billet.’
“ ‘And the work?’
“ ‘Is to copy out the “Encyclopaedia Britannica.”
There is the first volume of it in that press. You must
find your own ink, pens, and blotting-paper, but we
provide this table and chair. Will you be ready tomorrow?’
“ ‘Certainly,’ I answered.
“ ‘Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me
congratulate you once more on the important position
which you have been fortunate enough to gain.’ He
bowed me out of the room and I went home with my
assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so
pleased at my own good fortune.
“Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by
evening I was in low spirits again; for I had quite
persuaded myself that the whole affair must be some
great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be
I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that anyone could make such a will, or that they
would pay such a sum for doing anything so simple
as copying out the ‘Encyclopaedia Britannica.’ Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but
by bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the whole
thing. However, in the morning I determined to have
a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink,
and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap
paper, I started off for Pope’s Court.
“Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was
as right as possible. The table was set out ready for
me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to see that I
got fairly to work. He started me off upon the letter
A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from
time to time to see that all was right with me. At two
o’clock he bade me good-day, complimented me upon
the amount that I had written, and locked the door of
the office after me.
“This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on
Saturday the manager came in and planked down
four golden sovereigns for my week’s work. It was
the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon
I left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to
coming in only once of a morning, and then, after a
time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never
dared to leave the room for an instant, for I was not
sure when he might come, and the billet was such a
good one, and suited me so well, that I would not risk
the loss of it.
“Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had
written about Abbots and Archery and Armour and
Architecture and Attica, and hoped with diligence
that I might get on to the B’s before very long. It cost
me something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly
filled a shelf with my writings. And then suddenly
the whole business came to an end.”
“To an end?”
“Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went
to my work as usual at ten o’clock, but the door was
shut and locked, with a little square of cardboard
hammered on to the middle of the panel with a tack.
Here it is, and you can read for yourself.”
He held up a piece of white cardboard about the
size of a sheet of note-paper. It read in this fashion:
The Red-headed League
is
Dissolved
October 9, 1890.
Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful face behind it, until the
comical side of the affair so completely overtopped
every other consideration that we both burst out into
a roar of laughter.
“I cannot see that there is anything very funny,”
cried our client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming
head. “If you can do nothing better than laugh at me,
I can go elsewhere.”
“No, no,” cried Holmes, shoving him back into the
chair from which he had half risen. “I really wouldn’t
miss your case for the world. It is most refreshingly
unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying
so, something just a little funny about it. Pray what
steps did you take when you found the card upon the
door?”
“I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do.
Then I called at the offices round, but none of them
seemed to know anything about it. Finally, I went
to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the
ground-floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what
had become of the Red-headed League. He said that
he had never heard of any such body. Then I asked
him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that
the name was new to him.
“ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘the gentleman at No. 4.’
“ ‘What, the red-headed man?’
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘his name was William Morris. He
was a solicitor and was using my room as a temporary
convenience until his new premises were ready. He
moved out yesterday.’
“ ‘Where could I find him?’
“ ‘Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul’s.’
“I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that
address it was a manufactory of artificial knee-caps,
and no one in it had ever heard of either Mr. William
Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross.”
“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.
“I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took
the advice of my assistant. But he could not help
me in any way. He could only say that if I waited
I should hear by post. But that was not quite good
enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a
place without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you
were good enough to give advice to poor folk who
were in need of it, I came right away to you.”
“And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your
case is an exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be
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The Red-Headed League
happy to look into it. From what you have told me I
think that it is possible that graver issues hang from
it than might at first sight appear.”
“Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “Why, I
have lost four pound a week.”
“As far as you are personally concerned,” remarked Holmes, “I do not see that you have any
grievance against this extraordinary league. On the
contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some £30,
to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you
have gained on every subject which comes under the
letter A. You have lost nothing by them.”
“No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and
who they are, and what their object was in playing
this prank—if it was a prank—upon me. It was a
pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two
and thirty pounds.”
“We shall endeavour to clear up these points for
you. And, first, one or two questions, Mr. Wilson.
This assistant of yours who first called your attention
to the advertisement—how long had he been with
you?”
“About a month then.”
“How did he come?”
“In answer to an advertisement.”
“Was he the only applicant?”
“No, I had a dozen.”
“Why did you pick him?”
“Because he was handy and would come cheap.”
“At half-wages, in fact.”
“Yes.”
“What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?”
“Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair
on his face, though he’s not short of thirty. Has a
white splash of acid upon his forehead.”
Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. “I thought as much,” said he. “Have you ever
observed that his ears are pierced for earrings?”
“Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for
him when he was a lad.”
“Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep
thought. “He is still with you?”
“Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.”
“And has your business been attended to in your
absence?”
“Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s never very
much to do of a morning.”
142
“That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give
you an opinion upon the subject in the course of a
day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I hope that by
Monday we may come to a conclusion.”
“Well, Watson,” said Holmes when our visitor had
left us, “what do you make of it all?”
“I make nothing of it,” I answered frankly. “It is a
most mysterious business.”
“As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a
thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your
commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult
to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter.”
“What are you going to do, then?” I asked.
“To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three pipe
problem, and I beg that you won’t speak to me for
fifty minutes.” He curled himself up in his chair, with
his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and
there he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay
pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird.
I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped
asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he
suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of
a man who has made up his mind and put his pipe
down upon the mantelpiece.
“Sarasate plays at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he remarked. “What do you think, Watson?
Could your patients spare you for a few hours?”
“I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never
very absorbing.”
“Then put on your hat and come. I am going
through the City first, and we can have some lunch
on the way. I observe that there is a good deal of German music on the programme, which is rather more
to my taste than Italian or French. It is introspective,
and I want to introspect. Come along!”
We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square,
the scene of the singular story which we had listened
to in the morning. It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel
place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick
houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure,
where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps
of faded laurel-bushes made a hard fight against a
smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three
gilt balls and a brown board with “Jabez Wilson”
in white letters, upon a corner house, announced
the place where our red-headed client carried on
his business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of
it with his head on one side and looked it all over,
with his eyes shining brightly between puckered lids.
Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down
again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses.
Finally he returned to the pawnbroker’s, and, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his
stick two or three times, he went up to the door and
knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking,
clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step in.
“Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask
you how you would go from here to the Strand.”
“Third right, fourth left,” answered the assistant
promptly, closing the door.
“Smart fellow, that,” observed Holmes as we
walked away. “He is, in my judgment, the fourth
smartest man in London, and for daring I am not sure
that he has not a claim to be third. I have known
something of him before.”
“Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts
for a good deal in this mystery of the Red-headed
League. I am sure that you inquired your way merely
in order that you might see him.”
“Not him.”
“What then?”
“The knees of his trousers.”
“And what did you see?”
“What I expected to see.”
“Why did you beat the pavement?”
“My dear doctor, this is a time for observation,
not for talk. We are spies in an enemy’s country. We
know something of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us now
explore the parts which lie behind it.”
The road in which we found ourselves as we
turned round the corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg
Square presented as great a contrast to it as the front
of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main
arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to the
north and west. The roadway was blocked with the
immense stream of commerce flowing in a double tide
inward and outward, while the footpaths were black
with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realise as we looked at the line of fine shops
and stately business premises that they really abutted
on the other side upon the faded and stagnant square
which we had just quitted.
“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner
and glancing along the line, “I should like just to remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of
mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is
Mortimer’s, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop,
the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank,
the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane’s carriagebuilding depot. That carries us right on to the other
block. And now, Doctor, we’ve done our work, so it’s
time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of
coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no
red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums.”
My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being
himself not only a very capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the afternoon he
sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to
the music, while his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes
the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted,
ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and
astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the
reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood
which occasionally predominated in him. The swing
of his nature took him from extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never so
truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had
been lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter editions. Then it was that the
lust of the chase would suddenly come upon him, and
that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the
level of intuition, until those who were unacquainted
with his methods would look askance at him as on a
man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals.
When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the
music at St. James’s Hall I felt that an evil time might
be coming upon those whom he had set himself to
hunt down.
“You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,” he
remarked as we emerged.
“Yes, it would be as well.”
“And I have some business to do which will take
some hours. This business at Coburg Square is serious.”
“Why serious?”
“A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have
every reason to believe that we shall be in time to
stop it. But to-day being Saturday rather complicates
matters. I shall want your help to-night.”
“At what time?”
“Ten will be early enough.”
“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”
“Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some
little danger, so kindly put your army revolver in your
pocket.” He waved his hand, turned on his heel, and
disappeared in an instant among the crowd.
143
The Red-Headed League
I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always oppressed with a sense of my
own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock Holmes.
Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what
he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident
that he saw clearly not only what had happened but
what was about to happen, while to me the whole
business was still confused and grotesque. As I drove
home to my house in Kensington I thought over it
all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed
copier of the “Encyclopaedia” down to the visit to
Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with
which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed? Where
were we going, and what were we to do? I had the
hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant was a formidable man—a man who
might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but
gave it up in despair and set the matter aside until
night should bring an explanation.
It was a quarter-past nine when I started from
home and made my way across the Park, and so
through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two hansoms
were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard the sound of voices from above. On
entering his room I found Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognised as
Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other
was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat
and oppressively respectable frock-coat.
“Ha! Our party is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket and taking his heavy hunting
crop from the rack. “Watson, I think you know Mr.
Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to
Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in
to-night’s adventure.”
“We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,”
said Jones in his consequential way. “Our friend here
is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All he wants
is an old dog to help him to do the running down.”
“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end
of our chase,” observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.
“You may place considerable confidence in Mr.
Holmes, sir,” said the police agent loftily. “He has his
own little methods, which are, if he won’t mind my
saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but
he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too
much to say that once or twice, as in that business of
the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been
more nearly correct than the official force.”
“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said
the stranger with deference. “Still, I confess that I
144
miss my rubber. It is the first Saturday night for
seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my rubber.”
“I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes,
“that you will play for a higher stake to-night than
you have ever done yet, and that the play will be more
exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be
some £30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man
upon whom you wish to lay your hands.”
“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and
forger. He’s a young man, Mr. Merryweather, but
he is at the head of his profession, and I would rather
have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in
London. He’s a remarkable man, is young John Clay.
His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has
been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as
his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every
turn, we never know where to find the man himself.
He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising
money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next.
I’ve been on his track for years and have never set
eyes on him yet.”
“I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I’ve had one or two little turns also
with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at
the head of his profession. It is past ten, however, and
quite time that we started. If you two will take the
first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second.”
Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and lay back in the cab humming
the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon. We
rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets
until we emerged into Farrington Street.
“We are close there now,” my friend remarked.
“This fellow Merryweather is a bank director, and
personally interested in the matter. I thought it as
well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow,
though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He
has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog
and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon
anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for us.”
We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare
in which we had found ourselves in the morning. Our
cabs were dismissed, and, following the guidance of
Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage
and through a side door, which he opened for us.
Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a
very massive iron gate. This also was opened, and led
down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather
stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us
down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after
opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which
was piled all round with crates and massive boxes.
“You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes
remarked as he held up the lantern and gazed about
him.
“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the flags which lined the floor.
“Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!” he remarked,
looking up in surprise.
“I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!”
said Holmes severely. “You have already imperilled
the whole success of our expedition. Might I beg that
you would have the goodness to sit down upon one
of those boxes, and not to interfere?”
The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself
upon a crate, with a very injured expression upon his
face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon the floor
and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to
examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A
few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to
his feet again and put his glass in his pocket.
“We have at least an hour before us,” he remarked,
“for they can hardly take any steps until the good
pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they will not lose a
minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer
time they will have for their escape. We are at present,
Doctor—as no doubt you have divined—in the cellar
of the City branch of one of the principal London
banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors,
and he will explain to you that there are reasons why
the more daring criminals of London should take a
considerable interest in this cellar at present.”
“It is our French gold,” whispered the director.
“We have had several warnings that an attempt might
be made upon it.”
“Your French gold?”
“Yes. We had occasion some months ago to
strengthen our resources and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France. It has
become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar.
The crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons
packed between layers of lead foil. Our reserve of
bullion is much larger at present than is usually kept
in a single branch office, and the directors have had
misgivings upon the subject.”
“Which were very well justified,” observed
Holmes. “And now it is time that we arranged our
little plans. I expect that within an hour matters will
come to a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather,
we must put the screen over that dark lantern.”
“And sit in the dark?”
“I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in
my pocket, and I thought that, as we were a partie
carrée, you might have your rubber after all. But I see
that the enemy’s preparations have gone so far that
we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of
all, we must choose our positions. These are daring
men, and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are careful.
I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal
yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light
upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have
no compunction about shooting them down.”
I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the
wooden case behind which I crouched. Holmes shot
the slide across the front of his lantern and left us in
pitch darkness—such an absolute darkness as I have
never before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to assure us that the light was still there, ready
to flash out at a moment’s notice. To me, with my
nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there was
something depressing and subduing in the sudden
gloom, and in the cold dank air of the vault.
“They have but one retreat,” whispered Holmes.
“That is back through the house into Saxe-Coburg
Square. I hope that you have done what I asked you,
Jones?”
“I have an inspector and two officers waiting at
the front door.”
“Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we
must be silent and wait.”
What a time it seemed! From comparing notes
afterwards it was but an hour and a quarter, yet it
appeared to me that the night must have almost gone
and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were
weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position;
yet my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch
of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could
not only hear the gentle breathing of my companions,
but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath
of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the
bank director. From my position I could look over the
case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes
caught the glint of a light.
At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone
pavement. Then it lengthened out until it became a
yellow line, and then, without any warning or sound,
a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white,
almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre
of the little area of light. For a minute or more the
hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the
145
The Red-Headed League
floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid
spark which marked a chink between the stones.
“That is better,” said John Clay serenely. He made
a sweeping bow to the three of us and walked quietly
off in the custody of the detective.
Its disappearance, however, was but momentary.
With a rending, tearing sound, one of the broad, white
stones turned over upon its side and left a square,
gaping hole, through which streamed the light of
a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut,
boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then,
with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself
shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee rested
upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side
of the hole and was hauling after him a companion,
lithe and small like himself, with a pale face and a
shock of very red hair.
“Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather as
we followed them from the cellar, “I do not know
how the bank can thank you or repay you. There is
no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the
most complete manner one of the most determined
attempts at bank robbery that have ever come within
my experience.”
“It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have you the chisel
and the bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and
I’ll swing for it!”
Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the
intruder by the collar. The other dived down the
hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth as Jones
clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the
barrel of a revolver, but Holmes’ hunting crop came
down on the man’s wrist, and the pistol clinked upon
the stone floor.
“It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes blandly. “You
have no chance at all.”
“So I see,” the other answered with the utmost
coolness. “I fancy that my pal is all right, though I
see you have got his coat-tails.”
“There are three men waiting for him at the door,”
said Holmes.
“Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing
very completely. I must compliment you.”
“And I you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed
idea was very new and effective.”
“You’ll see your pal again presently,” said Jones.
“He’s quicker at climbing down holes than I am. Just
hold out while I fix the derbies.”
“I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy
hands,” remarked our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. “You may not be aware that
I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness,
also, when you address me always to say ‘sir’ and
‘please.’ ”
“All right,” said Jones with a stare and a snigger.
“Well, would you please, sir, march upstairs, where
we can get a cab to carry your Highness to the policestation?”
146
“I have had one or two little scores of my own
to settle with Mr. John Clay,” said Holmes. “I have
been at some small expense over this matter, which
I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I
am amply repaid by having had an experience which
is in many ways unique, and by hearing the very
remarkable narrative of the Red-headed League.”
“You see, Watson,” he explained in the early hours
of the morning as we sat over a glass of whisky and
soda in Baker Street, “it was perfectly obvious from
the first that the only possible object of this rather
fantastic business of the advertisement of the League,
and the copying of the ‘Encyclopaedia,’ must be to
get this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way
for a number of hours every day. It was a curious
way of managing it, but, really, it would be difficult to
suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested
to Clay’s ingenious mind by the colour of his accomplice’s hair. The £4 a week was a lure which must
draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing
for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one
rogue has the temporary office, the other rogue incites
the man to apply for it, and together they manage to
secure his absence every morning in the week. From
the time that I heard of the assistant having come for
half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some
strong motive for securing the situation.”
“But how could you guess what the motive was?”
“Had there been women in the house, I should
have suspected a mere vulgar intrigue. That, however,
was out of the question. The man’s business was a
small one, and there was nothing in his house which
could account for such elaborate preparations, and
such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then,
be something out of the house. What could it be? I
thought of the assistant’s fondness for photography,
and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar!
There was the end of this tangled clue. Then I made
inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and found
that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most
daring criminals in London. He was doing something
in the cellar—something which took many hours a
day for months on end. What could it be, once more?
I could think of nothing save that he was running a
tunnel to some other building.
“So far I had got when we went to visit the scene
of action. I surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining whether the
cellar stretched out in front or behind. It was not
in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the
assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes,
but we had never set eyes upon each other before.
I hardly looked at his face. His knees were what I
wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how
worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of
those hours of burrowing. The only remaining point
was what they were burrowing for. I walked round
the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted
on our friend’s premises, and felt that I had solved
my problem. When you drove home after the concert
I called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman
of the bank directors, with the result that you have
seen.”
“And how could you tell that they would make
their attempt to-night?” I asked.
“Well, when they closed their League offices that
was a sign that they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez
Wilson’s presence—in other words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential that they
should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the
bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them
better than any other day, as it would give them two
days for their escape. For all these reasons I expected
them to come to-night.”
“You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed in
unfeigned admiration. “It is so long a chain, and yet
every link rings true.”
“It saved me from ennui,” he answered, yawning.
“Alas! I already feel it closing in upon me. My life is
spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to
do so.”
“And you are a benefactor of the race,” said I.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, perhaps, after
all, it is of some little use,” he remarked. “ ‘L’homme
c’est rien—l’oeuvre c’est tout,’ as Gustave Flaubert
wrote to George Sand.”
147
A Case of Identity
M
y dear fellow,” said Sherlock Holmes as
we sat on either side of the fire in his
lodgings at Baker Street, “life is infinitely
stranger than anything which the mind of
man could invent. We would not dare to conceive
the things which are really mere commonplaces of
existence. If we could fly out of that window hand
in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove
the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are
going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings,
the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events,
working through generations, and leading to the most
outré results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and
unprofitable.”
“And yet I am not convinced of it,” I answered.
“The cases which come to light in the papers are, as
a rule, bald enough, and vulgar enough. We have in
our police reports realism pushed to its extreme limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed, neither
fascinating nor artistic.”
“A certain selection and discretion must be used in
producing a realistic effect,” remarked Holmes. “This
is wanting in the police report, where more stress is
laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of the magistrate
than upon the details, which to an observer contain
the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it,
there is nothing so unnatural as the commonplace.”
I smiled and shook my head. “I can quite understand your thinking so.” I said. “Of course, in
your position of unofficial adviser and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout three
continents, you are brought in contact with all that
is strange and bizarre. But here”—I picked up the
morning paper from the ground—“let us put it to a
practical test. Here is the first heading upon which I
come. ‘A husband’s cruelty to his wife.’ There is half
a column of print, but I know without reading it that
it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is, of course,
the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the
bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest
of writers could invent nothing more crude.”
“Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for
your argument,” said Holmes, taking the paper and
glancing his eye down it. “This is the Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged in
clearing up some small points in connection with
it. The husband was a teetotaler, there was no other
woman, and the conduct complained of was that he
had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal
by taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his
wife, which, you will allow, is not an action likely to
occur to the imagination of the average story-teller.
Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge that I
have scored over you in your example.”
He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great
amethyst in the centre of the lid. Its splendour was in
such contrast to his homely ways and simple life that
I could not help commenting upon it.
“Ah,” said he, “I forgot that I had not seen you
for some weeks. It is a little souvenir from the King
of Bohemia in return for my assistance in the case of
the Irene Adler papers.”
“And the ring?” I asked, glancing at a remarkable
brilliant which sparkled upon his finger.
“It was from the reigning family of Holland,
though the matter in which I served them was of
such delicacy that I cannot confide it even to you,
who have been good enough to chronicle one or two
of my little problems.”
“And have you any on hand just now?” I asked
with interest.
“Some ten or twelve, but none which present any
feature of interest. They are important, you understand, without being interesting. Indeed, I have found
that it is usually in unimportant matters that there is
a field for the observation, and for the quick analysis
of cause and effect which gives the charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are apt to be the simpler,
for the bigger the crime the more obvious, as a rule, is
the motive. In these cases, save for one rather intricate
matter which has been referred to me from Marseilles,
there is nothing which presents any features of interest. It is possible, however, that I may have something
better before very many minutes are over, for this is
one of my clients, or I am much mistaken.”
He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted blinds gazing down into the dull
neutral-tinted London street. Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite there stood
a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck,
and a large curling red feather in a broad-brimmed
hat which was tilted in a coquettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her ear. From under this great
panoply she peeped up in a nervous, hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body oscillated backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her
glove buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the
swimmer who leaves the bank, she hurried across the
road, and we heard the sharp clang of the bell.
“I have seen those symptoms before,” said Holmes,
throwing his cigarette into the fire. “Oscillation upon
the pavement always means an affaire de coeur. She
would like advice, but is not sure that the matter is
151
A Case of Identity
not too delicate for communication. And yet even
here we may discriminate. When a woman has been
seriously wronged by a man she no longer oscillates,
and the usual symptom is a broken bell wire. Here
we may take it that there is a love matter, but that the
maiden is not so much angry as perplexed, or grieved.
But here she comes in person to resolve our doubts.”
As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the
boy in buttons entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself loomed behind his small
black figure like a full-sailed merchant-man behind
a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her
with the easy courtesy for which he was remarkable,
and, having closed the door and bowed her into an
armchair, he looked her over in the minute and yet
abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him.
“Do you not find,” he said, “that with your short
sight it is a little trying to do so much typewriting?”
“I did at first,” she answered, “but now I know
where the letters are without looking.” Then, suddenly realising the full purport of his words, she gave
a violent start and looked up, with fear and astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face. “You’ve
heard about me, Mr. Holmes,” she cried, “else how
could you know all that?”
“Never mind,” said Holmes, laughing; “it is my
business to know things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook. If not, why should
you come to consult me?”
“I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from
Mrs. Etherege, whose husband you found so easy
when the police and everyone had given him up for
dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much
for me. I’m not rich, but still I have a hundred a year
in my own right, besides the little that I make by the
machine, and I would give it all to know what has
become of Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
“Why did you come away to consult me in such a
hurry?” asked Sherlock Holmes, with his finger-tips
together and his eyes to the ceiling.
Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss Mary Sutherland. “Yes, I did bang
out of the house,” she said, “for it made me angry
to see the easy way in which Mr. Windibank—that
is, my father—took it all. He would not go to the
police, and he would not go to you, and so at last, as
he would do nothing and kept on saying that there
was no harm done, it made me mad, and I just on
with my things and came right away to you.”
“Your father,” said Holmes, “your stepfather,
surely, since the name is different.”
152
“Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it
sounds funny, too, for he is only five years and two
months older than myself.”
“And your mother is alive?”
“Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn’t best
pleased, Mr. Holmes, when she married again so soon
after father’s death, and a man who was nearly fifteen
years younger than herself. Father was a plumber in
the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business
behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy,
the foreman; but when Mr. Windibank came he made
her sell the business, for he was very superior, being
a traveller in wines. They got £4700 for the goodwill
and interest, which wasn’t near as much as father
could have got if he had been alive.”
I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient
under this rambling and inconsequential narrative,
but, on the contrary, he had listened with the greatest
concentration of attention.
“Your own little income,” he asked, “does it come
out of the business?”
“Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me
by my uncle Ned in Auckland. It is in New Zealand
stock, paying 41/2 per cent. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can only touch
the interest.”
“You interest me extremely,” said Holmes. “And
since you draw so large a sum as a hundred a year,
with what you earn into the bargain, you no doubt
travel a little and indulge yourself in every way. I
believe that a single lady can get on very nicely upon
an income of about £60.”
“I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes,
but you understand that as long as I live at home
I don’t wish to be a burden to them, and so they
have the use of the money just while I am staying
with them. Of course, that is only just for the time.
Mr. Windibank draws my interest every quarter and
pays it over to mother, and I find that I can do pretty
well with what I earn at typewriting. It brings me
twopence a sheet, and I can often do from fifteen to
twenty sheets in a day.”
“You have made your position very clear to me,”
said Holmes. “This is my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself.
Kindly tell us now all about your connection with Mr.
Hosmer Angel.”
A flush stole over Miss Sutherland’s face, and she
picked nervously at the fringe of her jacket. “I met
him first at the gasfitters’ ball,” she said. “They used
to send father tickets when he was alive, and then
afterwards they remembered us, and sent them to
mother. Mr. Windibank did not wish us to go. He
never did wish us to go anywhere. He would get
quite mad if I wanted so much as to join a Sundayschool treat. But this time I was set on going, and
I would go; for what right had he to prevent? He
said the folk were not fit for us to know, when all
father’s friends were to be there. And he said that I
had nothing fit to wear, when I had my purple plush
that I had never so much as taken out of the drawer.
At last, when nothing else would do, he went off to
France upon the business of the firm, but we went,
mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our
foreman, and it was there I met Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
“I suppose,” said Holmes, “that when Mr.
Windibank came back from France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball.”
“Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed,
I remember, and shrugged his shoulders, and said
there was no use denying anything to a woman, for
she would have her way.”
“I see. Then at the gasfitters’ ball you met, as I
understand, a gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
“Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next
day to ask if we had got home all safe, and after that
we met him—that is to say, Mr. Holmes, I met him
twice for walks, but after that father came back again,
and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house
any more.”
“No?”
“Well, you know father didn’t like anything of the
sort. He wouldn’t have any visitors if he could help
it, and he used to say that a woman should be happy
in her own family circle. But then, as I used to say to
mother, a woman wants her own circle to begin with,
and I had not got mine yet.”
“But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make
no attempt to see you?”
“Well, father was going off to France again in a
week, and Hosmer wrote and said that it would be
safer and better not to see each other until he had
gone. We could write in the meantime, and he used
to write every day. I took the letters in in the morning,
so there was no need for father to know.”
“Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the
first walk that we took. Hosmer—Mr. Angel—was a
cashier in an office in Leadenhall Street—and—”
“What office?”
“That’s the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don’t know.”
“Where did he live, then?”
“He slept on the premises.”
“And you don’t know his address?”
“No—except that it was Leadenhall Street.”
“Where did you address your letters, then?”
“To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till
called for. He said that if they were sent to the office
he would be chaffed by all the other clerks about having letters from a lady, so I offered to typewrite them,
like he did his, but he wouldn’t have that, for he said
that when I wrote them they seemed to come from
me, but when they were typewritten he always felt
that the machine had come between us. That will just
show you how fond he was of me, Mr. Holmes, and
the little things that he would think of.”
“It was most suggestive,” said Holmes. “It has
long been an axiom of mine that the little things are
infinitely the most important. Can you remember any
other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?”
“He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would
rather walk with me in the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to be conspicuous. Very
retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his voice was
gentle. He’d had the quinsy and swollen glands when
he was young, he told me, and it had left him with a
weak throat, and a hesitating, whispering fashion of
speech. He was always well dressed, very neat and
plain, but his eyes were weak, just as mine are, and
he wore tinted glasses against the glare.”
“Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank,
your stepfather, returned to France?”
“Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and
proposed that we should marry before father came
back. He was in dreadful earnest and made me swear,
with my hands on the Testament, that whatever happened I would always be true to him. Mother said
he was quite right to make me swear, and that it was
a sign of his passion. Mother was all in his favour
from the first and was even fonder of him than I was.
Then, when they talked of marrying within the week,
I began to ask about father; but they both said never
to mind about father, but just to tell him afterwards,
and mother said she would make it all right with him.
I didn’t quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny
that I should ask his leave, as he was only a few years
older than me; but I didn’t want to do anything on
the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the
company has its French offices, but the letter came
back to me on the very morning of the wedding.”
“It missed him, then?”
153
A Case of Identity
“Yes, sir; for he had started to England just before
it arrived.”
“Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was
arranged, then, for the Friday. Was it to be in church?”
“Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St.
Saviour’s, near King’s Cross, and we were to have
breakfast afterwards at the St. Pancras Hotel. Hosmer
came for us in a hansom, but as there were two of
us he put us both into it and stepped himself into a
four-wheeler, which happened to be the only other
cab in the street. We got to the church first, and when
the four-wheeler drove up we waited for him to step
out, but he never did, and when the cabman got down
from the box and looked there was no one there! The
cabman said that he could not imagine what had become of him, for he had seen him get in with his own
eyes. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have
never seen or heard anything since then to throw any
light upon what became of him.”
“It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated,” said Holmes.
“Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave
me so. Why, all the morning he was saying to me that,
whatever happened, I was to be true; and that even
if something quite unforeseen occurred to separate
us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to
him, and that he would claim his pledge sooner or
later. It seemed strange talk for a wedding-morning,
but what has happened since gives a meaning to it.”
“Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then,
that some unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to
him?”
“Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or
else he would not have talked so. And then I think
that what he foresaw happened.”
“But you have no notion as to what it could have
been?”
“None.”
“One more question. How did your mother take
the matter?”
“She was angry, and said that I was never to speak
of the matter again.”
“And your father? Did you tell him?”
“Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that something had happened, and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest could anyone
have in bringing me to the doors of the church, and
then leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my money,
or if he had married me and got my money settled
on him, there might be some reason, but Hosmer was
154
very independent about money and never would look
at a shilling of mine. And yet, what could have happened? And why could he not write? Oh, it drives
me half-mad to think of it, and I can’t sleep a wink
at night.” She pulled a little handkerchief out of her
muff and began to sob heavily into it.
“I shall glance into the case for you,” said Holmes,
rising, “and I have no doubt that we shall reach some
definite result. Let the weight of the matter rest upon
me now, and do not let your mind dwell upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish
from your memory, as he has done from your life.”
“Then you don’t think I’ll see him again?”
“I fear not.”
“Then what has happened to him?”
“You will leave that question in my hands. I
should like an accurate description of him and any
letters of his which you can spare.”
“I advertised for him in last Saturday’s Chronicle,”
said she. “Here is the slip and here are four letters
from him.”
“Thank you. And your address?”
“No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell.”
“Mr. Angel’s address you never had, I understand.
Where is your father’s place of business?”
“He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great
claret importers of Fenchurch Street.”
“Thank you. You have made your statement very
clearly. You will leave the papers here, and remember
the advice which I have given you. Let the whole
incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect
your life.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do
that. I shall be true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready
when he comes back.”
For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face,
there was something noble in the simple faith of our
visitor which compelled our respect. She laid her little
bundle of papers upon the table and went her way,
with a promise to come again whenever she might be
summoned.
Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with
his fingertips still pressed together, his legs stretched
out in front of him, and his gaze directed upward to
the ceiling. Then he took down from the rack the old
and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor,
and, having lit it, he leaned back in his chair, with the
thick blue cloud-wreaths spinning up from him, and
a look of infinite languor in his face.
“Quite an interesting study, that maiden,” he observed. “I found her more interesting than her little
problem, which, by the way, is rather a trite one. You
will find parallel cases, if you consult my index, in
Andover in ’77, and there was something of the sort
at The Hague last year. Old as is the idea, however,
there were one or two details which were new to me.
But the maiden herself was most instructive.”
“You appeared to read a good deal upon her
which was quite invisible to me,” I remarked.
“Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not
know where to look, and so you missed all that was
important. I can never bring you to realise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails, or
the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace. Now,
what did you gather from that woman’s appearance?
Describe it.”
“Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed
straw hat, with a feather of a brickish red. Her jacket
was black, with black beads sewn upon it, and a fringe
of little black jet ornaments. Her dress was brown,
rather darker than coffee colour, with a little purple
plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish
and were worn through at the right forefinger. Her
boots I didn’t observe. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly
well-to-do in a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way.”
Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together
and chuckled.
“’Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along
wonderfully. You have really done very well indeed.
It is true that you have missed everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you
have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general
impressions, my boy, but concentrate yourself upon
details. My first glance is always at a woman’s sleeve.
In a man it is perhaps better first to take the knee of
the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush
upon her sleeves, which is a most useful material for
showing traces. The double line a little above the
wrist, where the typewritist presses against the table,
was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of the
hand type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left
arm, and on the side of it farthest from the thumb,
instead of being right across the broadest part, as
this was. I then glanced at her face, and, observing
the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I
ventured a remark upon short sight and typewriting,
which seemed to surprise her.”
“It surprised me.”
“But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and interested on glancing down to observe
that, though the boots which she was wearing were
not unlike each other, they were really odd ones; the
one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other
a plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower
buttons out of five, and the other at the first, third,
and fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home with
odd boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to
say that she came away in a hurry.”
“And what else?” I asked, keenly interested, as I
always was, by my friend’s incisive reasoning.
“I noted, in passing, that she had written a note
before leaving home but after being fully dressed.
You observed that her right glove was torn at the
forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both
glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She
had written in a hurry and dipped her pen too deep.
It must have been this morning, or the mark would
not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go back to
business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the
advertised description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?”
I held the little printed slip to the light.
“Missing,” it said, “on the morning of
the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer Angel. About five ft. seven in. in
height; strongly built, sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in the centre, bushy, black side-whiskers and moustache; tinted glasses, slight infirmity of
speech. Was dressed, when last seen,
in black frock-coat faced with silk, black
waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and grey Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over
elastic-sided boots. Known to have been
employed in an office in Leadenhall Street.
Anybody bringing—”
“That will do,” said Holmes. “As to the letters,”
he continued, glancing over them, “they are very commonplace. Absolutely no clue in them to Mr. Angel,
save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you.”
“They are typewritten,” I remarked.
“Not only that, but the signature is typewritten.
Look at the neat little ‘Hosmer Angel’ at the bottom.
There is a date, you see, but no superscription except
Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The point
155
A Case of Identity
about the signature is very suggestive—in fact, we
may call it conclusive.”
“Of what?”
“My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how
strongly it bears upon the case?”
“I cannot say that I do unless it were that he
wished to be able to deny his signature if an action
for breach of promise were instituted.”
“No, that was not the point. However, I shall write
two letters, which should settle the matter. One is
to a firm in the City, the other is to the young lady’s
stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking him whether he
could meet us here at six o’clock tomorrow evening.
It is just as well that we should do business with the
male relatives. And now, Doctor, we can do nothing
until the answers to those letters come, so we may put
our little problem upon the shelf for the interim.”
I had had so many reasons to believe in my
friend’s subtle powers of reasoning and extraordinary
energy in action that I felt that he must have some
solid grounds for the assured and easy demeanour
with which he treated the singular mystery which he
had been called upon to fathom. Once only had I
known him to fail, in the case of the King of Bohemia
and of the Irene Adler photograph; but when I looked
back to the weird business of the Sign of Four, and
the extraordinary circumstances connected with the
Study in Scarlet, I felt that it would be a strange tangle
indeed which he could not unravel.
I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe,
with the conviction that when I came again on the
next evening I would find that he held in his hands all
the clues which would lead up to the identity of the
disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.
A professional case of great gravity was engaging
my own attention at the time, and the whole of next
day I was busy at the bedside of the sufferer. It was
not until close upon six o’clock that I found myself
free and was able to spring into a hansom and drive
to Baker Street, half afraid that I might be too late to
assist at the dénouement of the little mystery. I found
Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half asleep, with
his long, thin form curled up in the recesses of his
armchair. A formidable array of bottles and test-tubes,
with the pungent cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid,
told me that he had spent his day in the chemical
work which was so dear to him.
“Well, have you solved it?” I asked as I entered.
“Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta.”
“No, no, the mystery!” I cried.
156
“Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been
working upon. There was never any mystery in the
matter, though, as I said yesterday, some of the details
are of interest. The only drawback is that there is no
law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel.”
“Who was he, then, and what was his object in
deserting Miss Sutherland?”
The question was hardly out of my mouth, and
Holmes had not yet opened his lips to reply, when we
heard a heavy footfall in the passage and a tap at the
door.
“This is the girl’s stepfather, Mr. James
Windibank,” said Holmes. “He has written to me
to say that he would be here at six. Come in!”
The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized
fellow, some thirty years of age, clean-shaven, and
sallow-skinned, with a bland, insinuating manner,
and a pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating grey
eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us,
placed his shiny top-hat upon the sideboard, and
with a slight bow sidled down into the nearest chair.
“Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank,” said
Holmes. “I think that this typewritten letter is from
you, in which you made an appointment with me for
six o’clock?”
“Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I
am not quite my own master, you know. I am sorry
that Miss Sutherland has troubled you about this little
matter, for I think it is far better not to wash linen of
the sort in public. It was quite against my wishes that
she came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive girl,
as you may have noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has made up her mind on a point.
Of course, I did not mind you so much, as you are
not connected with the official police, but it is not
pleasant to have a family misfortune like this noised
abroad. Besides, it is a useless expense, for how could
you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes quietly; “I have every reason to believe that I will succeed in discovering
Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped
his gloves. “I am delighted to hear it,” he said.
“It is a curious thing,” remarked Holmes, “that a
typewriter has really quite as much individuality as
a man’s handwriting. Unless they are quite new, no
two of them write exactly alike. Some letters get more
worn than others, and some wear only on one side.
Now, you remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank,
that in every case there is some little slurring over of
the ‘e,’ and a slight defect in the tail of the ‘r.’ There
are fourteen other characteristics, but those are the
more obvious.”
“We do all our correspondence with this machine
at the office, and no doubt it is a little worn,” our
visitor answered, glancing keenly at Holmes with his
bright little eyes.
“And now I will show you what is really a very
interesting study, Mr. Windibank,” Holmes continued.
“I think of writing another little monograph some
of these days on the typewriter and its relation to
crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some
little attention. I have here four letters which purport
to come from the missing man. They are all typewritten. In each case, not only are the ‘e’s’ slurred
and the ‘r’s’ tailless, but you will observe, if you care
to use my magnifying lens, that the fourteen other
characteristics to which I have alluded are there as
well.”
Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked
up his hat. “I cannot waste time over this sort of
fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “If you can catch
the man, catch him, and let me know when you have
done it.”
“Certainly,” said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the door. “I let you know, then, that I
have caught him!”
“What! where?” shouted Mr. Windibank, turning
white to his lips and glancing about him like a rat in
a trap.
“Oh, it won’t do—really it won’t,” said Holmes
suavely. “There is no possible getting out of it, Mr.
Windibank. It is quite too transparent, and it was a
very bad compliment when you said that it was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That’s
right! Sit down and let us talk it over.”
Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly
face and a glitter of moisture on his brow. “It—it’s
not actionable,” he stammered.
“I am very much afraid that it is not. But between
ourselves, Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and
heartless a trick in a petty way as ever came before
me. Now, let me just run over the course of events,
and you will contradict me if I go wrong.”
The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head
sunk upon his breast, like one who is utterly crushed.
Holmes stuck his feet up on the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands in his pockets,
began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to
us.
“The man married a woman very much older than
himself for her money,” said he, “and he enjoyed the
use of the money of the daughter as long as she lived
with them. It was a considerable sum, for people in
their position, and the loss of it would have made a serious difference. It was worth an effort to preserve it.
The daughter was of a good, amiable disposition, but
affectionate and warm-hearted in her ways, so that it
was evident that with her fair personal advantages,
and her little income, she would not be allowed to
remain single long. Now her marriage would mean,
of course, the loss of a hundred a year, so what does
her stepfather do to prevent it? He takes the obvious
course of keeping her at home and forbidding her to
seek the company of people of her own age. But soon
he found that that would not answer forever. She
became restive, insisted upon her rights, and finally
announced her positive intention of going to a certain
ball. What does her clever stepfather do then? He
conceives an idea more creditable to his head than to
his heart. With the connivance and assistance of his
wife he disguised himself, covered those keen eyes
with tinted glasses, masked the face with a moustache
and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice
into an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on
account of the girl’s short sight, he appears as Mr.
Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by making
love himself.”
“It was only a joke at first,” groaned our visitor.
“We never thought that she would have been so carried away.”
“Very likely not. However that may be, the young
lady was very decidedly carried away, and, having
quite made up her mind that her stepfather was in
France, the suspicion of treachery never for an instant
entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman’s attentions, and the effect was increased by the
loudly expressed admiration of her mother. Then Mr.
Angel began to call, for it was obvious that the matter
should be pushed as far as it would go if a real effect
were to be produced. There were meetings, and an
engagement, which would finally secure the girl’s
affections from turning towards anyone else. But the
deception could not be kept up forever. These pretended journeys to France were rather cumbrous. The
thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end
in such a dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression upon the young lady’s mind and
prevent her from looking upon any other suitor for
some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a Testament, and hence also the allusions
to a possibility of something happening on the very
morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished
Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel,
157
A Case of Identity
and so uncertain as to his fate, that for ten years to
come, at any rate, she would not listen to another man.
As far as the church door he brought her, and then,
as he could go no farther, he conveniently vanished
away by the old trick of stepping in at one door of a
four-wheeler and out at the other. I think that was
the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!”
Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes had been talking, and he rose
from his chair now with a cold sneer upon his pale
face.
“It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes,” said he,
“but if you are so very sharp you ought to be sharp
enough to know that it is you who are breaking the
law now, and not me. I have done nothing actionable from the first, but as long as you keep that door
locked you lay yourself open to an action for assault
and illegal constraint.”
“The law cannot, as you say, touch you,” said
Holmes, unlocking and throwing open the door, “yet
there never was a man who deserved punishment
more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he
ought to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!”
he continued, flushing up at the sight of the bitter
sneer upon the man’s face, “it is not part of my duties
to my client, but here’s a hunting crop handy, and I
think I shall just treat myself to—” He took two swift
steps to the whip, but before he could grasp it there
was a wild clatter of steps upon the stairs, the heavy
hall door banged, and from the window we could see
Mr. James Windibank running at the top of his speed
down the road.
“There’s a cold-blooded scoundrel!” said Holmes,
laughing, as he threw himself down into his chair
once more. “That fellow will rise from crime to crime
until he does something very bad, and ends on a gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not entirely
devoid of interest.”
“I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your
reasoning,” I remarked.
158
“Well, of course it was obvious from the first that
this Mr. Hosmer Angel must have some strong object
for his curious conduct, and it was equally clear that
the only man who really profited by the incident, as
far as we could see, was the stepfather. Then the fact
that the two men were never together, but that the
one always appeared when the other was away, was
suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles and the curious voice, which both hinted at a disguise, as did the
bushy whiskers. My suspicions were all confirmed
by his peculiar action in typewriting his signature,
which, of course, inferred that his handwriting was
so familiar to her that she would recognise even the
smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated facts,
together with many minor ones, all pointed in the
same direction.”
“And how did you verify them?”
“Having once spotted my man, it was easy to
get corroboration. I knew the firm for which this
man worked. Having taken the printed description,
I eliminated everything from it which could be the
result of a disguise—the whiskers, the glasses, the
voice, and I sent it to the firm, with a request that
they would inform me whether it answered to the
description of any of their travellers. I had already
noticed the peculiarities of the typewriter, and I wrote
to the man himself at his business address asking him
if he would come here. As I expected, his reply was
typewritten and revealed the same trivial but characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter
from Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to
say that the description tallied in every respect with
that of their employee, James Windibank. Voilà tout!”
“And Miss Sutherland?”
“If I tell her she will not believe me. You may
remember the old Persian saying, ‘There is danger
for him who taketh the tiger cub, and danger also for
whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.’ There is
as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much
knowledge of the world.”
The Boscombe Valley Mystery
W
e were seated at breakfast one morning,
my wife and I, when the maid brought in
a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes
and ran in this way:
“Have you a couple of days to spare? Have
just been wired for from the west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley
tragedy. Shall be glad if you will come
with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave
Paddington by the 11.15.”
“What do you say, dear?” said my wife, looking
across at me. “Will you go?”
“I really don’t know what to say. I have a fairly
long list at present.”
“Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You
have been looking a little pale lately. I think that the
change would do you good, and you are always so
interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes’ cases.”
“I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what
I gained through one of them,” I answered. “But if I
am to go, I must pack at once, for I have only half an
hour.”
My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at
least had the effect of making me a prompt and ready
traveller. My wants were few and simple, so that in
less than the time stated I was in a cab with my valise,
rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock Holmes
was pacing up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt
figure made even gaunter and taller by his long grey
travelling-cloak and close-fitting cloth cap.
“It is really very good of you to come, Watson,”
said he. “It makes a considerable difference to me,
having someone with me on whom I can thoroughly
rely. Local aid is always either worthless or else biassed. If you will keep the two corner seats I shall get
the tickets.”
We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of papers which Holmes had brought
with him. Among these he rummaged and read, with
intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until we
were past Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all
into a gigantic ball and tossed them up onto the rack.
I gather, to be one of those simple cases which are so
extremely difficult.”
“That sounds a little paradoxical.”
“But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost
invariably a clue. The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it is to bring it
home. In this case, however, they have established
a very serious case against the son of the murdered
man.”
“It is a murder, then?”
“Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for granted until I have the opportunity of looking
personally into it. I will explain the state of things to
you, as far as I have been able to understand it, in a
very few words.
“Boscombe Valley is a country district not very
far from Ross, in Herefordshire. The largest landed
proprietor in that part is a Mr. John Turner, who made
his money in Australia and returned some years ago
to the old country. One of the farms which he held,
that of Hatherley, was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy,
who was also an ex-Australian. The men had known
each other in the colonies, so that it was not unnatural
that when they came to settle down they should do so
as near each other as possible. Turner was apparently
the richer man, so McCarthy became his tenant but
still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect equality, as they were frequently together. McCarthy had
one son, a lad of eighteen, and Turner had an only
daughter of the same age, but neither of them had
wives living. They appear to have avoided the society
of the neighbouring English families and to have led
retired lives, though both the McCarthys were fond of
sport and were frequently seen at the race-meetings of
the neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants—a
man and a girl. Turner had a considerable household,
some half-dozen at the least. That is as much as I
have been able to gather about the families. Now for
the facts.
“Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some
days.”
“On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy
left his house at Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the Boscombe Pool, which
is a small lake formed by the spreading out of the
stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He
had been out with his serving-man in the morning at
Ross, and he had told the man that he must hurry, as
he had an appointment of importance to keep at three.
From that appointment he never came back alive.
“The London press has not had very full accounts.
I have just been looking through all the recent papers
in order to master the particulars. It seems, from what
“From Hatherley Farm-house to the Boscombe
Pool is a quarter of a mile, and two people saw him as
he passed over this ground. One was an old woman,
“Have you heard anything of the case?” he asked.
161
The Boscombe Valley Mystery
whose name is not mentioned, and the other was
William Crowder, a game-keeper in the employ of
Mr. Turner. Both these witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The game-keeper adds
that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr. McCarthy
pass he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going
the same way with a gun under his arm. To the best
of his belief, the father was actually in sight at the
time, and the son was following him. He thought no
more of the matter until he heard in the evening of
the tragedy that had occurred.
“The two McCarthys were seen after the time
when William Crowder, the game-keeper, lost sight of
them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly wooded round,
with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the
edge. A girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the
daughter of the lodge-keeper of the Boscombe Valley
estate, was in one of the woods picking flowers. She
states that while she was there she saw, at the border
of the wood and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and
his son, and that they appeared to be having a violent
quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using very
strong language to his son, and she saw the latter
raise up his hand as if to strike his father. She was
so frightened by their violence that she ran away and
told her mother when she reached home that she had
left the two McCarthys quarrelling near Boscombe
Pool, and that she was afraid that they were going to
fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr.
McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say that he
had found his father dead in the wood, and to ask for
the help of the lodge-keeper. He was much excited,
without either his gun or his hat, and his right hand
and sleeve were observed to be stained with fresh
blood. On following him they found the dead body
stretched out upon the grass beside the pool. The
head had been beaten in by repeated blows of some
heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as
might very well have been inflicted by the butt-end
of his son’s gun, which was found lying on the grass
within a few paces of the body. Under these circumstances the young man was instantly arrested, and a
verdict of ‘wilful murder’ having been returned at the
inquest on Tuesday, he was on Wednesday brought
before the magistrates at Ross, who have referred the
case to the next Assizes. Those are the main facts of
the case as they came out before the coroner and the
police-court.”
“I could hardly imagine a more damning case,” I
remarked. “If ever circumstantial evidence pointed to
a criminal it does so here.”
“Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing,”
162
answered Holmes thoughtfully. “It may seem to point
very straight to one thing, but if you shift your own
point of view a little, you may find it pointing in an
equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different. It must be confessed, however, that
the case looks exceedingly grave against the young
man, and it is very possible that he is indeed the culprit. There are several people in the neighbourhood,
however, and among them Miss Turner, the daughter
of the neighbouring landowner, who believe in his
innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom
you may recollect in connection with the Study in
Scarlet, to work out the case in his interest. Lestrade,
being rather puzzled, has referred the case to me, and
hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are flying westward at fifty miles an hour instead of quietly
digesting their breakfasts at home.”
“I am afraid,” said I, “that the facts are so obvious
that you will find little credit to be gained out of this
case.”
“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,” he answered, laughing. “Besides, we may
chance to hit upon some other obvious facts which
may have been by no means obvious to Mr. Lestrade.
You know me too well to think that I am boasting
when I say that I shall either confirm or destroy his
theory by means which he is quite incapable of employing, or even of understanding. To take the first
example to hand, I very clearly perceive that in your
bedroom the window is upon the right-hand side,
and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade would have
noted even so self-evident a thing as that.”
“How on earth—”
“My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the
military neatness which characterises you. You shave
every morning, and in this season you shave by the
sunlight; but since your shaving is less and less complete as we get farther back on the left side, until it
becomes positively slovenly as we get round the angle
of the jaw, it is surely very clear that that side is less
illuminated than the other. I could not imagine a man
of your habits looking at himself in an equal light
and being satisfied with such a result. I only quote
this as a trivial example of observation and inference.
Therein lies my métier, and it is just possible that it
may be of some service in the investigation which lies
before us. There are one or two minor points which
were brought out in the inquest, and which are worth
considering.”
“What are they?”
“It appears that his arrest did not take place at
once, but after the return to Hatherley Farm. On the
inspector of constabulary informing him that he was
a prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised to
hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts. This
observation of his had the natural effect of removing
any traces of doubt which might have remained in
the minds of the coroner’s jury.”
“It was a confession,” I ejaculated.
“No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence.”
“Coming on the top of such a damning series of
events, it was at least a most suspicious remark.”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes, “it is the brightest
rift which I can at present see in the clouds. However
innocent he might be, he could not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the circumstances were
very black against him. Had he appeared surprised at
his own arrest, or feigned indignation at it, I should
have looked upon it as highly suspicious, because
such surprise or anger would not be natural under
the circumstances, and yet might appear to be the best
policy to a scheming man. His frank acceptance of the
situation marks him as either an innocent man, or else
as a man of considerable self-restraint and firmness.
As to his remark about his deserts, it was also not unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the dead
body of his father, and that there is no doubt that
he had that very day so far forgotten his filial duty
as to bandy words with him, and even, according to
the little girl whose evidence is so important, to raise
his hand as if to strike him. The self-reproach and
contrition which are displayed in his remark appear
to me to be the signs of a healthy mind rather than of
a guilty one.”
I shook my head. “Many men have been hanged
on far slighter evidence,” I remarked.
“So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged.”
“What is the young man’s own account of the
matter?”
“It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his
supporters, though there are one or two points in it
which are suggestive. You will find it here, and may
read it for yourself.”
He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local
Herefordshire paper, and having turned down the
sheet he pointed out the paragraph in which the unfortunate young man had given his own statement
of what had occurred. I settled myself down in the
corner of the carriage and read it very carefully. It ran
in this way:
“Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called and gave evidence as
follows: ‘I had been away from home for three
days at Bristol, and had only just returned
upon the morning of last Monday, the 3rd.
My father was absent from home at the time
of my arrival, and I was informed by the maid
that he had driven over to Ross with John
Cobb, the groom. Shortly after my return I
heard the wheels of his trap in the yard, and,
looking out of my window, I saw him get out
and walk rapidly out of the yard, though I was
not aware in which direction he was going. I
then took my gun and strolled out in the direction of the Boscombe Pool, with the intention
of visiting the rabbit warren which is upon the
other side. On my way I saw William Crowder, the game-keeper, as he had stated in his
evidence; but he is mistaken in thinking that
I was following my father. I had no idea that
he was in front of me. When about a hundred
yards from the pool I heard a cry of “Cooee!”
which was a usual signal between my father
and myself. I then hurried forward, and found
him standing by the pool. He appeared to be
much surprised at seeing me and asked me
rather roughly what I was doing there. A conversation ensued which led to high words and
almost to blows, for my father was a man of
a very violent temper. Seeing that his passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him
and returned towards Hatherley Farm. I had
not gone more than 150 yards, however, when
I heard a hideous outcry behind me, which
caused me to run back again. I found my father expiring upon the ground, with his head
terribly injured. I dropped my gun and held
him in my arms, but he almost instantly expired. I knelt beside him for some minutes,
and then made my way to Mr. Turner’s lodgekeeper, his house being the nearest, to ask for
assistance. I saw no one near my father when
I returned, and I have no idea how he came by
his injuries. He was not a popular man, being
somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners,
but he had, as far as I know, no active enemies.
I know nothing further of the matter.’
“The Coroner: Did your father make any
statement to you before he died?
“Witness: He mumbled a few words, but I
could only catch some allusion to a rat.
“The Coroner: What did you understand by
163
The Boscombe Valley Mystery
that?
“Witness: It conveyed no meaning to me. I
thought that he was delirious.
“The Coroner: What was the point upon
which you and your father had this final quarrel?
“Witness: I should prefer not to answer.
“The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press
it.
“Witness: It is really impossible for me to tell
you. I can assure you that it has nothing to
do with the sad tragedy which followed.
“The Coroner: That is for the court to decide.
I need not point out to you that your refusal to
answer will prejudice your case considerably
in any future proceedings which may arise.
“Witness: I must still refuse.
“The Coroner: I understand that the cry of
‘Cooee’ was a common signal between you and
your father?
“Witness: It was.
“The Coroner: How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw you, and before he even
knew that you had returned from Bristol?
“Witness (with considerable confusion): I do
not know.
“A Juryman: Did you see nothing which
aroused your suspicions when you returned
on hearing the cry and found your father fatally injured?
“Witness: Nothing definite.
“The Coroner: What do you mean?
“Witness: I was so disturbed and excited as
I rushed out into the open, that I could think
of nothing except of my father. Yet I have a
vague impression that as I ran forward something lay upon the ground to the left of me. It
seemed to me to be something grey in colour,
a coat of some sort, or a plaid perhaps. When
I rose from my father I looked round for it, but
it was gone.
“ ‘Do you mean that it disappeared before you
went for help?’
“ ‘Yes, it was gone.’
“ ‘You cannot say what it was?’
“ ‘No, I had a feeling something was there.’
“ ‘How far from the body?’
“ ‘A dozen yards or so.’
“ ‘And how far from the edge of the wood?’
“ ‘About the same.’
164
“ ‘Then if it was removed it was while you
were within a dozen yards of it?’
“ ‘Yes, but with my back towards it.’
“This concluded the examination of the witness.”
“I see,” said I as I glanced down the column, “that the
coroner in his concluding remarks was rather severe
upon young McCarthy. He calls attention, and with
reason, to the discrepancy about his father having
signalled to him before seeing him, also to his refusal
to give details of his conversation with his father, and
his singular account of his father’s dying words. They
are all, as he remarks, very much against the son.”
Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched
himself out upon the cushioned seat. “Both you and
the coroner have been at some pains,” said he, “to single out the very strongest points in the young man’s
favour. Don’t you see that you alternately give him
credit for having too much imagination and too little?
Too little, if he could not invent a cause of quarrel
which would give him the sympathy of the jury; too
much, if he evolved from his own inner consciousness
anything so outré as a dying reference to a rat, and
the incident of the vanishing cloth. No, sir, I shall
approach this case from the point of view that what
this young man says is true, and we shall see whither
that hypothesis will lead us. And now here is my
pocket Petrarch, and not another word shall I say of
this case until we are on the scene of action. We lunch
at Swindon, and I see that we shall be there in twenty
minutes.”
It was nearly four o’clock when we at last, after
passing through the beautiful Stroud Valley, and over
the broad gleaming Severn, found ourselves at the
pretty little country-town of Ross. A lean, ferret-like
man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for us upon
the platform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and
leather-leggings which he wore in deference to his
rustic surroundings, I had no difficulty in recognising
Lestrade, of Scotland Yard. With him we drove to
the Hereford Arms where a room had already been
engaged for us.
“I have ordered a carriage,” said Lestrade as we
sat over a cup of tea. “I knew your energetic nature,
and that you would not be happy until you had been
on the scene of the crime.”
“It was very nice and complimentary of you,”
Holmes answered. “It is entirely a question of barometric pressure.”
Lestrade looked startled. “I do not quite follow,”
he said.
“How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind,
and not a cloud in the sky. I have a caseful of
cigarettes here which need smoking, and the sofa is
very much superior to the usual country hotel abomination. I do not think that it is probable that I shall
use the carriage to-night.”
Lestrade laughed indulgently. “You have, no
doubt, already formed your conclusions from the
newspapers,” he said. “The case is as plain as a
pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer it
becomes. Still, of course, one can’t refuse a lady, and
such a very positive one, too. She has heard of you,
and would have your opinion, though I repeatedly
told her that there was nothing which you could do
which I had not already done. Why, bless my soul!
here is her carriage at the door.”
He had hardly spoken before there rushed into
the room one of the most lovely young women that I
have ever seen in my life. Her violet eyes shining, her
lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all thought
of her natural reserve lost in her overpowering excitement and concern.
“Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” she cried, glancing
from one to the other of us, and finally, with a
woman’s quick intuition, fastening upon my companion, “I am so glad that you have come. I have
driven down to tell you so. I know that James didn’t
do it. I know it, and I want you to start upon your
work knowing it, too. Never let yourself doubt upon
that point. We have known each other since we were
little children, and I know his faults as no one else
does; but he is too tender-hearted to hurt a fly. Such
a charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him.”
“I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner,” said Sherlock Holmes. “You may rely upon my doing all that I
can.”
“But you have read the evidence. You have formed
some conclusion? Do you not see some loophole,
some flaw? Do you not yourself think that he is innocent?”
“I think that it is very probable.”
“There, now!” she cried, throwing back her head
and looking defiantly at Lestrade. “You hear! He
gives me hopes.”
Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am afraid that
my colleague has been a little quick in forming his
conclusions,” he said.
“But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James
never did it. And about his quarrel with his father,
I am sure that the reason why he would not speak
about it to the coroner was because I was concerned
in it.”
“In what way?” asked Holmes.
“It is no time for me to hide anything. James and
his father had many disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there should be a marriage between us. James and I have always loved each
other as brother and sister; but of course he is young
and has seen very little of life yet, and—and—well,
he naturally did not wish to do anything like that yet.
So there were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one
of them.”
“And your father?” asked Holmes. “Was he in
favour of such a union?”
“No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr.
McCarthy was in favour of it.” A quick blush passed
over her fresh young face as Holmes shot one of his
keen, questioning glances at her.
“Thank you for this information,” said he. “May I
see your father if I call to-morrow?”
“I am afraid the doctor won’t allow it.”
“The doctor?”
“Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never
been strong for years back, but this has broken him
down completely. He has taken to his bed, and Dr.
Willows says that he is a wreck and that his nervous
system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man
alive who had known dad in the old days in Victoria.”
“Ha! In Victoria! That is important.”
“Yes, at the mines.”
“Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner made his money.”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to me.”
“You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow.
No doubt you will go to the prison to see James. Oh,
if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell him that I know him to
be innocent.”
“I will, Miss Turner.”
“I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he
misses me so if I leave him. Good-bye, and God help
you in your undertaking.” She hurried from the room
as impulsively as she had entered, and we heard the
wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street.
“I am ashamed of you, Holmes,” said Lestrade
with dignity after a few minutes’ silence. “Why
should you raise up hopes which you are bound to
disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I call it
cruel.”
165
The Boscombe Valley Mystery
“I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy,” said Holmes. “Have you an order to see him
in prison?”
“Yes, but only for you and me.”
“Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have still time to take a train to Hereford
and see him to-night?”
“Ample.”
“Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will
find it very slow, but I shall only be away a couple of
hours.”
I walked down to the station with them, and then
wandered through the streets of the little town, finally
returning to the hotel, where I lay upon the sofa and
tried to interest myself in a yellow-backed novel. The
puny plot of the story was so thin, however, when
compared to the deep mystery through which we
were groping, and I found my attention wander so
continually from the action to the fact, that I at last
flung it across the room and gave myself up entirely
to a consideration of the events of the day. Supposing
that this unhappy young man’s story were absolutely
true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred
between the time when he parted from his father, and
the moment when, drawn back by his screams, he
rushed into the glade? It was something terrible and
deadly. What could it be? Might not the nature of the
injuries reveal something to my medical instincts? I
rang the bell and called for the weekly county paper,
which contained a verbatim account of the inquest. In
the surgeon’s deposition it was stated that the posterior third of the left parietal bone and the left half of
the occipital bone had been shattered by a heavy blow
from a blunt weapon. I marked the spot upon my
own head. Clearly such a blow must have been struck
from behind. That was to some extent in favour of the
accused, as when seen quarrelling he was face to face
with his father. Still, it did not go for very much, for
the older man might have turned his back before the
blow fell. Still, it might be worth while to call Holmes’
attention to it. Then there was the peculiar dying reference to a rat. What could that mean? It could not be
delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow does not
commonly become delirious. No, it was more likely
to be an attempt to explain how he met his fate. But
what could it indicate? I cudgelled my brains to find
some possible explanation. And then the incident of
the grey cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were
true the murderer must have dropped some part of
his dress, presumably his overcoat, in his flight, and
166
must have had the hardihood to return and to carry
it away at the instant when the son was kneeling with
his back turned not a dozen paces off. What a tissue
of mysteries and improbabilities the whole thing was!
I did not wonder at Lestrade’s opinion, and yet I had
so much faith in Sherlock Holmes’ insight that I could
not lose hope as long as every fresh fact seemed to
strengthen his conviction of young McCarthy’s innocence.
It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He
came back alone, for Lestrade was staying in lodgings
in the town.
“The glass still keeps very high,” he remarked as
he sat down. “It is of importance that it should not
rain before we are able to go over the ground. On
the other hand, a man should be at his very best and
keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not wish
to do it when fagged by a long journey. I have seen
young McCarthy.”
“And what did you learn from him?”
“Nothing.”
“Could he throw no light?”
“None at all. I was inclined to think at one time
that he knew who had done it and was screening him
or her, but I am convinced now that he is as puzzled
as everyone else. He is not a very quick-witted youth,
though comely to look at and, I should think, sound
at heart.”
“I cannot admire his taste,” I remarked, “if it is
indeed a fact that he was averse to a marriage with so
charming a young lady as this Miss Turner.”
“Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This
fellow is madly, insanely, in love with her, but some
two years ago, when he was only a lad, and before
he really knew her, for she had been away five years
at a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get
into the clutches of a barmaid in Bristol and marry
her at a registry office? No one knows a word of
the matter, but you can imagine how maddening it
must be to him to be upbraided for not doing what
he would give his very eyes to do, but what he knows
to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer frenzy of
this sort which made him throw his hands up into
the air when his father, at their last interview, was
goading him on to propose to Miss Turner. On the
other hand, he had no means of supporting himself,
and his father, who was by all accounts a very hard
man, would have thrown him over utterly had he
known the truth. It was with his barmaid wife that he
had spent the last three days in Bristol, and his father
did not know where he was. Mark that point. It is
of importance. Good has come out of evil, however,
for the barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in
serious trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown
him over utterly and has written to him to say that
she has a husband already in the Bermuda Dockyard,
so that there is really no tie between them. I think
that that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy
for all that he has suffered.”
“But if he is innocent, who has done it?”
“Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two points. One is that the murdered man
had an appointment with someone at the pool, and
that the someone could not have been his son, for his
son was away, and he did not know when he would
return. The second is that the murdered man was
heard to cry ‘Cooee!’ before he knew that his son had
returned. Those are the crucial points upon which
the case depends. And now let us talk about George
Meredith, if you please, and we shall leave all minor
matters until to-morrow.”
There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and
the morning broke bright and cloudless. At nine
o’clock Lestrade called for us with the carriage, and
we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe Pool.
“There is serious news this morning,” Lestrade
observed. “It is said that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so
ill that his life is despaired of.”
“An elderly man, I presume?” said Holmes.
“About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life abroad, and he has been in failing
health for some time. This business has had a very
bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of McCarthy’s, and, I may add, a great benefactor to him,
for I have learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm
rent free.”
“Indeed! That is interesting,” said Holmes.
“Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped
him. Everybody about here speaks of his kindness to
him.”
“Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular
that this McCarthy, who appears to have had little
of his own, and to have been under such obligations
to Turner, should still talk of marrying his son to
Turner’s daughter, who is, presumably, heiress to the
estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner, as if
it were merely a case of a proposal and all else would
follow? It is the more strange, since we know that
Turner himself was averse to the idea. The daughter
told us as much. Do you not deduce something from
that?”
“We have got to the deductions and the inferences,” said Lestrade, winking at me. “I find it hard
enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without flying away
after theories and fancies.”
“You are right,” said Holmes demurely; “you do
find it very hard to tackle the facts.”
“Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem
to find it difficult to get hold of,” replied Lestrade with
some warmth.
“And that is—”
“That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that all theories to the contrary are
the merest moonshine.”
“Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog,”
said Holmes, laughing. “But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm upon the left.”
“Yes, that is it.” It was a widespread, comfortablelooking building, two-storied, slate-roofed, with great
yellow blotches of lichen upon the grey walls. The
drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys, however,
gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of this
horror still lay heavy upon it. We called at the door,
when the maid, at Holmes’ request, showed us the
boots which her master wore at the time of his death,
and also a pair of the son’s, though not the pair which
he had then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight different points, Holmes
desired to be led to the court-yard, from which we all
followed the winding track which led to Boscombe
Pool.
Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was
hot upon such a scent as this. Men who had only
known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker Street
would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed
and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard
black lines, while his eyes shone out from beneath
them with a steely glitter. His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and
the veins stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy
neck. His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind was so absolutely
concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the
most, only provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply.
Swiftly and silently he made his way along the track
which ran through the meadows, and so by way of the
woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy
ground, as is all that district, and there were marks
of many feet, both upon the path and amid the short
grass which bounded it on either side. Sometimes
Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and
once he made quite a little detour into the meadow.
167
The Boscombe Valley Mystery
Lestrade and I walked behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while I watched my friend
with the interest which sprang from the conviction
that every one of his actions was directed towards a
definite end.
The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet
of water some fifty yards across, is situated at the
boundary between the Hatherley Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods
which lined it upon the farther side we could see the
red, jutting pinnacles which marked the site of the
rich landowner’s dwelling. On the Hatherley side of
the pool the woods grew very thick, and there was
a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across
between the edge of the trees and the reeds which
lined the lake. Lestrade showed us the exact spot
at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so
moist was the ground, that I could plainly see the
traces which had been left by the fall of the stricken
man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager face and
peering eyes, very many other things were to be read
upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog
who is picking up a scent, and then turned upon my
companion.
“What did you go into the pool for?” he asked.
“I fished about with a rake. I thought there might
be some weapon or other trace. But how on earth—”
“Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of
yours with its inward twist is all over the place. A
mole could trace it, and there it vanishes among the
reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been had
I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo
and wallowed all over it. Here is where the party
with the lodge-keeper came, and they have covered
all tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But
here are three separate tracks of the same feet.” He
drew out a lens and lay down upon his waterproof
to have a better view, talking all the time rather to
himself than to us. “These are young McCarthy’s feet.
Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so
that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly
visible. That bears out his story. He ran when he saw
his father on the ground. Then here are the father’s
feet as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It
is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening.
And this? Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too, quite unusual boots! They come,
they go, they come again—of course that was for the
cloak. Now where did they come from?” He ran up
and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the
track until we were well within the edge of the wood
and under the shadow of a great beech, the largest
168
tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced his way
to the farther side of this and lay down once more
upon his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a
long time he remained there, turning over the leaves
and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to me
to be dust into an envelope and examining with his
lens not only the ground but even the bark of the tree
as far as he could reach. A jagged stone was lying
among the moss, and this also he carefully examined
and retained. Then he followed a pathway through
the wood until he came to the highroad, where all
traces were lost.
“It has been a case of considerable interest,” he
remarked, returning to his natural manner. “I fancy
that this grey house on the right must be the lodge. I
think that I will go in and have a word with Moran,
and perhaps write a little note. Having done that, we
may drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the
cab, and I shall be with you presently.”
It was about ten minutes before we regained our
cab and drove back into Ross, Holmes still carrying
with him the stone which he had picked up in the
wood.
“This may interest you, Lestrade,” he remarked,
holding it out. “The murder was done with it.”
“I see no marks.”
“There are none.”
“How do you know, then?”
“The grass was growing under it. It had only lain
there a few days. There was no sign of a place whence
it had been taken. It corresponds with the injuries.
There is no sign of any other weapon.”
“And the murderer?”
“Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right
leg, wears thick-soled shooting-boots and a grey cloak,
smokes Indian cigars, uses a cigar-holder, and carries
a blunt pen-knife in his pocket. There are several
other indications, but these may be enough to aid us
in our search.”
Lestrade laughed. “I am afraid that I am still a
sceptic,” he said. “Theories are all very well, but we
have to deal with a hard-headed British jury.”
“Nous verrons,” answered Holmes calmly. “You
work your own method, and I shall work mine. I
shall be busy this afternoon, and shall probably return to London by the evening train.”
“And leave your case unfinished?”
“No, finished.”
“But the mystery?”
“It is solved.”
“Who was the criminal, then?”
“The gentleman I describe.”
“But who is he?”
“Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This
is not such a populous neighbourhood.”
Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am a practical
man,” he said, “and I really cannot undertake to go
about the country looking for a left-handed gentleman
with a game leg. I should become the laughing-stock
of Scotland Yard.”
“All right,” said Holmes quietly. “I have given
you the chance. Here are your lodgings. Good-bye. I
shall drop you a line before I leave.”
Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our
hotel, where we found lunch upon the table. Holmes
was silent and buried in thought with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds himself in a
perplexing position.
“Look here, Watson,” he said when the cloth was
cleared “just sit down in this chair and let me preach
to you for a little. I don’t know quite what to do, and
I should value your advice. Light a cigar and let me
expound.”
“Pray do so.”
“Well, now, in considering this case there are
two points about young McCarthy’s narrative which
struck us both instantly, although they impressed me
in his favour and you against him. One was the fact
that his father should, according to his account, cry
‘Cooee!’ before seeing him. The other was his singular
dying reference to a rat. He mumbled several words,
you understand, but that was all that caught the son’s
ear. Now from this double point our research must
commence, and we will begin it by presuming that
what the lad says is absolutely true.”
“What of this ‘Cooee!’ then?”
“Well, obviously it could not have been meant for
the son. The son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol.
It was mere chance that he was within earshot. The
‘Cooee!’ was meant to attract the attention of whoever
it was that he had the appointment with. But ‘Cooee’
is a distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used
between Australians. There is a strong presumption
that the person whom McCarthy expected to meet
him at Boscombe Pool was someone who had been in
Australia.”
“What of the rat, then?”
Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his
pocket and flattened it out on the table. “This is a
map of the Colony of Victoria,” he said. “I wired to
Bristol for it last night.” He put his hand over part of
the map. “What do you read?”
“ARAT,” I read.
“And now?” He raised his hand.
“BALLARAT.”
“Quite so. That was the word the man uttered,
and of which his son only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name of his murderer.
So and so, of Ballarat.”
“It is wonderful!” I exclaimed.
“It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed
the field down considerably. The possession of a grey
garment was a third point which, granting the son’s
statement to be correct, was a certainty. We have come
now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception
of an Australian from Ballarat with a grey cloak.”
“Certainly.”
“And one who was at home in the district, for the
pool can only be approached by the farm or by the
estate, where strangers could hardly wander.”
“Quite so.”
“Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the ground I gained the trifling details
which I gave to that imbecile Lestrade, as to the personality of the criminal.”
“But how did you gain them?”
“You know my method. It is founded upon the
observation of trifles.”
“His height I know that you might roughly judge
from the length of his stride. His boots, too, might be
told from their traces.”
“Yes, they were peculiar boots.”
“But his lameness?”
“The impression of his right foot was always less
distinct than his left. He put less weight upon it.
Why? Because he limped—he was lame.”
“But his left-handedness.”
“You were yourself struck by the nature of the
injury as recorded by the surgeon at the inquest. The
blow was struck from immediately behind, and yet
was upon the left side. Now, how can that be unless
it were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind
that tree during the interview between the father and
son. He had even smoked there. I found the ash of a
cigar, which my special knowledge of tobacco ashes
enables me to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as
you know, devoted some attention to this, and written a little monograph on the ashes of 140 different
varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having
169
The Boscombe Valley Mystery
found the ash, I then looked round and discovered
the stump among the moss where he had tossed it. It
was an Indian cigar, of the variety which are rolled in
Rotterdam.”
“And the cigar-holder?”
“I could see that the end had not been in his mouth.
Therefore he used a holder. The tip had been cut off,
not bitten off, but the cut was not a clean one, so I
deduced a blunt pen-knife.”
“Holmes,” I said, “you have drawn a net round
this man from which he cannot escape, and you have
saved an innocent human life as truly as if you had cut
the cord which was hanging him. I see the direction
in which all this points. The culprit is—”
“Mr. John Turner,” cried the hotel waiter, opening
the door of our sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.
The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow, limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude, and yet
his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual
strength of body and of character. His tangled beard,
grizzled hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows
combined to give an air of dignity and power to his
appearance, but his face was of an ashen white, while
his lips and the corners of his nostrils were tinged
with a shade of blue. It was clear to me at a glance
that he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic
disease.
“Pray sit down on the sofa,” said Holmes gently.
“You had my note?”
“Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said
that you wished to see me here to avoid scandal.”
“I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall.”
“And why did you wish to see me?” He looked
across at my companion with despair in his weary
eyes, as though his question was already answered.
“Yes,” said Holmes, answering the look rather
than the words. “It is so. I know all about McCarthy.”
The old man sank his face in his hands. “God help
me!” he cried. “But I would not have let the young
man come to harm. I give you my word that I would
have spoken out if it went against him at the Assizes.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” said Holmes
gravely.
“I would have spoken now had it not been for my
dear girl. It would break her heart—it will break her
heart when she hears that I am arrested.”
“It may not come to that,” said Holmes.
170
“What?”
“I am no official agent. I understand that it was
your daughter who required my presence here, and I
am acting in her interests. Young McCarthy must be
got off, however.”
“I am a dying man,” said old Turner. “I have had
diabetes for years. My doctor says it is a question
whether I shall live a month. Yet I would rather die
under my own roof than in a jail.”
Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his
pen in his hand and a bundle of paper before him.
“Just tell us the truth,” he said. “I shall jot down the
facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can witness
it. Then I could produce your confession at the last
extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you that
I shall not use it unless it is absolutely needed.”
“It’s as well,” said the old man; “it’s a question
whether I shall live to the Assizes, so it matters little
to me, but I should wish to spare Alice the shock.
And now I will make the thing clear to you; it has
been a long time in the acting, but will not take me
long to tell.
“You didn’t know this dead man, McCarthy. He
was a devil incarnate. I tell you that. God keep you
out of the clutches of such a man as he. His grip has
been upon me these twenty years, and he has blasted
my life. I’ll tell you first how I came to be in his
power.
“It was in the early ’60’s at the diggings. I was a
young chap then, hot-blooded and reckless, ready to
turn my hand at anything; I got among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took
to the bush, and in a word became what you would
call over here a highway robber. There were six of us,
and we had a wild, free life of it, sticking up a station
from time to time, or stopping the wagons on the
road to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the
name I went under, and our party is still remembered
in the colony as the Ballarat Gang.
“One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat
to Melbourne, and we lay in wait for it and attacked it.
There were six troopers and six of us, so it was a close
thing, but we emptied four of their saddles at the first
volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before
we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of the
wagon-driver, who was this very man McCarthy. I
wish to the Lord that I had shot him then, but I spared
him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on my
face, as though to remember every feature. We got
away with the gold, became wealthy men, and made
our way over to England without being suspected.
There I parted from my old pals and determined to
settle down to a quiet and respectable life. I bought
this estate, which chanced to be in the market, and I
set myself to do a little good with my money, to make
up for the way in which I had earned it. I married,
too, and though my wife died young she left me my
dear little Alice. Even when she was just a baby her
wee hand seemed to lead me down the right path as
nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned over
a new leaf and did my best to make up for the past.
All was going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon
me.
“I had gone up to town about an investment, and
I met him in Regent Street with hardly a coat to his
back or a boot to his foot.
“ ‘Here we are, Jack,’ says he, touching me on the
arm; ‘we’ll be as good as a family to you. There’s two
of us, me and my son, and you can have the keeping
of us. If you don’t—it’s a fine, law-abiding country is
England, and there’s always a policeman within hail.’
“Well, down they came to the west country, there
was no shaking them off, and there they have lived
rent free on my best land ever since. There was no
rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness; turn where
I would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my
elbow. It grew worse as Alice grew up, for he soon
saw I was more afraid of her knowing my past than
of the police. Whatever he wanted he must have, and
whatever it was I gave him without question, land,
money, houses, until at last he asked a thing which I
could not give. He asked for Alice.
“His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my
girl, and as I was known to be in weak health, it
seemed a fine stroke to him that his lad should step
into the whole property. But there I was firm. I would
not have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that
I had any dislike to the lad, but his blood was in
him, and that was enough. I stood firm. McCarthy
threatened. I braved him to do his worst. We were to
meet at the pool midway between our houses to talk
it over.
“When I went down there I found him talking
with his son, so I smoked a cigar and waited behind
a tree until he should be alone. But as I listened to
his talk all that was black and bitter in me seemed
to come uppermost. He was urging his son to marry
my daughter with as little regard for what she might
think as if she were a slut from off the streets. It
drove me mad to think that I and all that I held most
dear should be in the power of such a man as this.
Could I not snap the bond? I was already a dying and
a desperate man. Though clear of mind and fairly
strong of limb, I knew that my own fate was sealed.
But my memory and my girl! Both could be saved
if I could but silence that foul tongue. I did it, Mr.
Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I have sinned,
I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But
that my girl should be entangled in the same meshes
which held me was more than I could suffer. I struck
him down with no more compunction than if he had
been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought
back his son; but I had gained the cover of the wood,
though I was forced to go back to fetch the cloak
which I had dropped in my flight. That is the true
story, gentlemen, of all that occurred.”
“Well, it is not for me to judge you,” said Holmes
as the old man signed the statement which had been
drawn out. “I pray that we may never be exposed to
such a temptation.”
“I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?”
“In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself
aware that you will soon have to answer for your deed
at a higher court than the Assizes. I will keep your
confession, and if McCarthy is condemned I shall be
forced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by mortal
eye; and your secret, whether you be alive or dead,
shall be safe with us.”
“Farewell, then,” said the old man solemnly. “Your
own deathbeds, when they come, will be the easier
for the thought of the peace which you have given to
mine.” Tottering and shaking in all his giant frame,
he stumbled slowly from the room.
“God help us!” said Holmes after a long silence.
“Why does fate play such tricks with poor, helpless
worms? I never hear of such a case as this that I do
not think of Baxter’s words, and say, ‘There, but for
the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.’ ”
James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on
the strength of a number of objections which had been
drawn out by Holmes and submitted to the defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven months after
our interview, but he is now dead; and there is every prospect that the son and daughter may come to
live happily together in ignorance of the black cloud
which rests upon their past.
171
The Five Orange Pips
W
hen I glance over my notes and records
of the Sherlock Holmes cases between the
years ’82 and ’90, I am faced by so many
which present strange and interesting features that it is no easy matter to know which to choose
and which to leave. Some, however, have already
gained publicity through the papers, and others have
not offered a field for those peculiar qualities which
my friend possessed in so high a degree, and which
it is the object of these papers to illustrate. Some,
too, have baffled his analytical skill, and would be,
as narratives, beginnings without an ending, while
others have been but partially cleared up, and have
their explanations founded rather upon conjecture
and surmise than on that absolute logical proof which
was so dear to him. There is, however, one of these
last which was so remarkable in its details and so
startling in its results that I am tempted to give some
account of it in spite of the fact that there are points
in connection with it which never have been, and
probably never will be, entirely cleared up.
The year ’87 furnished us with a long series of
cases of greater or less interest, of which I retain the
records. Among my headings under this one twelve
months I find an account of the adventure of the
Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant Society,
who held a luxurious club in the lower vault of a
furniture warehouse, of the facts connected with the
loss of the British barque “Sophy Anderson”, of the
singular adventures of the Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa, and finally of the Camberwell poisoning
case. In the latter, as may be remembered, Sherlock
Holmes was able, by winding up the dead man’s
watch, to prove that it had been wound up two hours
before, and that therefore the deceased had gone to
bed within that time—a deduction which was of the
greatest importance in clearing up the case. All these
I may sketch out at some future date, but none of
them present such singular features as the strange
train of circumstances which I have now taken up my
pen to describe.
It was in the latter days of September, and the
equinoctial gales had set in with exceptional violence.
All day the wind had screamed and the rain had
beaten against the windows, so that even here in the
heart of great, hand-made London we were forced
to raise our minds for the instant from the routine
of life and to recognise the presence of those great
elemental forces which shriek at mankind through
the bars of his civilisation, like untamed beasts in a
cage. As evening drew in, the storm grew higher and
louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a child in
the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side
of the fireplace cross-indexing his records of crime,
while I at the other was deep in one of Clark Russell’s
fine sea-stories until the howl of the gale from without
seemed to blend with the text, and the splash of the
rain to lengthen out into the long swash of the sea
waves. My wife was on a visit to her mother’s, and
for a few days I was a dweller once more in my old
quarters at Baker Street.
“Why,” said I, glancing up at my companion, “that
was surely the bell. Who could come to-night? Some
friend of yours, perhaps?”
“Except yourself I have none,” he answered. “I do
not encourage visitors.”
“A client, then?”
“If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would
bring a man out on such a day and at such an hour.
But I take it that it is more likely to be some crony of
the landlady’s.”
Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture,
however, for there came a step in the passage and
a tapping at the door. He stretched out his long arm
to turn the lamp away from himself and towards the
vacant chair upon which a newcomer must sit.
“Come in!” said he.
The man who entered was young, some two-andtwenty at the outside, well-groomed and trimly clad,
with something of refinement and delicacy in his
bearing. The streaming umbrella which he held in
his hand, and his long shining waterproof told of
the fierce weather through which he had come. He
looked about him anxiously in the glare of the lamp,
and I could see that his face was pale and his eyes
heavy, like those of a man who is weighed down with
some great anxiety.
“I owe you an apology,” he said, raising his golden
pince-nez to his eyes. “I trust that I am not intruding.
I fear that I have brought some traces of the storm
and rain into your snug chamber.”
“Give me your coat and umbrella,” said Holmes.
“They may rest here on the hook and will be dry
presently. You have come up from the south-west, I
see.”
“Yes, from Horsham.”
“That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon
your toe caps is quite distinctive.”
“I have come for advice.”
“That is easily got.”
“And help.”
“That is not always so easy.”
175
The Five Orange Pips
“I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard
from Major Prendergast how you saved him in the
Tankerville Club scandal.”
“Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of
cheating at cards.”
“He said that you could solve anything.”
“He said too much.”
“That you are never beaten.”
“I have been beaten four times—three times by
men, and once by a woman.”
“But what is that compared with the number of
your successes?”
“It is true that I have been generally successful.”
“Then you may be so with me.”
“I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire
and favour me with some details as to your case.”
“It is no ordinary one.”
“None of those which come to me are. I am the
last court of appeal.”
“And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you have ever listened to a more mysterious
and inexplicable chain of events than those which
have happened in my own family.”
“You fill me with interest,” said Holmes. “Pray
give us the essential facts from the commencement,
and I can afterwards question you as to those details
which seem to me to be most important.”
The young man pulled his chair up and pushed
his wet feet out towards the blaze.
“My name,” said he, “is John Openshaw, but my
own affairs have, as far as I can understand, little to
do with this awful business. It is a hereditary matter;
so in order to give you an idea of the facts, I must go
back to the commencement of the affair.
“You must know that my grandfather had two
sons—my uncle Elias and my father Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry, which he enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. He
was a patentee of the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and
his business met with such success that he was able
to sell it and to retire upon a handsome competence.
“My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he
was a young man and became a planter in Florida,
where he was reported to have done very well. At
the time of the war he fought in Jackson’s army, and
afterwards under Hood, where he rose to be a colonel.
When Lee laid down his arms my uncle returned to
his plantation, where he remained for three or four
years. About 1869 or 1870 he came back to Europe
176
and took a small estate in Sussex, near Horsham. He
had made a very considerable fortune in the States,
and his reason for leaving them was his aversion to
the negroes, and his dislike of the Republican policy
in extending the franchise to them. He was a singular
man, fierce and quick-tempered, very foul-mouthed
when he was angry, and of a most retiring disposition. During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I
doubt if ever he set foot in the town. He had a garden
and two or three fields round his house, and there he
would take his exercise, though very often for weeks
on end he would never leave his room. He drank a
great deal of brandy and smoked very heavily, but he
would see no society and did not want any friends,
not even his own brother.
“He didn’t mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me,
for at the time when he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This would be in the year 1878,
after he had been eight or nine years in England. He
begged my father to let me live with him and he was
very kind to me in his way. When he was sober he
used to be fond of playing backgammon and draughts
with me, and he would make me his representative
both with the servants and with the tradespeople, so
that by the time that I was sixteen I was quite master
of the house. I kept all the keys and could go where I
liked and do what I liked, so long as I did not disturb
him in his privacy. There was one singular exception,
however, for he had a single room, a lumber-room up
among the attics, which was invariably locked, and
which he would never permit either me or anyone
else to enter. With a boy’s curiosity I have peeped
through the keyhole, but I was never able to see more
than such a collection of old trunks and bundles as
would be expected in such a room.
“One day—it was in March, 1883—a letter with
a foreign stamp lay upon the table in front of the
colonel’s plate. It was not a common thing for him
to receive letters, for his bills were all paid in ready
money, and he had no friends of any sort. ‘From India!’ said he as he took it up, ‘Pondicherry postmark!
What can this be?’ Opening it hurriedly, out there
jumped five little dried orange pips, which pattered
down upon his plate. I began to laugh at this, but
the laugh was struck from my lips at the sight of his
face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were protruding, his
skin the colour of putty, and he glared at the envelope
which he still held in his trembling hand, ‘K. K. K.!’
he shrieked, and then, ‘My God, my God, my sins
have overtaken me!’
“ ‘What is it, uncle?’ I cried.
“ ‘Death,’ said he, and rising from the table he retired to his room, leaving me palpitating with horror.
I took up the envelope and saw scrawled in red ink
upon the inner flap, just above the gum, the letter
K three times repeated. There was nothing else save
the five dried pips. What could be the reason of his
overpowering terror? I left the breakfast-table, and as
I ascended the stair I met him coming down with an
old rusty key, which must have belonged to the attic,
in one hand, and a small brass box, like a cashbox, in
the other.
“ ‘They may do what they like, but I’ll checkmate
them still,’ said he with an oath. ‘Tell Mary that I
shall want a fire in my room to-day, and send down
to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.’
“I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived
I was asked to step up to the room. The fire was
burning brightly, and in the grate there was a mass of
black, fluffy ashes, as of burned paper, while the brass
box stood open and empty beside it. As I glanced at
the box I noticed, with a start, that upon the lid was
printed the treble K which I had read in the morning
upon the envelope.
“ ‘I wish you, John,’ said my uncle, ‘to witness my
will. I leave my estate, with all its advantages and all
its disadvantages, to my brother, your father, whence
it will, no doubt, descend to you. If you can enjoy it in
peace, well and good! If you find you cannot, take my
advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest enemy.
I am sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I
can’t say what turn things are going to take. Kindly
sign the paper where Mr. Fordham shows you.’
“I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer
took it away with him. The singular incident made,
as you may think, the deepest impression upon me,
and I pondered over it and turned it every way in
my mind without being able to make anything of it.
Yet I could not shake off the vague feeling of dread
which it left behind, though the sensation grew less
keen as the weeks passed and nothing happened to
disturb the usual routine of our lives. I could see a
change in my uncle, however. He drank more than
ever, and he was less inclined for any sort of society.
Most of his time he would spend in his room, with the
door locked upon the inside, but sometimes he would
emerge in a sort of drunken frenzy and would burst
out of the house and tear about the garden with a
revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid
of no man, and that he was not to be cooped up, like
a sheep in a pen, by man or devil. When these hot
fits were over, however, he would rush tumultuously
in at the door and lock and bar it behind him, like
a man who can brazen it out no longer against the
terror which lies at the roots of his soul. At such times
I have seen his face, even on a cold day, glisten with
moisture, as though it were new raised from a basin.
“Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes,
and not to abuse your patience, there came a night
when he made one of those drunken sallies from
which he never came back. We found him, when
we went to search for him, face downward in a little green-scummed pool, which lay at the foot of the
garden. There was no sign of any violence, and the
water was but two feet deep, so that the jury, having
regard to his known eccentricity, brought in a verdict
of ‘suicide.’ But I, who knew how he winced from
the very thought of death, had much ado to persuade
myself that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The
matter passed, however, and my father entered into
possession of the estate, and of some £14,000, which
lay to his credit at the bank.”
“One moment,” Holmes interposed, “your statement is, I foresee, one of the most remarkable to
which I have ever listened. Let me have the date of
the reception by your uncle of the letter, and the date
of his supposed suicide.”
“The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death
was seven weeks later, upon the night of May 2nd.”
“Thank you. Pray proceed.”
“When my father took over the Horsham property,
he, at my request, made a careful examination of the
attic, which had been always locked up. We found
the brass box there, although its contents had been
destroyed. On the inside of the cover was a paper label, with the initials of K. K. K. repeated upon it, and
‘Letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register’ written
beneath. These, we presume, indicated the nature
of the papers which had been destroyed by Colonel
Openshaw. For the rest, there was nothing of much
importance in the attic save a great many scattered
papers and note-books bearing upon my uncle’s life
in America. Some of them were of the war time and
showed that he had done his duty well and had borne
the repute of a brave soldier. Others were of a date
during the reconstruction of the Southern states, and
were mostly concerned with politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in opposing the carpet-bag
politicians who had been sent down from the North.
“Well, it was the beginning of ’84 when my father
came to live at Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the January of ’85. On the fourth
day after the new year I heard my father give a sharp
cry of surprise as we sat together at the breakfasttable. There he was, sitting with a newly opened
177
The Five Orange Pips
envelope in one hand and five dried orange pips in
the outstretched palm of the other one. He had always laughed at what he called my cock-and-bull
story about the colonel, but he looked very scared
and puzzled now that the same thing had come upon
himself.
“ ‘Why, what on earth does this mean, John?’ he
stammered.
“My heart had turned to lead. ‘It is K. K. K.,’ said
I.
“He looked inside the envelope. ‘So it is,’ he cried.
‘Here are the very letters. But what is this written
above them?’
“ ‘Put the papers on the sundial,’ I read, peeping
over his shoulder.
“ ‘What papers? What sundial?’ he asked.
“ ‘The sundial in the garden. There is no other,’
said I; ‘but the papers must be those that are destroyed.’
“ ‘Pooh!’ said he, gripping hard at his courage.
‘We are in a civilised land here, and we can’t have
tomfoolery of this kind. Where does the thing come
from?’
“ ‘From Dundee,’ I answered, glancing at the postmark.
“ ‘Some preposterous practical joke,’ said he.
‘What have I to do with sundials and papers? I shall
take no notice of such nonsense.’
“ ‘I should certainly speak to the police,’ I said.
“ ‘And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the
sort.’
“ ‘Then let me do so?’
“ ‘No, I forbid you. I won’t have a fuss made about
such nonsense.’
“It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a
very obstinate man. I went about, however, with a
heart which was full of forebodings.
“On the third day after the coming of the letter
my father went from home to visit an old friend of
his, Major Freebody, who is in command of one of the
forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad that he should
go, for it seemed to me that he was farther from danger when he was away from home. In that, however,
I was in error. Upon the second day of his absence I
received a telegram from the major, imploring me to
come at once. My father had fallen over one of the
deep chalk-pits which abound in the neighbourhood,
and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull. I hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever
178
recovered his consciousness. He had, as it appears,
been returning from Fareham in the twilight, and as
the country was unknown to him, and the chalk-pit
unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a
verdict of ‘death from accidental causes.’ Carefully
as I examined every fact connected with his death, I
was unable to find anything which could suggest the
idea of murder. There were no signs of violence, no
footmarks, no robbery, no record of strangers having
been seen upon the roads. And yet I need not tell you
that my mind was far from at ease, and that I was
well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been woven
round him.
“In this sinister way I came into my inheritance.
You will ask me why I did not dispose of it? I answer,
because I was well convinced that our troubles were
in some way dependent upon an incident in my uncle’s life, and that the danger would be as pressing in
one house as in another.
“It was in January, ’85, that my poor father met his
end, and two years and eight months have elapsed
since then. During that time I have lived happily at
Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this curse had
passed away from the family, and that it had ended
with the last generation. I had begun to take comfort
too soon, however; yesterday morning the blow fell in
the very shape in which it had come upon my father.”
The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and turning to the table he shook out
upon it five little dried orange pips.
“This is the envelope,” he continued. “The postmark is London—eastern division. Within are the
very words which were upon my father’s last message: ‘K. K. K.’; and then ‘Put the papers on the
sundial.’ ”
“What have you done?” asked Holmes.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“To tell the truth”—he sank his face into his thin,
white hands—“I have felt helpless. I have felt like
one of those poor rabbits when the snake is writhing
towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some resistless,
inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions
can guard against.”
“Tut! tut!” cried Sherlock Holmes. “You must act,
man, or you are lost. Nothing but energy can save
you. This is no time for despair.”
“I have seen the police.”
“Ah!”
“But they listened to my story with a smile. I am
convinced that the inspector has formed the opinion
that the letters are all practical jokes, and that the
deaths of my relations were really accidents, as the
jury stated, and were not to be connected with the
warnings.”
Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. “Incredible imbecility!” he cried.
“They have, however, allowed me a policeman,
who may remain in the house with me.”
“Has he come with you to-night?”
“No. His orders were to stay in the house.”
Again Holmes raved in the air.
“Why did you come to me,” he cried, “and, above
all, why did you not come at once?”
“I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke
to Major Prendergast about my troubles and was advised by him to come to you.”
“It is really two days since you had the letter. We
should have acted before this. You have no further
evidence, I suppose, than that which you have placed
before us—no suggestive detail which might help
us?”
“There is one thing,” said John Openshaw. He
rummaged in his coat pocket, and, drawing out a
piece of discoloured, blue-tinted paper, he laid it out
upon the table. “I have some remembrance,” said he,
“that on the day when my uncle burned the papers I
observed that the small, unburned margins which lay
amid the ashes were of this particular colour. I found
this single sheet upon the floor of his room, and I
am inclined to think that it may be one of the papers
which has, perhaps, fluttered out from among the others, and in that way has escaped destruction. Beyond
the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us much.
I think myself that it is a page from some private
diary. The writing is undoubtedly my uncle’s.”
Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over
the sheet of paper, which showed by its ragged edge
that it had indeed been torn from a book. It was
headed, “March, 1869,” and beneath were the following enigmatical notices:
4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.
7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and John
Swain, of St. Augustine.
9th. McCauley cleared.
10th. John Swain cleared.
12th. Visited Paramore. All well.
“Thank you!” said Holmes, folding up the paper
and returning it to our visitor. “And now you must
on no account lose another instant. We cannot spare
time even to discuss what you have told me. You
must get home instantly and act.”
“What shall I do?”
“There is but one thing to do. It must be done at
once. You must put this piece of paper which you
have shown us into the brass box which you have
described. You must also put in a note to say that all
the other papers were burned by your uncle, and that
this is the only one which remains. You must assert
that in such words as will carry conviction with them.
Having done this, you must at once put the box out
upon the sundial, as directed. Do you understand?”
“Entirely.”
“Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort,
at present. I think that we may gain that by means of
the law; but we have our web to weave, while theirs
is already woven. The first consideration is to remove
the pressing danger which threatens you. The second
is to clear up the mystery and to punish the guilty
parties.”
“I thank you,” said the young man, rising and
pulling on his overcoat. “You have given me fresh life
and hope. I shall certainly do as you advise.”
“Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care
of yourself in the meanwhile, for I do not think that
there can be a doubt that you are threatened by a very
real and imminent danger. How do you go back?”
“By train from Waterloo.”
“It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so
I trust that you may be in safety. And yet you cannot
guard yourself too closely.”
“I am armed.”
“That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon
your case.”
“I shall see you at Horsham, then?”
“No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I
shall seek it.”
“Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two
days, with news as to the box and the papers. I shall
take your advice in every particular.” He shook hands
with us and took his leave. Outside the wind still
screamed and the rain splashed and pattered against
the windows. This strange, wild story seemed to have
come to us from amid the mad elements—blown in
upon us like a sheet of sea-weed in a gale—and now
to have been reabsorbed by them once more.
179
The Five Orange Pips
Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with
his head sunk forward and his eyes bent upon the
red glow of the fire. Then he lit his pipe, and leaning
back in his chair he watched the blue smoke-rings as
they chased each other up to the ceiling.
“I think, Watson,” he remarked at last, “that of all
our cases we have had none more fantastic than this.”
“Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four.”
“Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John
Openshaw seems to me to be walking amid even
greater perils than did the Sholtos.”
“But have you,” I asked, “formed any definite
conception as to what these perils are?”
“There can be no question as to their nature,” he
answered.
“Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and
why does he pursue this unhappy family?”
Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his
elbows upon the arms of his chair, with his finger-tips
together. “The ideal reasoner,” he remarked, “would,
when he had once been shown a single fact in all
its bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of
events which led up to it but also all the results which
would follow from it. As Cuvier could correctly describe a whole animal by the contemplation of a single
bone, so the observer who has thoroughly understood
one link in a series of incidents should be able to accurately state all the other ones, both before and after.
We have not yet grasped the results which the reason
alone can attain to. Problems may be solved in the
study which have baffled all those who have sought
a solution by the aid of their senses. To carry the art,
however, to its highest pitch, it is necessary that the
reasoner should be able to utilise all the facts which
have come to his knowledge; and this in itself implies,
as you will readily see, a possession of all knowledge,
which, even in these days of free education and encyclopaedias, is a somewhat rare accomplishment. It is
not so impossible, however, that a man should possess
all knowledge which is likely to be useful to him in
his work, and this I have endeavoured in my case to
do. If I remember rightly, you on one occasion, in the
early days of our friendship, defined my limits in a
very precise fashion.”
“Yes,” I answered, laughing. “It was a singular
document. Philosophy, astronomy, and politics were
marked at zero, I remember. Botany variable, geology profound as regards the mud-stains from any
region within fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy unsystematic, sensational literature and
180
crime records unique, violin-player, boxer, swordsman, lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco.
Those, I think, were the main points of my analysis.”
Holmes grinned at the last item. “Well,” he said,
“I say now, as I said then, that a man should keep his
little brain-attic stocked with all the furniture that he
is likely to use, and the rest he can put away in the
lumber-room of his library, where he can get it if he
wants it. Now, for such a case as the one which has
been submitted to us to-night, we need certainly to
muster all our resources. Kindly hand me down the
letter K of the ‘American Encyclopaedia’ which stands
upon the shelf beside you. Thank you. Now let us
consider the situation and see what may be deduced
from it. In the first place, we may start with a strong
presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some very
strong reason for leaving America. Men at his time of
life do not change all their habits and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida for the lonely
life of an English provincial town. His extreme love
of solitude in England suggests the idea that he was
in fear of someone or something, so we may assume
as a working hypothesis that it was fear of someone
or something which drove him from America. As
to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that
by considering the formidable letters which were received by himself and his successors. Did you remark
the postmarks of those letters?”
“The first was from Pondicherry, the second from
Dundee, and the third from London.”
“From East London. What do you deduce from
that?”
“They are all seaports. That the writer was on
board of a ship.”
“Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be
no doubt that the probability—the strong probability—is that the writer was on board of a ship. And
now let us consider another point. In the case of
Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat
and its fulfilment, in Dundee it was only some three
or four days. Does that suggest anything?”
“A greater distance to travel.”
“But the letter had also a greater distance to
come.”
“Then I do not see the point.”
“There is at least a presumption that the vessel in
which the man or men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as
if they always send their singular warning or token before them when starting upon their mission. You see
how quickly the deed followed the sign when it came
from Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry
in a steamer they would have arrived almost as soon
as their letter. But, as a matter of fact, seven weeks
elapsed. I think that those seven weeks represented
the difference between the mail-boat which brought
the letter and the sailing vessel which brought the
writer.”
“It is possible.”
“More than that. It is probable. And now you see
the deadly urgency of this new case, and why I urged
young Openshaw to caution. The blow has always
fallen at the end of the time which it would take the
senders to travel the distance. But this one comes
from London, and therefore we cannot count upon
delay.”
“Good God!” I cried. “What can it mean, this
relentless persecution?”
“The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance to the person or persons
in the sailing-ship. I think that it is quite clear that
there must be more than one of them. A single man
could not have carried out two deaths in such a way
as to deceive a coroner’s jury. There must have been
several in it, and they must have been men of resource
and determination. Their papers they mean to have,
be the holder of them who it may. In this way you see
K. K. K. ceases to be the initials of an individual and
becomes the badge of a society.”
“But of what society?”
“Have you never—” said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking his voice—“have you never
heard of the Ku Klux Klan?”
“I never have.”
Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon
his knee. “Here it is,” said he presently:
“ ‘Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the
fanciful resemblance to the sound produced
by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret society was formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the Southern states after the Civil
War, and it rapidly formed local branches in
different parts of the country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia, and
Florida. Its power was used for political purposes, principally for the terrorising of the
negro voters and the murdering and driving
from the country of those who were opposed to
its views. Its outrages were usually preceded
by a warning sent to the marked man in some
fantastic but generally recognised shape—a
sprig of oak-leaves in some parts, melon seeds
or orange pips in others. On receiving this
the victim might either openly abjure his former ways, or might fly from the country. If
he braved the matter out, death would unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some
strange and unforeseen manner. So perfect
was the organisation of the society, and so
systematic its methods, that there is hardly
a case upon record where any man succeeded
in braving it with impunity, or in which any
of its outrages were traced home to the perpetrators. For some years the organisation
flourished in spite of the efforts of the United
States government and of the better classes of
the community in the South. Eventually, in
the year 1869, the movement rather suddenly
collapsed, although there have been sporadic
outbreaks of the same sort since that date.’
“You will observe,” said Holmes, laying down the
volume, “that the sudden breaking up of the society
was coincident with the disappearance of Openshaw
from America with their papers. It may well have
been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and
his family have some of the more implacable spirits
upon their track. You can understand that this register and diary may implicate some of the first men in
the South, and that there may be many who will not
sleep easy at night until it is recovered.”
“Then the page we have seen—”
“Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember
right, ‘sent the pips to A, B, and C’—that is, sent the
society’s warning to them. Then there are successive
entries that A and B cleared, or left the country, and
finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a sinister result
for C. Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let some light
into this dark place, and I believe that the only chance
young Openshaw has in the meantime is to do what I
have told him. There is nothing more to be said or to
be done to-night, so hand me over my violin and let
us try to forget for half an hour the miserable weather
and the still more miserable ways of our fellow-men.”
It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was
shining with a subdued brightness through the dim
veil which hangs over the great city. Sherlock Holmes
was already at breakfast when I came down.
“You will excuse me for not waiting for you,” said
he; “I have, I foresee, a very busy day before me in
looking into this case of young Openshaw’s.”
“What steps will you take?” I asked.
“It will very much depend upon the results of my
first inquiries. I may have to go down to Horsham,
after all.”
181
The Five Orange Pips
“You will not go there first?”
“No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the
bell and the maid will bring up your coffee.”
As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from
the table and glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a
heading which sent a chill to my heart.
“Holmes,” I cried, “you are too late.”
“Ah!” said he, laying down his cup, “I feared as
much. How was it done?” He spoke calmly, but I
could see that he was deeply moved.
“My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the
heading ‘Tragedy Near Waterloo Bridge.’ Here is the
account:
“Between nine and ten last night PoliceConstable Cook, of the H Division, on duty
near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and
a splash in the water. The night, however, was
extremely dark and stormy, so that, in spite
of the help of several passers-by, it was quite
impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given, and, by the aid of the waterpolice, the body was eventually recovered. It
proved to be that of a young gentleman whose
name, as it appears from an envelope which
was found in his pocket, was John Openshaw,
and whose residence is near Horsham. It is
conjectured that he may have been hurrying
down to catch the last train from Waterloo
Station, and that in his haste and the extreme
darkness he missed his path and walked over
the edge of one of the small landing-places for
river steamboats. The body exhibited no traces
of violence, and there can be no doubt that the
deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident, which should have the effect of
calling the attention of the authorities to the
condition of the riverside landing-stages.”
We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more
depressed and shaken than I had ever seen him.
“That hurts my pride, Watson,” he said at last. “It
is a petty feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It
becomes a personal matter with me now, and, if God
sends me health, I shall set my hand upon this gang.
That he should come to me for help, and that I should
send him away to his death—!” He sprang from his
chair and paced about the room in uncontrollable
agitation, with a flush upon his sallow cheeks and
a nervous clasping and unclasping of his long thin
hands.
“They must be cunning devils,” he exclaimed at
last. “How could they have decoyed him down there?
182
The Embankment is not on the direct line to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even
on such a night, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we
shall see who will win in the long run. I am going
out now!”
“To the police?”
“No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun
the web they may take the flies, but not before.”
All day I was engaged in my professional work,
and it was late in the evening before I returned to
Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come back
yet. It was nearly ten o’clock before he entered, looking pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard,
and tearing a piece from the loaf he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long draught of
water.
“You are hungry,” I remarked.
“Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had
nothing since breakfast.”
“Nothing?”
“Not a bite. I had no time to think of it.”
“And how have you succeeded?”
“Well.”
“You have a clue?”
“I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young
Openshaw shall not long remain unavenged. Why,
Watson, let us put their own devilish trade-mark upon
them. It is well thought of!”
“What do you mean?”
He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing
it to pieces he squeezed out the pips upon the table.
Of these he took five and thrust them into an envelope.
On the inside of the flap he wrote “S. H. for J. O.”
Then he sealed it and addressed it to “Captain James
Calhoun, Barque Lone Star, Savannah, Georgia.”
“That will await him when he enters port,” said
he, chuckling. “It may give him a sleepless night. He
will find it as sure a precursor of his fate as Openshaw
did before him.”
“And who is this Captain Calhoun?”
“The leader of the gang. I shall have the others,
but he first.”
“How did you trace it, then?”
He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all
covered with dates and names.
“I have spent the whole day,” said he, “over
Lloyd’s registers and files of the old papers, following
the future career of every vessel which touched at
Pondicherry in January and February in ’83. There
were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there during those months. Of these, one,
the Lone Star, instantly attracted my attention, since,
although it was reported as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to one of the
states of the Union.”
“Texas, I think.”
“I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that
the ship must have an American origin.”
“What then?”
“I searched the Dundee records, and when I found
that the barque Lone Star was there in January, ’85, my
suspicion became a certainty. I then inquired as to the
vessels which lay at present in the port of London.”
“Yes?”
“The Lone Star had arrived here last week. I went
down to the Albert Dock and found that she had been
taken down the river by the early tide this morning,
homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend
and learned that she had passed some time ago, and
as the wind is easterly I have no doubt that she is now
past the Goodwins and not very far from the Isle of
Wight.”
“What will you do, then?”
“Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two
mates, are as I learn, the only native-born Americans
in the ship. The others are Finns and Germans. I
know, also, that they were all three away from the
ship last night. I had it from the stevedore who has
been loading their cargo. By the time that their sailingship reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried
this letter, and the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these three gentlemen are badly
wanted here upon a charge of murder.”
There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of
human plans, and the murderers of John Openshaw
were never to receive the orange pips which would
show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as
themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very
severe were the equinoctial gales that year. We waited
long for news of the Lone Star of Savannah, but none
ever reached us. We did at last hear that somewhere
far out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of a boat
was seen swinging in the trough of a wave, with the
letters “L. S.” carved upon it, and that is all which we
shall ever know of the fate of the Lone Star.
183
The Man with the Twisted Lip
I
sa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the Theological College of St. George’s, was much addicted to
opium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he was at
college; for having read De Quincey’s description of
his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the
same effects. He found, as so many more have done,
that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid
of, and for many years he continued to be a slave to
the drug, an object of mingled horror and pity to his
friends and relatives. I can see him now, with yellow,
pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all
huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble
man.
find. Did she know where her husband was? Was it
possible that we could bring him back to her?
One night—it was in June, ’89—there came a ring
to my bell, about the hour when a man gives his first
yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up in my chair,
and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap
and made a little face of disappointment.
There was the case, and of course there was but
one way out of it. Might I not escort her to this place?
And then, as a second thought, why should she come
at all? I was Isa Whitney’s medical adviser, and as
such I had influence over him. I could manage it
better if I were alone. I promised her on my word that
I would send him home in a cab within two hours if
he were indeed at the address which she had given
me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair
and cheery sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a strange errand, as
it seemed to me at the time, though the future only
could show how strange it was to be.
“A patient!” said she. “You’ll have to go out.”
I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary
day.
We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and
then quick steps upon the linoleum. Our own door
flew open, and a lady, clad in some dark-coloured
stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.
“You will excuse my calling so late,” she began,
and then, suddenly losing her self-control, she ran
forward, threw her arms about my wife’s neck, and
sobbed upon her shoulder. “Oh, I’m in such trouble!”
she cried; “I do so want a little help.”
“Why,” said my wife, pulling up her veil, “it is
Kate Whitney. How you startled me, Kate! I had not
an idea who you were when you came in.”
“I didn’t know what to do, so I came straight to
you.” That was always the way. Folk who were in
grief came to my wife like birds to a light-house.
“It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must
have some wine and water, and sit here comfortably
and tell us all about it. Or should you rather that I
sent James off to bed?”
“Oh, no, no! I want the doctor’s advice and help,
too. It’s about Isa. He has not been home for two
days. I am so frightened about him!”
It was not the first time that she had spoken to
us of her husband’s trouble, to me as a doctor, to
my wife as an old friend and school companion. We
soothed and comforted her by such words as we could
It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he had, when the fit was on him,
made use of an opium den in the farthest east of the
City. Hitherto his orgies had always been confined
to one day, and he had come back, twitching and
shattered, in the evening. But now the spell had been
upon him eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there,
doubtless among the dregs of the docks, breathing in
the poison or sleeping off the effects. There he was
to be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, in
Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do? How
could she, a young and timid woman, make her way
into such a place and pluck her husband out from
among the ruffians who surrounded him?
But there was no great difficulty in the first stage
of my adventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which line the
north side of the river to the east of London Bridge.
Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a
steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like
the mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was
in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down
the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless
tread of drunken feet; and by the light of a flickering
oil-lamp above the door I found the latch and made
my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with
the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden
berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship.
Through the gloom one could dimly catch a
glimpse of bodies lying in strange fantastic poses,
bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back, and
chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark,
lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of
the black shadows there glimmered little red circles
of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison
waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes. The
most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and
187
The Man with the Twisted Lip
others talked together in a strange, low, monotonous
voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then
suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out
his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words
of his neighbour. At the farther end was a small
brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on a threelegged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old man,
with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows
upon his knees, staring into the fire.
As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me and a supply of the drug,
beckoning me to an empty berth.
“Thank you. I have not come to stay,” said I.
“There is a friend of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and
I wish to speak with him.”
There was a movement and an exclamation from
my right, and peering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring out at me.
“My God! It’s Watson,” said he. He was in a
pitiable state of reaction, with every nerve in a twitter.
“I say, Watson, what o’clock is it?”
“Nearly eleven.”
“Of what day?”
“Of Friday, June 19th.”
“Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is
Wednesday. What d’you want to frighten a chap for?”
He sank his face onto his arms and began to sob in a
high treble key.
“I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has
been waiting this two days for you. You should be
ashamed of yourself!”
“So I am. But you’ve got mixed, Watson, for I
have only been here a few hours, three pipes, four
pipes—I forget how many. But I’ll go home with you.
I wouldn’t frighten Kate—poor little Kate. Give me
your hand! Have you a cab?”
“Yes, I have one waiting.”
“Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something.
Find what I owe, Watson. I am all off colour. I can do
nothing for myself.”
I walked down the narrow passage between the
double row of sleepers, holding my breath to keep
out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man
who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my
skirt, and a low voice whispered, “Walk past me, and
then look back at me.” The words fell quite distinctly
upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have
come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat
now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkled,
188
bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from
between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer
lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward
and looked back. It took all my self-control to prevent
me from breaking out into a cry of astonishment. He
had turned his back so that none could see him but I.
His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the
dull eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by
the fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other
than Sherlock Holmes. He made a slight motion to
me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his
face half round to the company once more, subsided
into a doddering, loose-lipped senility.
“Holmes!” I whispered, “what on earth are you
doing in this den?”
“As low as you can,” he answered; “I have excellent ears. If you would have the great kindness
to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I should be
exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you.”
“I have a cab outside.”
“Then pray send him home in it. You may safely
trust him, for he appears to be too limp to get into
any mischief. I should recommend you also to send a
note by the cabman to your wife to say that you have
thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside,
I shall be with you in five minutes.”
It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes’
requests, for they were always so exceedingly definite,
and put forward with such a quiet air of mastery. I
felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined
in the cab my mission was practically accomplished;
and for the rest, I could not wish anything better than
to be associated with my friend in one of those singular adventures which were the normal condition
of his existence. In a few minutes I had written my
note, paid Whitney’s bill, led him out to the cab, and
seen him driven through the darkness. In a very short
time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium
den, and I was walking down the street with Sherlock
Holmes. For two streets he shuffled along with a bent
back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing quickly
round, he straightened himself out and burst into a
hearty fit of laughter.
“I suppose, Watson,” said he, “that you imagine
that I have added opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little weaknesses on which you
have favoured me with your medical views.”
“I was certainly surprised to find you there.”
“But not more so than I to find you.”
“I came to find a friend.”
“And I to find an enemy.”
“An enemy?”
“Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say,
my natural prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst
of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have hoped to
find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these sots,
as I have done before now. Had I been recognised
in that den my life would not have been worth an
hour’s purchase; for I have used it before now for my
own purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it
has sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a
trap-door at the back of that building, near the corner
of Paul’s Wharf, which could tell some strange tales
of what has passed through it upon the moonless
nights.”
“What! You do not mean bodies?”
“Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we
had £1000 for every poor devil who has been done to
death in that den. It is the vilest murder-trap on the
whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair has
entered it never to leave it more. But our trap should
be here.” He put his two forefingers between his teeth
and whistled shrilly—a signal which was answered by
a similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly
by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses’ hoofs.
“Now, Watson,” said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart
dashed up through the gloom, throwing out two
golden tunnels of yellow light from its side lanterns.
“You’ll come with me, won’t you?”
“If I can be of use.”
“Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a
chronicler still more so. My room at The Cedars is a
double-bedded one.”
“The Cedars?”
“Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair’s house. I am staying
there while I conduct the inquiry.”
“Where is it, then?”
“Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive
before us.”
“But I am all in the dark.”
“Of course you are. You’ll know all about it
presently. Jump up here. All right, John; we shall
not need you. Here’s half a crown. Look out for me
to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her head. So long,
then!”
He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed
away through the endless succession of sombre and
deserted streets, which widened gradually, until we
were flying across a broad balustraded bridge, with
the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar,
its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall
of the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some
belated party of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled
dimly here and there through the rifts of the clouds.
Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his
breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought,
while I sat beside him, curious to learn what this new
quest might be which seemed to tax his powers so
sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of
his thoughts. We had driven several miles, and were
beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban
villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up his pipe with the air of a man who
has satisfied himself that he is acting for the best.
“You have a grand gift of silence, Watson,” said he.
“It makes you quite invaluable as a companion. ’Pon
my word, it is a great thing for me to have someone
to talk to, for my own thoughts are not over-pleasant.
I was wondering what I should say to this dear little
woman to-night when she meets me at the door.”
“You forget that I know nothing about it.”
“I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the
case before we get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can get nothing to go upon.
There’s plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can’t get the
end of it into my hand. Now, I’ll state the case clearly
and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see
a spark where all is dark to me.”
“Proceed, then.”
“Some years ago—to be definite, in May,
1884—there came to Lee a gentleman, Neville St. Clair
by name, who appeared to have plenty of money. He
took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely,
and lived generally in good style. By degrees he
made friends in the neighbourhood, and in 1887 he
married the daughter of a local brewer, by whom he
now has two children. He had no occupation, but
was interested in several companies and went into
town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 5.14
from Cannon Street every night. Mr. St. Clair is now
thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate habits,
a good husband, a very affectionate father, and a man
who is popular with all who know him. I may add
that his whole debts at the present moment, as far as
we have been able to ascertain, amount to £88 10s.,
while he has £220 standing to his credit in the Capital
and Counties Bank. There is no reason, therefore, to
think that money troubles have been weighing upon
his mind.
“Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town
rather earlier than usual, remarking before he started
189
The Man with the Twisted Lip
that he had two important commissions to perform,
and that he would bring his little boy home a box of
bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife received
a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to the effect that a small parcel of
considerable value which she had been expecting was
waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping
Company. Now, if you are well up in your London,
you will know that the office of the company is in
Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam
Lane, where you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had
her lunch, started for the City, did some shopping,
proceeded to the company’s office, got her packet,
and found herself at exactly 4.35 walking through
Swandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have
you followed me so far?”
“It is very clear.”
“If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly
hot day, and Mrs. St. Clair walked slowly, glancing
about in the hope of seeing a cab, as she did not
like the neighbourhood in which she found herself.
While she was walking in this way down Swandam
Lane, she suddenly heard an ejaculation or cry, and
was struck cold to see her husband looking down at
her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a
second-floor window. The window was open, and she
distinctly saw his face, which she describes as being
terribly agitated. He waved his hands frantically to
her, and then vanished from the window so suddenly
that it seemed to her that he had been plucked back
by some irresistible force from behind. One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was
that although he wore some dark coat, such as he
had started to town in, he had on neither collar nor
necktie.
“Convinced that something was amiss with him,
she rushed down the steps—for the house was none
other than the opium den in which you found me
to-night—and running through the front room she
attempted to ascend the stairs which led to the first
floor. At the foot of the stairs, however, she met this
Lascar scoundrel of whom I have spoken, who thrust
her back and, aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant
there, pushed her out into the street. Filled with the
most maddening doubts and fears, she rushed down
the lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in Fresno
Street a number of constables with an inspector, all
on their way to their beat. The inspector and two men
accompanied her back, and in spite of the continued
resistance of the proprietor, they made their way to
the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen.
There was no sign of him there. In fact, in the whole
190
of that floor there was no one to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who, it seems, made
his home there. Both he and the Lascar stoutly swore
that no one else had been in the front room during
the afternoon. So determined was their denial that
the inspector was staggered, and had almost come to
believe that Mrs. St. Clair had been deluded when,
with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box which lay
upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell
a cascade of children’s bricks. It was the toy which he
had promised to bring home.
“This discovery, and the evident confusion which
the cripple showed, made the inspector realise that
the matter was serious. The rooms were carefully
examined, and results all pointed to an abominable
crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a
sitting-room and led into a small bedroom, which
looked out upon the back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide but is covered at
high tide with at least four and a half feet of water.
The bedroom window was a broad one and opened
from below. On examination traces of blood were to
be seen upon the windowsill, and several scattered
drops were visible upon the wooden floor of the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room
were all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the
exception of his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat,
and his watch—all were there. There were no signs of
violence upon any of these garments, and there were
no other traces of Mr. Neville St. Clair. Out of the
window he must apparently have gone for no other
exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains
upon the sill gave little promise that he could save
himself by swimming, for the tide was at its very
highest at the moment of the tragedy.
“And now as to the villains who seemed to be
immediately implicated in the matter. The Lascar was
known to be a man of the vilest antecedents, but as,
by Mrs. St. Clair’s story, he was known to have been
at the foot of the stair within a very few seconds of
her husband’s appearance at the window, he could
hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime.
His defence was one of absolute ignorance, and he
protested that he had no knowledge as to the doings
of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he could not
account in any way for the presence of the missing
gentleman’s clothes.
“So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the
sinister cripple who lives upon the second floor of the
opium den, and who was certainly the last human
being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair. His
name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one
which is familiar to every man who goes much to
the City. He is a professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police regulations he pretends to a
small trade in wax vestas. Some little distance down
Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand side, there
is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the
wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat,
cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap,
and as he is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity
descends into the greasy leather cap which lies upon
the pavement beside him. I have watched the fellow
more than once before ever I thought of making his
professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised
at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time.
His appearance, you see, is so remarkable that no
one can pass him without observing him. A shock of
orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar,
which, by its contraction, has turned up the outer
edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair of
very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular
contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him out
from amid the common crowd of mendicants and so,
too, does his wit, for he is ever ready with a reply to
any piece of chaff which may be thrown at him by the
passers-by. This is the man whom we now learn to
have been the lodger at the opium den, and to have
been the last man to see the gentleman of whom we
are in quest.”
“But a cripple!” said I. “What could he have done
single-handed against a man in the prime of life?”
“He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a
limp; but in other respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man. Surely your medical
experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness
in one limb is often compensated for by exceptional
strength in the others.”
“Pray continue your narrative.”
“Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood
upon the window, and she was escorted home in a
cab by the police, as her presence could be of no help
to them in their investigations. Inspector Barton, who
had charge of the case, made a very careful examination of the premises, but without finding anything
which threw any light upon the matter. One mistake
had been made in not arresting Boone instantly, as
he was allowed some few minutes during which he
might have communicated with his friend the Lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he was
seized and searched, without anything being found
which could incriminate him. There were, it is true,
some blood-stains upon his right shirt-sleeve, but he
pointed to his ring-finger, which had been cut near
the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from
there, adding that he had been to the window not
long before, and that the stains which had been observed there came doubtless from the same source.
He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr. Neville
St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes
in his room was as much a mystery to him as to the
police. As to Mrs. St. Clair’s assertion that she had
actually seen her husband at the window, he declared
that she must have been either mad or dreaming. He
was removed, loudly protesting, to the police-station,
while the inspector remained upon the premises in
the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh
clue.
“And it did, though they hardly found upon the
mud-bank what they had feared to find. It was
Neville St. Clair’s coat, and not Neville St. Clair,
which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And what
do you think they found in the pockets?”
“I cannot imagine.”
“No, I don’t think you would guess. Every pocket
stuffed with pennies and half-pennies—421 pennies
and 270 half-pennies. It was no wonder that it had
not been swept away by the tide. But a human body
is a different matter. There is a fierce eddy between
the wharf and the house. It seemed likely enough that
the weighted coat had remained when the stripped
body had been sucked away into the river.”
“But I understand that all the other clothes were
found in the room. Would the body be dressed in a
coat alone?”
“No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously
enough. Suppose that this man Boone had thrust
Neville St. Clair through the window, there is no
human eye which could have seen the deed. What
would he do then? It would of course instantly strike
him that he must get rid of the tell-tale garments.
He would seize the coat, then, and be in the act of
throwing it out, when it would occur to him that
it would swim and not sink. He has little time, for
he has heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife
tried to force her way up, and perhaps he has already
heard from his Lascar confederate that the police are
hurrying up the street. There is not an instant to be
lost. He rushes to some secret hoard, where he has
accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and he stuffs
all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the
pockets to make sure of the coat’s sinking. He throws
it out, and would have done the same with the other
garments had not he heard the rush of steps below,
191
The Man with the Twisted Lip
and only just had time to close the window when the
police appeared.”
“It certainly sounds feasible.”
“Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis
for want of a better. Boone, as I have told you, was
arrested and taken to the station, but it could not
be shown that there had ever before been anything
against him. He had for years been known as a
professional beggar, but his life appeared to have
been a very quiet and innocent one. There the matter
stands at present, and the questions which have to
be solved—what Neville St. Clair was doing in the
opium den, what happened to him when there, where
is he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his
disappearance—are all as far from a solution as ever.
I confess that I cannot recall any case within my experience which looked at the first glance so simple and
yet which presented such difficulties.”
While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of events, we had been whirling through
the outskirts of the great town until the last straggling
houses had been left behind, and we rattled along
with a country hedge upon either side of us. Just as
he finished, however, we drove through two scattered
villages, where a few lights still glimmered in the
windows.
“We are on the outskirts of Lee,” said my companion. “We have touched on three English counties in
our short drive, starting in Middlesex, passing over
an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent. See that light
among the trees? That is The Cedars, and beside that
lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already, I
have little doubt, caught the clink of our horse’s feet.”
“But why are you not conducting the case from
Baker Street?” I asked.
“Because there are many inquiries which must be
made out here. Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly put two
rooms at my disposal, and you may rest assured that
she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend
and colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I
have no news of her husband. Here we are. Whoa,
there, whoa!”
We had pulled up in front of a large villa which
stood within its own grounds. A stable-boy had run
out to the horse’s head, and springing down, I followed Holmes up the small, winding gravel-drive
which led to the house. As we approached, the door
flew open, and a little blonde woman stood in the
opening, clad in some sort of light mousseline de soie,
with a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck and
wrists. She stood with her figure outlined against the
192
flood of light, one hand upon the door, one half-raised
in her eagerness, her body slightly bent, her head and
face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a
standing question.
“Well?” she cried, “well?” And then, seeing that
there were two of us, she gave a cry of hope which
sank into a groan as she saw that my companion
shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
“No good news?”
“None.”
“No bad?”
“No.”
“Thank God for that. But come in. You must be
weary, for you have had a long day.”
“This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of
most vital use to me in several of my cases, and a
lucky chance has made it possible for me to bring him
out and associate him with this investigation.”
“I am delighted to see you,” said she, pressing my
hand warmly. “You will, I am sure, forgive anything
that may be wanting in our arrangements, when you
consider the blow which has come so suddenly upon
us.”
“My dear madam,” said I, “I am an old campaigner, and if I were not I can very well see that
no apology is needed. If I can be of any assistance,
either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeed
happy.”
“Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said the lady as
we entered a well-lit dining-room, upon the table of
which a cold supper had been laid out, “I should very
much like to ask you one or two plain questions, to
which I beg that you will give a plain answer.”
“Certainly, madam.”
“Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor given to fainting. I simply wish to hear
your real, real opinion.”
“Upon what point?”
“In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville
is alive?”
Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by
the question. “Frankly, now!” she repeated, standing
upon the rug and looking keenly down at him as he
leaned back in a basket-chair.
“Frankly, then, madam, I do not.”
“You think that he is dead?”
“I do.”
“Murdered?”
“I don’t say that. Perhaps.”
“And on what day did he meet his death?”
“On Monday.”
“Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good
enough to explain how it is that I have received a
letter from him to-day.”
Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he
had been galvanised.
“What!” he roared.
“Yes, to-day.” She stood smiling, holding up a little
slip of paper in the air.
“May I see it?”
“Certainly.”
He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and
smoothing it out upon the table he drew over the
lamp and examined it intently. I had left my chair
and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The envelope
was a very coarse one and was stamped with the
Gravesend postmark and with the date of that very
day, or rather of the day before, for it was considerably
after midnight.
“Coarse writing,” murmured Holmes. “Surely this
is not your husband’s writing, madam.”
“No, but the enclosure is.”
“I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and inquire as to the address.”
“How can you tell that?”
“The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink,
which has dried itself. The rest is of the greyish colour,
which shows that blotting-paper has been used. If it
had been written straight off, and then blotted, none
would be of a deep black shade. This man has written
the name, and there has then been a pause before he
wrote the address, which can only mean that he was
not familiar with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but there
is nothing so important as trifles. Let us now see the
letter. Ha! there has been an enclosure here!”
“Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring.”
“And you are sure that this is your husband’s
hand?”
“One of his hands.”
“One?”
“His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very
unlike his usual writing, and yet I know it well.”
“Dearest do not be frightened. All will
come well. There is a huge error which it
may take some little time to rectify. Wait
in patience.
— “Neville.
Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in
Gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb. Ha! And the
flap has been gummed, if I am not very much in error,
by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And
you have no doubt that it is your husband’s hand,
madam?”
“None. Neville wrote those words.”
“And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well,
Mrs. St. Clair, the clouds lighten, though I should not
venture to say that the danger is over.”
“But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes.”
“Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the
wrong scent. The ring, after all, proves nothing. It
may have been taken from him.”
“No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!”
“Very well. It may, however, have been written on
Monday and only posted to-day.”
“That is possible.”
“If so, much may have happened between.”
“Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes.
I know that all is well with him. There is so keen a
sympathy between us that I should know if evil came
upon him. On the very day that I saw him last he cut
himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room
rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty
that something had happened. Do you think that I
would respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant of
his death?”
“I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be more valuable than the
conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And in this letter
you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to
corroborate your view. But if your husband is alive
and able to write letters, why should he remain away
from you?”
“I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable.”
“And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?”
“No.”
“And you were surprised to see him in Swandam
Lane?”
“Very much so.”
“Was the window open?”
“Yes.”
“Then he might have called to you?”
“He might.”
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The Man with the Twisted Lip
“He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate
cry?”
“Yes.”
“A call for help, you thought?”
“Yes. He waved his hands.”
“But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the unexpected sight of you might cause
him to throw up his hands?”
“It is possible.”
“And you thought he was pulled back?”
“He disappeared so suddenly.”
“He might have leaped back. You did not see
anyone else in the room?”
“No, but this horrible man confessed to having
been there, and the Lascar was at the foot of the
stairs.”
“Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see,
had his ordinary clothes on?”
“But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his
bare throat.”
“Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?”
“Never.”
“Had he ever showed any signs of having taken
opium?”
“Never.”
“Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal
points about which I wished to be absolutely clear.
We shall now have a little supper and then retire, for
we may have a very busy day to-morrow.”
A large and comfortable double-bedded room had
been placed at our disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after my night of
adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however,
who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his
mind, would go for days, and even for a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking
at it from every point of view until he had either
fathomed it or convinced himself that his data were
insufficient. It was soon evident to me that he was
now preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off
his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressinggown, and then wandered about the room collecting
pillows from his bed and cushions from the sofa and
armchairs. With these he constructed a sort of Eastern
divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged,
with an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches
laid out in front of him. In the dim light of the lamp I
saw him sitting there, an old briar pipe between his
lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner of the
194
ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent,
motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set
aquiline features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep,
and so he sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me
to wake up, and I found the summer sun shining into
the apartment. The pipe was still between his lips, the
smoke still curled upward, and the room was full of a
dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap
of shag which I had seen upon the previous night.
“Awake, Watson?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Game for a morning drive?”
“Certainly.”
“Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know
where the stable-boy sleeps, and we shall soon have
the trap out.” He chuckled to himself as he spoke, his
eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the
sombre thinker of the previous night.
As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no
wonder that no one was stirring. It was twenty-five
minutes past four. I had hardly finished when Holmes
returned with the news that the boy was putting in
the horse.
“I want to test a little theory of mine,” said he,
pulling on his boots. “I think, Watson, that you are
now standing in the presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from
here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of
the affair now.”
“And where is it?” I asked, smiling.
“In the bathroom,” he answered. “Oh, yes, I
am not joking,” he continued, seeing my look of incredulity. “I have just been there, and I have taken it
out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag. Come on,
my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the
lock.”
We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the bright morning sunshine. In
the road stood our horse and trap, with the half-clad
stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in,
and away we dashed down the London Road. A few
country carts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to
the metropolis, but the lines of villas on either side
were as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream.
“It has been in some points a singular case,” said
Holmes, flicking the horse on into a gallop. “I confess
that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better to
learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.”
In town the earliest risers were just beginning to
look sleepily from their windows as we drove through
the streets of the Surrey side. Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and
dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the
right and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock
Holmes was well known to the force, and the two
constables at the door saluted him. One of them held
the horse’s head while the other led us in.
“Who is on duty?” asked Holmes.
“Inspector Bradstreet, sir.”
“Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?” A tall, stout official had come down the stone-flagged passage, in a
peaked cap and frogged jacket. “I wish to have a quiet
word with you, Bradstreet.” “Certainly, Mr. Holmes.
Step into my room here.” It was a small, office-like
room, with a huge ledger upon the table, and a telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat
down at his desk.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”
“I called about that beggarman, Boone—the one
who was charged with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee.”
“Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries.”
“So I heard. You have him here?”
“In the cells.”
“Is he quiet?”
“Oh, he gives no trouble.
scoundrel.”
But he is a dirty
“Dirty?”
“Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his
hands, and his face is as black as a tinker’s. Well,
when once his case has been settled, he will have a
regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you
would agree with me that he needed it.”
“I should like to see him very much.”
“Would you? That is easily done. Come this way.
You can leave your bag.”
“No, I think that I’ll take it.”
“Very good. Come this way, if you please.” He
led us down a passage, opened a barred door, passed
down a winding stair, and brought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side.
“The third on the right is his,” said the inspector.
“Here it is!” He quietly shot back a panel in the upper
part of the door and glanced through.
“He is asleep,” said he. “You can see him very
well.”
We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his face towards us, in a very deep
sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was a middlesized man, coarsely clad as became his calling, with
a coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his
tattered coat. He was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which covered his face
could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad
wheal from an old scar ran right across it from eye to
chin, and by its contraction had turned up one side
of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed in a
perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red hair grew
low over his eyes and forehead.
“He’s a beauty, isn’t he?” said the inspector.
“He certainly needs a wash,” remarked Holmes.
“I had an idea that he might, and I took the liberty of
bringing the tools with me.” He opened the Gladstone
bag as he spoke, and took out, to my astonishment, a
very large bath-sponge.
“He! he! You are a funny one,” chuckled the
inspector.
“Now, if you will have the great goodness to open
that door very quietly, we will soon make him cut a
much more respectable figure.”
“Well, I don’t know why not,” said the inspector.
“He doesn’t look a credit to the Bow Street cells, does
he?” He slipped his key into the lock, and we all
very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper half turned,
and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes stooped to the water-jug, moistened his
sponge, and then rubbed it twice vigorously across
and down the prisoner’s face.
“Let me introduce you,” he shouted, “to Mr.
Neville St. Clair, of Lee, in the county of Kent.”
Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The
man’s face peeled off under the sponge like the bark
from a tree. Gone was the coarse brown tint! Gone,
too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it across,
and the twisted lip which had given the repulsive
sneer to the face! A twitch brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in his bed, was
a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired
and smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring
about him with sleepy bewilderment. Then suddenly
realising the exposure, he broke into a scream and
threw himself down with his face to the pillow.
“Great heavens!” cried the inspector, “it is, indeed,
the missing man. I know him from the photograph.”
The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man
who abandons himself to his destiny. “Be it so,” said
he. “And pray what am I charged with?”
195
The Man with the Twisted Lip
“With making away with Mr. Neville St.—Oh,
come, you can’t be charged with that unless they
make a case of attempted suicide of it,” said the inspector with a grin. “Well, I have been twenty-seven
years in the force, but this really takes the cake.”
“If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious
that no crime has been committed, and that, therefore,
I am illegally detained.”
“No crime, but a very great error has been committed,” said Holmes. “You would have done better
to have trusted your wife.”
“It was not the wife; it was the children,” groaned
the prisoner. “God help me, I would not have them
ashamed of their father. My God! What an exposure!
What can I do?”
Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the
couch and patted him kindly on the shoulder.
“If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter
up,” said he, “of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you convince the police
authorities that there is no possible case against you,
I do not know that there is any reason that the details
should find their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything
which you might tell us and submit it to the proper
authorities. The case would then never go into court
at all.”
“God bless you!” cried the prisoner passionately.
“I would have endured imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left my miserable secret as a
family blot to my children.
“You are the first who have ever heard my story.
My father was a schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where
I received an excellent education. I travelled in my
youth, took to the stage, and finally became a reporter
on an evening paper in London. One day my editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging
in the metropolis, and I volunteered to supply them.
There was the point from which all my adventures
started. It was only by trying begging as an amateur
that I could get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an actor I had, of course, learned all the
secrets of making up, and had been famous in the
green-room for my skill. I took advantage now of my
attainments. I painted my face, and to make myself as
pitiable as possible I made a good scar and fixed one
side of my lip in a twist by the aid of a small slip of
flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head of hair,
and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the
business part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller
but really as a beggar. For seven hours I plied my
196
trade, and when I returned home in the evening I
found to my surprise that I had received no less than
26s. 4d.
“I wrote my articles and thought little more of
the matter until, some time later, I backed a bill for a
friend and had a writ served upon me for £25. I was
at my wit’s end where to get the money, but a sudden
idea came to me. I begged a fortnight’s grace from
the creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers,
and spent the time in begging in the City under my
disguise. In ten days I had the money and had paid
the debt.
“Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle
down to arduous work at £2 a week when I knew that
I could earn as much in a day by smearing my face
with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground, and
sitting still. It was a long fight between my pride and
the money, but the dollars won at last, and I threw up
reporting and sat day after day in the corner which
I had first chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly face
and filling my pockets with coppers. Only one man
knew my secret. He was the keeper of a low den
in which I used to lodge in Swandam Lane, where I
could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and
in the evenings transform myself into a well-dressed
man about town. This fellow, a Lascar, was well paid
by me for his rooms, so that I knew that my secret
was safe in his possession.
“Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of money. I do not mean that any
beggar in the streets of London could earn £700 a
year—which is less than my average takings—but I
had exceptional advantages in my power of making
up, and also in a facility of repartee, which improved
by practice and made me quite a recognised character
in the City. All day a stream of pennies, varied by
silver, poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day
in which I failed to take £2.
“As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a
house in the country, and eventually married, without
anyone having a suspicion as to my real occupation.
My dear wife knew that I had business in the City.
She little knew what.
“Last Monday I had finished for the day and was
dressing in my room above the opium den when I
looked out of my window and saw, to my horror and
astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street,
with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of
surprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and,
rushing to my confidant, the Lascar, entreated him
to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard
her voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not
ascend. Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled on
those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and wig.
Even a wife’s eyes could not pierce so complete a
disguise. But then it occurred to me that there might
be a search in the room, and that the clothes might
betray me. I threw open the window, reopening by
my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon
myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I seized
my coat, which was weighted by the coppers which I
had just transferred to it from the leather bag in which
I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the window,
and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes
would have followed, but at that moment there was
a rush of constables up the stair, and a few minutes
after I found, rather, I confess, to my relief, that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I was
arrested as his murderer.
“I do not know that there is anything else for me
to explain. I was determined to preserve my disguise
as long as possible, and hence my preference for a
dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly
anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the
Lascar at a moment when no constable was watching
me, together with a hurried scrawl, telling her that
she had no cause to fear.”
“That note only reached her yesterday,” said
Holmes.
“Good God! What a week she must have spent!”
“The police have watched this Lascar,” said Inspector Bradstreet, “and I can quite understand that
he might find it difficult to post a letter unobserved.
Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his,
who forgot all about it for some days.”
“That was it,” said Holmes, nodding approvingly;
“I have no doubt of it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?”
“Many times; but what was a fine to me?”
“It must stop here, however,” said Bradstreet. “If
the police are to hush this thing up, there must be no
more of Hugh Boone.”
“I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which
a man can take.”
“In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may be taken. But if you are found again,
then all must come out. I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that
we are very much indebted to you for having cleared
the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your
results.”
“I reached this one,” said my friend, “by sitting
upon five pillows and consuming an ounce of shag.
I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker Street we
shall just be in time for breakfast.”
197
The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
I
had called upon my friend Sherlock
Holmes upon the second morning after
Christmas, with the intention of wishing
him the compliments of the season. He was
lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown,
a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a
pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly
studied, near at hand. Beside the couch was a wooden
chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very seedy
and disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for
wear, and cracked in several places. A lens and a
forceps lying upon the seat of the chair suggested
that the hat had been suspended in this manner for
the purpose of examination.
“You are engaged,” said I; “perhaps I interrupt
you.”
“Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom
I can discuss my results. The matter is a perfectly
trivial one”—he jerked his thumb in the direction of
the old hat—“but there are points in connection with
it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even
of instruction.”
I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my
hands before his crackling fire, for a sharp frost had
set in, and the windows were thick with the ice crystals. “I suppose,” I remarked, “that, homely as it
looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to
it—that it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery and the punishment of some
crime.”
“No, no. No crime,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “Only one of those whimsical little incidents
which will happen when you have four million human beings all jostling each other within the space of
a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of
so dense a swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to take place, and
many a little problem will be presented which may
be striking and bizarre without being criminal. We
have already had experience of such.”
“So much so,” I remarked, “that of the last six
cases which I have added to my notes, three have
been entirely free of any legal crime.”
“Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover
the Irene Adler papers, to the singular case of Miss
Mary Sutherland, and to the adventure of the man
with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that this
small matter will fall into the same innocent category.
You know Peterson, the commissionaire?”
“It is his hat.”
“No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg
that you will look upon it not as a battered billycock
but as an intellectual problem. And, first, as to how
it came here. It arrived upon Christmas morning, in
company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no
doubt, roasting at this moment in front of Peterson’s
fire. The facts are these: about four o’clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very
honest fellow, was returning from some small jollification and was making his way homeward down
Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw, in the
gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger,
and carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder.
As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row
broke out between this stranger and a little knot of
roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man’s hat,
on which he raised his stick to defend himself and,
swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to
protect the stranger from his assailants; but the man,
shocked at having broken the window, and seeing an
official-looking person in uniform rushing towards
him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at
the back of Tottenham Court Road. The roughs had
also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was
left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the
spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and
a most unimpeachable Christmas goose.”
“Which surely he restored to their owner?”
“My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true
that ‘For Mrs. Henry Baker’ was printed upon a small
card which was tied to the bird’s left leg, and it is also
true that the initials ‘H. B.’ are legible upon the lining
of this hat, but as there are some thousands of Bakers,
and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of
ours, it is not easy to restore lost property to any one
of them.”
“What, then, did Peterson do?”
“He brought round both hat and goose to me on
Christmas morning, knowing that even the smallest
problems are of interest to me. The goose we retained
until this morning, when there were signs that, in
spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should
be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder has
carried it off, therefore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny
of a goose, while I continue to retain the hat of the
unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner.”
“Yes.”
“Did he not advertise?”
“It is to him that this trophy belongs.”
“No.”
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The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
“Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?”
“Only as much as we can deduce.”
“From his hat?”
“Precisely.”
“But you are joking. What can you gather from
this old battered felt?”
“Here is my lens. You know my methods. What
can you gather yourself as to the individuality of the
man who has worn this article?”
I took the tattered object in my hands and turned
it over rather ruefully. It was a very ordinary black
hat of the usual round shape, hard and much the
worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk, but
was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker’s
name; but, as Holmes had remarked, the initials “H.
B.” were scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in
the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic was missing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty,
and spotted in several places, although there seemed
to have been some attempt to hide the discoloured
patches by smearing them with ink.
“I can see nothing,” said I, handing it back to my
friend.
“On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything.
You fail, however, to reason from what you see. You
are too timid in drawing your inferences.”
“Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer
from this hat?”
He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar
introspective fashion which was characteristic of him.
“It is perhaps less suggestive than it might have been,”
he remarked, “and yet there are a few inferences
which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a strong balance of probability. That
the man was highly intellectual is of course obvious
upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly well-todo within the last three years, although he has now
fallen upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less
now than formerly, pointing to a moral retrogression,
which, when taken with the decline of his fortunes,
seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink,
at work upon him. This may account also for the
obvious fact that his wife has ceased to love him.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“He has, however, retained some degree of selfrespect,” he continued, disregarding my remonstrance. “He is a man who leads a sedentary life,
goes out little, is out of training entirely, is middleaged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within
202
the last few days, and which he anoints with limecream. These are the more patent facts which are to
be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way, that it is
extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his
house.”
“You are certainly joking, Holmes.”
“Not in the least. Is it possible that even now,
when I give you these results, you are unable to see
how they are attained?”
“I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must
confess that I am unable to follow you. For example,
how did you deduce that this man was intellectual?”
For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head.
It came right over the forehead and settled upon the
bridge of his nose. “It is a question of cubic capacity,” said he; “a man with so large a brain must have
something in it.”
“The decline of his fortunes, then?”
“This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled
at the edge came in then. It is a hat of the very best
quality. Look at the band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to buy so
expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat
since, then he has assuredly gone down in the world.”
“Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how
about the foresight and the moral retrogression?”
Sherlock Holmes laughed. “Here is the foresight,”
said he putting his finger upon the little disc and loop
of the hat-securer. “They are never sold upon hats. If
this man ordered one, it is a sign of a certain amount
of foresight, since he went out of his way to take this
precaution against the wind. But since we see that he
has broken the elastic and has not troubled to replace
it, it is obvious that he has less foresight now than
formerly, which is a distinct proof of a weakening
nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to
conceal some of these stains upon the felt by daubing
them with ink, which is a sign that he has not entirely
lost his self-respect.”
“Your reasoning is certainly plausible.”
“The further points, that he is middle-aged, that
his hair is grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and
that he uses lime-cream, are all to be gathered from a
close examination of the lower part of the lining. The
lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut
by the scissors of the barber. They all appear to be
adhesive, and there is a distinct odour of lime-cream.
This dust, you will observe, is not the gritty, grey dust
of the street but the fluffy brown dust of the house,
showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the
time, while the marks of moisture upon the inside are
proof positive that the wearer perspired very freely,
and could therefore, hardly be in the best of training.”
“A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into
glass as though it were putty.”
“But his wife—you said that she had ceased to
love him.”
“It’s more than a precious stone. It is the precious
stone.”
“This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I
see you, my dear Watson, with a week’s accumulation
of dust upon your hat, and when your wife allows
you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you
also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife’s
affection.”
“Not the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle!” I
ejaculated.
“But he might be a bachelor.”
“Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peaceoffering to his wife. Remember the card upon the
bird’s leg.”
“You have an answer to everything. But how on
earth do you deduce that the gas is not laid on in his
house?”
“One tallow stain, or even two, might come by
chance; but when I see no less than five, I think that
there can be little doubt that the individual must
be brought into frequent contact with burning tallow—walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in
one hand and a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains from a gas-jet. Are
you satisfied?”
“Well, it is very ingenious,” said I, laughing; “but
since, as you said just now, there has been no crime
committed, and no harm done save the loss of a goose,
all this seems to be rather a waste of energy.”
Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply,
when the door flew open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment with flushed
cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with astonishment.
“The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!” he
gasped.
“Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and
flapped off through the kitchen window?” Holmes
twisted himself round upon the sofa to get a fairer
view of the man’s excited face.
“See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!”
He held out his hand and displayed upon the centre
of the palm a brilliantly scintillating blue stone, rather
smaller than a bean in size, but of such purity and
radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in the
dark hollow of his hand.
Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. “By Jove,
Peterson!” said he, “this is treasure trove indeed. I
suppose you know what you have got?”
“Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape,
seeing that I have read the advertisement about it in
The Times every day lately. It is absolutely unique,
and its value can only be conjectured, but the reward
offered of £1000 is certainly not within a twentieth
part of the market price.”
“A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!”
The commissionaire plumped down into a chair and
stared from one to the other of us.
“That is the reward, and I have reason to know
that there are sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the Countess to part with
half her fortune if she could but recover the gem.”
“It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel
Cosmopolitan,” I remarked.
“Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days
ago. John Horner, a plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady’s jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has
been referred to the Assizes. I have some account
of the matter here, I believe.” He rummaged amid
his newspapers, glancing over the dates, until at last
he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the
following paragraph:
“Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John
Horner, 26, plumber, was brought up upon
the charge of having upon the 22nd inst. abstracted from the jewel-case of the Countess of
Morcar the valuable gem known as the blue
carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at
the hotel, gave his evidence to the effect that
he had shown Horner up to the dressing-room
of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the
robbery in order that he might solder the second bar of the grate, which was loose. He
had remained with Horner some little time,
but had finally been called away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared,
that the bureau had been forced open, and
that the small morocco casket in which, as it
afterwards transpired, the Countess was accustomed to keep her jewel, was lying empty
upon the dressing-table. Ryder instantly gave
the alarm, and Horner was arrested the same
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The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
evening; but the stone could not be found either upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to the Countess, deposed to
having heard Ryder’s cry of dismay on discovering the robbery, and to having rushed
into the room, where she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who struggled frantically, and
protested his innocence in the strongest terms.
Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery
having been given against the prisoner, the
magistrate refused to deal summarily with the
offence, but referred it to the Assizes. Horner,
who had shown signs of intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion and was carried out of court.”
“Hum! So much for the police-court,” said Holmes
thoughtfully, tossing aside the paper. “The question
for us now to solve is the sequence of events leading
from a rifled jewel-case at one end to the crop of a
goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You
see, Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much more important and less innocent
aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came from the
goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the
gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with which I have bored you. So now we
must set ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and ascertaining what part he has played in
this little mystery. To do this, we must try the simplest means first, and these lie undoubtedly in an
advertisement in all the evening papers. If this fail, I
shall have recourse to other methods.”
“What will you say?”
“Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now,
then: ‘Found at the corner of Goodge Street, a goose
and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker can have the
same by applying at 6.30 this evening at 221b, Baker
Street.’ That is clear and concise.”
“Very. But will he see it?”
“Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers,
since, to a poor man, the loss was a heavy one. He
was clearly so scared by his mischance in breaking
the window and by the approach of Peterson that he
thought of nothing but flight, but since then he must
have bitterly regretted the impulse which caused him
to drop his bird. Then, again, the introduction of
his name will cause him to see it, for everyone who
knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you
are, Peterson, run down to the advertising agency and
have this put in the evening papers.”
204
“In which, sir?”
“Oh, in the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James’s,
Evening News, Standard, Echo, and any others that occur to you.”
“Very well, sir. And this stone?”
“Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And,
I say, Peterson, just buy a goose on your way back
and leave it here with me, for we must have one to
give to this gentleman in place of the one which your
family is now devouring.”
When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took
up the stone and held it against the light. “It’s a
bonny thing,” said he. “Just see how it glints and
sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime.
Every good stone is. They are the devil’s pet baits.
In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand
for a bloody deed. This stone is not yet twenty years
old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River
in southern China and is remarkable in having every
characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue in
shade instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it
has already a sinister history. There have been two
murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain
weight of crystallised charcoal. Who would think that
so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows
and the prison? I’ll lock it up in my strong box now
and drop a line to the Countess to say that we have
it.”
“Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?”
“I cannot tell.”
“Well, then, do you imagine that this other one,
Henry Baker, had anything to do with the matter?”
“It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker
is an absolutely innocent man, who had no idea that
the bird which he was carrying was of considerably
more value than if it were made of solid gold. That,
however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we
have an answer to our advertisement.”
“And you can do nothing until then?”
“Nothing.”
“In that case I shall continue my professional
round. But I shall come back in the evening at the
hour you have mentioned, for I should like to see the
solution of so tangled a business.”
“Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is
a woodcock, I believe. By the way, in view of recent
occurrences, perhaps I ought to ask Mrs. Hudson to
examine its crop.”
I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little
after half-past six when I found myself in Baker Street
once more. As I approached the house I saw a tall
man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the bright
semicircle which was thrown from the fanlight. Just
as I arrived the door was opened, and we were shown
up together to Holmes’ room.
“Mr. Henry Baker, I believe,” said he, rising from
his armchair and greeting his visitor with the easy
air of geniality which he could so readily assume.
“Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a
cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more
adapted for summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you
have just come at the right time. Is that your hat, Mr.
Baker?”
“Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat.”
He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a
massive head, and a broad, intelligent face, sloping
down to a pointed beard of grizzled brown. A touch
of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of
his extended hand, recalled Holmes’ surmise as to
his habits. His rusty black frock-coat was buttoned
right up in front, with the collar turned up, and his
lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a sign
of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion,
choosing his words with care, and gave the impression generally of a man of learning and letters who
had had ill-usage at the hands of fortune.
“We have retained these things for some days,”
said Holmes, “because we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I am at a loss
to know now why you did not advertise.”
Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh.
“Shillings have not been so plentiful with me as they
once were,” he remarked. “I had no doubt that the
gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off both
my hat and the bird. I did not care to spend more
money in a hopeless attempt at recovering them.”
“Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we
were compelled to eat it.”
“To eat it!” Our visitor half rose from his chair in
his excitement.
“Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had
we not done so. But I presume that this other goose
upon the sideboard, which is about the same weight
and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally
well?”
“Oh, certainly, certainly,” answered Mr. Baker with
a sigh of relief.
“Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop,
and so on of your own bird, so if you wish—”
The man burst into a hearty laugh. “They might
be useful to me as relics of my adventure,” said he,
“but beyond that I can hardly see what use the disjecta
membra of my late acquaintance are going to be to
me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will
confine my attentions to the excellent bird which I
perceive upon the sideboard.”
Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me
with a slight shrug of his shoulders.
“There is your hat, then, and there your bird,” said
he. “By the way, would it bore you to tell me where
you got the other one from? I am somewhat of a fowl
fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown goose.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Baker, who had risen and
tucked his newly gained property under his arm.
“There are a few of us who frequent the Alpha Inn,
near the Museum—we are to be found in the Museum itself during the day, you understand. This
year our good host, Windigate by name, instituted a
goose club, by which, on consideration of some few
pence every week, we were each to receive a bird at
Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the rest
is familiar to you. I am much indebted to you, sir,
for a Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my years nor
my gravity.” With a comical pomposity of manner he
bowed solemnly to both of us and strode off upon his
way.
“So much for Mr. Henry Baker,” said Holmes
when he had closed the door behind him. “It is quite
certain that he knows nothing whatever about the
matter. Are you hungry, Watson?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a
supper and follow up this clue while it is still hot.”
“By all means.”
It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and
wrapped cravats about our throats. Outside, the stars
were shining coldly in a cloudless sky, and the breath
of the passers-by blew out into smoke like so many
pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly
as we swung through the doctors’ quarter, Wimpole
Street, Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street
into Oxford Street. In a quarter of an hour we were
in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a small
public-house at the corner of one of the streets which
runs down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open the
door of the private bar and ordered two glasses of
beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.
“Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as
your geese,” said he.
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The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
“My geese!” The man seemed surprised.
“Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr.
Henry Baker, who was a member of your goose club.”
“Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them’s not our
geese.”
“Indeed! Whose, then?”
“Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in
Covent Garden.”
“Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?”
“Breckinridge is his name.”
“Ah! I don’t know him. Well, here’s your good
health landlord, and prosperity to your house. Goodnight.”
“Now for Mr. Breckinridge,” he continued, buttoning up his coat as we came out into the frosty air.
“Remember, Watson that though we have so homely
a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have
at the other a man who will certainly get seven years’
penal servitude unless we can establish his innocence.
It is possible that our inquiry may but confirm his
guilt; but, in any case, we have a line of investigation
which has been missed by the police, and which a singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us follow
it out to the bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and
quick march!”
We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street,
and so through a zigzag of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the name
of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor a horseylooking man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers
was helping a boy to put up the shutters.
“Good-evening. It’s a cold night,” said Holmes.
The salesman nodded and shot a questioning
glance at my companion.
“Sold out of geese, I see,” continued Holmes,
pointing at the bare slabs of marble.
“Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning.”
“That’s no good.”
“Well, there are some on the stall with the gasflare.”
“Ah, but I was recommended to you.”
“Who by?”
“The landlord of the Alpha.”
“Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen.”
“Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you
get them from?”
To my surprise the question provoked a burst of
anger from the salesman.
206
“Now, then, mister,” said he, with his head cocked
and his arms akimbo, “what are you driving at? Let’s
have it straight, now.”
“It is straight enough. I should like to know who
sold you the geese which you supplied to the Alpha.”
“Well then, I shan’t tell you. So now!”
“Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don’t
know why you should be so warm over such a trifle.”
“Warm! You’d be as warm, maybe, if you were
as pestered as I am. When I pay good money for a
good article there should be an end of the business;
but it’s ‘Where are the geese?’ and ‘Who did you
sell the geese to?’ and ‘What will you take for the
geese?’ One would think they were the only geese in
the world, to hear the fuss that is made over them.”
“Well, I have no connection with any other people
who have been making inquiries,” said Holmes carelessly. “If you won’t tell us the bet is off, that is all.
But I’m always ready to back my opinion on a matter
of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is
country bred.”
“Well, then, you’ve lost your fiver, for it’s town
bred,” snapped the salesman.
“It’s nothing of the kind.”
“I say it is.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“D’you think you know more about fowls than I,
who have handled them ever since I was a nipper? I
tell you, all those birds that went to the Alpha were
town bred.”
“You’ll never persuade me to believe that.”
“Will you bet, then?”
“It’s merely taking your money, for I know that I
am right. But I’ll have a sovereign on with you, just
to teach you not to be obstinate.”
The salesman chuckled grimly. “Bring me the
books, Bill,” said he.
The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great greasy-backed one, laying them out
together beneath the hanging lamp.
“Now then, Mr. Cocksure,” said the salesman, “I
thought that I was out of geese, but before I finish
you’ll find that there is still one left in my shop. You
see this little book?”
“Well?”
“That’s the list of the folk from whom I buy. D’you
see? Well, then, here on this page are the country folk,
and the numbers after their names are where their
accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You see
this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my
town suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just
read it out to me.”
“Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road—249,” read
Holmes.
“Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger.”
Holmes turned to the page indicated. “Here you
are, ‘Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.’ ”
“Now, then, what’s the last entry?”
“ ‘December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.’ ”
“Quite so. There you are. And underneath?”
“ ‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12s.’ ”
“What have you to say now?”
Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He
drew a sovereign from his pocket and threw it down
upon the slab, turning away with the air of a man
whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards
off he stopped under a lamp-post and laughed in the
hearty, noiseless fashion which was peculiar to him.
“When you see a man with whiskers of that cut
and the ‘Pink ’un’ protruding out of his pocket, you
can always draw him by a bet,” said he. “I daresay
that if I had put £100 down in front of him, that man
would not have given me such complete information
as was drawn from him by the idea that he was doing
me on a wager. Well, Watson, we are, I fancy, nearing
the end of our quest, and the only point which remains to be determined is whether we should go on to
this Mrs. Oakshott to-night, or whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It is clear from what that surly
fellow said that there are others besides ourselves
who are anxious about the matter, and I should—”
His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud
hubbub which broke out from the stall which we had
just left. Turning round we saw a little rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of yellow light
which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge, the salesman, framed in the door of his stall,
was shaking his fists fiercely at the cringing figure.
“I’ve had enough of you and your geese,” he
shouted. “I wish you were all at the devil together. If
you come pestering me any more with your silly talk
I’ll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here
and I’ll answer her, but what have you to do with it?
Did I buy the geese off you?”
“No; but one of them was mine all the same,”
whined the little man.
“Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it.”
“She told me to ask you.”
“Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all
I care. I’ve had enough of it. Get out of this!” He
rushed fiercely forward, and the inquirer flitted away
into the darkness.
“Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road,”
whispered Holmes. “Come with me, and we will see
what is to be made of this fellow.” Striding through
the scattered knots of people who lounged round the
flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook the
little man and touched him upon the shoulder. He
sprang round, and I could see in the gas-light that
every vestige of colour had been driven from his face.
“Who are you, then? What do you want?” he
asked in a quavering voice.
“You will excuse me,” said Holmes blandly, “but I
could not help overhearing the questions which you
put to the salesman just now. I think that I could be
of assistance to you.”
“You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business
to know what other people don’t know.”
“But you can know nothing of this?”
“Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace some geese which were sold by
Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a salesman named
Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the
Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry
Baker is a member.”
“Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed
to meet,” cried the little fellow with outstretched
hands and quivering fingers. “I can hardly explain to
you how interested I am in this matter.”
Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was
passing. “In that case we had better discuss it in a cosy
room rather than in this wind-swept market-place,”
said he. “But pray tell me, before we go farther, who
it is that I have the pleasure of assisting.”
The man hesitated for an instant. “My name is
John Robinson,” he answered with a sidelong glance.
“No, no; the real name,” said Holmes sweetly. “It
is always awkward doing business with an alias.”
A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger.
“Well then,” said he, “my real name is James Ryder.”
“Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step into the cab, and I shall soon be
able to tell you everything which you would wish to
know.”
The little man stood glancing from one to the other
of us with half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one
207
The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
who is not sure whether he is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped into the
cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sittingroom at Baker Street. Nothing had been said during
our drive, but the high, thin breathing of our new
companion, and the claspings and unclaspings of his
hands, spoke of the nervous tension within him.
“Here we are!” said Holmes cheerily as we filed
into the room. “The fire looks very seasonable in this
weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder. Pray take the
basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers before we
settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want
to know what became of those geese?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird,
I imagine in which you were interested—white, with
a black bar across the tail.”
Ryder quivered with emotion. “Oh, sir,” he cried,
“can you tell me where it went to?”
“It came here.”
“Here?”
“Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I
don’t wonder that you should take an interest in it. It
laid an egg after it was dead—the bonniest, brightest
little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it here in my
museum.”
Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the
mantelpiece with his right hand. Holmes unlocked
his strong-box and held up the blue carbuncle, which
shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant, manypointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn
face, uncertain whether to claim or to disown it.
“The game’s up, Ryder,” said Holmes quietly.
“Hold up, man, or you’ll be into the fire! Give him an
arm back into his chair, Watson. He’s not got blood
enough to go in for felony with impunity. Give him
a dash of brandy. So! Now he looks a little more
human. What a shrimp it is, to be sure!”
For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen,
but the brandy brought a tinge of colour into his
cheeks, and he sat staring with frightened eyes at his
accuser.
“I have almost every link in my hands, and all the
proofs which I could possibly need, so there is little
which you need tell me. Still, that little may as well
be cleared up to make the case complete. You had
heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of
Morcar’s?”
“It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it,” said
he in a crackling voice.
208
“I see—her ladyship’s waiting-maid. Well, the
temptation of sudden wealth so easily acquired was
too much for you, as it has been for better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous in the
means you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there
is the making of a very pretty villain in you. You
knew that this man Horner, the plumber, had been
concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion would rest the more readily upon him. What did
you do, then? You made some small job in my lady’s
room—you and your confederate Cusack—and you
managed that he should be the man sent for. Then,
when he had left, you rifled the jewel-case, raised the
alarm, and had this unfortunate man arrested. You
then—”
Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug
and clutched at my companion’s knees. “For God’s
sake, have mercy!” he shrieked. “Think of my father!
Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never
went wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I’ll
swear it on a Bible. Oh, don’t bring it into court! For
Christ’s sake, don’t!”
“Get back into your chair!” said Holmes sternly.
“It is very well to cringe and crawl now, but you
thought little enough of this poor Horner in the dock
for a crime of which he knew nothing.”
“I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir.
Then the charge against him will break down.”
“Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us
hear a true account of the next act. How came the
stone into the goose, and how came the goose into
the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your
only hope of safety.”
Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips.
“I will tell you it just as it happened, sir,” said he.
“When Horner had been arrested, it seemed to me
that it would be best for me to get away with the
stone at once, for I did not know at what moment the
police might not take it into their heads to search me
and my room. There was no place about the hotel
where it would be safe. I went out, as if on some commission, and I made for my sister’s house. She had
married a man named Oakshott, and lived in Brixton
Road, where she fattened fowls for the market. All
the way there every man I met seemed to me to be a
policeman or a detective; and, for all that it was a cold
night, the sweat was pouring down my face before I
came to the Brixton Road. My sister asked me what
was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I told her
that I had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel.
Then I went into the back yard and smoked a pipe
and wondered what it would be best to do.
“I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went
to the bad, and has just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me, and fell into talk
about the ways of thieves, and how they could get
rid of what they stole. I knew that he would be true
to me, for I knew one or two things about him; so I
made up my mind to go right on to Kilburn, where
he lived, and take him into my confidence. He would
show me how to turn the stone into money. But how
to get to him in safety? I thought of the agonies I had
gone through in coming from the hotel. I might at
any moment be seized and searched, and there would
be the stone in my waistcoat pocket. I was leaning
against the wall at the time and looking at the geese
which were waddling about round my feet, and suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me
how I could beat the best detective that ever lived.
“My sister had told me some weeks before that
I might have the pick of her geese for a Christmas
present, and I knew that she was always as good as
her word. I would take my goose now, and in it I
would carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a little
shed in the yard, and behind this I drove one of the
birds—a fine big one, white, with a barred tail. I
caught it, and prying its bill open, I thrust the stone
down its throat as far as my finger could reach. The
bird gave a gulp, and I felt the stone pass along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature flapped
and struggled, and out came my sister to know what
was the matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute
broke loose and fluttered off among the others.
“ ‘Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?’
says she.
“ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘you said you’d give me one for
Christmas, and I was feeling which was the fattest.’
“ ‘Oh,’ says she, ‘we’ve set yours aside for
you—Jem’s bird, we call it. It’s the big white one
over yonder. There’s twenty-six of them, which makes
one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the
market.’
“ ‘Thank you, Maggie,’ says I; ‘but if it is all the
same to you, I’d rather have that one I was handling
just now.’
“ ‘The other is a good three pound heavier,’ said
she, ‘and we fattened it expressly for you.’
“ ‘Never mind. I’ll have the other, and I’ll take it
now,’ said I.
“ ‘Oh, just as you like,’ said she, a little huffed.
‘Which is it you want, then?’
“ ‘That white one with the barred tail, right in the
middle of the flock.’
“ ‘Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.’
“Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all the way to Kilburn. I told my pal
what I had done, for he was a man that it was easy to
tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he choked,
and we got a knife and opened the goose. My heart
turned to water, for there was no sign of the stone,
and I knew that some terrible mistake had occurred.
I left the bird, rushed back to my sister’s, and hurried
into the back yard. There was not a bird to be seen
there.
“ ‘Where are they all, Maggie?’ I cried.
“ ‘Gone to the dealer’s, Jem.’
“ ‘Which dealer’s?’
“ ‘Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.’
“ ‘But was there another with a barred tail?’ I
asked, ‘the same as the one I chose?’
“ ‘Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and
I could never tell them apart.’
“Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as
hard as my feet would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at once, and not one
word would he tell me as to where they had gone.
You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always answered me like that. My sister thinks that
I am going mad. Sometimes I think that I am myself. And now—and now I am myself a branded thief,
without ever having touched the wealth for which I
sold my character. God help me! God help me!” He
burst into convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in
his hands.
There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy
breathing and by the measured tapping of Sherlock
Holmes’ finger-tips upon the edge of the table. Then
my friend rose and threw open the door.
“Get out!” said he.
“What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!”
“No more words. Get out!”
And no more words were needed. There was a
rush, a clatter upon the stairs, the bang of a door, and
the crisp rattle of running footfalls from the street.
“After all, Watson,” said Holmes, reaching up his
hand for his clay pipe, “I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If Horner were in
danger it would be another thing; but this fellow will
not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I
suppose that I am commuting a felony, but it is just
possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not
go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened. Send
him to jail now, and you make him a jail-bird for life.
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The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance has
put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If you will
210
have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will
begin another investigation, in which, also a bird will
be the chief feature.”
The Adventure of the Speckled Band
O
n glancing over my notes of the seventy
odd cases in which I have during the last
eight years studied the methods of my
friend Sherlock Holmes, I find many tragic,
some comic, a large number merely strange, but none
commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the
love of his art than for the acquirement of wealth, he
refused to associate himself with any investigation
which did not tend towards the unusual, and even the
fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot
recall any which presented more singular features
than that which was associated with the well-known
Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The
events in question occurred in the early days of my association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms
as bachelors in Baker Street. It is possible that I might
have placed them upon record before, but a promise
of secrecy was made at the time, from which I have
only been freed during the last month by the untimely
death of the lady to whom the pledge was given. It
is perhaps as well that the facts should now come
to light, for I have reasons to know that there are
widespread rumours as to the death of Dr. Grimesby
Roylott which tend to make the matter even more
terrible than the truth.
It was early in April in the year ’83 that I woke
one morning to find Sherlock Holmes standing, fully
dressed, by the side of my bed. He was a late riser, as
a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece showed
me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked
up at him in some surprise, and perhaps just a little
resentment, for I was myself regular in my habits.
“Very sorry to knock you up, Watson,” said he,
“but it’s the common lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson
has been knocked up, she retorted upon me, and I on
you.”
“What is it, then—a fire?”
“No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a considerable state of excitement, who insists
upon seeing me. She is waiting now in the sittingroom. Now, when young ladies wander about the
metropolis at this hour of the morning, and knock
sleepy people up out of their beds, I presume that it is
something very pressing which they have to communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting case, you
would, I am sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I
thought, at any rate, that I should call you and give
you the chance.”
“My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything.”
I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes
in his professional investigations, and in admiring
the rapid deductions, as swift as intuitions, and yet
always founded on a logical basis with which he unravelled the problems which were submitted to him.
I rapidly threw on my clothes and was ready in a
few minutes to accompany my friend down to the
sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and heavily
veiled, who had been sitting in the window, rose as
we entered.
“Good-morning, madam,” said Holmes cheerily.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my intimate
friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before whom you
can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad
to see that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to
light the fire. Pray draw up to it, and I shall order
you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe that you are
shivering.”
“It is not cold which makes me shiver,” said the
woman in a low voice, changing her seat as requested.
“What, then?”
“It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror.” She raised her
veil as she spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of agitation, her face all drawn
and grey, with restless frightened eyes, like those of
some hunted animal. Her features and figure were
those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with
premature grey, and her expression was weary and
haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of
his quick, all-comprehensive glances.
“You must not fear,” said he soothingly, bending
forward and patting her forearm. “We shall soon set
matters right, I have no doubt. You have come in by
train this morning, I see.”
“You know me, then?”
“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, before you reached the station.”
The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my companion.
“There is no mystery, my dear madam,” said he,
smiling. “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.”
“Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly
correct,” said she. “I started from home before six,
reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and came in by
the first train to Waterloo. 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
213
The Adventure of the Speckled Band
of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs.
Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore
need. It was from her that I had your address. 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 turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew
out a small case-book, which he consulted.
“Farintosh,” said he. “Ah yes, I recall the case;
it was concerned with an opal tiara. I think it was
before your time, Watson. 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.”
“Alas!” replied our visitor, “the very horror of my
situation lies in the fact that my fears are so vague,
and my suspicions depend so entirely upon small
points, which might seem trivial to another, that even
he to whom of all others I have a right to look for
help and advice looks upon all that I tell him about it
as the fancies of a nervous woman. He does not say
so, but I can read it from his soothing answers and
averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you
can see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the
human heart. You may advise me how to walk amid
the dangers which encompass me.”
“I am all attention, madam.”
“My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living 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.”
Holmes nodded his head. “The name is familiar
to me,” said he.
“The family was at one time among the richest
in England, and the estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and Hampshire in
the west. In the last century, however, four successive
heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and
the family ruin was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the Regency. Nothing was left save
a few acres of ground, and the two-hundred-year-old
house, which is itself crushed under a heavy mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there,
214
living the horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but
his only son, my stepfather, seeing that he must adapt
himself to the new conditions, obtained an advance
from a relative, which enabled him to take a medical
degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional skill and his force of character, he established
a large practice. In a fit of anger, however, caused by
some robberies which had been perpetrated in the
house, he beat his native butler to death and narrowly
escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a
long term of imprisonment and afterwards returned
to England a morose and disappointed man.
“When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my
mother, Mrs. Stoner, the young widow of MajorGeneral Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister
Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years
old at the time of my mother’s re-marriage. She had
a considerable sum of money—not less than £1000 a
year—and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely
while we resided with him, with a provision that a
certain annual sum should be allowed to each of us in
the event of our marriage. Shortly after our return to
England my mother died—she was killed eight years
ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then
abandoned his attempts to establish himself in practice in London and took us to live with him in the old
ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money which
my mother had left was enough for all our wants, and
there seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness.
“But a terrible change came over our stepfather
about this time. Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours, who had at first
been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back
in the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house
and seldom came out save to indulge in ferocious
quarrels with whoever might cross his path. Violence
of temper approaching to mania has been hereditary
in the men of the family, and in my stepfather’s case
it had, I believe, been intensified by his long residence
in the tropics. A series of disgraceful brawls took
place, two of which ended in the police-court, until at
last he became the terror of the village, and the folks
would fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense
strength, and absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.
“Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a
parapet into a stream, and it was only by paying over
all the money which I could gather together that I
was able to avert another public exposure. He had
no friends at all save the wandering gypsies, and he
would give these vagabonds leave to encamp upon
the few acres of bramble-covered land which represent the family estate, and would accept in return the
hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them
sometimes for weeks on end. He has a passion also
for Indian animals, which are sent over to him by a
correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah
and a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds
and are feared by the villagers almost as much as
their master.
“You can imagine from what I say that my poor
sister Julia and I had no great pleasure in our lives.
No servant would stay with us, and for a long time
we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty
at the time of her death, and yet her hair had already
begun to whiten, even as mine has.”
“Your sister is dead, then?”
“She died just two years ago, and it is of her death
that I wish to speak to you. You can understand that,
living the life which I have described, we were little
likely to see anyone of our own age and position. We
had, however, an aunt, my mother’s maiden sister,
Miss Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and
we were occasionally allowed to pay short visits at this
lady’s house. Julia went there at Christmas two years
ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines, to
whom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of
the engagement when my sister returned and offered
no objection to the marriage; but within a fortnight
of the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the
terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my
only companion.”
Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his
chair with his eyes closed and his head sunk in a
cushion, but he half opened his lids now and glanced
across at his visitor.
“Pray be precise as to details,” said he.
“It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that
dreadful time is seared into my memory. The manorhouse is, as I have already said, very old, and only one
wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing
are on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the
central block of the buildings. Of these bedrooms the
first is Dr. Roylott’s, the second my sister’s, and the
third my own. There is no communication between
them, but they all open out into the same corridor.
Do I make myself plain?”
“Perfectly so.”
“The windows of the three rooms open out upon
the lawn. That fatal night Dr. Roylott had gone to his
room early, though we knew that he had not retired
to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of
the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to
smoke. She left her room, therefore, and came into
mine, where she sat for some time, chatting about
her approaching wedding. At eleven o’clock she rose
to leave me, but she paused at the door and looked
back.
“ ‘Tell me, Helen,’ said she, ‘have you ever heard
anyone whistle in the dead of the night?’
“ ‘Never,’ said I.
“ ‘I suppose that you could not possibly whistle,
yourself, in your sleep?’
“ ‘Certainly not. But why?’
“ ‘Because during the last few nights I have always,
about three in the morning, heard a low, clear whistle.
I am a light sleeper, and it has awakened me. I cannot
tell where it came from—perhaps from the next room,
perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just
ask you whether you had heard it.’
“ ‘No, I have not. It must be those wretched gipsies
in the plantation.’
“ ‘Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I
wonder that you did not hear it also.’
“ ‘Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.’
“ ‘Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.’
She smiled back at me, closed my door, and a few
moments later I heard her key turn in the lock.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Was it your custom always to lock yourselves in at night?”
“Always.”
“And why?”
“I think that I mentioned to you that the doctor
kept a cheetah and a baboon. We had no feeling of
security unless our doors were locked.”
“Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement.”
“I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of
impending misfortune impressed me. My sister and
I, you will recollect, were twins, and you know how
subtle are the links which bind two souls which are
so closely allied. It was a wild night. The wind was
howling outside, and the rain was beating and splashing against the windows. Suddenly, amid all the
hubbub of the gale, there burst forth the wild scream
of a terrified woman. I knew that it was my sister’s
voice. I sprang from my bed, wrapped a shawl round
me, and rushed into the corridor. As I opened my
door I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my sister
described, and a few moments later a clanging sound,
as if a mass of metal had fallen. As I ran down the
passage, my sister’s door was unlocked, and revolved
slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken,
not knowing what was about to issue from it. By the
light of the corridor-lamp I saw my sister appear at
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The Adventure of the Speckled Band
the opening, her face blanched with terror, her hands
groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro
like that of a drunkard. I ran to her and threw my
arms round her, but at that moment her knees seemed
to give way and she fell to the ground. She writhed as
one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully convulsed. At first I thought that she had not
recognised me, but as I bent over her she suddenly
shrieked out in a voice which I shall never forget, ‘Oh,
my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled band!’
There was something else which she would fain have
said, and she stabbed with her finger into the air in
the direction of the doctor’s room, but a fresh convulsion seized her and choked her words. I rushed
out, calling loudly for my stepfather, and I met him
hastening from his room in his dressing-gown. When
he reached my sister’s side she was unconscious, and
though he poured brandy down her throat and sent
for medical aid from the village, all efforts were in
vain, for she slowly sank and died without having
recovered her consciousness. Such was the dreadful
end of my beloved sister.”
“One moment,” said Holmes, “are you sure about
this whistle and metallic sound? Could you swear to
it?”
“That was what the county coroner asked me at
the inquiry. It is my strong impression that I heard it,
and yet, among the crash of the gale and the creaking
of an old house, I may possibly have been deceived.”
“Was your sister dressed?”
“No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand
was found the charred stump of a match, and in her
left a match-box.”
“Showing that she had struck a light and looked
about her when the alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the coroner come
to?”
“He investigated the case with great care, for Dr.
Roylott’s conduct had long been notorious in the
county, but he was unable to find any satisfactory
cause of death. My evidence showed that the door
had been fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by old-fashioned shutters with
broad iron bars, which were secured every night. The
walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be
quite solid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with the same result. The chimney
is wide, but is barred up by four large staples. It is
certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone when
she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any
violence upon her.”
216
“How about poison?”
“The doctors examined her for it, but without success.”
“What do you think that this unfortunate lady
died of, then?”
“It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though what it was that frightened her I
cannot imagine.”
“Were there gipsies in the plantation at the time?”
“Yes, there are nearly always some there.”
“Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion
to a band—a speckled band?”
“Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the
wild talk of delirium, sometimes that it may have referred to some band of people, perhaps to these very
gipsies in the plantation. I do not know whether the
spotted handkerchiefs which so many of them wear
over their heads might have suggested the strange
adjective which she used.”
Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from
being satisfied.
“These are very deep waters,” said he; “pray go
on with your narrative.”
“Two years have passed since then, and my life
has been until lately lonelier than ever. A month ago,
however, a dear friend, whom I have known for many
years, has done me the honour to ask my hand in marriage. His name is Armitage—Percy Armitage—the
second son of Mr. Armitage, of Crane Water, near
Reading. My stepfather has offered no opposition to
the match, and we are to be married in the course of
the spring. Two days ago some repairs were started
in the west wing of the building, and my bedroom
wall has been pierced, so that I have had to move into
the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep
in the very bed in which she slept. Imagine, then,
my thrill of terror when last night, as I lay awake,
thinking over her terrible fate, I suddenly heard in the
silence of the night the low whistle which had been
the herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the
lamp, but nothing was to be seen in the room. I was
too shaken to go to bed again, however, so I dressed,
and as soon as it was daylight I slipped down, got
a dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and
drove to Leatherhead, from whence I have come on
this morning with the one object of seeing you and
asking your advice.”
“You have done wisely,” said my friend. “But have
you told me all?”
“Yes, all.”
“Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening
your stepfather.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black
lace which fringed the hand that lay upon our visitor’s knee. Five little livid spots, the marks of four
fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the white
wrist.
“You have been cruelly used,” said Holmes.
The lady coloured deeply and covered over her
injured wrist. “He is a hard man,” she said, “and
perhaps he hardly knows his own strength.”
There was a long silence, during which Holmes
leaned his chin upon his hands and stared into the
crackling fire.
“This is a very deep business,” he said at last.
“There are a thousand details which I should desire
to know before I decide upon our course of action.
Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to come
to Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to
see over these rooms without the knowledge of your
stepfather?”
“As it happens, he spoke of coming into town
to-day upon some most important business. It is
probable that he will be away all day, and that there
would be nothing to disturb you. We have a housekeeper now, but she is old and foolish, and I could
easily get her out of the way.”
“Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?”
“By no means.”
“Then we shall both come. What are you going to
do yourself?”
“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, so as to be there in time for your
coming.”
“And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I
have myself some small business matters to attend to.
Will you not wait and breakfast?”
“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.” She
dropped her thick black veil over her face and glided
from the room.
“And what do you think of it all, Watson?” asked
Sherlock Holmes, leaning back in his chair.
“It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister
business.”
“Dark enough and sinister enough.”
“Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring
and walls are sound, and that the door, window, and
chimney are impassable, then her sister must have
been undoubtedly alone when she met her mysterious
end.”
“What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles,
and what of the very peculiar words of the dying
woman?”
“I cannot think.”
“When you combine the ideas of whistles at night,
the presence of a band of gipsies who are on intimate
terms with this old doctor, the fact that we have every
reason to believe that the doctor has an interest in
preventing his stepdaughter’s marriage, the dying allusion to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen
Stoner heard a metallic clang, which might have been
caused by one of those metal bars that secured the
shutters falling back into its place, I think that there is
good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared
along those lines.”
“But what, then, did the gipsies do?”
“I cannot imagine.”
“I see many objections to any such theory.”
“And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that
we are going to Stoke Moran this day. I want to see
whether the objections are fatal, or if they may be
explained away. But what in the name of the devil!”
The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our door had been suddenly
dashed open, and that a huge man had framed himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the professional and of the agricultural, having
a black top-hat, a long frock-coat, and a pair of high
gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand. So
tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross bar
of the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it
across from side to side. A large face, seared with a
thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with the sun, and
marked with every evil passion, was turned from one
to the other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes,
and his high, thin, fleshless nose, gave him somewhat
the resemblance to a fierce old bird of prey.
“Which of you is Holmes?” asked this apparition.
“My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me,”
said my companion quietly.
“I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran.”
“Indeed, Doctor,” said Holmes blandly. “Pray take
a seat.”
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The Adventure of the Speckled Band
“I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter
has been here. I have traced her. What has she been
saying to you?”
“It is a little cold for the time of the year,” said
Holmes.
“What has she been saying to you?” screamed the
old man furiously.
“But I have heard that the crocuses promise well,”
continued my companion imperturbably.
“Ha! You put me off, do you?” said our new visitor, taking a step forward and shaking his huntingcrop. “I know you, you scoundrel! I have heard of
you before. You are Holmes, the meddler.”
My friend smiled.
“Holmes, the busybody!”
His smile broadened.
“Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!”
Holmes chuckled heartily. “Your conversation is
most entertaining,” said he. “When you go out close
the door, for there is a decided draught.”
“I will go when I have said my say. Don’t you dare
to meddle with my affairs. I know that Miss Stoner
has been here. I traced her! I am a dangerous man
to fall foul of! See here.” He stepped swiftly forward,
seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his
huge brown hands.
“See that you keep yourself out of my grip,” he
snarled, and hurling the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the room.
“He seems a very amiable person,” said Holmes,
laughing. “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.” As he spoke he
picked up the steel poker and, with a sudden effort,
straightened it out again.
“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 afterwards I
shall walk down to Doctors’ Commons, where I hope
to get some data which may help us in this matter.”
It was nearly one o’clock when Sherlock Holmes
returned from his excursion. He held in his hand
a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over with notes and
figures.
“I have seen the will of the deceased wife,” said he.
“To determine its exact meaning I have been obliged
218
to work out the present prices of the investments with
which it is concerned. The total income, which at
the time of the wife’s death was little short of £1100,
is now, through the fall in agricultural prices, not
more than £750. Each daughter can claim an income
of £250, in case of marriage. It is evident, therefore,
that if both girls had married, this beauty would have
had a mere pittance, while even one of them would
cripple him to a very serious extent. My morning’s
work has not been wasted, since it has proved that
he has the very strongest motives for standing in the
way of anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is
too serious for dawdling, especially as the old man is
aware that we are interesting ourselves in his affairs;
so if you are ready, we shall call a cab and drive to
Waterloo. I should be very much obliged if you would
slip your revolver into your pocket. An Eley’s No. 2 is
an excellent argument with gentlemen who can twist
steel pokers into knots. That and a tooth-brush are, I
think, all that we need.”
At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train
for Leatherhead, where we hired a trap at the station
inn and drove for four or five miles through the lovely
Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a bright sun
and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees
and wayside hedges were just throwing out their first
green shoots, and the air was full of the pleasant smell
of the moist earth. To me at least there was a strange
contrast between the sweet promise of the spring and
this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My
companion sat in the front of the trap, his arms folded,
his hat pulled down over his eyes, and his chin sunk
upon his breast, buried in the deepest thought. Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the shoulder,
and pointed over the meadows.
“Look there!” said he.
A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle
slope, thickening into a grove at the highest point.
From amid the branches there jutted out the grey
gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion.
“Stoke Moran?” said he.
“Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott,” remarked the driver.
“There is some building going on there,” said
Holmes; “that is where we are going.”
“There’s the village,” said the driver, pointing to a
cluster of roofs some distance to the left; “but if you
want to get to the house, you’ll find it shorter to get
over this stile, and so by the foot-path over the fields.
There it is, where the lady is walking.”
“And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner,” observed
Holmes, shading his eyes. “Yes, I think we had better
do as you suggest.”
We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back
on its way to Leatherhead.
“I thought it as well,” said Holmes as we climbed
the stile, “that this fellow should think we had come
here as architects, or on some definite business. It
may stop his gossip. Good-afternoon, Miss Stoner.
You see that we have been as good as our word.”
Our client of the morning had hurried forward to
meet us with a face which spoke her joy. “I have been
waiting so eagerly for you,” she cried, shaking hands
with us warmly. “All has turned out splendidly. Dr.
Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he
will be back before evening.”
“We have had the pleasure of making the doctor’s
acquaintance,” said Holmes, and in a few words he
sketched out what had occurred. Miss Stoner turned
white to the lips as she listened.
“Good heavens!” she cried, “he has followed me,
then.”
“So it appears.”
“He is so cunning that I never know when I am
safe from him. What will he say when he returns?”
“He must guard himself, for he may find that there
is someone more cunning than himself upon his track.
You must lock yourself up from him to-night. If he
is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt’s at
Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our time,
so kindly take us at once to the rooms which we are
to examine.”
The building was of grey, lichen-blotched stone,
with a high central portion and two curving wings,
like the claws of a crab, thrown out on each side. In
one of these wings the windows were broken and
blocked with wooden boards, while the roof was
partly caved in, a picture of ruin. The central portion was in little better repair, but the right-hand
block was comparatively modern, and the blinds in
the windows, with the blue smoke curling up from
the chimneys, showed that this was where the family
resided. Some scaffolding had been erected against
the end wall, and the stone-work had been broken
into, but there were no signs of any workmen at the
moment of our visit. Holmes walked slowly up and
down the ill-trimmed lawn and examined with deep
attention the outsides of the windows.
“This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you
used to sleep, the centre one to your sister’s, and
the one next to the main building to Dr. Roylott’s
chamber?”
“Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle
one.”
“Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the
way, there does not seem to be any very pressing need
for repairs at that end wall.”
“There were none. I believe that it was an excuse
to move me from my room.”
“Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side
of this narrow wing runs the corridor from which
these three rooms open. There are windows in it, of
course?”
“Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone
to pass through.”
“As you both locked your doors at night, your
rooms were unapproachable from that side. Now,
would you have the kindness to go into your room
and bar your shutters?”
Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful
examination through the open window, endeavoured
in every way to force the shutter open, but without
success. There was no slit through which a knife
could be passed to raise the bar. Then with his lens
he tested the hinges, but they were of solid iron, built
firmly into the massive masonry. “Hum!” said he,
scratching his chin in some perplexity, “my theory
certainly presents some difficulties. No one could
pass these shutters if they were bolted. Well, we shall
see if the inside throws any light upon the matter.”
A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor from which the three bedrooms opened. Holmes
refused to examine the third chamber, so we passed
at once to the second, that in which Miss Stoner was
now sleeping, and in which her sister had met with
her fate. It was a homely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after the fashion of old
country-houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in
one corner, a narrow white-counterpaned bed in another, and a dressing-table on the left-hand side of the
window. These articles, with two small wicker-work
chairs, made up all the furniture in the room save for
a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards
round and the panelling of the walls were of brown,
worm-eaten oak, so old and discoloured that it may
have dated from the original building of the house.
Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner and sat
silent, while his eyes travelled round and round and
up and down, taking in every detail of the apartment.
“Where does that bell communicate with?” he
asked at last pointing to a thick bell-rope which hung
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The Adventure of the Speckled Band
down beside the bed, the tassel actually lying upon
the pillow.
“It goes to the housekeeper’s room.”
“It looks newer than the other things?”
“Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago.”
“Your sister asked for it, I suppose?”
“No, I never heard of her using it. We used always
to get what we wanted for ourselves.”
“Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a
bell-pull there. You will excuse me for a few minutes
while I satisfy myself as to this floor.” He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in his hand and
crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining
minutely the cracks between the boards. Then he did
the same with the wood-work with which the chamber was panelled. Finally he walked over to the bed
and spent some time in staring at it and in running
his eye up and down the wall. Finally he took the
bell-rope in his hand and gave it a brisk tug.
“Why, it’s a dummy,” said he.
“Won’t it ring?”
“No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very
interesting. You can see now that it is fastened to
a hook just above where the little opening for the
ventilator is.”
“How very absurd! I never noticed that before.”
“Very strange!” muttered Holmes, pulling at the
rope. “There are one or two very singular points
about this room. For example, 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!”
“That is also quite modern,” said the lady.
“Done about the same time as the bell-rope?” remarked Holmes.
“Yes, there were several little changes carried out
about that time.”
“They seem to have been of a most interesting
character—dummy bell-ropes, and ventilators which
do not ventilate. With your permission, Miss Stoner,
we shall now carry our researches into the inner apartment.”
Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s chamber was larger than
that of his step-daughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small wooden shelf full of
books, mostly of a technical character, an armchair
beside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall,
a round table, and a large iron safe were the principal
things which met the eye. Holmes walked slowly
220
round and examined each and all of them with the
keenest interest.
“What’s in here?” he asked, tapping the safe.
“My stepfather’s business papers.”
“Oh! you have seen inside, then?”
“Only once, some years ago. I remember that it
was full of papers.”
“There isn’t a cat in it, for example?”
“No. What a strange idea!”
“Well, look at this!” He took up a small saucer of
milk which stood on the top of it.
“No; we don’t keep a cat. But there is a cheetah
and a baboon.”
“Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat,
and yet a saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I daresay. There is one point which
I should wish to determine.” He squatted down in
front of the wooden chair and examined the seat of it
with the greatest attention.
“Thank you. That is quite settled,” said he, rising
and putting his lens in his pocket. “Hullo! Here is
something interesting!”
The object which had caught his eye was a small
dog lash hung on one corner of the bed. The lash,
however, was curled upon itself and tied so as to make
a loop of whipcord.
“What do you make of that, Watson?”
“It’s a common enough lash. But I don’t know
why it should be tied.”
“That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it’s a
wicked world, and when a clever man turns his brains
to crime it is the worst of all. I think that I have seen
enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your permission
we shall walk out upon the lawn.”
I had never seen my friend’s face so grim or his
brow so dark as it was when we turned from the
scene of this investigation. We had walked several
times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor
myself liking to break in upon his thoughts before he
roused himself from his reverie.
“It is very essential, Miss Stoner,” said he, “that
you should absolutely follow my advice in every respect.”
“I shall most certainly do so.”
“The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your
life may depend upon your compliance.”
“I assure you that I am in your hands.”
“In the first place, both my friend and I must
spend the night in your room.”
Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.
“Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that
that is the village inn over there?”
“Yes, that is the Crown.”
“Very good. Your windows would be visible from
there?”
“Certainly.”
“You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a headache, when your stepfather comes
back. Then when you hear him retire for the night,
you must open the shutters of your window, undo
the hasp, put your lamp there 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 have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs,
you could manage there for one night.”
“Oh, yes, easily.”
“The rest you will leave in our hands.”
“But what will you do?”
“We shall spend the night in your room, and we
shall investigate the cause of this noise which has
disturbed you.”
“I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already
made up your mind,” said Miss Stoner, laying her
hand upon my companion’s sleeve.
“Perhaps I have.”
“Then, for pity’s sake, tell me what was the cause
of my sister’s death.”
“I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I
speak.”
“You can at least tell me whether my own thought
is correct, and if she died from some sudden fright.”
“No, I do not think so. I think that there was
probably some more tangible cause. And now, Miss
Stoner, we must leave you for if Dr. Roylott returned
and saw us our journey would be in vain. Good-bye,
and be brave, for if you will do what I have told you,
you may rest assured that we shall soon drive away
the dangers that threaten you.”
Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and sitting-room at the Crown Inn.
They were on the upper floor, and from our window
we could command a view of the avenue gate, and
of the inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House.
At dusk we saw Dr. Grimesby Roylott drive past, his
huge form looming up beside the little figure of the
lad who drove him. The boy had some slight difficulty in undoing the heavy iron gates, and we heard
the hoarse roar of the doctor’s voice and saw the fury
with which he shook his clinched fists at him. The
trap drove on, and a few minutes later we saw a sudden light spring up among the trees as the lamp was
lit in one of the sitting-rooms.
“Do you know, Watson,” said Holmes as we sat together in the gathering darkness, “I have really some
scruples as to taking you to-night. There is a distinct
element of danger.”
“Can I be of assistance?”
“Your presence might be invaluable.”
“Then I shall certainly come.”
“It is very kind of you.”
“You speak of danger. You have evidently seen
more in these rooms than was visible to me.”
“No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little
more. I imagine that you saw all that I did.”
“I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and
what purpose that could answer I confess is more
than I can imagine.”
“You saw the ventilator, too?”
“Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have a small opening between two
rooms. It was so small that a rat could hardly pass
through.”
“I knew that we should find a ventilator before
ever we came to Stoke Moran.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement
she said that her sister could smell Dr. Roylott’s cigar.
Now, of course that suggested at once that there must
be a communication between the two rooms. It could
only be a small one, or it would have been remarked
upon at the coroner’s inquiry. I deduced a ventilator.”
“But what harm can there be in that?”
“Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of
dates. A ventilator is made, a cord is hung, and a lady
who sleeps in the bed dies. Does not that strike you?”
“I cannot as yet see any connection.”
“Did you observe anything very peculiar about
that bed?”
“No.”
“It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a
bed fastened like that before?”
“I cannot say that I have.”
“The lady could not move her bed. It must always
be in the same relative position to the ventilator and
to the rope—or so we may call it, since it was clearly
never meant for a bell-pull.”
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The Adventure of the Speckled Band
“Holmes,” I cried, “I seem to see dimly what you
are hinting at. We are only just in time to prevent
some subtle and horrible crime.”
“Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong he is the first of criminals. He has
nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and Pritchard
were among the heads of their profession. This man
strikes even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall
be able to strike deeper still. But we shall have horrors
enough before the night is over; for goodness’ sake
let us have a quiet pipe and turn our minds for a few
hours to something more cheerful.”
About nine o’clock the light among the trees was
extinguished, and all was dark in the direction of the
Manor House. Two hours passed slowly away, and
then, suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a single
bright light shone out right in front of us.
“That is our signal,” said Holmes, springing to his
feet; “it comes from the middle window.”
As we passed out he exchanged a few words with
the landlord, explaining that we were going on a late
visit to an acquaintance, and that it was possible that
we might spend the night there. A moment later we
were out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our
faces, and one yellow light twinkling in front of us
through the gloom to guide us on our sombre errand.
There was little difficulty in entering the grounds,
for unrepaired breaches gaped in the old park wall.
Making our way among the trees, we reached the
lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the
window when out from a clump of laurel bushes there
darted what seemed to be a hideous and distorted
child, who threw itself upon the grass with writhing
limbs and then ran swiftly across the lawn into the
darkness.
“My God!” I whispered; “did you see it?”
Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His
hand closed like a vice upon my wrist in his agitation.
Then he broke into a low laugh and put his lips to my
ear.
“It is a nice household,” he murmured. “That is
the baboon.”
I had forgotten the strange pets which the doctor
affected. There was a cheetah, too; perhaps we might
find it upon our shoulders at any moment. I confess
that I felt easier in my mind when, after following
Holmes’ example and slipping off my shoes, I found
myself inside the bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp onto the
table, and cast his eyes round the room. All was as
222
we had seen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to
me and making a trumpet of his hand, he whispered
into my ear again so gently that it was all that I could
do to distinguish the words:
“The least sound would be fatal to our plans.”
I nodded to show that I had heard.
“We must sit without light. He would see it
through the ventilator.”
I nodded again.
“Do not go asleep; your very life may depend
upon it. Have your pistol ready in case we should
need it. I will sit on the side of the bed, and you in
that chair.”
I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of
the table.
Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this
he placed upon the bed beside him. By it he laid the
box of matches and the stump of a candle. Then he
turned down the lamp, and we were left in darkness.
How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could
not hear a sound, not even the drawing of a breath,
and yet I knew that my companion sat open-eyed,
within a few feet of me, in the same state of nervous
tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut off the
least ray of light, and we waited in absolute darkness.
From outside came the occasional cry of a nightbird, and once at our very window a long drawn
catlike whine, which told us that the cheetah was
indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the deep
tones of the parish clock, which boomed out every
quarter of an hour. How long they seemed, those
quarters! Twelve struck, and one and two and three,
and still we sat waiting silently for whatever might
befall.
Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a
light up in the direction of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a strong
smell of burning oil and heated metal. Someone in
the next room had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement, and then all was silent once
more, though the smell grew stronger. For half an
hour I sat with straining ears. Then suddenly another sound became audible—a very gentle, soothing
sound, like that of a small jet of steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that we heard it,
Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and
lashed furiously with his cane at the bell-pull.
“You see it, Watson?” he yelled. “You see it?”
But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes
struck the light I heard a low, clear whistle, but the
sudden glare flashing into my weary eyes made it
impossible for me to tell what it was at which my
friend lashed so savagely. I could, however, see that
his face was deadly pale and filled with horror and
loathing. He had ceased to strike and was gazing up
at the ventilator when suddenly there broke from the
silence of the night the most horrible cry to which I
have ever listened. It swelled up louder and louder,
a hoarse yell of pain and fear and anger all mingled
in the one dreadful shriek. They say that away down
in the village, and even in the distant parsonage, that
cry raised the sleepers from their beds. It struck cold
to our hearts, and I stood gazing at Holmes, and he
at me, until the last echoes of it had died away into
the silence from which it rose.
“What can it mean?” I gasped.
“It means that it is all over,” Holmes answered.
“And perhaps, after all, it is for the best. Take your
pistol, and we will enter Dr. Roylott’s room.”
With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way
down the corridor. Twice he struck at the chamber
door without any reply from within. Then he turned
the handle and entered, I at his heels, with the cocked
pistol in my hand.
It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On
the table stood a dark-lantern with the shutter half
open, throwing a brilliant beam of light upon the iron
safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside this table, on
the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott clad in a
long grey dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding
beneath, and his feet thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the short stock with
the long lash which we had noticed during the day.
His chin was cocked upward and his eyes were fixed
in a dreadful, rigid stare at the corner of the ceiling.
Round his brow he had a peculiar yellow band, with
brownish speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly
round his head. As we entered he made neither sound
nor motion.
“The band!
Holmes.
the speckled band!” whispered
I took a step forward. In an instant his strange
headgear began to move, and there reared itself from
among his hair the squat diamond-shaped head and
puffed neck of a loathsome serpent.
“It is a swamp adder!” cried Holmes; “the deadliest snake in India. He has died within ten seconds
of being bitten. Violence does, in truth, recoil upon
the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which
he digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back
into its den, and we can then remove Miss Stoner to
some place of shelter and let the county police know
what has happened.”
As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from
the dead man’s lap, and throwing the noose round
the reptile’s neck he drew it from its horrid perch and,
carrying it at arm’s length, threw it into the iron safe,
which he closed upon it.
Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby
Roylott, of Stoke Moran. It is not necessary that I
should prolong a narrative which has already run to
too great a length by telling how we broke the sad
news to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by
the morning train to the care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow process of official inquiry came
to the conclusion that the doctor met his fate while
indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The little
which I had yet to learn of the case was told me by
Sherlock Holmes as we travelled back next day.
“I had,” said he, “come to an entirely erroneous
conclusion which shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from insufficient data.
The presence of the gipsies, and the use of the word
‘band,’ which was used by the poor girl, no doubt,
to explain the appearance which she had caught a
hurried glimpse of by the light of her match, were
sufficient to put me upon an entirely wrong scent. I
can only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered
my position when, however, it became clear to me
that whatever danger threatened an occupant of the
room could not come either from the window or the
door. My attention was speedily drawn, as I have
already remarked to you, to this ventilator, and to the
bell-rope which hung down to the bed. The discovery
that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped
to the floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that
the rope was there as a bridge for something passing through the hole and coming to the bed. The
idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and when
I coupled it with my knowledge that the doctor was
furnished with a supply of creatures from India, I
felt that I was probably on the right track. The idea
of using a form of poison which could not possibly
be discovered by any chemical test was just such a
one as would occur to a clever and ruthless man who
had had an Eastern training. The rapidity with which
such a poison would take effect would also, from his
point of view, be an advantage. It would be a sharpeyed coroner, indeed, who could distinguish the two
little dark punctures which would show where the
poison fangs had done their work. Then I thought of
the whistle. Of course he must recall the snake before
the morning light revealed it to the victim. He had
trained it, probably by the use of the milk which we
saw, to return to him when summoned. He would put
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The Adventure of the Speckled Band
it through this ventilator at the hour that he thought
best, with the certainty that it would crawl down the
rope and land on the bed. It might or might not bite
the occupant, perhaps she might escape every night
for a week, but sooner or later she must fall a victim.
the door of his safe upon its terrible occupant. Having
once made up my mind, you know the steps which I
took in order to put the matter to the proof. I heard
the creature hiss as I have no doubt that you did also,
and I instantly lit the light and attacked it.”
“I had come to these conclusions before ever I had
entered his room. An inspection of his chair showed
me that he had been in the habit of standing on it,
which of course would be necessary in order that
he should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe,
the saucer of milk, and the loop of whipcord were
enough to finally dispel any doubts which may have
remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss Stoner
was obviously caused by her stepfather hastily closing
“With the result of driving it through the ventilator.”
224
“And also with the result of causing it to turn
upon its master at the other side. Some of the blows
of my cane came home and roused its snakish temper,
so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this way
I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby
Roylott’s death, and I cannot say that it is likely to
weigh very heavily upon my conscience.”
The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb
O
f all the problems which have been submitted to my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for
solution during the years of our intimacy,
there were only two which I was the means
of introducing to his notice—that of Mr. Hatherley’s
thumb, and that of Colonel Warburton’s madness. Of
these the latter may have afforded a finer field for
an acute and original observer, but the other was so
strange in its inception and so dramatic in its details
that it may be the more worthy of being placed upon
record, even if it gave my friend fewer openings for
those deductive methods of reasoning by which he
achieved such remarkable results. The story has, I
believe, been told more than once in the newspapers,
but, like all such narratives, its effect is much less
striking when set forth en bloc in a single half-column
of print than when the facts slowly evolve before your
own eyes, and the mystery clears gradually away as
each new discovery furnishes a step which leads on
to the complete truth. At the time the circumstances
made a deep impression upon me, and the lapse of
two years has hardly served to weaken the effect.
It was in the summer of ’89, not long after my marriage, that the events occurred which I am now about
to summarise. I had returned to civil practice and had
finally abandoned Holmes in his Baker Street rooms,
although I continually visited him and occasionally
even persuaded him to forgo his Bohemian habits so
far as to come and visit us. My practice had steadily
increased, and as I happened to live at no very great
distance from Paddington Station, I got a few patients
from among the officials. One of these, whom I had
cured of a painful and lingering disease, was never
weary of advertising my virtues and of endeavouring
to send me on every sufferer over whom he might
have any influence.
One morning, at a little before seven o’clock, I
was awakened by the maid tapping at the door to
announce that two men had come from Paddington
and were waiting in the consulting-room. I dressed
hurriedly, for I knew by experience that railway cases
were seldom trivial, and hastened downstairs. As I
descended, my old ally, the guard, came out of the
room and closed the door tightly behind him.
“I’ve got him here,” he whispered, jerking his
thumb over his shoulder; “he’s all right.”
“What is it, then?” I asked, for his manner suggested that it was some strange creature which he
had caged up in my room.
“It’s a new patient,” he whispered. “I thought I’d
bring him round myself; then he couldn’t slip away.
There he is, all safe and sound. I must go now, Doctor;
I have my dooties, just the same as you.” And off he
went, this trusty tout, without even giving me time to
thank him.
I entered my consulting-room and found a gentleman seated by the table. He was quietly dressed in
a suit of heather tweed with a soft cloth cap which
he had laid down upon my books. Round one of his
hands he had a handkerchief wrapped, which was
mottled all over with bloodstains. He was young, not
more than five-and-twenty, I should say, with a strong,
masculine face; but he was exceedingly pale and gave
me the impression of a man who was suffering from
some strong agitation, which it took all his strength
of mind to control.
“I am sorry to knock you up so early, Doctor,” said
he, “but I have had a very serious accident during
the night. I came in by train this morning, and on
inquiring at Paddington as to where I might find a
doctor, a worthy fellow very kindly escorted me here.
I gave the maid a card, but I see that she has left it
upon the side-table.”
I took it up and glanced at it. “Mr. Victor Hatherley, hydraulic engineer, 16A, Victoria Street (3rd
floor).” That was the name, style, and abode of my
morning visitor. “I regret that I have kept you waiting,” said I, sitting down in my library-chair. “You
are fresh from a night journey, I understand, which is
in itself a monotonous occupation.”
“Oh, my night could not be called monotonous,”
said he, and laughed. He laughed very heartily, with
a high, ringing note, leaning back in his chair and
shaking his sides. All my medical instincts rose up
against that laugh.
“Stop it!” I cried; “pull yourself together!” and I
poured out some water from a caraffe.
It was useless, however. He was off in one of those
hysterical outbursts which come upon a strong nature
when some great crisis is over and gone. Presently
he came to himself once more, very weary and palelooking.
“I have been making a fool of myself,” he gasped.
“Not at all. Drink this.” I dashed some brandy
into the water, and the colour began to come back to
his bloodless cheeks.
“That’s better!” said he. “And now, Doctor, perhaps you would kindly attend to my thumb, or rather
to the place where my thumb used to be.”
He unwound the handkerchief and held out his
hand. It gave even my hardened nerves a shudder to
look at it. There were four protruding fingers and a
horrid red, spongy surface where the thumb should
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The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb
have been. It had been hacked or torn right out from
the roots.
“Good heavens!” I cried, “this is a terrible injury.
It must have bled considerably.”
“Yes, it did. I fainted when it was done, and I
think that I must have been senseless for a long time.
When I came to I found that it was still bleeding, so I
tied one end of my handkerchief very tightly round
the wrist and braced it up with a twig.”
“Excellent! You should have been a surgeon.”
“It is a question of hydraulics, you see, and came
within my own province.”
“This has been done,” said I, examining the
wound, “by a very heavy and sharp instrument.”
“A thing like a cleaver,” said he.
“An accident, I presume?”
“By no means.”
“What! a murderous attack?”
“Very murderous indeed.”
“You horrify me.”
I sponged the wound, cleaned it, dressed it, and
finally covered it over with cotton wadding and carbolised bandages. He lay back without wincing,
though he bit his lip from time to time.
“How is that?” I asked when I had finished.
“Capital! Between your brandy and your bandage,
I feel a new man. I was very weak, but I have had a
good deal to go through.”
“Perhaps you had better not speak of the matter.
It is evidently trying to your nerves.”
“Oh, no, not now. I shall have to tell my tale to the
police; but, between ourselves, if it were not for the
convincing evidence of this wound of mine, I should
be surprised if they believed my statement, for it is a
very extraordinary one, and I have not much in the
way of proof with which to back it up; and, even if
they believe me, the clues which I can give them are
so vague that it is a question whether justice will be
done.”
“Ha!” cried I, “if it is anything in the nature of
a problem which you desire to see solved, I should
strongly recommend you to come to my friend, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, before you go to the official police.”
“Oh, I have heard of that fellow,” answered my
visitor, “and I should be very glad if he would take
the matter up, though of course I must use the official
police as well. Would you give me an introduction to
him?”
228
“I’ll do better. I’ll take you round to him myself.”
“I should be immensely obliged to you.”
“We’ll call a cab and go together. We shall just be
in time to have a little breakfast with him. Do you
feel equal to it?”
“Yes; I shall not feel easy until I have told my
story.”
“Then my servant will call a cab, and I shall be
with you in an instant.” I rushed upstairs, explained
the matter shortly to my wife, and in five minutes was
inside a hansom, driving with my new acquaintance
to Baker Street.
Sherlock Holmes was, as I expected, lounging
about his sitting-room in his dressing-gown, reading the agony column of The Times and smoking his
before-breakfast pipe, which was composed of all the
plugs and dottles left from his smokes of the day before, all carefully dried and collected on the corner of
the mantelpiece. He received us in his quietly genial
fashion, ordered fresh rashers and eggs, and joined
us in a hearty meal. When it was concluded he settled our new acquaintance upon the sofa, placed a
pillow beneath his head, and laid a glass of brandy
and water within his reach.
“It is easy to see that your experience has been no
common one, Mr. Hatherley,” said he. “Pray, lie down
there and make yourself absolutely at home. Tell us
what you can, but stop when you are tired and keep
up your strength with a little stimulant.”
“Thank you,” said my patient. “but I have felt another man since the doctor bandaged me, and I think
that your breakfast has completed the cure. I shall
take up as little of your valuable time as possible, so I
shall start at once upon my peculiar experiences.”
Holmes sat in his big armchair with the weary,
heavy-lidded expression which veiled his keen and
eager nature, while I sat opposite to him, and we listened in silence to the strange story which our visitor
detailed to us.
“You must know,” said he, “that I am an orphan
and a bachelor, residing alone in lodgings in London.
By profession I am a hydraulic engineer, and I have
had considerable experience of my work during the
seven years that I was apprenticed to Venner & Matheson, the well-known firm, of Greenwich. Two years
ago, having served my time, and having also come
into a fair sum of money through my poor father’s
death, I determined to start in business for myself
and took professional chambers in Victoria Street.
“I suppose that everyone finds his first independent start in business a dreary experience. To me it
has been exceptionally so. During two years I have
had three consultations and one small job, and that is
absolutely all that my profession has brought me. My
gross takings amount to £27 10s. Every day, from nine
in the morning until four in the afternoon, I waited
in my little den, until at last my heart began to sink,
and I came to believe that I should never have any
practice at all.
“Yesterday, however, just as I was thinking of leaving the office, my clerk entered to say there was a
gentleman waiting who wished to see me upon business. He brought up a card, too, with the name of
‘Colonel Lysander Stark’ engraved upon it. Close at
his heels came the colonel himself, a man rather over
the middle size, but of an exceeding thinness. I do
not think that I have ever seen so thin a man. His
whole face sharpened away into nose and chin, and
the skin of his cheeks was drawn quite tense over his
outstanding bones. Yet this emaciation seemed to be
his natural habit, and due to no disease, for his eye
was bright, his step brisk, and his bearing assured. He
was plainly but neatly dressed, and his age, I should
judge, would be nearer forty than thirty.
“ ‘Mr. Hatherley?’ said he, with something of a
German accent. ‘You have been recommended to me,
Mr. Hatherley, as being a man who is not only proficient in his profession but is also discreet and capable
of preserving a secret.’
“I bowed, feeling as flattered as any young man
would at such an address. ‘May I ask who it was who
gave me so good a character?’
“ ‘Well, perhaps it is better that I should not tell
you that just at this moment. I have it from the same
source that you are both an orphan and a bachelor
and are residing alone in London.’
“ ‘That is quite correct,’ I answered; ‘but you will
excuse me if I say that I cannot see how all this bears
upon my professional qualifications. I understand
that it was on a professional matter that you wished
to speak to me?’
“ ‘Undoubtedly so. But you will find that all I
say is really to the point. I have a professional commission for you, but absolute secrecy is quite essential—absolute secrecy, you understand, and of course
we may expect that more from a man who is alone
than from one who lives in the bosom of his family.’
“ ‘If I promise to keep a secret,’ said I, ‘you may
absolutely depend upon my doing so.’
“He looked very hard at me as I spoke, and it
seemed to me that I had never seen so suspicious and
questioning an eye.
“ ‘Do you promise, then?’ said he at last.
“ ‘Yes, I promise.’
“ ‘Absolute and complete silence before, during,
and after? No reference to the matter at all, either in
word or writing?’
“ ‘I have already given you my word.’
“ ‘Very good.’ He suddenly sprang up, and darting like lightning across the room he flung open the
door. The passage outside was empty.
“ ‘That’s all right,’ said he, coming back. ‘I know
that clerks are sometimes curious as to their master’s
affairs. Now we can talk in safety.’ He drew up his
chair very close to mine and began to stare at me
again with the same questioning and thoughtful look.
“A feeling of repulsion, and of something akin to
fear had begun to rise within me at the strange antics
of this fleshless man. Even my dread of losing a client
could not restrain me from showing my impatience.
“ ‘I beg that you will state your business, sir,’ said
I; ‘my time is of value.’ Heaven forgive me for that
last sentence, but the words came to my lips.
“ ‘How would fifty guineas for a night’s work suit
you?’ he asked.
“ ‘Most admirably.’
“ ‘I say a night’s work, but an hour’s would be
nearer the mark. I simply want your opinion about
a hydraulic stamping machine which has got out of
gear. If you show us what is wrong we shall soon
set it right ourselves. What do you think of such a
commission as that?’
“ ‘The work appears to be light and the pay munificent.’
“ ‘Precisely so. We shall want you to come to-night
by the last train.’
“ ‘Where to?’
“ ‘To Eyford, in Berkshire. It is a little place near
the borders of Oxfordshire, and within seven miles
of Reading. There is a train from Paddington which
would bring you there at about 11.15.’
“ ‘Very good.’
“ ‘I shall come down in a carriage to meet you.’
“ ‘There is a drive, then?’
“ ‘Yes, our little place is quite out in the country. It
is a good seven miles from Eyford Station.’
“ ‘Then we can hardly get there before midnight. I
suppose there would be no chance of a train back. I
should be compelled to stop the night.’
“ ‘Yes, we could easily give you a shake-down.’
“ ‘That is very awkward. Could I not come at some
more convenient hour?’
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The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb
“ ‘We have judged it best that you should come
late. It is to recompense you for any inconvenience
that we are paying to you, a young and unknown
man, a fee which would buy an opinion from the
very heads of your profession. Still, of course, if you
would like to draw out of the business, there is plenty
of time to do so.’
“I thought of the fifty guineas, and of how very
useful they would be to me. ‘Not at all,’ said I, ‘I
shall be very happy to accommodate myself to your
wishes. I should like, however, to understand a little
more clearly what it is that you wish me to do.’
“ ‘Quite so. It is very natural that the pledge of
secrecy which we have exacted from you should have
aroused your curiosity. I have no wish to commit
you to anything without your having it all laid before you. I suppose that we are absolutely safe from
eavesdroppers?’
“ ‘Entirely.’
“ ‘Then the matter stands thus. You are probably
aware that fuller’s-earth is a valuable product, and
that it is only found in one or two places in England?’
“ ‘I have heard so.’
“ ‘Some little time ago I bought a small place—a
very small place—within ten miles of Reading. I was
fortunate enough to discover that there was a deposit
of fuller’s-earth in one of my fields. On examining
it, however, I found that this deposit was a comparatively small one, and that it formed a link between two
very much larger ones upon the right and left—both
of them, however, in the grounds of my neighbours.
These good people were absolutely ignorant that their
land contained that which was quite as valuable as
a gold-mine. Naturally, it was to my interest to buy
their land before they discovered its true value, but
unfortunately I had no capital by which I could do
this. I took a few of my friends into the secret, however, and they suggested that we should quietly and
secretly work our own little deposit and that in this
way we should earn the money which would enable
us to buy the neighbouring fields. This we have now
been doing for some time, and in order to help us
in our operations we erected a hydraulic press. This
press, as I have already explained, has got out of order,
and we wish your advice upon the subject. We guard
our secret very jealously, however, and if it once became known that we had hydraulic engineers coming
to our little house, it would soon rouse inquiry, and
then, if the facts came out, it would be good-bye to
any chance of getting these fields and carrying out
our plans. That is why I have made you promise
230
me that you will not tell a human being that you are
going to Eyford to-night. I hope that I make it all
plain?’
“ ‘I quite follow you,’ said I. ‘The only point which
I could not quite understand was what use you could
make of a hydraulic press in excavating fuller’s-earth,
which, as I understand, is dug out like gravel from a
pit.’
“ ‘Ah!’ said he carelessly, ‘we have our own process. We compress the earth into bricks, so as to
remove them without revealing what they are. But
that is a mere detail. I have taken you fully into my
confidence now, Mr. Hatherley, and I have shown you
how I trust you.’ He rose as he spoke. ‘I shall expect
you, then, at Eyford at 11.15.’
“ ‘I shall certainly be there.’
“ ‘And not a word to a soul.’ He looked at me
with a last long, questioning gaze, and then, pressing
my hand in a cold, dank grasp, he hurried from the
room.
“Well, when I came to think it all over in cool
blood I was very much astonished, as you may both
think, at this sudden commission which had been
intrusted to me. On the one hand, of course, I was
glad, for the fee was at least tenfold what I should
have asked had I set a price upon my own services,
and it was possible that this order might lead to other
ones. On the other hand, the face and manner of
my patron had made an unpleasant impression upon
me, and I could not think that his explanation of the
fuller’s-earth was sufficient to explain the necessity
for my coming at midnight, and his extreme anxiety
lest I should tell anyone of my errand. However, I
threw all fears to the winds, ate a hearty supper, drove
to Paddington, and started off, having obeyed to the
letter the injunction as to holding my tongue.
“At Reading I had to change not only my carriage
but my station. However, I was in time for the last
train to Eyford, and I reached the little dim-lit station
after eleven o’clock. I was the only passenger who got
out there, and there was no one upon the platform
save a single sleepy porter with a lantern. As I passed
out through the wicket gate, however, I found my
acquaintance of the morning waiting in the shadow
upon the other side. Without a word he grasped my
arm and hurried me into a carriage, the door of which
was standing open. He drew up the windows on either side, tapped on the wood-work, and away we
went as fast as the horse could go.”
“One horse?” interjected Holmes.
“Yes, only one.”
“Did you observe the colour?”
“Yes, I saw it by the side-lights when I was stepping into the carriage. It was a chestnut.”
“Tired-looking or fresh?”
“Oh, fresh and glossy.”
“Thank you. I am sorry to have interrupted you.
Pray continue your most interesting statement.”
“Away we went then, and we drove for at least
an hour. Colonel Lysander Stark had said that it was
only seven miles, but I should think, from the rate
that we seemed to go, and from the time that we took,
that it must have been nearer twelve. He sat at my
side in silence all the time, and I was aware, more
than once when I glanced in his direction, that he
was looking at me with great intensity. The country
roads seem to be not very good in that part of the
world, for we lurched and jolted terribly. I tried to
look out of the windows to see something of where
we were, but they were made of frosted glass, and
I could make out nothing save the occasional bright
blur of a passing light. Now and then I hazarded
some remark to break the monotony of the journey,
but the colonel answered only in monosyllables, and
the conversation soon flagged. At last, however, the
bumping of the road was exchanged for the crisp
smoothness of a gravel-drive, and the carriage came
to a stand. Colonel Lysander Stark sprang out, and,
as I followed after him, pulled me swiftly into a porch
which gaped in front of us. We stepped, as it were,
right out of the carriage and into the hall, so that I
failed to catch the most fleeting glance of the front of
the house. The instant that I had crossed the threshold the door slammed heavily behind us, and I heard
faintly the rattle of the wheels as the carriage drove
away.
“It was pitch dark inside the house, and the
colonel fumbled about looking for matches and muttering under his breath. Suddenly a door opened at
the other end of the passage, and a long, golden bar
of light shot out in our direction. It grew broader, and
a woman appeared with a lamp in her hand, which
she held above her head, pushing her face forward
and peering at us. I could see that she was pretty,
and from the gloss with which the light shone upon
her dark dress I knew that it was a rich material. She
spoke a few words in a foreign tongue in a tone as
though asking a question, and when my companion
answered in a gruff monosyllable she gave such a
start that the lamp nearly fell from her hand. Colonel
Stark went up to her, whispered something in her
ear, and then, pushing her back into the room from
whence she had come, he walked towards me again
with the lamp in his hand.
“ ‘Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in
this room for a few minutes,’ said he, throwing open
another door. It was a quiet, little, plainly furnished
room, with a round table in the centre, on which several German books were scattered. Colonel Stark laid
down the lamp on the top of a harmonium beside the
door. ‘I shall not keep you waiting an instant,’ said
he, and vanished into the darkness.
“I glanced at the books upon the table, and in
spite of my ignorance of German I could see that two
of them were treatises on science, the others being
volumes of poetry. Then I walked across to the window, hoping that I might catch some glimpse of the
country-side, but an oak shutter, heavily barred, was
folded across it. It was a wonderfully silent house.
There was an old clock ticking loudly somewhere in
the passage, but otherwise everything was deadly
still. A vague feeling of uneasiness began to steal
over me. Who were these German people, and what
were they doing living in this strange, out-of-the-way
place? And where was the place? I was ten miles or so
from Eyford, that was all I knew, but whether north,
south, east, or west I had no idea. For that matter,
Reading, and possibly other large towns, were within
that radius, so the place might not be so secluded,
after all. Yet it was quite certain, from the absolute
stillness, that we were in the country. I paced up and
down the room, humming a tune under my breath to
keep up my spirits and feeling that I was thoroughly
earning my fifty-guinea fee.
“Suddenly, without any preliminary sound in the
midst of the utter stillness, the door of my room
swung slowly open. The woman was standing in
the aperture, the darkness of the hall behind her, the
yellow light from my lamp beating upon her eager
and beautiful face. I could see at a glance that she
was sick with fear, and the sight sent a chill to my
own heart. She held up one shaking finger to warn
me to be silent, and she shot a few whispered words
of broken English at me, her eyes glancing back, like
those of a frightened horse, into the gloom behind
her.
“ ‘I would go,’ said she, trying hard, as it seemed
to me, to speak calmly; ‘I would go. I should not stay
here. There is no good for you to do.’
“ ‘But, madam,’ said I, ‘I have not yet done what I
came for. I cannot possibly leave until I have seen the
machine.’
“ ‘It is not worth your while to wait,’ she went on.
‘You can pass through the door; no one hinders.’ And
then, seeing that I smiled and shook my head, she
suddenly threw aside her constraint and made a step
231
The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb
forward, with her hands wrung together. ‘For the
love of Heaven!’ she whispered, ‘get away from here
before it is too late!’
“But I am somewhat headstrong by nature, and
the more ready to engage in an affair when there is
some obstacle in the way. I thought of my fifty-guinea
fee, of my wearisome journey, and of the unpleasant
night which seemed to be before me. Was it all to
go for nothing? Why should I slink away without
having carried out my commission, and without the
payment which was my due? This woman might,
for all I knew, be a monomaniac. With a stout bearing, therefore, though her manner had shaken me
more than I cared to confess, I still shook my head
and declared my intention of remaining where I was.
She was about to renew her entreaties when a door
slammed overhead, and the sound of several footsteps
was heard upon the stairs. She listened for an instant,
threw up her hands with a despairing gesture, and
vanished as suddenly and as noiselessly as she had
come.
“The newcomers were Colonel Lysander Stark and
a short thick man with a chinchilla beard growing out
of the creases of his double chin, who was introduced
to me as Mr. Ferguson.
“ ‘This is my secretary and manager,’ said the
colonel. ‘By the way, I was under the impression
that I left this door shut just now. I fear that you have
felt the draught.’
“ ‘On the contrary,’ said I, ‘I opened the door myself because I felt the room to be a little close.’
“He shot one of his suspicious looks at me. ‘Perhaps we had better proceed to business, then,’ said
he. ‘Mr. Ferguson and I will take you up to see the
machine.’
“ ‘I had better put my hat on, I suppose.’
“ ‘Oh, no, it is in the house.’
“ ‘What, you dig fuller’s-earth in the house?’
“ ‘No, no. This is only where we compress it. But
never mind that. All we wish you to do is to examine
the machine and to let us know what is wrong with
it.’
“We went upstairs together, the colonel first with
the lamp, the fat manager and I behind him. It was
a labyrinth of an old house, with corridors, passages,
narrow winding staircases, and little low doors, the
thresholds of which were hollowed out by the generations who had crossed them. There were no carpets and no signs of any furniture above the ground
floor, while the plaster was peeling off the walls, and
232
the damp was breaking through in green, unhealthy
blotches. I tried to put on as unconcerned an air as
possible, but I had not forgotten the warnings of the
lady, even though I disregarded them, and I kept a
keen eye upon my two companions. Ferguson appeared to be a morose and silent man, but I could
see from the little that he said that he was at least a
fellow-countryman.
“Colonel Lysander Stark stopped at last before a
low door, which he unlocked. Within was a small,
square room, in which the three of us could hardly
get at one time. Ferguson remained outside, and the
colonel ushered me in.
“ ‘We are now,’ said he, ‘actually within the hydraulic press, and it would be a particularly unpleasant thing for us if anyone were to turn it on. The
ceiling of this small chamber is really the end of the
descending piston, and it comes down with the force
of many tons upon this metal floor. There are small
lateral columns of water outside which receive the
force, and which transmit and multiply it in the manner which is familiar to you. The machine goes readily
enough, but there is some stiffness in the working of
it, and it has lost a little of its force. Perhaps you will
have the goodness to look it over and to show us how
we can set it right.’
“I took the lamp from him, and I examined the
machine very thoroughly. It was indeed a gigantic
one, and capable of exercising enormous pressure.
When I passed outside, however, and pressed down
the levers which controlled it, I knew at once by the
whishing sound that there was a slight leakage, which
allowed a regurgitation of water through one of the
side cylinders. An examination showed that one of
the india-rubber bands which was round the head of
a driving-rod had shrunk so as not quite to fill the
socket along which it worked. This was clearly the
cause of the loss of power, and I pointed it out to my
companions, who followed my remarks very carefully
and asked several practical questions as to how they
should proceed to set it right. When I had made it
clear to them, I returned to the main chamber of the
machine and took a good look at it to satisfy my own
curiosity. It was obvious at a glance that the story
of the fuller’s-earth was the merest fabrication, for
it would be absurd to suppose that so powerful an
engine could be designed for so inadequate a purpose.
The walls were of wood, but the floor consisted of
a large iron trough, and when I came to examine it
I could see a crust of metallic deposit all over it. I
had stooped and was scraping at this to see exactly
what it was when I heard a muttered exclamation in
German and saw the cadaverous face of the colonel
looking down at me.
“ ‘What are you doing there?’ he asked.
“I felt angry at having been tricked by so elaborate
a story as that which he had told me. ‘I was admiring
your fuller’s-earth,’ said I; ‘I think that I should be
better able to advise you as to your machine if I knew
what the exact purpose was for which it was used.’
“The instant that I uttered the words I regretted
the rashness of my speech. His face set hard, and a
baleful light sprang up in his grey eyes.
“ ‘Very well,’ said he, ‘you shall know all about
the machine.’ He took a step backward, slammed the
little door, and turned the key in the lock. I rushed
towards it and pulled at the handle, but it was quite
secure, and did not give in the least to my kicks and
shoves. ‘Hullo!’ I yelled. ‘Hullo! Colonel! Let me
out!’
“And then suddenly in the silence I heard a sound
which sent my heart into my mouth. It was the clank
of the levers and the swish of the leaking cylinder. He
had set the engine at work. The lamp still stood upon
the floor where I had placed it when examining the
trough. By its light I saw that the black ceiling was
coming down upon me, slowly, jerkily, but, as none
knew better than myself, with a force which must
within a minute grind me to a shapeless pulp. I threw
myself, screaming, against the door, and dragged
with my nails at the lock. I implored the colonel to
let me out, but the remorseless clanking of the levers
drowned my cries. The ceiling was only a foot or two
above my head, and with my hand upraised I could
feel its hard, rough surface. Then it flashed through
my mind that the pain of my death would depend
very much upon the position in which I met it. If I lay
on my face the weight would come upon my spine,
and I shuddered to think of that dreadful snap. Easier
the other way, perhaps; and yet, had I the nerve to lie
and look up at that deadly black shadow wavering
down upon me? Already I was unable to stand erect,
when my eye caught something which brought a gush
of hope back to my heart.
“I have said that though the floor and ceiling were
of iron, the walls were of wood. As I gave a last hurried glance around, I saw a thin line of yellow light
between two of the boards, which broadened and
broadened as a small panel was pushed backward.
For an instant I could hardly believe that here was
indeed a door which led away from death. The next
instant I threw myself through, and lay half-fainting
upon the other side. The panel had closed again
behind me, but the crash of the lamp, and a few moments afterwards the clang of the two slabs of metal,
told me how narrow had been my escape.
“I was recalled to myself by a frantic plucking at
my wrist, and I found myself lying upon the stone
floor of a narrow corridor, while a woman bent over
me and tugged at me with her left hand, while she
held a candle in her right. It was the same good friend
whose warning I had so foolishly rejected.
“ ‘Come! come!’ she cried breathlessly. ‘They will
be here in a moment. They will see that you are not
there. Oh, do not waste the so-precious time, but
come!’
“This time, at least, I did not scorn her advice.
I staggered to my feet and ran with her along the
corridor and down a winding stair. The latter led to
another broad passage, and just as we reached it we
heard the sound of running feet and the shouting of
two voices, one answering the other from the floor on
which we were and from the one beneath. My guide
stopped and looked about her like one who is at her
wit’s end. Then she threw open a door which led into
a bedroom, through the window of which the moon
was shining brightly.
“ ‘It is your only chance,’ said she. ‘It is high, but
it may be that you can jump it.’
“As she spoke a light sprang into view at the further end of the passage, and I saw the lean figure
of Colonel Lysander Stark rushing forward with a
lantern in one hand and a weapon like a butcher’s
cleaver in the other. I rushed across the bedroom,
flung open the window, and looked out. How quiet
and sweet and wholesome the garden looked in the
moonlight, and it could not be more than thirty feet
down. I clambered out upon the sill, but I hesitated to
jump until I should have heard what passed between
my saviour and the ruffian who pursued me. If she
were ill-used, then at any risks I was determined to
go back to her assistance. The thought had hardly
flashed through my mind before he was at the door,
pushing his way past her; but she threw her arms
round him and tried to hold him back.
“ ‘Fritz! Fritz!’ she cried in English, ‘remember
your promise after the last time. You said it should
not be again. He will be silent! Oh, he will be silent!’
“ ‘You are mad, Elise!’ he shouted, struggling to
break away from her. ‘You will be the ruin of us. He
has seen too much. Let me pass, I say!’ He dashed
her to one side, and, rushing to the window, cut at
me with his heavy weapon. I had let myself go, and
was hanging by the hands to the sill, when his blow
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The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb
fell. I was conscious of a dull pain, my grip loosened,
and I fell into the garden below.
“I was shaken but not hurt by the fall; so I picked
myself up and rushed off among the bushes as hard
as I could run, for I understood that I was far from
being out of danger yet. Suddenly, however, as I
ran, a deadly dizziness and sickness came over me.
I glanced down at my hand, which was throbbing
painfully, and then, for the first time, saw that my
thumb had been cut off and that the blood was pouring from my wound. I endeavoured to tie my handkerchief round it, but there came a sudden buzzing
in my ears, and next moment I fell in a dead faint
among the rose-bushes.
“How long I remained unconscious I cannot tell.
It must have been a very long time, for the moon
had sunk, and a bright morning was breaking when I
came to myself. My clothes were all sodden with dew,
and my coat-sleeve was drenched with blood from
my wounded thumb. The smarting of it recalled in
an instant all the particulars of my night’s adventure,
and I sprang to my feet with the feeling that I might
hardly yet be safe from my pursuers. But to my astonishment, when I came to look round me, neither
house nor garden were to be seen. I had been lying
in an angle of the hedge close by the highroad, and
just a little lower down was a long building, which
proved, upon my approaching it, to be the very station at which I had arrived upon the previous night.
Were it not for the ugly wound upon my hand, all
that had passed during those dreadful hours might
have been an evil dream.
“Half dazed, I went into the station and asked
about the morning train. There would be one to Reading in less than an hour. The same porter was on
duty, I found, as had been there when I arrived. I
inquired of him whether he had ever heard of Colonel
Lysander Stark. The name was strange to him. Had
he observed a carriage the night before waiting for
me? No, he had not. Was there a police-station anywhere near? There was one about three miles off.
“It was too far for me to go, weak and ill as I
was. I determined to wait until I got back to town
before telling my story to the police. It was a little
past six when I arrived, so I went first to have my
wound dressed, and then the doctor was kind enough
to bring me along here. I put the case into your hands
and shall do exactly what you advise.”
We both sat in silence for some little time after
listening to this extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock Holmes pulled down from the shelf one of the
234
ponderous commonplace books in which he placed
his cuttings.
“Here is an advertisement which will interest you,”
said he. “It appeared in all the papers about a year
ago. Listen to this:
“ ‘Lost, on the 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah
Hayling, aged twenty-six, a hydraulic engineer. Left his lodgings at ten o’clock at night,
and has not been heard of since. Was dressed
in—’
etc., etc. Ha! That represents the last time that the
colonel needed to have his machine overhauled, I
fancy.”
“Good heavens!” cried my patient. “Then that
explains what the girl said.”
“Undoubtedly. It is quite clear that the colonel
was a cool and desperate man, who was absolutely
determined that nothing should stand in the way of
his little game, like those out-and-out pirates who
will leave no survivor from a captured ship. Well,
every moment now is precious, so if you feel equal
to it we shall go down to Scotland Yard at once as a
preliminary to starting for Eyford.”
Some three hours or so afterwards we were all in
the train together, bound from Reading to the little
Berkshire village. There were Sherlock Holmes, the
hydraulic engineer, Inspector Bradstreet, of Scotland
Yard, a plain-clothes man, and myself. Bradstreet
had spread an ordnance map of the county out upon
the seat and was busy with his compasses drawing a
circle with Eyford for its centre.
“There you are,” said he. “That circle is drawn at
a radius of ten miles from the village. The place we
want must be somewhere near that line. You said ten
miles, I think, sir.”
“It was an hour’s good drive.”
“And you think that they brought you back all
that way when you were unconscious?”
“They must have done so. I have a confused memory, too, of having been lifted and conveyed somewhere.”
“What I cannot understand,” said I, “is why they
should have spared you when they found you lying
fainting in the garden. Perhaps the villain was softened by the woman’s entreaties.”
“I hardly think that likely. I never saw a more
inexorable face in my life.”
“Oh, we shall soon clear up all that,” said Bradstreet. “Well, I have drawn my circle, and I only wish
I knew at what point upon it the folk that we are in
search of are to be found.”
“I think I could lay my finger on it,” said Holmes
quietly.
“Really, now!” cried the inspector, “you have
formed your opinion! Come, now, we shall see who
agrees with you. I say it is south, for the country is
more deserted there.”
“And I say east,” said my patient.
“I am for west,” remarked the plain-clothes man.
“There are several quiet little villages up there.”
“And I am for north,” said I, “because there are no
hills there, and our friend says that he did not notice
the carriage go up any.”
“Come,” cried the inspector, laughing; “it’s a very
pretty diversity of opinion. We have boxed the compass among us. Who do you give your casting vote
to?”
“You are all wrong.”
“But we can’t all be.”
“Oh, yes, you can. This is my point.” He placed
his finger in the centre of the circle. “This is where
we shall find them.”
“But the twelve-mile drive?” gasped Hatherley.
“Six out and six back. Nothing simpler. You say
yourself that the horse was fresh and glossy when
you got in. How could it be that if it had gone twelve
miles over heavy roads?”
“Indeed, it is a likely ruse enough,” observed Bradstreet thoughtfully. “Of course there can be no doubt
as to the nature of this gang.”
“None at all,” said Holmes. “They are coiners on
a large scale, and have used the machine to form the
amalgam which has taken the place of silver.”
“We have known for some time that a clever gang
was at work,” said the inspector. “They have been
turning out half-crowns by the thousand. We even
traced them as far as Reading, but could get no farther,
for they had covered their traces in a way that showed
that they were very old hands. But now, thanks to
this lucky chance, I think that we have got them right
enough.”
But the inspector was mistaken, for those criminals were not destined to fall into the hands of justice.
As we rolled into Eyford Station we saw a gigantic
column of smoke which streamed up from behind a
small clump of trees in the neighbourhood and hung
like an immense ostrich feather over the landscape.
“A house on fire?” asked Bradstreet as the train
steamed off again on its way.
“Yes, sir!” said the station-master.
“When did it break out?”
“I hear that it was during the night, sir, but it has
got worse, and the whole place is in a blaze.”
“Whose house is it?”
“Dr. Becher’s.”
“Tell me,” broke in the engineer, “is Dr. Becher a
German, very thin, with a long, sharp nose?”
The station-master laughed heartily. “No, sir, Dr.
Becher is an Englishman, and there isn’t a man in the
parish who has a better-lined waistcoat. But he has
a gentleman staying with him, a patient, as I understand, who is a foreigner, and he looks as if a little
good Berkshire beef would do him no harm.”
The station-master had not finished his speech
before we were all hastening in the direction of the
fire. The road topped a low hill, and there was a
great widespread whitewashed building in front of
us, spouting fire at every chink and window, while
in the garden in front three fire-engines were vainly
striving to keep the flames under.
“That’s it!” cried Hatherley, in intense excitement.
“There is the gravel-drive, and there are the rosebushes where I lay. That second window is the one
that I jumped from.”
“Well, at least,” said Holmes, “you have had your
revenge upon them. There can be no question that it
was your oil-lamp which, when it was crushed in the
press, set fire to the wooden walls, though no doubt
they were too excited in the chase after you to observe
it at the time. Now keep your eyes open in this crowd
for your friends of last night, though I very much fear
that they are a good hundred miles off by now.”
And Holmes’ fears came to be realised, for from
that day to this no word has ever been heard either
of the beautiful woman, the sinister German, or the
morose Englishman. Early that morning a peasant
had met a cart containing several people and some
very bulky boxes driving rapidly in the direction of
Reading, but there all traces of the fugitives disappeared, and even Holmes’ ingenuity failed ever to
discover the least clue as to their whereabouts.
The firemen had been much perturbed at the
strange arrangements which they had found within,
and still more so by discovering a newly severed human thumb upon a window-sill of the second floor.
About sunset, however, their efforts were at last successful, and they subdued the flames, but not before
the roof had fallen in, and the whole place been reduced to such absolute ruin that, save some twisted
cylinders and iron piping, not a trace remained of
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The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb
the machinery which had cost our unfortunate acquaintance so dearly. Large masses of nickel and of
tin were discovered stored in an out-house, but no
coins were to be found, which may have explained
the presence of those bulky boxes which have been
already referred to.
How our hydraulic engineer had been conveyed
from the garden to the spot where he recovered his
senses might have remained forever a mystery were
it not for the soft mould, which told us a very plain
tale. He had evidently been carried down by two persons, one of whom had remarkably small feet and the
other unusually large ones. On the whole, it was most
236
probable that the silent Englishman, being less bold
or less murderous than his companion, had assisted
the woman to bear the unconscious man out of the
way of danger.
“Well,” said our engineer ruefully as we took our
seats to return once more to London, “it has been a
pretty business for me! I have lost my thumb and I
have lost a fifty-guinea fee, and what have I gained?”
“Experience,” said Holmes, laughing. “Indirectly
it may be of value, you know; you have only to put it
into words to gain the reputation of being excellent
company for the remainder of your existence.”
The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
T
he Lord St. Simon marriage, and its curious termination, have long ceased to be a
subject of interest in those exalted circles in
which the unfortunate bridegroom moves.
Fresh scandals have eclipsed it, and their more piquant details have drawn the gossips away from this
four-year-old drama. As I have reason to believe, however, that the full facts have never been revealed to the
general public, and as my friend Sherlock Holmes had
a considerable share in clearing the matter up, I feel
that no memoir of him would be complete without
some little sketch of this remarkable episode.
It was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the days when I was still sharing rooms with
Holmes in Baker Street, that he came home from an
afternoon stroll to find a letter on the table waiting for
him. I had remained indoors all day, for the weather
had taken a sudden turn to rain, with high autumnal winds, and the Jezail bullet which I had brought
back in one of my limbs as a relic of my Afghan
campaign throbbed with dull persistence. With my
body in one easy-chair and my legs upon another, I
had surrounded myself with a cloud of newspapers
until at last, saturated with the news of the day, I
tossed them all aside and lay listless, watching the
huge crest and monogram upon the envelope upon
the table and wondering lazily who my friend’s noble
correspondent could be.
“Here is a very fashionable epistle,” I remarked
as he entered. “Your morning letters, if I remember
right, were from a fish-monger and a tide-waiter.”
“Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm
of variety,” he answered, smiling, “and the humbler
are usually the more interesting. This looks like one of
those unwelcome social summonses which call upon
a man either to be bored or to lie.”
He broke the seal and glanced over the contents.
“Oh, come, it may prove to be something of interest, after all.”
“Not social, then?”
“No, distinctly professional.”
“And from a noble client?”
“One of the highest in England.”
“My dear fellow, I congratulate you.”
“I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that
the status of my client is a matter of less moment to
me than the interest of his case. It is just possible,
however, that that also may not be wanting in this
new investigation. You have been reading the papers
diligently of late, have you not?”
“It looks like it,” said I ruefully, pointing to a huge
bundle in the corner. “I have had nothing else to do.”
“It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able to
post me up. I read nothing except the criminal news
and the agony column. The latter is always instructive. But if you have followed recent events so closely
you must have read about Lord St. Simon and his
wedding?”
“Oh, yes, with the deepest interest.”
“That is well. The letter which I hold in my hand
is from Lord St. Simon. I will read it to you, and in
return you must turn over these papers and let me
have whatever bears upon the matter. This is what he
says:
“ ‘My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
“ ‘Lord Backwater tells me that I may
place implicit reliance upon your judgment and discretion. I have determined,
therefore, to call upon you and to consult
you in reference to the very painful event
which has occurred in connection with my
wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard,
is acting already in the matter, but he assures me that he sees no objection to your
co-operation, and that he even thinks that
it might be of some assistance. I will call at
four o’clock in the afternoon, and, should
you have any other engagement at that
time, I hope that you will postpone it, as
this matter is of paramount importance.
— “ ‘Yours faithfully,
“ ‘St. Simon.’
“It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written
with a quill pen, and the noble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of ink upon the outer side of
his right little finger,” remarked Holmes as he folded
up the epistle.
“He says four o’clock. It is three now. He will be
here in an hour.”
“Then I have just time, with your assistance, to
get clear upon the subject. Turn over those papers
and arrange the extracts in their order of time, while
I take a glance as to who our client is.” He picked a
red-covered volume from a line of books of reference
beside the mantelpiece. “Here he is,” said he, sitting
down and flattening it out upon his knee. “ ‘Lord
Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon, second son of
the Duke of Balmoral.’ Hum! ‘Arms: Azure, three
caltrops in chief over a fess sable. Born in 1846.’ He’s
forty-one years of age, which is mature for marriage.
239
The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
Was Under-Secretary for the colonies in a late administration. The Duke, his father, was at one time Secretary for Foreign Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet
blood by direct descent, and Tudor on the distaff side.
Ha! Well, there is nothing very instructive in all this.
I think that I must turn to you Watson, for something
more solid.”
“I have very little difficulty in finding what I want,”
said I, “for the facts are quite recent, and the matter
struck me as remarkable. I feared to refer them to you,
however, as I knew that you had an inquiry on hand
and that you disliked the intrusion of other matters.”
“Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor
Square furniture van. That is quite cleared up
now—though, indeed, it was obvious from the first.
Pray give me the results of your newspaper selections.”
“Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in
the personal column of the Morning Post, and dates,
as you see, some weeks back:
“ ‘A marriage has been arranged [it says] and
will, if rumour is correct, very shortly take
place, between Lord Robert St. Simon, second
son of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty
Doran, the only daughter of Aloysius Doran.
Esq., of San Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.’
That is all.”
“Terse and to the point,” remarked Holmes,
stretching his long, thin legs towards the fire.
“There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of
the society papers of the same week. Ah, here it is:
“ ‘There will soon be a call for protection in
the marriage market, for the present free-trade
principle appears to tell heavily against our
home product. One by one the management
of the noble houses of Great Britain is passing into the hands of our fair cousins from
across the Atlantic. An important addition
has been made during the last week to the
list of the prizes which have been borne away
by these charming invaders. Lord St. Simon,
who has shown himself for over twenty years
proof against the little god’s arrows, has now
definitely announced his approaching marriage with Miss Hatty Doran, the fascinating
daughter of a California millionaire. Miss Doran, whose graceful figure and striking face attracted much attention at the Westbury House
festivities, is an only child, and it is currently
reported that her dowry will run to considerably over the six figures, with expectancies for
240
the future. As it is an open secret that the
Duke of Balmoral has been compelled to sell
his pictures within the last few years, and as
Lord St. Simon has no property of his own
save the small estate of Birchmoor, it is obvious that the Californian heiress is not the only
gainer by an alliance which will enable her to
make the easy and common transition from a
Republican lady to a British peeress.’ ”
“Anything else?” asked Holmes, yawning.
“Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in
the Morning Post to say that the marriage would
be an absolutely quiet one, that it would be at St.
George’s, Hanover Square, that only half a dozen intimate friends would be invited, and that the party
would return to the furnished house at Lancaster Gate
which has been taken by Mr. Aloysius Doran. Two
days later—that is, on Wednesday last—there is a
curt announcement that the wedding had taken place,
and that the honeymoon would be passed at Lord
Backwater’s place, near Petersfield. Those are all the
notices which appeared before the disappearance of
the bride.”
“Before the what?” asked Holmes with a start.
“The vanishing of the lady.”
“When did she vanish, then?”
“At the wedding breakfast.”
“Indeed. This is more interesting than it promised
to be; quite dramatic, in fact.”
“Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the common.”
“They often vanish before the ceremony, and occasionally during the honeymoon; but I cannot call to
mind anything quite so prompt as this. Pray let me
have the details.”
“I warn you that they are very incomplete.”
“Perhaps we may make them less so.”
“Such as they are, they are set forth in a single
article of a morning paper of yesterday, which I will
read to you. It is headed, ‘Singular Occurrence at a
Fashionable Wedding’:
“ ‘The family of Lord Robert St. Simon has
been thrown into the greatest consternation by
the strange and painful episodes which have
taken place in connection with his wedding.
The ceremony, as shortly announced in the
papers of yesterday, occurred on the previous
morning; but it is only now that it has been
possible to confirm the strange rumours which
have been so persistently floating about. In
spite of the attempts of the friends to hush the
matter up, so much public attention has now
been drawn to it that no good purpose can be
served by affecting to disregard what is a common subject for conversation.
“ ‘The ceremony, which was performed at St.
George’s, Hanover Square, was a very quiet
one, no one being present save the father of
the bride, Mr. Aloysius Doran, the Duchess of
Balmoral, Lord Backwater, Lord Eustace and
Lady Clara St. Simon (the younger brother
and sister of the bridegroom), and Lady Alicia
Whittington. The whole party proceeded afterwards to the house of Mr. Aloysius Doran,
at Lancaster Gate, where breakfast had been
prepared. It appears that some little trouble
was caused by a woman, whose name has not
been ascertained, who endeavoured to force
her way into the house after the bridal party,
alleging that she had some claim upon Lord
St. Simon. It was only after a painful and
prolonged scene that she was ejected by the
butler and the footman. The bride, who had
fortunately entered the house before this unpleasant interruption, had sat down to breakfast with the rest, when she complained of a
sudden indisposition and retired to her room.
Her prolonged absence having caused some
comment, her father followed her, but learned
from her maid that she had only come up to
her chamber for an instant, caught up an ulster and bonnet, and hurried down to the passage. One of the footmen declared that he had
seen a lady leave the house thus apparelled,
but had refused to credit that it was his mistress, believing her to be with the company.
On ascertaining that his daughter had disappeared, Mr. Aloysius Doran, in conjunction
with the bridegroom, instantly put themselves
in communication with the police, and very
energetic inquiries are being made, which will
probably result in a speedy clearing up of this
very singular business. Up to a late hour last
night, however, nothing had transpired as to
the whereabouts of the missing lady. There
are rumours of foul play in the matter, and
it is said that the police have caused the arrest of the woman who had caused the original disturbance, in the belief that, from jealousy or some other motive, she may have been
concerned in the strange disappearance of the
bride.’ ”
“And is that all?”
“Only one little item in another of the morning
papers, but it is a suggestive one.”
“And it is—”
“That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused
the disturbance, has actually been arrested. It appears
that she was formerly a danseuse at the Allegro, and
that she has known the bridegroom for some years.
There are no further particulars, and the whole case
is in your hands now—so far as it has been set forth
in the public press.”
“And an exceedingly interesting case it appears to
be. I would not have missed it for worlds. But there is
a ring at the bell, Watson, and as the clock makes it a
few minutes after four, I have no doubt that this will
prove to be our noble client. Do not dream of going,
Watson, for I very much prefer having a witness, if
only as a check to my own memory.”
“Lord Robert St. Simon,” announced our page-boy,
throwing open the door. A gentleman entered, with
a pleasant, cultured face, high-nosed and pale, with
something perhaps of petulance about the mouth,
and with the steady, well-opened eye of a man whose
pleasant lot it had ever been to command and to be
obeyed. His manner was brisk, and yet his general
appearance gave an undue impression of age, for he
had a slight forward stoop and a little bend of the
knees as he walked. His hair, too, as he swept off
his very curly-brimmed hat, was grizzled round the
edges and thin upon the top. As to his dress, it was
careful to the verge of foppishness, with high collar, black frock-coat, white waistcoat, yellow gloves,
patent-leather shoes, and light-coloured gaiters. He
advanced slowly into the room, turning his head from
left to right, and swinging in his right hand the cord
which held his golden eyeglasses.
“Good-day, Lord St. Simon,” said Holmes, rising
and bowing. “Pray take the basket-chair. This is my
friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. Draw up a little to
the fire, and we will talk this matter over.”
“A most painful matter to me, as you can most
readily imagine, Mr. Holmes. I have been cut to the
quick. I understand that you have already managed
several delicate cases of this sort, sir, though I presume that they were hardly from the same class of
society.”
“No, I am descending.”
“I beg pardon.”
“My last client of the sort was a king.”
“Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king?”
“The King of Scandinavia.”
“What! Had he lost his wife?”
241
The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
“You can understand,” said Holmes suavely, “that
I extend to the affairs of my other clients the same
secrecy which I promise to you in yours.”
“Of course! Very right! very right! I’m sure I beg
pardon. As to my own case, I am ready to give you
any information which may assist you in forming an
opinion.”
“Thank you. I have already learned all that is in
the public prints, nothing more. I presume that I may
take it as correct—this article, for example, as to the
disappearance of the bride.”
Lord St. Simon glanced over it. “Yes, it is correct,
as far as it goes.”
“But it needs a great deal of supplementing before
anyone could offer an opinion. I think that I may
arrive at my facts most directly by questioning you.”
“Pray do so.”
“When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?”
“In San Francisco, a year ago.”
“You were travelling in the States?”
“Yes.”
“Did you become engaged then?”
“No.”
“But you were on a friendly footing?”
“I was amused by her society, and she could see
that I was amused.”
“Her father is very rich?”
“He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific
slope.”
“And how did he make his money?”
“In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then
he struck gold, invested it, and came up by leaps and
bounds.”
“Now, what is your own impression as to the
young lady’s—your wife’s character?”
The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and
stared down into the fire. “You see, Mr. Holmes,”
said he, “my wife was twenty before her father became a rich man. During that time she ran free in a
mining camp and wandered through woods or mountains, so that her education has come from Nature
rather than from the schoolmaster. She is what we
call in England a tomboy, with a strong nature, wild
and free, unfettered by any sort of traditions. She
is impetuous—volcanic, I was about to say. She is
swift in making up her mind and fearless in carrying
out her resolutions. On the other hand, I would not
have given her the name which I have the honour
242
to bear”—he gave a little stately cough—“had not I
thought her to be at bottom a noble woman. I believe
that she is capable of heroic self-sacrifice and that
anything dishonourable would be repugnant to her.”
“Have you her photograph?”
“I brought this with me.” He opened a locket and
showed us the full face of a very lovely woman. It
was not a photograph but an ivory miniature, and
the artist had brought out the full effect of the lustrous black hair, the large dark eyes, and the exquisite
mouth. Holmes gazed long and earnestly at it. Then
he closed the locket and handed it back to Lord St.
Simon.
“The young lady came to London, then, and you
renewed your acquaintance?”
“Yes, her father brought her over for this last London season. I met her several times, became engaged
to her, and have now married her.”
“She brought, I understand, a considerable
dowry?”
“A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my
family.”
“And this, of course, remains to you, since the
marriage is a fait accompli?”
“I really have made no inquiries on the subject.”
“Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran on
the day before the wedding?”
“Yes.”
“Was she in good spirits?”
“Never better. She kept talking of what we should
do in our future lives.”
“Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the
morning of the wedding?”
“She was as bright as possible—at least until after
the ceremony.”
“And did you observe any change in her then?”
“Well, to tell the truth, I saw then the first signs
that I had ever seen that her temper was just a little
sharp. The incident however, was too trivial to relate
and can have no possible bearing upon the case.”
“Pray let us have it, for all that.”
“Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet as
we went towards the vestry. She was passing the front
pew at the time, and it fell over into the pew. There
was a moment’s delay, but the gentleman in the pew
handed it up to her again, and it did not appear to be
the worse for the fall. Yet when I spoke to her of the
matter, she answered me abruptly; and in the carriage,
on our way home, she seemed absurdly agitated over
this trifling cause.”
“Indeed! You say that there was a gentleman in
the pew. Some of the general public were present,
then?”
“Oh, yes. It is impossible to exclude them when
the church is open.”
“This gentleman was not one of your wife’s
friends?”
“No, no; I call him a gentleman by courtesy, but
he was quite a common-looking person. I hardly noticed his appearance. But really I think that we are
wandering rather far from the point.”
“Lady St. Simon, then, returned from the wedding
in a less cheerful frame of mind than she had gone
to it. What did she do on re-entering her father’s
house?”
“I saw her in conversation with her maid.”
“And who is her maid?”
“Alice is her name. She is an American and came
from California with her.”
“A confidential servant?”
“A little too much so. It seemed to me that her
mistress allowed her to take great liberties. Still, of
course, in America they look upon these things in a
different way.”
“How long did she speak to this Alice?”
“Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to think
of.”
“You did not overhear what they said?”
“Lady St. Simon said something about ‘jumping a
claim.’ She was accustomed to use slang of the kind.
I have no idea what she meant.”
“American slang is very expressive sometimes.
And what did your wife do when she finished speaking to her maid?”
“She walked into the breakfast-room.”
“On your arm?”
“No, alone. She was very independent in little
matters like that. Then, after we had sat down for
ten minutes or so, she rose hurriedly, muttered some
words of apology, and left the room. She never came
back.”
“But this maid, Alice, as I understand, deposes
that she went to her room, covered her bride’s dress
with a long ulster, put on a bonnet, and went out.”
“Quite so. And she was afterwards seen walking into Hyde Park in company with Flora Millar,
a woman who is now in custody, and who had already made a disturbance at Mr. Doran’s house that
morning.”
“Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars as to this
young lady, and your relations to her.”
Lord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders and raised
his eyebrows. “We have been on a friendly footing
for some years—I may say on a very friendly footing. She used to be at the Allegro. I have not treated
her ungenerously, and she had no just cause of complaint against me, but you know what women are, Mr.
Holmes. Flora was a dear little thing, but exceedingly
hot-headed and devotedly attached to me. She wrote
me dreadful letters when she heard that I was about
to be married, and, to tell the truth, the reason why
I had the marriage celebrated so quietly was that I
feared lest there might be a scandal in the church.
She came to Mr. Doran’s door just after we returned,
and she endeavoured to push her way in, uttering
very abusive expressions towards my wife, and even
threatening her, but I had foreseen the possibility of
something of the sort, and I had two police fellows
there in private clothes, who soon pushed her out
again. She was quiet when she saw that there was no
good in making a row.”
“Did your wife hear all this?”
“No, thank goodness, she did not.”
“And she was seen walking with this very woman
afterwards?”
“Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard,
looks upon as so serious. It is thought that Flora
decoyed my wife out and laid some terrible trap for
her.”
“Well, it is a possible supposition.”
“You think so, too?”
“I did not say a probable one. But you do not
yourself look upon this as likely?”
“I do not think Flora would hurt a fly.”
“Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of characters. Pray what is your own theory as to what took
place?”
“Well, really, I came to seek a theory, not to propound one. I have given you all the facts. Since you
ask me, however, I may say that it has occurred to
me as possible that the excitement of this affair, the
consciousness that she had made so immense a social
stride, had the effect of causing some little nervous
disturbance in my wife.”
“In short, that she had become suddenly deranged?”
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The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
“Well, really, when I consider that she has turned
her back—I will not say upon me, but upon so much
that many have aspired to without success—I can
hardly explain it in any other fashion.”
“Well, certainly that is also a conceivable hypothesis,” said Holmes, smiling. “And now, Lord St. Simon, I think that I have nearly all my data. May I ask
whether you were seated at the breakfast-table so that
you could see out of the window?”
“We could see the other side of the road and the
Park.”
“Quite so. Then I do not think that I need to detain
you longer. I shall communicate with you.”
“Should you be fortunate enough to solve this
problem,” said our client, rising.
“I have solved it.”
“Eh? What was that?”
“I say that I have solved it.”
“Where, then, is my wife?”
“That is a detail which I shall speedily supply.”
Lord St. Simon shook his head. “I am afraid that
it will take wiser heads than yours or mine,” he remarked, and bowing in a stately, old-fashioned manner he departed.
“It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honour my
head by putting it on a level with his own,” said
Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “I think that I shall have
a whisky and soda and a cigar after all this crossquestioning. I had formed my conclusions as to the
case before our client came into the room.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“I have notes of several similar cases, though none,
as I remarked before, which were quite as prompt.
My whole examination served to turn my conjecture
into a certainty. Circumstantial evidence is occasionally very convincing, as when you find a trout in the
milk, to quote Thoreau’s example.”
“But I have heard all that you have heard.”
“Without, however, the knowledge of pre-existing
cases which serves me so well. There was a parallel
instance in Aberdeen some years back, and something
on very much the same lines at Munich the year after
the Franco-Prussian War. It is one of these cases—but,
hullo, here is Lestrade! Good-afternoon, Lestrade!
You will find an extra tumbler upon the sideboard,
and there are cigars in the box.”
The official detective was attired in a pea-jacket
and cravat, which gave him a decidedly nautical appearance, and he carried a black canvas bag in his
244
hand. With a short greeting he seated himself and lit
the cigar which had been offered to him.
“What’s up, then?” asked Holmes with a twinkle
in his eye. “You look dissatisfied.”
“And I feel dissatisfied. It is this infernal St. Simon
marriage case. I can make neither head nor tail of the
business.”
“Really! You surprise me.”
“Who ever heard of such a mixed affair? Every
clue seems to slip through my fingers. I have been at
work upon it all day.”
“And very wet it seems to have made you,” said
Holmes laying his hand upon the arm of the peajacket.
“Yes, I have been dragging the Serpentine.”
“In heaven’s name, what for?”
“In search of the body of Lady St. Simon.”
Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and
laughed heartily.
“Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar Square
fountain?” he asked.
“Why? What do you mean?”
“Because you have just as good a chance of finding
this lady in the one as in the other.”
Lestrade shot an angry glance at my companion.
“I suppose you know all about it,” he snarled.
“Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my
mind is made up.”
“Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpentine
plays no part in the matter?”
“I think it very unlikely.”
“Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is
that we found this in it?” He opened his bag as he
spoke, and tumbled onto the floor a wedding-dress of
watered silk, a pair of white satin shoes and a bride’s
wreath and veil, all discoloured and soaked in water.
“There,” said he, putting a new wedding-ring upon
the top of the pile. “There is a little nut for you to
crack, Master Holmes.”
“Oh, indeed!” said my friend, blowing blue rings
into the air. “You dragged them from the Serpentine?”
“No. They were found floating near the margin
by a park-keeper. They have been identified as her
clothes, and it seemed to me that if the clothes were
there the body would not be far off.”
“By the same brilliant reasoning, every man’s body
is to be found in the neighbourhood of his wardrobe.
And pray what did you hope to arrive at through
this?”
“At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the
disappearance.”
“I am afraid that you will find it difficult.”
“Are you, indeed, now?” cried Lestrade with some
bitterness. “I am afraid, Holmes, that you are not very
practical with your deductions and your inferences.
You have made two blunders in as many minutes.
This dress does implicate Miss Flora Millar.”
“And how?”
“In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket is a cardcase. In the card-case is a note. And here is the very
note.” He slapped it down upon the table in front of
him. “Listen to this:
“ ‘You will see me when all is ready.
Come at once.
— “ ‘F.H.M.’
Now my theory all along has been that Lady St.
Simon was decoyed away by Flora Millar, and that
she, with confederates, no doubt, was responsible for
her disappearance. Here, signed with her initials, is
the very note which was no doubt quietly slipped
into her hand at the door and which lured her within
their reach.”
“Very good, Lestrade,” said Holmes, laughing.
“You really are very fine indeed. Let me see it.” He
took up the paper in a listless way, but his attention
instantly became riveted, and he gave a little cry of
satisfaction. “This is indeed important,” said he.
“Ha! you find it so?”
“Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly.”
Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head
to look. “Why,” he shrieked, “you’re looking at the
wrong side!”
“On the contrary, this is the right side.”
“The right side? You’re mad! Here is the note
written in pencil over here.”
“And over here is what appears to be the fragment
of a hotel bill, which interests me deeply.”
“There’s nothing in it. I looked at it before,” said
Lestrade.
“ ‘Oct. 4th, rooms 8s., breakfast 2s. 6d.,
cocktail 1s., lunch 2s. 6d., glass sherry, 8d.’
I see nothing in that.”
“Very likely not. It is most important, all the same.
As to the note, it is important also, or at least the
initials are, so I congratulate you again.”
“I’ve wasted time enough,” said Lestrade, rising.
“I believe in hard work and not in sitting by the fire
spinning fine theories. Good-day, Mr. Holmes, and
we shall see which gets to the bottom of the matter
first.” He gathered up the garments, thrust them into
the bag, and made for the door.
“Just one hint to you, Lestrade,” drawled Holmes
before his rival vanished; “I will tell you the true solution of the matter. Lady St. Simon is a myth. There
is not, and there never has been, any such person.”
Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then he
turned to me, tapped his forehead three times, shook
his head solemnly, and hurried away.
He had hardly shut the door behind him when
Holmes rose to put on his overcoat. “There is something in what the fellow says about outdoor work,”
he remarked, “so I think, Watson, that I must leave
you to your papers for a little.”
It was after five o’clock when Sherlock Holmes left
me, but I had no time to be lonely, for within an hour
there arrived a confectioner’s man with a very large
flat box. This he unpacked with the help of a youth
whom he had brought with him, and presently, to
my very great astonishment, a quite epicurean little
cold supper began to be laid out upon our humble
lodging-house mahogany. There were a couple of
brace of cold woodcock, a pheasant, a pâté de foie gras
pie with a group of ancient and cobwebby bottles.
Having laid out all these luxuries, my two visitors
vanished away, like the genii of the Arabian Nights,
with no explanation save that the things had been
paid for and were ordered to this address.
Just before nine o’clock Sherlock Holmes stepped
briskly into the room. His features were gravely set,
but there was a light in his eye which made me think
that he had not been disappointed in his conclusions.
“They have laid the supper, then,” he said, rubbing
his hands.
“You seem to expect company. They have laid for
five.”
“Yes, I fancy we may have some company dropping in,” said he. “I am surprised that Lord St. Simon
has not already arrived. Ha! I fancy that I hear his
step now upon the stairs.”
It was indeed our visitor of the afternoon who
came bustling in, dangling his glasses more vigorously than ever, and with a very perturbed expression
upon his aristocratic features.
245
The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
“My messenger reached you, then?” asked
Holmes.
“Yes, and I confess that the contents startled me
beyond measure. Have you good authority for what
you say?”
“The best possible.”
Lord St. Simon sank into a chair and passed his
hand over his forehead.
“What will the Duke say,” he murmured, “when
he hears that one of the family has been subjected to
such humiliation?”
“It is the purest accident. I cannot allow that there
is any humiliation.”
“Ah, you look on these things from another standpoint.”
“I fail to see that anyone is to blame. I can hardly
see how the lady could have acted otherwise, though
her abrupt method of doing it was undoubtedly to
be regretted. Having no mother, she had no one to
advise her at such a crisis.”
“It was a slight, sir, a public slight,” said Lord St.
Simon, tapping his fingers upon the table.
“You must make allowance for this poor girl,
placed in so unprecedented a position.”
“I will make no allowance. I am very angry indeed,
and I have been shamefully used.”
“I think that I heard a ring,” said Holmes. “Yes,
there are steps on the landing. If I cannot persuade
you to take a lenient view of the matter, Lord St. Simon, I have brought an advocate here who may be
more successful.” He opened the door and ushered
in a lady and gentleman. “Lord St. Simon,” said he
“allow me to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Francis
Hay Moulton. The lady, I think, you have already
met.”
At the sight of these newcomers our client had
sprung from his seat and stood very erect, with his
eyes cast down and his hand thrust into the breast
of his frock-coat, a picture of offended dignity. The
lady had taken a quick step forward and had held
out her hand to him, but he still refused to raise his
eyes. It was as well for his resolution, perhaps, for her
pleading face was one which it was hard to resist.
“You’re angry, Robert,” said she. “Well, I guess
you have every cause to be.”
“Pray make no apology to me,” said Lord St. Simon bitterly.
“Oh, yes, I know that I have treated you real bad
and that I should have spoken to you before I went;
246
but I was kind of rattled, and from the time when I
saw Frank here again I just didn’t know what I was
doing or saying. I only wonder I didn’t fall down and
do a faint right there before the altar.”
“Perhaps, Mrs. Moulton, you would like my friend
and me to leave the room while you explain this matter?”
“If I may give an opinion,” remarked the strange
gentleman, “we’ve had just a little too much secrecy
over this business already. For my part, I should like
all Europe and America to hear the rights of it.” He
was a small, wiry, sunburnt man, clean-shaven, with
a sharp face and alert manner.
“Then I’ll tell our story right away,” said the lady.
“Frank here and I met in ’84, in McQuire’s camp, near
the Rockies, where pa was working a claim. We were
engaged to each other, Frank and I; but then one day
father struck a rich pocket and made a pile, while
poor Frank here had a claim that petered out and
came to nothing. The richer pa grew the poorer was
Frank; so at last pa wouldn’t hear of our engagement
lasting any longer, and he took me away to ’Frisco.
Frank wouldn’t throw up his hand, though; so he followed me there, and he saw me without pa knowing
anything about it. It would only have made him mad
to know, so we just fixed it all up for ourselves. Frank
said that he would go and make his pile, too, and
never come back to claim me until he had as much
as pa. So then I promised to wait for him to the end
of time and pledged myself not to marry anyone else
while he lived. ‘Why shouldn’t we be married right
away, then,’ said he, ‘and then I will feel sure of you;
and I won’t claim to be your husband until I come
back?’ Well, we talked it over, and he had fixed it all
up so nicely, with a clergyman all ready in waiting,
that we just did it right there; and then Frank went
off to seek his fortune, and I went back to pa.
“The next I heard of Frank was that he was in
Montana, and then he went prospecting in Arizona,
and then I heard of him from New Mexico. After that
came a long newspaper story about how a miners’
camp had been attacked by Apache Indians, and there
was my Frank’s name among the killed. I fainted
dead away, and I was very sick for months after. Pa
thought I had a decline and took me to half the doctors in ’Frisco. Not a word of news came for a year
and more, so that I never doubted that Frank was
really dead. Then Lord St. Simon came to ’Frisco, and
we came to London, and a marriage was arranged,
and pa was very pleased, but I felt all the time that
no man on this earth would ever take the place in my
heart that had been given to my poor Frank.
“Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course
I’d have done my duty by him. We can’t command
our love, but we can our actions. I went to the altar
with him with the intention to make him just as good
a wife as it was in me to be. But you may imagine
what I felt when, just as I came to the altar rails, I
glanced back and saw Frank standing and looking at
me out of the first pew. I thought it was his ghost at
first; but when I looked again there he was still, with
a kind of question in his eyes, as if to ask me whether
I were glad or sorry to see him. I wonder I didn’t
drop. I know that everything was turning round, and
the words of the clergyman were just like the buzz of
a bee in my ear. I didn’t know what to do. Should
I stop the service and make a scene in the church? I
glanced at him again, and he seemed to know what
I was thinking, for he raised his finger to his lips to
tell me to be still. Then I saw him scribble on a piece
of paper, and I knew that he was writing me a note.
As I passed his pew on the way out I dropped my
bouquet over to him, and he slipped the note into my
hand when he returned me the flowers. It was only a
line asking me to join him when he made the sign to
me to do so. Of course I never doubted for a moment
that my first duty was now to him, and I determined
to do just whatever he might direct.
“When I got back I told my maid, who had known
him in California, and had always been his friend. I
ordered her to say nothing, but to get a few things
packed and my ulster ready. I know I ought to have
spoken to Lord St. Simon, but it was dreadful hard
before his mother and all those great people. I just
made up my mind to run away and explain afterwards. I hadn’t been at the table ten minutes before
I saw Frank out of the window at the other side of
the road. He beckoned to me and then began walking
into the Park. I slipped out, put on my things, and
followed him. Some woman came talking something
or other about Lord St. Simon to me—seemed to me
from the little I heard as if he had a little secret of
his own before marriage also—but I managed to get
away from her and soon overtook Frank. We got into
a cab together, and away we drove to some lodgings
he had taken in Gordon Square, and that was my true
wedding after all those years of waiting. Frank had
been a prisoner among the Apaches, had escaped,
came on to ’Frisco, found that I had given him up for
dead and had gone to England, followed me there,
and had come upon me at last on the very morning
of my second wedding.”
“I saw it in a paper,” explained the American. “It
gave the name and the church but not where the lady
lived.”
“Then we had a talk as to what we should do, and
Frank was all for openness, but I was so ashamed
of it all that I felt as if I should like to vanish away
and never see any of them again—just sending a line
to pa, perhaps, to show him that I was alive. It was
awful to me to think of all those lords and ladies sitting round that breakfast-table and waiting for me to
come back. So Frank took my wedding-clothes and
things and made a bundle of them, so that I should
not be traced, and dropped them away somewhere
where no one could find them. It is likely that we
should have gone on to Paris to-morrow, only that
this good gentleman, Mr. Holmes, came round to us
this evening, though how he found us is more than I
can think, and he showed us very clearly and kindly
that I was wrong and that Frank was right, and that
we should be putting ourselves in the wrong if we
were so secret. Then he offered to give us a chance
of talking to Lord St. Simon alone, and so we came
right away round to his rooms at once. Now, Robert,
you have heard it all, and I am very sorry if I have
given you pain, and I hope that you do not think very
meanly of me.”
Lord St. Simon had by no means relaxed his rigid
attitude, but had listened with a frowning brow and
a compressed lip to this long narrative.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but it is not my custom
to discuss my most intimate personal affairs in this
public manner.”
“Then you won’t forgive me? You won’t shake
hands before I go?”
“Oh, certainly, if it would give you any pleasure.”
He put out his hand and coldly grasped that which
she extended to him.
“I had hoped,” suggested Holmes, “that you
would have joined us in a friendly supper.”
“I think that there you ask a little too much,” responded his Lordship. “I may be forced to acquiesce
in these recent developments, but I can hardly be expected to make merry over them. I think that with
your permission I will now wish you all a very goodnight.” He included us all in a sweeping bow and
stalked out of the room.
“Then I trust that you at least will honour me with
your company,” said Sherlock Holmes. “It is always a
joy to meet an American, Mr. Moulton, for I am one
of those who believe that the folly of a monarch and
the blundering of a minister in far-gone years will not
prevent our children from being some day citizens
of the same world-wide country under a flag which
247
The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
shall be a quartering of the Union Jack with the Stars
and Stripes.”
“The case has been an interesting one,” remarked
Holmes when our visitors had left us, “because it
serves to show very clearly how simple the explanation may be of an affair which at first sight seems to be
almost inexplicable. Nothing could be more natural
than the sequence of events as narrated by this lady,
and nothing stranger than the result when viewed,
for instance, by Mr. Lestrade of Scotland Yard.”
“You were not yourself at fault at all, then?”
“From the first, two facts were very obvious to
me, the one that the lady had been quite willing to
undergo the wedding ceremony, the other that she
had repented of it within a few minutes of returning
home. Obviously something had occurred during the
morning, then, to cause her to change her mind. What
could that something be? She could not have spoken
to anyone when she was out, for she had been in the
company of the bridegroom. Had she seen someone,
then? If she had, it must be someone from America
because she had spent so short a time in this country
that she could hardly have allowed anyone to acquire
so deep an influence over her that the mere sight of
him would induce her to change her plans so completely. You see we have already arrived, by a process
of exclusion, at the idea that she might have seen an
American. Then who could this American be, and
why should he possess so much influence over her?
It might be a lover; it might be a husband. Her young
womanhood had, I knew, been spent in rough scenes
and under strange conditions. So far I had got before
I ever heard Lord St. Simon’s narrative. When he told
us of a man in a pew, of the change in the bride’s
manner, of so transparent a device for obtaining a
note as the dropping of a bouquet, of her resort to her
confidential maid, and of her very significant allusion
to claim-jumping—which in miners’ parlance means
taking possession of that which another person has a
prior claim to—the whole situation became absolutely
clear. She had gone off with a man, and the man
248
was either a lover or was a previous husband—the
chances being in favour of the latter.”
“And how in the world did you find them?”
“It might have been difficult, but friend Lestrade
held information in his hands the value of which he
did not himself know. The initials were, of course, of
the highest importance, but more valuable still was it
to know that within a week he had settled his bill at
one of the most select London hotels.”
“How did you deduce the select?”
“By the select prices. Eight shillings for a bed and
eightpence for a glass of sherry pointed to one of the
most expensive hotels. There are not many in London
which charge at that rate. In the second one which I
visited in Northumberland Avenue, I learned by an
inspection of the book that Francis H. Moulton, an
American gentleman, had left only the day before,
and on looking over the entries against him, I came
upon the very items which I had seen in the duplicate
bill. His letters were to be forwarded to 226 Gordon
Square; so thither I travelled, and being fortunate
enough to find the loving couple at home, I ventured
to give them some paternal advice and to point out
to them that it would be better in every way that they
should make their position a little clearer both to the
general public and to Lord St. Simon in particular.
I invited them to meet him here, and, as you see, I
made him keep the appointment.”
“But with no very good result,” I remarked. “His
conduct was certainly not very gracious.”
“Ah, Watson,” said Holmes, smiling, “perhaps
you would not be very gracious either, if, after all the
trouble of wooing and wedding, you found yourself
deprived in an instant of wife and of fortune. I think
that we may judge Lord St. Simon very mercifully
and thank our stars that we are never likely to find
ourselves in the same position. Draw your chair up
and hand me my violin, for the only problem we
have still to solve is how to while away these bleak
autumnal evenings.”
The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
H
olmes,” said I as I stood one morning in
our bow-window looking down the street,
“here is a madman coming along. It seems
rather sad that his relatives should allow
him to come out alone.”
My friend rose lazily from his armchair and stood
with his hands in the pockets of his dressing-gown,
looking over my shoulder. It was a bright, crisp February morning, and the snow of the day before still lay
deep upon the ground, shimmering brightly in the
wintry sun. Down the centre of Baker Street it had
been ploughed into a brown crumbly band by the
traffic, but at either side and on the heaped-up edges
of the foot-paths it still lay as white as when it fell.
The grey pavement had been cleaned and scraped,
but was still dangerously slippery, so that there were
fewer passengers than usual. Indeed, from the direction of the Metropolitan Station no one was coming
save the single gentleman whose eccentric conduct
had drawn my attention.
He was a man of about fifty, tall, portly, and imposing, with a massive, strongly marked face and a
commanding figure. He was dressed in a sombre
yet rich style, in black frock-coat, shining hat, neat
brown gaiters, and well-cut pearl-grey trousers. Yet
his actions were in absurd contrast to the dignity of
his dress and features, for he was running hard, with
occasional little springs, such as a weary man gives
who is little accustomed to set any tax upon his legs.
As he ran he jerked his hands up and down, waggled his head, and writhed his face into the most
extraordinary contortions.
“What on earth can be the matter with him?”
I asked. “He is looking up at the numbers of the
houses.”
“I believe that he is coming here,” said Holmes,
rubbing his hands.
“Here?”
“Yes; I rather think he is coming to consult me
professionally. I think that I recognise the symptoms.
Ha! did I not tell you?” As he spoke, the man, puffing and blowing, rushed at our door and pulled at
our bell until the whole house resounded with the
clanging.
A few moments later he was in our room, still
puffing, still gesticulating, but with so fixed a look
of grief and despair in his eyes that our smiles were
turned in an instant to horror and pity. For a while
he could not get his words out, but swayed his body
and plucked at his hair like one who has been driven
to the extreme limits of his reason. Then, suddenly
springing to his feet, he beat his head against the wall
with such force that we both rushed upon him and
tore him away to the centre of the room. Sherlock
Holmes pushed him down into the easy-chair and,
sitting beside him, patted his hand and chatted with
him in the easy, soothing tones which he knew so well
how to employ.
“You have come to me to tell your story, have you
not?” said he. “You are fatigued with your haste.
Pray wait until you have recovered yourself, and then
I shall be most happy to look into any little problem
which you may submit to me.”
The man sat for a minute or more with a heaving
chest, fighting against his emotion. Then he passed
his handkerchief over his brow, set his lips tight, and
turned his face towards us.
“No doubt you think me mad?” said he.
“I see that you have had some great trouble,” responded Holmes.
“God knows I have!—a trouble which is enough
to unseat my reason, so sudden and so terrible is it.
Public disgrace I might have faced, although I am
a man whose character has never yet borne a stain.
Private affliction also is the lot of every man; but the
two coming together, and in so frightful a form, have
been enough to shake my very soul. Besides, it is
not I alone. The very noblest in the land may suffer
unless some way be found out of this horrible affair.”
“Pray compose yourself, sir,” said Holmes, “and
let me have a clear account of who you are and what
it is that has befallen you.”
“My name,” answered our visitor, “is probably
familiar to your ears. I am Alexander Holder, of the
banking firm of Holder & Stevenson, of Threadneedle
Street.”
The name was indeed well known to us as belonging to the senior partner in the second largest
private banking concern in the City of London. What
could have happened, then, to bring one of the foremost citizens of London to this most pitiable pass?
We waited, all curiosity, until with another effort he
braced himself to tell his story.
“I feel that time is of value,” said he; “that is why
I hastened here when the police inspector suggested
that I should secure your co-operation. I came to
Baker Street by the Underground and hurried from
there on foot, for the cabs go slowly through this snow.
That is why I was so out of breath, for I am a man
who takes very little exercise. I feel better now, and
I will put the facts before you as shortly and yet as
clearly as I can.
251
The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
“It is, of course, well known to you that in a successful banking business as much depends upon our
being able to find remunerative investments for our
funds as upon our increasing our connection and the
number of our depositors. One of our most lucrative means of laying out money is in the shape of
loans, where the security is unimpeachable. We have
done a good deal in this direction during the last few
years, and there are many noble families to whom we
have advanced large sums upon the security of their
pictures, libraries, or plate.
“Yesterday morning I was seated in my office at
the bank when a card was brought in to me by one
of the clerks. I started when I saw the name, for it
was that of none other than—well, perhaps even to
you I had better say no more than that it was a name
which is a household word all over the earth—one of
the highest, noblest, most exalted names in England.
I was overwhelmed by the honour and attempted,
when he entered, to say so, but he plunged at once
into business with the air of a man who wishes to
hurry quickly through a disagreeable task.
“ ‘Mr. Holder,’ said he, ‘I have been informed that
you are in the habit of advancing money.’
“ ‘The firm does so when the security is good.’ I
answered.
“ ‘It is absolutely essential to me,’ said he, ‘that I
should have £50,000 at once. I could, of course, borrow so trifling a sum ten times over from my friends,
but I much prefer to make it a matter of business and
to carry out that business myself. In my position you
can readily understand that it is unwise to place one’s
self under obligations.’
“ ‘For how long, may I ask, do you want this sum?’
I asked.
“ ‘Next Monday I have a large sum due to me, and
I shall then most certainly repay what you advance,
with whatever interest you think it right to charge.
But it is very essential to me that the money should
be paid at once.’
“ ‘I should be happy to advance it without further
parley from my own private purse,’ said I, ‘were it
not that the strain would be rather more than it could
bear. If, on the other hand, I am to do it in the name
of the firm, then in justice to my partner I must insist
that, even in your case, every businesslike precaution
should be taken.’
“ ‘I should much prefer to have it so,’ said he, raising up a square, black morocco case which he had
laid beside his chair. ‘You have doubtless heard of the
Beryl Coronet?’
252
“ ‘One of the most precious public possessions of
the empire,’ said I.
“ ‘Precisely.’ He opened the case, and there, imbedded in soft, flesh-coloured velvet, lay the magnificent
piece of jewellery which he had named. ‘There are
thirty-nine enormous beryls,’ said he, ‘and the price
of the gold chasing is incalculable. The lowest estimate would put the worth of the coronet at double
the sum which I have asked. I am prepared to leave it
with you as my security.’
“I took the precious case into my hands and
looked in some perplexity from it to my illustrious
client.
“ ‘You doubt its value?’ he asked.
“ ‘Not at all. I only doubt—’
“ ‘The propriety of my leaving it. You may set
your mind at rest about that. I should not dream of
doing so were it not absolutely certain that I should
be able in four days to reclaim it. It is a pure matter
of form. Is the security sufficient?’
“ ‘Ample.’
“ ‘You understand, Mr. Holder, that I am giving
you a strong proof of the confidence which I have in
you, founded upon all that I have heard of you. I rely
upon you not only to be discreet and to refrain from
all gossip upon the matter but, above all, to preserve
this coronet with every possible precaution because
I need not say that a great public scandal would be
caused if any harm were to befall it. Any injury to it
would be almost as serious as its complete loss, for
there are no beryls in the world to match these, and it
would be impossible to replace them. I leave it with
you, however, with every confidence, and I shall call
for it in person on Monday morning.’
“Seeing that my client was anxious to leave, I said
no more but, calling for my cashier, I ordered him to
pay over fifty £1000 notes. When I was alone once
more, however, with the precious case lying upon
the table in front of me, I could not but think with
some misgivings of the immense responsibility which
it entailed upon me. There could be no doubt that, as
it was a national possession, a horrible scandal would
ensue if any misfortune should occur to it. I already
regretted having ever consented to take charge of it.
However, it was too late to alter the matter now, so I
locked it up in my private safe and turned once more
to my work.
“When evening came I felt that it would be an
imprudence to leave so precious a thing in the office
behind me. Bankers’ safes had been forced before
now, and why should not mine be? If so, how terrible
would be the position in which I should find myself!
I determined, therefore, that for the next few days I
would always carry the case backward and forward
with me, so that it might never be really out of my
reach. With this intention, I called a cab and drove out
to my house at Streatham, carrying the jewel with me.
I did not breathe freely until I had taken it upstairs
and locked it in the bureau of my dressing-room.
“And now a word as to my household, Mr.
Holmes, for I wish you to thoroughly understand
the situation. My groom and my page sleep out of the
house, and may be set aside altogether. I have three
maid-servants who have been with me a number of
years and whose absolute reliability is quite above suspicion. Another, Lucy Parr, the second waiting-maid,
has only been in my service a few months. She came
with an excellent character, however, and has always
given me satisfaction. She is a very pretty girl and has
attracted admirers who have occasionally hung about
the place. That is the only drawback which we have
found to her, but we believe her to be a thoroughly
good girl in every way.
“So much for the servants. My family itself is so
small that it will not take me long to describe it. I am
a widower and have an only son, Arthur. He has been
a disappointment to me, Mr. Holmes—a grievous disappointment. I have no doubt that I am myself to
blame. People tell me that I have spoiled him. Very
likely I have. When my dear wife died I felt that he
was all I had to love. I could not bear to see the smile
fade even for a moment from his face. I have never
denied him a wish. Perhaps it would have been better
for both of us had I been sterner, but I meant it for
the best.
“It was naturally my intention that he should succeed me in my business, but he was not of a business
turn. He was wild, wayward, and, to speak the truth,
I could not trust him in the handling of large sums of
money. When he was young he became a member of
an aristocratic club, and there, having charming manners, he was soon the intimate of a number of men
with long purses and expensive habits. He learned
to play heavily at cards and to squander money on
the turf, until he had again and again to come to me
and implore me to give him an advance upon his allowance, that he might settle his debts of honour. He
tried more than once to break away from the dangerous company which he was keeping, but each time
the influence of his friend, Sir George Burnwell, was
enough to draw him back again.
“And, indeed, I could not wonder that such a man
as Sir George Burnwell should gain an influence over
him, for he has frequently brought him to my house,
and I have found myself that I could hardly resist the
fascination of his manner. He is older than Arthur, a
man of the world to his finger-tips, one who had been
everywhere, seen everything, a brilliant talker, and
a man of great personal beauty. Yet when I think of
him in cold blood, far away from the glamour of his
presence, I am convinced from his cynical speech and
the look which I have caught in his eyes that he is one
who should be deeply distrusted. So I think, and so,
too, thinks my little Mary, who has a woman’s quick
insight into character.
“And now there is only she to be described. She
is my niece; but when my brother died five years ago
and left her alone in the world I adopted her, and
have looked upon her ever since as my daughter. She
is a sunbeam in my house—sweet, loving, beautiful,
a wonderful manager and housekeeper, yet as tender
and quiet and gentle as a woman could be. She is my
right hand. I do not know what I could do without
her. In only one matter has she ever gone against my
wishes. Twice my boy has asked her to marry him, for
he loves her devotedly, but each time she has refused
him. I think that if anyone could have drawn him into
the right path it would have been she, and that his
marriage might have changed his whole life; but now,
alas! it is too late—forever too late!
“Now, Mr. Holmes, you know the people who
live under my roof, and I shall continue with my
miserable story.
“When we were taking coffee in the drawing-room
that night after dinner, I told Arthur and Mary my
experience, and of the precious treasure which we
had under our roof, suppressing only the name of
my client. Lucy Parr, who had brought in the coffee,
had, I am sure, left the room; but I cannot swear that
the door was closed. Mary and Arthur were much
interested and wished to see the famous coronet, but
I thought it better not to disturb it.
“ ‘Where have you put it?’ asked Arthur.
“ ‘In my own bureau.’
“ ‘Well, I hope to goodness the house won’t be
burgled during the night.’ said he.
“ ‘It is locked up,’ I answered.
“ ‘Oh, any old key will fit that bureau. When I was
a youngster I have opened it myself with the key of
the box-room cupboard.’
“He often had a wild way of talking, so that I
thought little of what he said. He followed me to my
room, however, that night with a very grave face.
“ ‘Look here, dad,’ said he with his eyes cast down,
‘can you let me have £200?’
253
The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
“ ‘No, I cannot!’ I answered sharply. ‘I have been
far too generous with you in money matters.’
“ ‘You have been very kind,’ said he, ‘but I must
have this money, or else I can never show my face
inside the club again.’
“ ‘And a very good thing, too!’ I cried.
“ ‘Yes, but you would not have me leave it a dishonoured man,’ said he. ‘I could not bear the disgrace.
I must raise the money in some way, and if you will
not let me have it, then I must try other means.’
“I was very angry, for this was the third demand
during the month. ‘You shall not have a farthing from
me,’ I cried, on which he bowed and left the room
without another word.
“When he was gone I unlocked my bureau, made
sure that my treasure was safe, and locked it again.
Then I started to go round the house to see that all
was secure—a duty which I usually leave to Mary
but which I thought it well to perform myself that
night. As I came down the stairs I saw Mary herself
at the side window of the hall, which she closed and
fastened as I approached.
“ ‘Tell me, dad,’ said she, looking, I thought, a
little disturbed, ‘did you give Lucy, the maid, leave to
go out to-night?’
“ ‘Certainly not.’
“ ‘She came in just now by the back door. I have
no doubt that she has only been to the side gate to see
someone, but I think that it is hardly safe and should
be stopped.’
“ ‘You must speak to her in the morning, or I will
if you prefer it. Are you sure that everything is fastened?’
“ ‘Quite sure, dad.’
“ ‘Then, good-night.’ I kissed her and went up to
my bedroom again, where I was soon asleep.
“I am endeavouring to tell you everything, Mr.
Holmes, which may have any bearing upon the case,
but I beg that you will question me upon any point
which I do not make clear.”
“On the contrary, your statement is singularly lucid.”
“I come to a part of my story now in which I
should wish to be particularly so. I am not a very
heavy sleeper, and the anxiety in my mind tended, no
doubt, to make me even less so than usual. About two
in the morning, then, I was awakened by some sound
in the house. It had ceased ere I was wide awake,
but it had left an impression behind it as though a
254
window had gently closed somewhere. I lay listening
with all my ears. Suddenly, to my horror, there was a
distinct sound of footsteps moving softly in the next
room. I slipped out of bed, all palpitating with fear,
and peeped round the corner of my dressing-room
door.
“ ‘Arthur!’ I screamed, ‘you villain! you thief!
How dare you touch that coronet?’
“The gas was half up, as I had left it, and my unhappy boy, dressed only in his shirt and trousers, was
standing beside the light, holding the coronet in his
hands. He appeared to be wrenching at it, or bending
it with all his strength. At my cry he dropped it from
his grasp and turned as pale as death. I snatched it
up and examined it. One of the gold corners, with
three of the beryls in it, was missing.
“ ‘You blackguard!’ I shouted, beside myself with
rage. ‘You have destroyed it! You have dishonoured
me forever! Where are the jewels which you have
stolen?’
“ ‘Stolen!’ he cried.
“ ‘Yes, thief!’ I roared, shaking him by the shoulder.
“ ‘There are none missing. There cannot be any
missing,’ said he.
“ ‘There are three missing. And you know where
they are. Must I call you a liar as well as a thief? Did
I not see you trying to tear off another piece?’
“ ‘You have called me names enough,’ said he, ‘I
will not stand it any longer. I shall not say another
word about this business, since you have chosen to
insult me. I will leave your house in the morning and
make my own way in the world.’
“ ‘You shall leave it in the hands of the police!’ I
cried half-mad with grief and rage. ‘I shall have this
matter probed to the bottom.’
“ ‘You shall learn nothing from me,’ said he with a
passion such as I should not have thought was in his
nature. ‘If you choose to call the police, let the police
find what they can.’
“By this time the whole house was astir, for I had
raised my voice in my anger. Mary was the first to
rush into my room, and, at the sight of the coronet
and of Arthur’s face, she read the whole story and,
with a scream, fell down senseless on the ground. I
sent the house-maid for the police and put the investigation into their hands at once. When the inspector and a constable entered the house, Arthur, who
had stood sullenly with his arms folded, asked me
whether it was my intention to charge him with theft.
I answered that it had ceased to be a private matter,
but had become a public one, since the ruined coronet
was national property. I was determined that the law
should have its way in everything.
“ ‘At least,’ said he, ‘you will not have me arrested
at once. It would be to your advantage as well as
mine if I might leave the house for five minutes.’
“ ‘That you may get away, or perhaps that you
may conceal what you have stolen,’ said I. And then,
realising the dreadful position in which I was placed,
I implored him to remember that not only my honour
but that of one who was far greater than I was at
stake; and that he threatened to raise a scandal which
would convulse the nation. He might avert it all if he
would but tell me what he had done with the three
missing stones.
“ ‘You may as well face the matter,’ said I; ‘you
have been caught in the act, and no confession could
make your guilt more heinous. If you but make such
reparation as is in your power, by telling us where the
beryls are, all shall be forgiven and forgotten.’
“ ‘Keep your forgiveness for those who ask for it,’
he answered, turning away from me with a sneer. I
saw that he was too hardened for any words of mine
to influence him. There was but one way for it. I
called in the inspector and gave him into custody. A
search was made at once not only of his person but
of his room and of every portion of the house where
he could possibly have concealed the gems; but no
trace of them could be found, nor would the wretched
boy open his mouth for all our persuasions and our
threats. This morning he was removed to a cell, and
I, after going through all the police formalities, have
hurried round to you to implore you to use your skill
in unravelling the matter. The police have openly confessed that they can at present make nothing of it. You
may go to any expense which you think necessary.
I have already offered a reward of £1000. My God,
what shall I do! I have lost my honour, my gems, and
my son in one night. Oh, what shall I do!”
He put a hand on either side of his head and
rocked himself to and fro, droning to himself like a
child whose grief has got beyond words.
Sherlock Holmes sat silent for some few minutes,
with his brows knitted and his eyes fixed upon the
fire.
“Do you receive much company?” he asked.
“None save my partner with his family and an
occasional friend of Arthur’s. Sir George Burnwell
has been several times lately. No one else, I think.”
“Do you go out much in society?”
“Arthur does. Mary and I stay at home. We neither of us care for it.”
“That is unusual in a young girl.”
“She is of a quiet nature. Besides, she is not so
very young. She is four-and-twenty.”
“This matter, from what you say, seems to have
been a shock to her also.”
“Terrible! She is even more affected than I.”
“You have neither of you any doubt as to your
son’s guilt?”
“How can we have when I saw him with my own
eyes with the coronet in his hands.”
“I hardly consider that a conclusive proof. Was
the remainder of the coronet at all injured?”
“Yes, it was twisted.”
“Do you not think, then, that he might have been
trying to straighten it?”
“God bless you! You are doing what you can for
him and for me. But it is too heavy a task. What was
he doing there at all? If his purpose were innocent,
why did he not say so?”
“Precisely. And if it were guilty, why did he not
invent a lie? His silence appears to me to cut both
ways. There are several singular points about the case.
What did the police think of the noise which awoke
you from your sleep?”
“They considered that it might be caused by
Arthur’s closing his bedroom door.”
“A likely story! As if a man bent on felony would
slam his door so as to wake a household. What did
they say, then, of the disappearance of these gems?”
“They are still sounding the planking and probing
the furniture in the hope of finding them.”
“Have they thought of looking outside the house?”
“Yes, they have shown extraordinary energy. The
whole garden has already been minutely examined.”
“Now, my dear sir,” said Holmes. “is it not obvious to you now that this matter really strikes very
much deeper than either you or the police were at first
inclined to think? It appeared to you to be a simple
case; to me it seems exceedingly complex. Consider
what is involved by your theory. You suppose that
your son came down from his bed, went, at great risk,
to your dressing-room, opened your bureau, took out
your coronet, broke off by main force a small portion
of it, went off to some other place, concealed three
gems out of the thirty-nine, with such skill that nobody can find them, and then returned with the other
thirty-six into the room in which he exposed himself
to the greatest danger of being discovered. I ask you
now, is such a theory tenable?”
255
The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
“But what other is there?” cried the banker with
a gesture of despair. “If his motives were innocent,
why does he not explain them?”
immense capacity for self-restraint. Disregarding my
presence, she went straight to her uncle and passed
her hand over his head with a sweet womanly caress.
“It is our task to find that out,” replied Holmes;
“so now, if you please, Mr. Holder, we will set off for
Streatham together, and devote an hour to glancing a
little more closely into details.”
“You have given orders that Arthur should be
liberated, have you not, dad?” she asked.
My friend insisted upon my accompanying them
in their expedition, which I was eager enough to do,
for my curiosity and sympathy were deeply stirred
by the story to which we had listened. I confess that
the guilt of the banker’s son appeared to me to be as
obvious as it did to his unhappy father, but still I had
such faith in Holmes’ judgment that I felt that there
must be some grounds for hope as long as he was
dissatisfied with the accepted explanation. He hardly
spoke a word the whole way out to the southern suburb, but sat with his chin upon his breast and his
hat drawn over his eyes, sunk in the deepest thought.
Our client appeared to have taken fresh heart at the
little glimpse of hope which had been presented to
him, and he even broke into a desultory chat with me
over his business affairs. A short railway journey and
a shorter walk brought us to Fairbank, the modest
residence of the great financier.
“But I am so sure that he is innocent. You know
what woman’s instincts are. I know that he has done
no harm and that you will be sorry for having acted
so harshly.”
Fairbank was a good-sized square house of white
stone, standing back a little from the road. A double carriage-sweep, with a snow-clad lawn, stretched
down in front to two large iron gates which closed
the entrance. On the right side was a small wooden
thicket, which led into a narrow path between two
neat hedges stretching from the road to the kitchen
door, and forming the tradesmen’s entrance. On the
left ran a lane which led to the stables, and was not
itself within the grounds at all, being a public, though
little used, thoroughfare. Holmes left us standing
at the door and walked slowly all round the house,
across the front, down the tradesmen’s path, and
so round by the garden behind into the stable lane.
So long was he that Mr. Holder and I went into the
dining-room and waited by the fire until he should
return. We were sitting there in silence when the door
opened and a young lady came in. She was rather
above the middle height, slim, with dark hair and
eyes, which seemed the darker against the absolute
pallor of her skin. I do not think that I have ever seen
such deadly paleness in a woman’s face. Her lips, too,
were bloodless, but her eyes were flushed with crying.
As she swept silently into the room she impressed me
with a greater sense of grief than the banker had done
in the morning, and it was the more striking in her as
she was evidently a woman of strong character, with
256
“No, no, my girl, the matter must be probed to
the bottom.”
“Why is he silent, then, if he is innocent?”
“Who knows? Perhaps because he was so angry
that you should suspect him.”
“How could I help suspecting him, when I actually
saw him with the coronet in his hand?”
“Oh, but he had only picked it up to look at it. Oh,
do, do take my word for it that he is innocent. Let
the matter drop and say no more. It is so dreadful to
think of our dear Arthur in a prison!”
“I shall never let it drop until the gems are
found—never, Mary! Your affection for Arthur blinds
you as to the awful consequences to me. Far from
hushing the thing up, I have brought a gentleman
down from London to inquire more deeply into it.”
“This gentleman?” she asked, facing round to me.
“No, his friend. He wished us to leave him alone.
He is round in the stable lane now.”
“The stable lane?” She raised her dark eyebrows.
“What can he hope to find there? Ah! this, I suppose,
is he. I trust, sir, that you will succeed in proving,
what I feel sure is the truth, that my cousin Arthur is
innocent of this crime.”
“I fully share your opinion, and I trust, with you,
that we may prove it,” returned Holmes, going back to
the mat to knock the snow from his shoes. “I believe
I have the honour of addressing Miss Mary Holder.
Might I ask you a question or two?”
“Pray do, sir, if it may help to clear this horrible
affair up.”
“You heard nothing yourself last night?”
“Nothing, until my uncle here began to speak
loudly. I heard that, and I came down.”
“You shut up the windows and doors the night
before. Did you fasten all the windows?”
“Yes.”
“Were they all fastened this morning?”
“Yes.”
“You have a maid who has a sweetheart? I think
that you remarked to your uncle last night that she
had been out to see him?”
“Yes, and she was the girl who waited in the
drawing-room, and who may have heard uncle’s remarks about the coronet.”
“I see. You infer that she may have gone out to tell
her sweetheart, and that the two may have planned
the robbery.”
“But what is the good of all these vague theories,”
cried the banker impatiently, “when I have told you
that I saw Arthur with the coronet in his hands?”
“Wait a little, Mr. Holder. We must come back to
that. About this girl, Miss Holder. You saw her return
by the kitchen door, I presume?”
“Yes; when I went to see if the door was fastened
for the night I met her slipping in. I saw the man, too,
in the gloom.”
“Do you know him?”
“Oh, yes! he is the green-grocer who brings our
vegetables round. His name is Francis Prosper.”
“He stood,” said Holmes, “to the left of the
door—that is to say, farther up the path than is necessary to reach the door?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And he is a man with a wooden leg?”
Something like fear sprang up in the young lady’s
expressive black eyes. “Why, you are like a magician,”
said she. “How do you know that?” She smiled, but
there was no answering smile in Holmes’ thin, eager
face.
“I should be very glad now to go upstairs,” said
he. “I shall probably wish to go over the outside of
the house again. Perhaps I had better take a look at
the lower windows before I go up.”
He walked swiftly round from one to the other,
pausing only at the large one which looked from the
hall onto the stable lane. This he opened and made a
very careful examination of the sill with his powerful
magnifying lens. “Now we shall go upstairs,” said he
at last.
The banker’s dressing-room was a plainly furnished little chamber, with a grey carpet, a large bureau, and a long mirror. Holmes went to the bureau
first and looked hard at the lock.
“Which key was used to open it?” he asked.
“That which my son himself indicated—that of
the cupboard of the lumber-room.”
“Have you it here?”
“That is it on the dressing-table.”
Sherlock Holmes took it up and opened the bureau.
“It is a noiseless lock,” said he. “It is no wonder
that it did not wake you. This case, I presume, contains the coronet. We must have a look at it.” He
opened the case, and taking out the diadem he laid it
upon the table. It was a magnificent specimen of the
jeweller’s art, and the thirty-six stones were the finest
that I have ever seen. At one side of the coronet was
a cracked edge, where a corner holding three gems
had been torn away.
“Now, Mr. Holder,” said Holmes, “here is the corner which corresponds to that which has been so
unfortunately lost. Might I beg that you will break it
off.”
The banker recoiled in horror. “I should not dream
of trying,” said he.
“Then I will.” Holmes suddenly bent his strength
upon it, but without result. “I feel it give a little,”
said he; “but, though I am exceptionally strong in
the fingers, it would take me all my time to break
it. An ordinary man could not do it. Now, what do
you think would happen if I did break it, Mr. Holder?
There would be a noise like a pistol shot. Do you tell
me that all this happened within a few yards of your
bed and that you heard nothing of it?”
“I do not know what to think. It is all dark to me.”
“But perhaps it may grow lighter as we go. What
do you think, Miss Holder?”
“I confess that I still share my uncle’s perplexity.”
“Your son had no shoes or slippers on when you
saw him?”
“He had nothing on save only his trousers and
shirt.”
“Thank you. We have certainly been favoured with
extraordinary luck during this inquiry, and it will be
entirely our own fault if we do not succeed in clearing
the matter up. With your permission, Mr. Holder, I
shall now continue my investigations outside.”
He went alone, at his own request, for he explained that any unnecessary footmarks might make
his task more difficult. For an hour or more he was at
work, returning at last with his feet heavy with snow
and his features as inscrutable as ever.
“I think that I have seen now all that there is to
see, Mr. Holder,” said he; “I can serve you best by
returning to my rooms.”
“But the gems, Mr. Holmes. Where are they?”
“I cannot tell.”
257
The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
The banker wrung his hands. “I shall never see
them again!” he cried. “And my son? You give me
hopes?”
“My opinion is in no way altered.”
“Then, for God’s sake, what was this dark business which was acted in my house last night?”
“If you can call upon me at my Baker Street rooms
to-morrow morning between nine and ten I shall be
happy to do what I can to make it clearer. I understand that you give me carte blanche to act for you,
provided only that I get back the gems, and that you
place no limit on the sum I may draw.”
“I would give my fortune to have them back.”
“Very good. I shall look into the matter between
this and then. Good-bye; it is just possible that I may
have to come over here again before evening.”
It was obvious to me that my companion’s mind
was now made up about the case, although what his
conclusions were was more than I could even dimly
imagine. Several times during our homeward journey
I endeavoured to sound him upon the point, but he
always glided away to some other topic, until at last I
gave it over in despair. It was not yet three when we
found ourselves in our rooms once more. He hurried
to his chamber and was down again in a few minutes
dressed as a common loafer. With his collar turned
up, his shiny, seedy coat, his red cravat, and his worn
boots, he was a perfect sample of the class.
“I think that this should do,” said he, glancing
into the glass above the fireplace. “I only wish that
you could come with me, Watson, but I fear that it
won’t do. I may be on the trail in this matter, or I
may be following a will-o’-the-wisp, but I shall soon
know which it is. I hope that I may be back in a few
hours.” He cut a slice of beef from the joint upon
the sideboard, sandwiched it between two rounds of
bread, and thrusting this rude meal into his pocket
he started off upon his expedition.
I had just finished my tea when he returned, evidently in excellent spirits, swinging an old elasticsided boot in his hand. He chucked it down into a
corner and helped himself to a cup of tea.
“I only looked in as I passed,” said he. “I am
going right on.”
“Where to?”
“Oh, to the other side of the West End. It may be
some time before I get back. Don’t wait up for me in
case I should be late.”
“How are you getting on?”
258
“Oh, so so. Nothing to complain of. I have been
out to Streatham since I saw you last, but I did not call
at the house. It is a very sweet little problem, and I
would not have missed it for a good deal. However, I
must not sit gossiping here, but must get these disreputable clothes off and return to my highly respectable
self.”
I could see by his manner that he had stronger
reasons for satisfaction than his words alone would
imply. His eyes twinkled, and there was even a touch
of colour upon his sallow cheeks. He hastened upstairs, and a few minutes later I heard the slam of the
hall door, which told me that he was off once more
upon his congenial hunt.
I waited until midnight, but there was no sign of
his return, so I retired to my room. It was no uncommon thing for him to be away for days and nights on
end when he was hot upon a scent, so that his lateness
caused me no surprise. I do not know at what hour
he came in, but when I came down to breakfast in
the morning there he was with a cup of coffee in one
hand and the paper in the other, as fresh and trim as
possible.
“You will excuse my beginning without you, Watson,” said he, “but you remember that our client has
rather an early appointment this morning.”
“Why, it is after nine now,” I answered. “I should
not be surprised if that were he. I thought I heard a
ring.”
It was, indeed, our friend the financier. I was
shocked by the change which had come over him, for
his face which was naturally of a broad and massive
mould, was now pinched and fallen in, while his hair
seemed to me at least a shade whiter. He entered
with a weariness and lethargy which was even more
painful than his violence of the morning before, and
he dropped heavily into the armchair which I pushed
forward for him.
“I do not know what I have done to be so severely
tried,” said he. “Only two days ago I was a happy
and prosperous man, without a care in the world.
Now I am left to a lonely and dishonoured age. One
sorrow comes close upon the heels of another. My
niece, Mary, has deserted me.”
“Deserted you?”
“Yes. Her bed this morning had not been slept in,
her room was empty, and a note for me lay upon the
hall table. I had said to her last night, in sorrow and
not in anger, that if she had married my boy all might
have been well with him. Perhaps it was thoughtless
of me to say so. It is to that remark that she refers in
this note:
“ ‘My dearest Uncle:
“ ‘I feel that I have brought trouble upon
you, and that if I had acted differently
this terrible misfortune might never have
occurred. I cannot, with this thought in
my mind, ever again be happy under your
roof, and I feel that I must leave you forever. Do not worry about my future, for
that is provided for; and, above all, do not
search for me, for it will be fruitless labour
and an ill-service to me. In life or in death,
I am ever
— “ ‘Your loving
“ ‘Mary.’
“What could she mean by that note, Mr. Holmes?
Do you think it points to suicide?”
“No, no, nothing of the kind. It is perhaps the
best possible solution. I trust, Mr. Holder, that you
are nearing the end of your troubles.”
“Ha! You say so! You have heard something, Mr.
Holmes; you have learned something! Where are the
gems?”
“You would not think £1000 pounds apiece an
excessive sum for them?”
“I would pay ten.”
“That would be unnecessary. Three thousand will
cover the matter. And there is a little reward, I fancy.
Have you your check-book? Here is a pen. Better
make it out for £4000.”
With a dazed face the banker made out the required check. Holmes walked over to his desk, took
out a little triangular piece of gold with three gems in
it, and threw it down upon the table.
With a shriek of joy our client clutched it up.
“You have it!” he gasped. “I am saved! I am
saved!”
The reaction of joy was as passionate as his grief
had been, and he hugged his recovered gems to his
bosom.
“There is one other thing you owe, Mr. Holder,”
said Sherlock Holmes rather sternly.
“Owe!” He caught up a pen. “Name the sum, and
I will pay it.”
“No, the debt is not to me. You owe a very humble
apology to that noble lad, your son, who has carried
himself in this matter as I should be proud to see my
own son do, should I ever chance to have one.”
“Then it was not Arthur who took them?”
“I told you yesterday, and I repeat to-day, that it
was not.”
“You are sure of it! Then let us hurry to him at
once to let him know that the truth is known.”
“He knows it already. When I had cleared it all
up I had an interview with him, and finding that he
would not tell me the story, I told it to him, on which
he had to confess that I was right and to add the very
few details which were not yet quite clear to me. Your
news of this morning, however, may open his lips.”
“For heaven’s sake, tell me, then, what is this extraordinary mystery!”
“I will do so, and I will show you the steps by
which I reached it. And let me say to you, first, that
which it is hardest for me to say and for you to hear:
there has been an understanding between Sir George
Burnwell and your niece Mary. They have now fled
together.”
“My Mary? Impossible!”
“It is unfortunately more than possible; it is certain. Neither you nor your son knew the true character of this man when you admitted him into your
family circle. He is one of the most dangerous men in
England—a ruined gambler, an absolutely desperate
villain, a man without heart or conscience. Your niece
knew nothing of such men. When he breathed his
vows to her, as he had done to a hundred before her,
she flattered herself that she alone had touched his
heart. The devil knows best what he said, but at least
she became his tool and was in the habit of seeing
him nearly every evening.”
“I cannot, and I will not, believe it!” cried the
banker with an ashen face.
“I will tell you, then, what occurred in your house
last night. Your niece, when you had, as she thought,
gone to your room, slipped down and talked to her
lover through the window which leads into the stable
lane. His footmarks had pressed right through the
snow, so long had he stood there. She told him of
the coronet. His wicked lust for gold kindled at the
news, and he bent her to his will. I have no doubt
that she loved you, but there are women in whom
the love of a lover extinguishes all other loves, and I
think that she must have been one. She had hardly
listened to his instructions when she saw you coming
downstairs, on which she closed the window rapidly
and told you about one of the servants’ escapade with
her wooden-legged lover, which was all perfectly true.
259
The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
“Your boy, Arthur, went to bed after his interview
with you but he slept badly on account of his uneasiness about his club debts. In the middle of the
night he heard a soft tread pass his door, so he rose
and, looking out, was surprised to see his cousin
walking very stealthily along the passage until she
disappeared into your dressing-room. Petrified with
astonishment, the lad slipped on some clothes and
waited there in the dark to see what would come of
this strange affair. Presently she emerged from the
room again, and in the light of the passage-lamp your
son saw that she carried the precious coronet in her
hands. She passed down the stairs, and he, thrilling
with horror, ran along and slipped behind the curtain
near your door, whence he could see what passed in
the hall beneath. He saw her stealthily open the window, hand out the coronet to someone in the gloom,
and then closing it once more hurry back to her room,
passing quite close to where he stood hid behind the
curtain.
“As long as she was on the scene he could not take
any action without a horrible exposure of the woman
whom he loved. But the instant that she was gone he
realised how crushing a misfortune this would be for
you, and how all-important it was to set it right. He
rushed down, just as he was, in his bare feet, opened
the window, sprang out into the snow, and ran down
the lane, where he could see a dark figure in the
moonlight. Sir George Burnwell tried to get away, but
Arthur caught him, and there was a struggle between
them, your lad tugging at one side of the coronet, and
his opponent at the other. In the scuffle, your son
struck Sir George and cut him over the eye. Then
something suddenly snapped, and your son, finding
that he had the coronet in his hands, rushed back,
closed the window, ascended to your room, and had
just observed that the coronet had been twisted in the
struggle and was endeavouring to straighten it when
you appeared upon the scene.”
“Is it possible?” gasped the banker.
“You then roused his anger by calling him names
at a moment when he felt that he had deserved your
warmest thanks. He could not explain the true state of
affairs without betraying one who certainly deserved
little enough consideration at his hands. He took the
more chivalrous view, however, and preserved her
secret.”
“And that was why she shrieked and fainted when
she saw the coronet,” cried Mr. Holder. “Oh, my God!
what a blind fool I have been! And his asking to be
allowed to go out for five minutes! The dear fellow
260
wanted to see if the missing piece were at the scene
of the struggle. How cruelly I have misjudged him!”
“When I arrived at the house,” continued Holmes,
“I at once went very carefully round it to observe if
there were any traces in the snow which might help
me. I knew that none had fallen since the evening
before, and also that there had been a strong frost to
preserve impressions. I passed along the tradesmen’s
path, but found it all trampled down and indistinguishable. Just beyond it, however, at the far side
of the kitchen door, a woman had stood and talked
with a man, whose round impressions on one side
showed that he had a wooden leg. I could even tell
that they had been disturbed, for the woman had run
back swiftly to the door, as was shown by the deep toe
and light heel marks, while Wooden-leg had waited a
little, and then had gone away. I thought at the time
that this might be the maid and her sweetheart, of
whom you had already spoken to me, and inquiry
showed it was so. I passed round the garden without
seeing anything more than random tracks, which I
took to be the police; but when I got into the stable
lane a very long and complex story was written in the
snow in front of me.
“There was a double line of tracks of a booted
man, and a second double line which I saw with delight belonged to a man with naked feet. I was at once
convinced from what you had told me that the latter
was your son. The first had walked both ways, but the
other had run swiftly, and as his tread was marked in
places over the depression of the boot, it was obvious
that he had passed after the other. I followed them up
and found they led to the hall window, where Boots
had worn all the snow away while waiting. Then I
walked to the other end, which was a hundred yards
or more down the lane. I saw where Boots had faced
round, where the snow was cut up as though there
had been a struggle, and, finally, where a few drops of
blood had fallen, to show me that I was not mistaken.
Boots had then run down the lane, and another little
smudge of blood showed that it was he who had been
hurt. When he came to the highroad at the other end,
I found that the pavement had been cleared, so there
was an end to that clue.
“On entering the house, however, I examined, as
you remember, the sill and framework of the hall
window with my lens, and I could at once see that
someone had passed out. I could distinguish the outline of an instep where the wet foot had been placed
in coming in. I was then beginning to be able to form
an opinion as to what had occurred. A man had
waited outside the window; someone had brought
the gems; the deed had been overseen by your son; he
had pursued the thief; had struggled with him; they
had each tugged at the coronet, their united strength
causing injuries which neither alone could have effected. He had returned with the prize, but had left a
fragment in the grasp of his opponent. So far I was
clear. The question now was, who was the man and
who was it brought him the coronet?
“It is an old maxim of mine that when you have
excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however
improbable, must be the truth. Now, I knew that it
was not you who had brought it down, so there only
remained your niece and the maids. But if it were
the maids, why should your son allow himself to be
accused in their place? There could be no possible
reason. As he loved his cousin, however, there was
an excellent explanation why he should retain her
secret—the more so as the secret was a disgraceful
one. When I remembered that you had seen her at
that window, and how she had fainted on seeing the
coronet again, my conjecture became a certainty.
“And who could it be who was her confederate?
A lover evidently, for who else could outweigh the
love and gratitude which she must feel to you? I
knew that you went out little, and that your circle of
friends was a very limited one. But among them was
Sir George Burnwell. I had heard of him before as
being a man of evil reputation among women. It must
have been he who wore those boots and retained the
missing gems. Even though he knew that Arthur had
discovered him, he might still flatter himself that he
was safe, for the lad could not say a word without
compromising his own family.
“Well, your own good sense will suggest what
measures I took next. I went in the shape of a loafer
to Sir George’s house, managed to pick up an acquaintance with his valet, learned that his master had cut
his head the night before, and, finally, at the expense
of six shillings, made all sure by buying a pair of
his cast-off shoes. With these I journeyed down to
Streatham and saw that they exactly fitted the tracks.”
“I saw an ill-dressed vagabond in the lane yesterday evening,” said Mr. Holder.
“Precisely. It was I. I found that I had my man,
so I came home and changed my clothes. It was a
delicate part which I had to play then, for I saw that
a prosecution must be avoided to avert scandal, and I
knew that so astute a villain would see that our hands
were tied in the matter. I went and saw him. At first,
of course, he denied everything. But when I gave him
every particular that had occurred, he tried to bluster
and took down a life-preserver from the wall. I knew
my man, however, and I clapped a pistol to his head
before he could strike. Then he became a little more
reasonable. I told him that we would give him a price
for the stones he held—£1000 apiece. That brought
out the first signs of grief that he had shown. ‘Why,
dash it all!’ said he, ‘I’ve let them go at six hundred
for the three!’ I soon managed to get the address of
the receiver who had them, on promising him that
there would be no prosecution. Off I set to him, and
after much chaffering I got our stones at 1000 pounds
apiece. Then I looked in upon your son, told him
that all was right, and eventually got to my bed about
two o’clock, after what I may call a really hard day’s
work.”
“A day which has saved England from a great
public scandal,” said the banker, rising. “Sir, I cannot
find words to thank you, but you shall not find me
ungrateful for what you have done. Your skill has
indeed exceeded all that I have heard of it. And now
I must fly to my dear boy to apologise to him for the
wrong which I have done him. As to what you tell
me of poor Mary, it goes to my very heart. Not even
your skill can inform me where she is now.”
“I think that we may safely say,” returned Holmes,
“that she is wherever Sir George Burnwell is. It is
equally certain, too, that whatever her sins are, they
will soon receive a more than sufficient punishment.”
261
The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
T
o the man who loves art for its own sake,”
remarked Sherlock Holmes, tossing aside
the advertisement sheet of the Daily Telegraph, “it is frequently in its least important
and lowliest manifestations that the keenest pleasure
is to be derived. It is pleasant to me to observe, Watson, that you have so far grasped this truth that in
these little records of our cases which you have been
good enough to draw up, and, I am bound to say, occasionally to embellish, you have given prominence not
so much to the many causes célèbres and sensational
trials in which I have figured but rather to those incidents which may have been trivial in themselves, but
which have given room for those faculties of deduction and of logical synthesis which I have made my
special province.”
“And yet,” said I, smiling, “I cannot quite hold
myself absolved from the charge of sensationalism
which has been urged against my records.”
“You have erred, perhaps,” he observed, taking
up a glowing cinder with the tongs and lighting with
it the long cherry-wood pipe which was wont to replace his clay when he was in a disputatious rather
than a meditative mood—“you have erred perhaps in
attempting to put colour and life into each of your
statements instead of confining yourself to the task of
placing upon record that severe reasoning from cause
to effect which is really the only notable feature about
the thing.”
“It seems to me that I have done you full justice in
the matter,” I remarked with some coldness, for I was
repelled by the egotism which I had more than once
observed to be a strong factor in my friend’s singular
character.
“No, it is not selfishness or conceit,” said he, answering, as was his wont, my thoughts rather than
my words. “If I claim full justice for my art, it is
because it is an impersonal thing—a thing beyond
myself. Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it
is upon the logic rather than upon the crime that you
should dwell. You have degraded what should have
been a course of lectures into a series of tales.”
It was a cold morning of the early spring, and
we sat after breakfast on either side of a cheery fire
in the old room at Baker Street. A thick fog rolled
down between the lines of dun-coloured houses, and
the opposing windows loomed like dark, shapeless
blurs through the heavy yellow wreaths. Our gas
was lit and shone on the white cloth and glimmer of
china and metal, for the table had not been cleared yet.
Sherlock Holmes had been silent all the morning, dipping continuously into the advertisement columns of
a succession of papers until at last, having apparently
given up his search, he had emerged in no very sweet
temper to lecture me upon my literary shortcomings.
“At the same time,” he remarked after a pause,
during which he had sat puffing at his long pipe and
gazing down into the fire, “you can hardly be open
to a charge of sensationalism, for out of these cases
which you have been so kind as to interest yourself
in, a fair proportion do not treat of crime, in its legal
sense, at all. The small matter in which I endeavoured
to help the King of Bohemia, the singular experience
of Miss Mary Sutherland, the problem connected with
the man with the twisted lip, and the incident of the
noble bachelor, were all matters which are outside the
pale of the law. But in avoiding the sensational, I fear
that you may have bordered on the trivial.”
“The end may have been so,” I answered, “but the
methods I hold to have been novel and of interest.”
“Pshaw, my dear fellow, what do the public, the
great unobservant public, who could hardly tell a
weaver by his tooth or a compositor by his left thumb,
care about the finer shades of analysis and deduction!
But, indeed, if you are trivial, I cannot blame you, for
the days of the great cases are past. Man, or at least
criminal man, has lost all enterprise and originality.
As to my own little practice, it seems to be degenerating into an agency for recovering lost lead pencils and
giving advice to young ladies from boarding-schools.
I think that I have touched bottom at last, however.
This note I had this morning marks my zero-point, I
fancy. Read it!” He tossed a crumpled letter across to
me.
It was dated from Montague Place upon the preceding evening, and ran thus:
Dear Mr. Holmes:
I am very anxious to consult you as to
whether I should or should not accept a
situation which has been offered to me
as governess. I shall call at half-past ten
to-morrow if I do not inconvenience you.
— Yours faithfully,
Violet Hunter.
“Do you know the young lady?” I asked.
“Not I.”
“It is half-past ten now.”
“Yes, and I have no doubt that is her ring.”
“It may turn out to be of more interest than you
think. You remember that the affair of the blue carbuncle, which appeared to be a mere whim at first,
265
The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
developed into a serious investigation. It may be so
in this case, also.”
“Well, let us hope so. But our doubts will very
soon be solved, for here, unless I am much mistaken,
is the person in question.”
As he spoke the door opened and a young lady
entered the room. She was plainly but neatly dressed,
with a bright, quick face, freckled like a plover’s egg,
and with the brisk manner of a woman who has had
her own way to make in the world.
“You will excuse my troubling you, I am sure,”
said she, as my companion rose to greet her, “but I
have had a very strange experience, and as I have no
parents or relations of any sort from whom I could
ask advice, I thought that perhaps you would be kind
enough to tell me what I should do.”
“Pray take a seat, Miss Hunter. I shall be happy to
do anything that I can to serve you.”
I could see that Holmes was favourably impressed
by the manner and speech of his new client. He
looked her over in his searching fashion, and then
composed himself, with his lids drooping and his
finger-tips together, to listen to her story.
“I have been a governess for five years,” said she,
“in the family of Colonel Spence Munro, but two
months ago the colonel received an appointment at
Halifax, in Nova Scotia, and took his children over
to America with him, so that I found myself without
a situation. I advertised, and I answered advertisements, but without success. At last the little money
which I had saved began to run short, and I was at
my wit’s end as to what I should do.
“There is a well-known agency for governesses in
the West End called Westaway’s, and there I used to
call about once a week in order to see whether anything had turned up which might suit me. Westaway
was the name of the founder of the business, but it is
really managed by Miss Stoper. She sits in her own little office, and the ladies who are seeking employment
wait in an anteroom, and are then shown in one by
one, when she consults her ledgers and sees whether
she has anything which would suit them.
“Well, when I called last week I was shown into
the little office as usual, but I found that Miss Stoper
was not alone. A prodigiously stout man with a very
smiling face and a great heavy chin which rolled
down in fold upon fold over his throat sat at her elbow with a pair of glasses on his nose, looking very
earnestly at the ladies who entered. As I came in he
gave quite a jump in his chair and turned quickly to
Miss Stoper.
266
“ ‘That will do,’ said he; ‘I could not ask for anything better. Capital! capital!’ He seemed quite enthusiastic and rubbed his hands together in the most
genial fashion. He was such a comfortable-looking
man that it was quite a pleasure to look at him.
“ ‘You are looking for a situation, miss?’ he asked.
“ ‘Yes, sir.’
“ ‘As governess?’
“ ‘Yes, sir.’
“ ‘And what salary do you ask?’
“ ‘I had £4 a month in my last place with Colonel
Spence Munro.’
“ ‘Oh, tut, tut! sweating—rank sweating!’ he cried,
throwing his fat hands out into the air like a man
who is in a boiling passion. ‘How could anyone offer
so pitiful a sum to a lady with such attractions and
accomplishments?’
“ ‘My accomplishments, sir, may be less than you
imagine,’ said I. ‘A little French, a little German, music, and drawing—’
“ ‘Tut, tut!’ he cried. ‘This is all quite beside the
question. The point is, have you or have you not the
bearing and deportment of a lady? There it is in a
nutshell. If you have not, you are not fitted for the
rearing of a child who may some day play a considerable part in the history of the country. But if you have
why, then, how could any gentleman ask you to condescend to accept anything under the three figures?
Your salary with me, madam, would commence at
£100 a year.’
“You may imagine, Mr. Holmes, that to me, destitute as I was, such an offer seemed almost too good to
be true. The gentleman, however, seeing perhaps the
look of incredulity upon my face, opened a pocketbook and took out a note.
“ ‘It is also my custom,’ said he, smiling in the
most pleasant fashion until his eyes were just two
little shining slits amid the white creases of his face,
‘to advance to my young ladies half their salary beforehand, so that they may meet any little expenses
of their journey and their wardrobe.’
“It seemed to me that I had never met so fascinating and so thoughtful a man. As I was already
in debt to my tradesmen, the advance was a great
convenience, and yet there was something unnatural
about the whole transaction which made me wish to
know a little more before I quite committed myself.
“ ‘May I ask where you live, sir?’ said I.
“ ‘Hampshire. Charming rural place. The Copper
Beeches, five miles on the far side of Winchester. It is
the most lovely country, my dear young lady, and the
dearest old country-house.’
“ ‘And my duties, sir? I should be glad to know
what they would be.’
“ ‘One child—one dear little romper just six years
old. Oh, if you could see him killing cockroaches with
a slipper! Smack! smack! smack! Three gone before
you could wink!’ He leaned back in his chair and
laughed his eyes into his head again.
“I was a little startled at the nature of the child’s
amusement, but the father’s laughter made me think
that perhaps he was joking.
“ ‘My sole duties, then,’ I asked, ‘are to take charge
of a single child?’
“ ‘No, no, not the sole, not the sole, my dear young
lady,’ he cried. ‘Your duty would be, as I am sure
your good sense would suggest, to obey any little commands my wife might give, provided always that they
were such commands as a lady might with propriety
obey. You see no difficulty, heh?’
“ ‘I should be happy to make myself useful.’
“ ‘Quite so. In dress now, for example. We are
faddy people, you know—faddy but kind-hearted. If
you were asked to wear any dress which we might
give you, you would not object to our little whim.
Heh?’
“ ‘No,’ said I, considerably astonished at his
words.
“ ‘Or to sit here, or sit there, that would not be
offensive to you?’
“ ‘Oh, no.’
“ ‘Or to cut your hair quite short before you come
to us?’
“I could hardly believe my ears. As you may observe, Mr. Holmes, my hair is somewhat luxuriant,
and of a rather peculiar tint of chestnut. It has been
considered artistic. I could not dream of sacrificing it
in this offhand fashion.
“ ‘I am afraid that that is quite impossible,’ said
I. He had been watching me eagerly out of his small
eyes, and I could see a shadow pass over his face as I
spoke.
“ ‘I am afraid that it is quite essential,’ said he. ‘It
is a little fancy of my wife’s, and ladies’ fancies, you
know, madam, ladies’ fancies must be consulted. And
so you won’t cut your hair?’
“ ‘No, sir, I really could not,’ I answered firmly.
“ ‘Ah, very well; then that quite settles the matter.
It is a pity, because in other respects you would really
have done very nicely. In that case, Miss Stoper, I had
best inspect a few more of your young ladies.’
“The manageress had sat all this while busy with
her papers without a word to either of us, but she
glanced at me now with so much annoyance upon
her face that I could not help suspecting that she had
lost a handsome commission through my refusal.
“ ‘Do you desire your name to be kept upon the
books?’ she asked.
“ ‘If you please, Miss Stoper.’
“ ‘Well, really, it seems rather useless, since you
refuse the most excellent offers in this fashion,’ said
she sharply. ‘You can hardly expect us to exert ourselves to find another such opening for you. Goodday to you, Miss Hunter.’ She struck a gong upon the
table, and I was shown out by the page.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, when I got back to my lodgings and found little enough in the cupboard, and two
or three bills upon the table. I began to ask myself
whether I had not done a very foolish thing. After
all, if these people had strange fads and expected obedience on the most extraordinary matters, they were
at least ready to pay for their eccentricity. Very few
governesses in England are getting £100 a year. Besides, what use was my hair to me? Many people are
improved by wearing it short and perhaps I should
be among the number. Next day I was inclined to
think that I had made a mistake, and by the day after
I was sure of it. I had almost overcome my pride so
far as to go back to the agency and inquire whether
the place was still open when I received this letter
from the gentleman himself. I have it here and I will
read it to you:
“ ‘The Copper Beeches, near Winchester.
“ ‘Dear Miss Hunter:
“ ‘Miss Stoper has very kindly given me
your address, and I write from here to ask
you whether you have reconsidered your
decision. My wife is very anxious that
you should come, for she has been much
attracted by my description of you. We
are willing to give £30 a quarter, or £120
a year, so as to recompense you for any
little inconvenience which our fads may
cause you. They are not very exacting,
after all. My wife is fond of a particular shade of electric blue and would like
you to wear such a dress indoors in the
morning. You need not, however, go to the
expense of purchasing one, as we have one
belonging to my dear daughter Alice (now
in Philadelphia), which would, I should
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The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
think, fit you very well. Then, as to sitting
here or there, or amusing yourself in any
manner indicated, that need cause you no
inconvenience. As regards your hair, it
is no doubt a pity, especially as I could
not help remarking its beauty during our
short interview, but I am afraid that I must
remain firm upon this point, and I only
hope that the increased salary may recompense you for the loss. Your duties, as far
as the child is concerned, are very light.
Now do try to come, and I shall meet you
with the dog-cart at Winchester. Let me
know your train.
— “ ‘Yours faithfully,
“ ‘Jephro Rucastle.’
“That is the letter which I have just received, Mr.
Holmes, and my mind is made up that I will accept
it. I thought, however, that before taking the final
step I should like to submit the whole matter to your
consideration.”
“Well, Miss Hunter, if your mind is made up, that
settles the question,” said Holmes, smiling.
“But you would not advise me to refuse?”
“I confess that it is not the situation which I should
like to see a sister of mine apply for.”
“What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?”
“Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you
have yourself formed some opinion?”
“Well, there seems to me to be only one possible solution. Mr. Rucastle seemed to be a very kind,
good-natured man. Is it not possible that his wife is
a lunatic, that he desires to keep the matter quiet for
fear she should be taken to an asylum, and that he
humours her fancies in every way in order to prevent
an outbreak?”
“That is a possible solution—in fact, as matters
stand, it is the most probable one. But in any case
it does not seem to be a nice household for a young
lady.”
“But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!”
“Well, yes, of course the pay is good—too good.
That is what makes me uneasy. Why should they give
you £120 a year, when they could have their pick for
£40? There must be some strong reason behind.”
“I thought that if I told you the circumstances you
would understand afterwards if I wanted your help. I
should feel so much stronger if I felt that you were at
the back of me.”
268
“Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you. I
assure you that your little problem promises to be the
most interesting which has come my way for some
months. There is something distinctly novel about
some of the features. If you should find yourself in
doubt or in danger—”
“Danger! What danger do you foresee?”
Holmes shook his head gravely. “It would cease
to be a danger if we could define it,” said he. “But at
any time, day or night, a telegram would bring me
down to your help.”
“That is enough.” She rose briskly from her chair
with the anxiety all swept from her face. “I shall go
down to Hampshire quite easy in my mind now. I
shall write to Mr. Rucastle at once, sacrifice my poor
hair to-night, and start for Winchester to-morrow.”
With a few grateful words to Holmes she bade us
both good-night and bustled off upon her way.
“At least,” said I as we heard her quick, firm steps
descending the stairs, “she seems to be a young lady
who is very well able to take care of herself.”
“And she would need to be,” said Holmes gravely.
“I am much mistaken if we do not hear from her
before many days are past.”
It was not very long before my friend’s prediction
was fulfilled. A fortnight went by, during which I
frequently found my thoughts turning in her direction and wondering what strange side-alley of human experience this lonely woman had strayed into.
The unusual salary, the curious conditions, the light
duties, all pointed to something abnormal, though
whether a fad or a plot, or whether the man were a
philanthropist or a villain, it was quite beyond my
powers to determine. As to Holmes, I observed that
he sat frequently for half an hour on end, with knitted
brows and an abstracted air, but he swept the matter
away with a wave of his hand when I mentioned it.
“Data! data! data!” he cried impatiently. “I can’t make
bricks without clay.” And yet he would always wind
up by muttering that no sister of his should ever have
accepted such a situation.
The telegram which we eventually received came
late one night just as I was thinking of turning in and
Holmes was settling down to one of those all-night
chemical researches which he frequently indulged in,
when I would leave him stooping over a retort and a
test-tube at night and find him in the same position
when I came down to breakfast in the morning. He
opened the yellow envelope, and then, glancing at the
message, threw it across to me.
“Just look up the trains in Bradshaw,” said he, and
turned back to his chemical studies.
The summons was a brief and urgent one.
Please be at the Black Swan Hotel at
Winchester at midday to-morrow [it said].
Do come! I am at my wit’s end.
— Hunter.
“Will you come with me?” asked Holmes, glancing
up.
“I should wish to.”
“Just look it up, then.”
“There is a train at half-past nine,” said I, glancing
over my Bradshaw. “It is due at Winchester at 11.30.”
“That will do very nicely. Then perhaps I had
better postpone my analysis of the acetones, as we
may need to be at our best in the morning.”
By eleven o’clock the next day we were well upon
our way to the old English capital. Holmes had been
buried in the morning papers all the way down, but
after we had passed the Hampshire border he threw
them down and began to admire the scenery. It was
an ideal spring day, a light blue sky, flecked with little
fleecy white clouds drifting across from west to east.
The sun was shining very brightly, and yet there was
an exhilarating nip in the air, which set an edge to a
man’s energy. All over the countryside, away to the
rolling hills around Aldershot, the little red and grey
roofs of the farm-steadings peeped out from amid the
light green of the new foliage.
“Are they not fresh and beautiful?” I cried with all
the enthusiasm of a man fresh from the fogs of Baker
Street.
But Holmes shook his head gravely.
“Do you know, Watson,” said he, “that it is one of
the curses of a mind with a turn like mine that I must
look at everything with reference to my own special
subject. You look at these scattered houses, and you
are impressed by their beauty. I look at them, and the
only thought which comes to me is a feeling of their
isolation and of the impunity with which crime may
be committed there.”
“Good heavens!” I cried. “Who would associate
crime with these dear old homesteads?”
“They always fill me with a certain horror. It is
my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that
the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present
a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling
and beautiful countryside.”
“You horrify me!”
“But the reason is very obvious. The pressure of
public opinion can do in the town what the law cannot
accomplish. There is no lane so vile that the scream
of a tortured child, or the thud of a drunkard’s blow,
does not beget sympathy and indignation among the
neighbours, and then the whole machinery of justice
is ever so close that a word of complaint can set it
going, and there is but a step between the crime and
the dock. But look at these lonely houses, each in its
own fields, filled for the most part with poor ignorant
folk who know little of the law. Think of the deeds
of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may
go on, year in, year out, in such places, and none the
wiser. Had this lady who appeals to us for help gone
to live in Winchester, I should never have had a fear
for her. It is the five miles of country which makes
the danger. Still, it is clear that she is not personally
threatened.”
“No. If she can come to Winchester to meet us she
can get away.”
“Quite so. She has her freedom.”
“What can be the matter, then? Can you suggest
no explanation?”
“I have devised seven separate explanations, each
of which would cover the facts as far as we know
them. But which of these is correct can only be determined by the fresh information which we shall no
doubt find waiting for us. Well, there is the tower of
the cathedral, and we shall soon learn all that Miss
Hunter has to tell.”
The Black Swan is an inn of repute in the High
Street, at no distance from the station, and there we
found the young lady waiting for us. She had engaged a sitting-room, and our lunch awaited us upon
the table.
“I am so delighted that you have come,” she said
earnestly. “It is so very kind of you both; but indeed I
do not know what I should do. Your advice will be
altogether invaluable to me.”
“Pray tell us what has happened to you.”
“I will do so, and I must be quick, for I have
promised Mr. Rucastle to be back before three. I got
his leave to come into town this morning, though he
little knew for what purpose.”
“Let us have everything in its due order.” Holmes
thrust his long thin legs out towards the fire and
composed himself to listen.
“In the first place, I may say that I have met, on
the whole, with no actual ill-treatment from Mr. and
Mrs. Rucastle. It is only fair to them to say that. But
269
The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
I cannot understand them, and I am not easy in my
mind about them.”
“What can you not understand?”
“Their reasons for their conduct. But you shall
have it all just as it occurred. When I came down, Mr.
Rucastle met me here and drove me in his dog-cart
to the Copper Beeches. It is, as he said, beautifully
situated, but it is not beautiful in itself, for it is a large
square block of a house, whitewashed, but all stained
and streaked with damp and bad weather. There are
grounds round it, woods on three sides, and on the
fourth a field which slopes down to the Southampton
highroad, which curves past about a hundred yards
from the front door. This ground in front belongs to
the house, but the woods all round are part of Lord
Southerton’s preserves. A clump of copper beeches
immediately in front of the hall door has given its
name to the place.
“I was driven over by my employer, who was
as amiable as ever, and was introduced by him that
evening to his wife and the child. There was no truth,
Mr. Holmes, in the conjecture which seemed to us to
be probable in your rooms at Baker Street. Mrs. Rucastle is not mad. I found her to be a silent, pale-faced
woman, much younger than her husband, not more
than thirty, I should think, while he can hardly be less
than forty-five. From their conversation I have gathered that they have been married about seven years,
that he was a widower, and that his only child by the
first wife was the daughter who has gone to Philadelphia. Mr. Rucastle told me in private that the reason
why she had left them was that she had an unreasoning aversion to her stepmother. As the daughter could
not have been less than twenty, I can quite imagine
that her position must have been uncomfortable with
her father’s young wife.
“Mrs. Rucastle seemed to me to be colourless in
mind as well as in feature. She impressed me neither
favourably nor the reverse. She was a nonentity. It
was easy to see that she was passionately devoted
both to her husband and to her little son. Her light
grey eyes wandered continually from one to the other,
noting every little want and forestalling it if possible.
He was kind to her also in his bluff, boisterous fashion,
and on the whole they seemed to be a happy couple.
And yet she had some secret sorrow, this woman. She
would often be lost in deep thought, with the saddest
look upon her face. More than once I have surprised
her in tears. I have thought sometimes that it was
the disposition of her child which weighed upon her
mind, for I have never met so utterly spoiled and so
ill-natured a little creature. He is small for his age,
270
with a head which is quite disproportionately large.
His whole life appears to be spent in an alternation
between savage fits of passion and gloomy intervals
of sulking. Giving pain to any creature weaker than
himself seems to be his one idea of amusement, and
he shows quite remarkable talent in planning the capture of mice, little birds, and insects. But I would
rather not talk about the creature, Mr. Holmes, and,
indeed, he has little to do with my story.”
“I am glad of all details,” remarked my friend,
“whether they seem to you to be relevant or not.”
“I shall try not to miss anything of importance.
The one unpleasant thing about the house, which
struck me at once, was the appearance and conduct
of the servants. There are only two, a man and his
wife. Toller, for that is his name, is a rough, uncouth
man, with grizzled hair and whiskers, and a perpetual
smell of drink. Twice since I have been with them he
has been quite drunk, and yet Mr. Rucastle seemed to
take no notice of it. His wife is a very tall and strong
woman with a sour face, as silent as Mrs. Rucastle
and much less amiable. They are a most unpleasant
couple, but fortunately I spend most of my time in
the nursery and my own room, which are next to each
other in one corner of the building.
“For two days after my arrival at the Copper
Beeches my life was very quiet; on the third, Mrs.
Rucastle came down just after breakfast and whispered something to her husband.
“ ‘Oh, yes,’ said he, turning to me, ‘we are very
much obliged to you, Miss Hunter, for falling in with
our whims so far as to cut your hair. I assure you
that it has not detracted in the tiniest iota from your
appearance. We shall now see how the electric-blue
dress will become you. You will find it laid out upon
the bed in your room, and if you would be so good
as to put it on we should both be extremely obliged.’
“The dress which I found waiting for me was of a
peculiar shade of blue. It was of excellent material, a
sort of beige, but it bore unmistakable signs of having
been worn before. It could not have been a better
fit if I had been measured for it. Both Mr. and Mrs.
Rucastle expressed a delight at the look of it, which
seemed quite exaggerated in its vehemence. They
were waiting for me in the drawing-room, which is a
very large room, stretching along the entire front of
the house, with three long windows reaching down to
the floor. A chair had been placed close to the central
window, with its back turned towards it. In this I was
asked to sit, and then Mr. Rucastle, walking up and
down on the other side of the room, began to tell me
a series of the funniest stories that I have ever listened
to. You cannot imagine how comical he was, and I
laughed until I was quite weary. Mrs. Rucastle, however, who has evidently no sense of humour, never
so much as smiled, but sat with her hands in her lap,
and a sad, anxious look upon her face. After an hour
or so, Mr. Rucastle suddenly remarked that it was
time to commence the duties of the day, and that I
might change my dress and go to little Edward in the
nursery.
“Two days later this same performance was gone
through under exactly similar circumstances. Again
I changed my dress, again I sat in the window, and
again I laughed very heartily at the funny stories
of which my employer had an immense répertoire,
and which he told inimitably. Then he handed me
a yellow-backed novel, and moving my chair a little
sideways, that my own shadow might not fall upon
the page, he begged me to read aloud to him. I read
for about ten minutes, beginning in the heart of a
chapter, and then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, he ordered me to cease and to change my dress.
“You can easily imagine, Mr. Holmes, how curious
I became as to what the meaning of this extraordinary
performance could possibly be. They were always
very careful, I observed, to turn my face away from
the window, so that I became consumed with the desire to see what was going on behind my back. At
first it seemed to be impossible, but I soon devised a
means. My hand-mirror had been broken, so a happy
thought seized me, and I concealed a piece of the
glass in my handkerchief. On the next occasion, in
the midst of my laughter, I put my handkerchief up
to my eyes, and was able with a little management
to see all that there was behind me. I confess that I
was disappointed. There was nothing. At least that
was my first impression. At the second glance, however, I perceived that there was a man standing in the
Southampton Road, a small bearded man in a grey
suit, who seemed to be looking in my direction. The
road is an important highway, and there are usually
people there. This man, however, was leaning against
the railings which bordered our field and was looking
earnestly up. I lowered my handkerchief and glanced
at Mrs. Rucastle to find her eyes fixed upon me with
a most searching gaze. She said nothing, but I am
convinced that she had divined that I had a mirror
in my hand and had seen what was behind me. She
rose at once.
“ ‘Jephro,’ said she, ‘there is an impertinent fellow
upon the road there who stares up at Miss Hunter.’
“ ‘No friend of yours, Miss Hunter?’ he asked.
“ ‘No, I know no one in these parts.’
“ ‘Dear me! How very impertinent! Kindly turn
round and motion to him to go away.’
“ ‘Surely it would be better to take no notice.’
“ ‘No, no, we should have him loitering here always. Kindly turn round and wave him away like
that.’
“I did as I was told, and at the same instant Mrs.
Rucastle drew down the blind. That was a week ago,
and from that time I have not sat again in the window,
nor have I worn the blue dress, nor seen the man in
the road.”
“Pray continue,” said Holmes. “Your narrative
promises to be a most interesting one.”
“You will find it rather disconnected, I fear, and
there may prove to be little relation between the different incidents of which I speak. On the very first
day that I was at the Copper Beeches, Mr. Rucastle
took me to a small outhouse which stands near the
kitchen door. As we approached it I heard the sharp
rattling of a chain, and the sound as of a large animal
moving about.
“ ‘Look in here!’ said Mr. Rucastle, showing me a
slit between two planks. ‘Is he not a beauty?’
“I looked through and was conscious of two glowing eyes, and of a vague figure huddled up in the
darkness.
“ ‘Don’t be frightened,’ said my employer, laughing at the start which I had given. ‘It’s only Carlo,
my mastiff. I call him mine, but really old Toller, my
groom, is the only man who can do anything with
him. We feed him once a day, and not too much then,
so that he is always as keen as mustard. Toller lets
him loose every night, and God help the trespasser
whom he lays his fangs upon. For goodness’ sake
don’t you ever on any pretext set your foot over the
threshold at night, for it’s as much as your life is
worth.’
“The warning was no idle one, for two nights later
I happened to look out of my bedroom window about
two o’clock in the morning. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and the lawn in front of the house was
silvered over and almost as bright as day. I was standing, rapt in the peaceful beauty of the scene, when
I was aware that something was moving under the
shadow of the copper beeches. As it emerged into the
moonshine I saw what it was. It was a giant dog, as
large as a calf, tawny tinted, with hanging jowl, black
muzzle, and huge projecting bones. It walked slowly
across the lawn and vanished into the shadow upon
the other side. That dreadful sentinel sent a chill to
271
The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
my heart which I do not think that any burglar could
have done.
“And now I have a very strange experience to tell
you. I had, as you know, cut off my hair in London,
and I had placed it in a great coil at the bottom of my
trunk. One evening, after the child was in bed, I began
to amuse myself by examining the furniture of my
room and by rearranging my own little things. There
was an old chest of drawers in the room, the two
upper ones empty and open, the lower one locked. I
had filled the first two with my linen, and as I had
still much to pack away I was naturally annoyed at
not having the use of the third drawer. It struck me
that it might have been fastened by a mere oversight,
so I took out my bunch of keys and tried to open it.
The very first key fitted to perfection, and I drew the
drawer open. There was only one thing in it, but I am
sure that you would never guess what it was. It was
my coil of hair.
“I took it up and examined it. It was of the same
peculiar tint, and the same thickness. But then the
impossibility of the thing obtruded itself upon me.
How could my hair have been locked in the drawer?
With trembling hands I undid my trunk, turned out
the contents, and drew from the bottom my own hair.
I laid the two tresses together, and I assure you that
they were identical. Was it not extraordinary? Puzzle as I would, I could make nothing at all of what
it meant. I returned the strange hair to the drawer,
and I said nothing of the matter to the Rucastles as I
felt that I had put myself in the wrong by opening a
drawer which they had locked.
“I am naturally observant, as you may have remarked, Mr. Holmes, and I soon had a pretty good
plan of the whole house in my head. There was one
wing, however, which appeared not to be inhabited at
all. A door which faced that which led into the quarters of the Tollers opened into this suite, but it was
invariably locked. One day, however, as I ascended
the stair, I met Mr. Rucastle coming out through this
door, his keys in his hand, and a look on his face
which made him a very different person to the round,
jovial man to whom I was accustomed. His cheeks
were red, his brow was all crinkled with anger, and
the veins stood out at his temples with passion. He
locked the door and hurried past me without a word
or a look.
“This aroused my curiosity, so when I went out
for a walk in the grounds with my charge, I strolled
round to the side from which I could see the windows
of this part of the house. There were four of them
in a row, three of which were simply dirty, while the
272
fourth was shuttered up. They were evidently all deserted. As I strolled up and down, glancing at them
occasionally, Mr. Rucastle came out to me, looking as
merry and jovial as ever.
“ ‘Ah!’ said he, ‘you must not think me rude if I
passed you without a word, my dear young lady. I
was preoccupied with business matters.’
“I assured him that I was not offended. ‘By the
way,’ said I, ‘you seem to have quite a suite of spare
rooms up there, and one of them has the shutters up.’
“He looked surprised and, as it seemed to me, a
little startled at my remark.
“ ‘Photography is one of my hobbies,’ said he. ‘I
have made my dark room up there. But, dear me!
what an observant young lady we have come upon.
Who would have believed it? Who would have ever
believed it?’ He spoke in a jesting tone, but there was
no jest in his eyes as he looked at me. I read suspicion
there and annoyance, but no jest.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, from the moment that I understood that there was something about that suite of
rooms which I was not to know, I was all on fire to go
over them. It was not mere curiosity, though I have
my share of that. It was more a feeling of duty—a
feeling that some good might come from my penetrating to this place. They talk of woman’s instinct;
perhaps it was woman’s instinct which gave me that
feeling. At any rate, it was there, and I was keenly
on the lookout for any chance to pass the forbidden
door.
“It was only yesterday that the chance came. I
may tell you that, besides Mr. Rucastle, both Toller
and his wife find something to do in these deserted
rooms, and I once saw him carrying a large black
linen bag with him through the door. Recently he has
been drinking hard, and yesterday evening he was
very drunk; and when I came upstairs there was the
key in the door. I have no doubt at all that he had
left it there. Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle were both downstairs, and the child was with them, so that I had an
admirable opportunity. I turned the key gently in the
lock, opened the door, and slipped through.
“There was a little passage in front of me, unpapered and uncarpeted, which turned at a right angle
at the farther end. Round this corner were three doors
in a line, the first and third of which were open. They
each led into an empty room, dusty and cheerless,
with two windows in the one and one in the other, so
thick with dirt that the evening light glimmered dimly
through them. The centre door was closed, and across
the outside of it had been fastened one of the broad
bars of an iron bed, padlocked at one end to a ring
in the wall, and fastened at the other with stout cord.
The door itself was locked as well, and the key was
not there. This barricaded door corresponded clearly
with the shuttered window outside, and yet I could
see by the glimmer from beneath it that the room was
not in darkness. Evidently there was a skylight which
let in light from above. As I stood in the passage
gazing at the sinister door and wondering what secret
it might veil, I suddenly heard the sound of steps
within the room and saw a shadow pass backward
and forward against the little slit of dim light which
shone out from under the door. A mad, unreasoning
terror rose up in me at the sight, Mr. Holmes. My
overstrung nerves failed me suddenly, and I turned
and ran—ran as though some dreadful hand were
behind me clutching at the skirt of my dress. I rushed
down the passage, through the door, and straight into
the arms of Mr. Rucastle, who was waiting outside.
“ ‘So,’ said he, smiling, ‘it was you, then. I thought
that it must be when I saw the door open.’
“ ‘Oh, I am so frightened!’ I panted.
“ ‘My dear young lady!
my dear young
lady!’—you cannot think how caressing and soothing
his manner was—‘and what has frightened you, my
dear young lady?’
“But his voice was just a little too coaxing. He
overdid it. I was keenly on my guard against him.
“ ‘I was foolish enough to go into the empty wing,’
I answered. ‘But it is so lonely and eerie in this dim
light that I was frightened and ran out again. Oh, it
is so dreadfully still in there!’
“ ‘Only that?’ said he, looking at me keenly.
“ ‘Why, what did you think?’ I asked.
“ ‘Why do you think that I lock this door?’
“ ‘I am sure that I do not know.’
“ ‘It is to keep people out who have no business
there. Do you see?’ He was still smiling in the most
amiable manner.
“ ‘I am sure if I had known—’
“ ‘Well, then, you know now. And if you ever put
your foot over that threshold again’—here in an instant the smile hardened into a grin of rage, and he
glared down at me with the face of a demon—‘I’ll
throw you to the mastiff.’
“I was so terrified that I do not know what I did.
I suppose that I must have rushed past him into my
room. I remember nothing until I found myself lying
on my bed trembling all over. Then I thought of you,
Mr. Holmes. I could not live there longer without
some advice. I was frightened of the house, of the
man, of the woman, of the servants, even of the child.
They were all horrible to me. If I could only bring
you down all would be well. Of course I might have
fled from the house, but my curiosity was almost as
strong as my fears. My mind was soon made up. I
would send you a wire. I put on my hat and cloak,
went down to the office, which is about half a mile
from the house, and then returned, feeling very much
easier. A horrible doubt came into my mind as I approached the door lest the dog might be loose, but I
remembered that Toller had drunk himself into a state
of insensibility that evening, and I knew that he was
the only one in the household who had any influence
with the savage creature, or who would venture to set
him free. I slipped in in safety and lay awake half the
night in my joy at the thought of seeing you. I had
no difficulty in getting leave to come into Winchester
this morning, but I must be back before three o’clock,
for Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle are going on a visit, and
will be away all the evening, so that I must look after
the child. Now I have told you all my adventures, Mr.
Holmes, and I should be very glad if you could tell
me what it all means, and, above all, what I should
do.”
Holmes and I had listened spellbound to this extraordinary story. My friend rose now and paced up
and down the room, his hands in his pockets, and
an expression of the most profound gravity upon his
face.
“Is Toller still drunk?” he asked.
“Yes. I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that she
could do nothing with him.”
“That is well. And the Rucastles go out to-night?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a cellar with a good strong lock?”
“Yes, the wine-cellar.”
“You seem to me to have acted all through this
matter like a very brave and sensible girl, Miss Hunter.
Do you think that you could perform one more feat?
I should not ask it of you if I did not think you a quite
exceptional woman.”
“I will try. What is it?”
“We shall be at the Copper Beeches by seven
o’clock, my friend and I. The Rucastles will be gone
by that time, and Toller will, we hope, be incapable.
There only remains Mrs. Toller, who might give the
alarm. If you could send her into the cellar on some
errand, and then turn the key upon her, you would
facilitate matters immensely.”
“I will do it.”
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The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
“Excellent! We shall then look thoroughly into
the affair. Of course there is only one feasible explanation. You have been brought there to personate
someone, and the real person is imprisoned in this
chamber. That is obvious. As to who this prisoner
is, I have no doubt that it is the daughter, Miss Alice Rucastle, if I remember right, who was said to
have gone to America. You were chosen, doubtless,
as resembling her in height, figure, and the colour
of your hair. Hers had been cut off, very possibly in
some illness through which she has passed, and so, of
course, yours had to be sacrificed also. By a curious
chance you came upon her tresses. The man in the
road was undoubtedly some friend of hers—possibly
her fiancé—and no doubt, as you wore the girl’s dress
and were so like her, he was convinced from your
laughter, whenever he saw you, and afterwards from
your gesture, that Miss Rucastle was perfectly happy,
and that she no longer desired his attentions. The dog
is let loose at night to prevent him from endeavouring
to communicate with her. So much is fairly clear. The
most serious point in the case is the disposition of the
child.”
“What on earth has that to do with it?” I ejaculated.
“My dear Watson, you as a medical man are continually gaining light as to the tendencies of a child
by the study of the parents. Don’t you see that the
converse is equally valid. I have frequently gained
my first real insight into the character of parents by
studying their children. This child’s disposition is abnormally cruel, merely for cruelty’s sake, and whether
he derives this from his smiling father, as I should
suspect, or from his mother, it bodes evil for the poor
girl who is in their power.”
“I am sure that you are right, Mr. Holmes,” cried
our client. “A thousand things come back to me
which make me certain that you have hit it. Oh, let
us lose not an instant in bringing help to this poor
creature.”
“We must be circumspect, for we are dealing with
a very cunning man. We can do nothing until seven
o’clock. At that hour we shall be with you, and it will
not be long before we solve the mystery.”
We were as good as our word, for it was just seven
when we reached the Copper Beeches, having put
up our trap at a wayside public-house. The group of
trees, with their dark leaves shining like burnished
metal in the light of the setting sun, were sufficient
to mark the house even had Miss Hunter not been
standing smiling on the door-step.
274
“Have you managed it?” asked Holmes.
A loud thudding noise came from somewhere
downstairs. “That is Mrs. Toller in the cellar,” said
she. “Her husband lies snoring on the kitchen rug.
Here are his keys, which are the duplicates of Mr.
Rucastle’s.”
“You have done well indeed!” cried Holmes with
enthusiasm. “Now lead the way, and we shall soon
see the end of this black business.”
We passed up the stair, unlocked the door, followed on down a passage, and found ourselves in
front of the barricade which Miss Hunter had described. Holmes cut the cord and removed the transverse bar. Then he tried the various keys in the lock,
but without success. No sound came from within,
and at the silence Holmes’ face clouded over.
“I trust that we are not too late,” said he. “I think,
Miss Hunter, that we had better go in without you.
Now, Watson, put your shoulder to it, and we shall
see whether we cannot make our way in.”
It was an old rickety door and gave at once before our united strength. Together we rushed into the
room. It was empty. There was no furniture save a
little pallet bed, a small table, and a basketful of linen.
The skylight above was open, and the prisoner gone.
“There has been some villainy here,” said Holmes;
“this beauty has guessed Miss Hunter’s intentions
and has carried his victim off.”
“But how?”
“Through the skylight. We shall soon see how
he managed it.” He swung himself up onto the roof.
“Ah, yes,” he cried, “here’s the end of a long light
ladder against the eaves. That is how he did it.”
“But it is impossible,” said Miss Hunter; “the ladder was not there when the Rucastles went away.”
“He has come back and done it. I tell you that he
is a clever and dangerous man. I should not be very
much surprised if this were he whose step I hear now
upon the stair. I think, Watson, that it would be as
well for you to have your pistol ready.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth before
a man appeared at the door of the room, a very fat
and burly man, with a heavy stick in his hand. Miss
Hunter screamed and shrunk against the wall at the
sight of him, but Sherlock Holmes sprang forward
and confronted him.
“You villain!” said he, “where’s your daughter?”
The fat man cast his eyes round, and then up at
the open skylight.
“It is for me to ask you that,” he shrieked, “you
thieves! Spies and thieves! I have caught you, have I?
You are in my power. I’ll serve you!” He turned and
clattered down the stairs as hard as he could go.
“He’s gone for the dog!” cried Miss Hunter.
“I have my revolver,” said I.
“Better close the front door,” cried Holmes, and
we all rushed down the stairs together. We had hardly
reached the hall when we heard the baying of a hound,
and then a scream of agony, with a horrible worrying sound which it was dreadful to listen to. An
elderly man with a red face and shaking limbs came
staggering out at a side door.
“My God!” he cried. “Someone has loosed the
dog. It’s not been fed for two days. Quick, quick, or
it’ll be too late!”
Holmes and I rushed out and round the angle
of the house, with Toller hurrying behind us. There
was the huge famished brute, its black muzzle buried
in Rucastle’s throat, while he writhed and screamed
upon the ground. Running up, I blew its brains out,
and it fell over with its keen white teeth still meeting
in the great creases of his neck. With much labour
we separated them and carried him, living but horribly mangled, into the house. We laid him upon
the drawing-room sofa, and having dispatched the
sobered Toller to bear the news to his wife, I did what
I could to relieve his pain. We were all assembled
round him when the door opened, and a tall, gaunt
woman entered the room.
“Mrs. Toller!” cried Miss Hunter.
“Yes, miss. Mr. Rucastle let me out when he came
back before he went up to you. Ah, miss, it is a pity
you didn’t let me know what you were planning, for
I would have told you that your pains were wasted.”
“Ha!” said Holmes, looking keenly at her. “It is
clear that Mrs. Toller knows more about this matter
than anyone else.”
“Yes, sir, I do, and I am ready enough to tell what
I know.”
“Then, pray, sit down, and let us hear it for there
are several points on which I must confess that I am
still in the dark.”
“I will soon make it clear to you,” said she; “and
I’d have done so before now if I could ha’ got out
from the cellar. If there’s police-court business over
this, you’ll remember that I was the one that stood
your friend, and that I was Miss Alice’s friend too.
“She was never happy at home, Miss Alice wasn’t,
from the time that her father married again. She
was slighted like and had no say in anything, but it
never really became bad for her until after she met
Mr. Fowler at a friend’s house. As well as I could
learn, Miss Alice had rights of her own by will, but
she was so quiet and patient, she was, that she never
said a word about them but just left everything in
Mr. Rucastle’s hands. He knew he was safe with her;
but when there was a chance of a husband coming
forward, who would ask for all that the law would
give him, then her father thought it time to put a stop
on it. He wanted her to sign a paper, so that whether
she married or not, he could use her money. When
she wouldn’t do it, he kept on worrying her until she
got brain-fever, and for six weeks was at death’s door.
Then she got better at last, all worn to a shadow, and
with her beautiful hair cut off; but that didn’t make
no change in her young man, and he stuck to her as
true as man could be.”
“Ah,” said Holmes, “I think that what you have
been good enough to tell us makes the matter fairly
clear, and that I can deduce all that remains. Mr.
Rucastle then, I presume, took to this system of imprisonment?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And brought Miss Hunter down from London in
order to get rid of the disagreeable persistence of Mr.
Fowler.”
“That was it, sir.”
“But Mr. Fowler being a persevering man, as a
good seaman should be, blockaded the house, and
having met you succeeded by certain arguments,
metallic or otherwise, in convincing you that your
interests were the same as his.”
“Mr. Fowler was a very kind-spoken, free-handed
gentleman,” said Mrs. Toller serenely.
“And in this way he managed that your good
man should have no want of drink, and that a ladder
should be ready at the moment when your master
had gone out.”
“You have it, sir, just as it happened.”
“I am sure we owe you an apology, Mrs. Toller,”
said Holmes, “for you have certainly cleared up everything which puzzled us. And here comes the country
surgeon and Mrs. Rucastle, so I think, Watson, that
we had best escort Miss Hunter back to Winchester,
as it seems to me that our locus standi now is rather a
questionable one.”
And thus was solved the mystery of the sinister
house with the copper beeches in front of the door. Mr.
Rucastle survived, but was always a broken man, kept
alive solely through the care of his devoted wife. They
still live with their old servants, who probably know
so much of Rucastle’s past life that he finds it difficult
275
The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
to part from them. Mr. Fowler and Miss Rucastle
were married, by special license, in Southampton the
day after their flight, and he is now the holder of a
government appointment in the island of Mauritius.
As to Miss Violet Hunter, my friend Holmes, rather
276
to my disappointment, manifested no further interest
in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of
one of his problems, and she is now the head of a
private school at Walsall, where I believe that she has
met with considerable success.
The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
Silver Blaze
I
am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go,”
said Holmes, as we sat down together to
our breakfast one morning.
“Go! Where to?”
“To Dartmoor; to King’s Pyland.”
I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder
was that he had not already been mixed up in this
extraordinary case, which was the one topic of conversation through the length and breadth of England.
For a whole day my companion had rambled about
the room with his chin upon his chest and his brows
knitted, charging and recharging his pipe with the
strongest black tobacco, and absolutely deaf to any
of my questions or remarks. Fresh editions of every
paper had been sent up by our news agent, only to
be glanced over and tossed down into a corner. Yet,
silent as he was, I knew perfectly well what it was over
which he was brooding. There was but one problem
before the public which could challenge his powers
of analysis, and that was the singular disappearance
of the favorite for the Wessex Cup, and the tragic
murder of its trainer. When, therefore, he suddenly
announced his intention of setting out for the scene
of the drama it was only what I had both expected
and hoped for.
“I should be most happy to go down with you if I
should not be in the way,” said I.
“My dear Watson, you would confer a great favour
upon me by coming. And I think that your time
will not be misspent, for there are points about the
case which promise to make it an absolutely unique
one. We have, I think, just time to catch our train
at Paddington, and I will go further into the matter
upon our journey. You would oblige me by bringing
with you your very excellent field-glass.”
And so it happened that an hour or so later I
found myself in the corner of a first-class carriage flying along en route for Exeter, while Sherlock Holmes,
with his sharp, eager face framed in his ear-flapped
travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle of fresh
papers which he had procured at Paddington. We
had left Reading far behind us before he thrust the
last one of them under the seat, and offered me his
cigar-case.
“We are going well,” said he, looking out the window and glancing at his watch. “Our rate at present
is fifty-three and a half miles an hour.”
“I have not observed the quarter-mile posts,” said
I.
“Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this line
are sixty yards apart, and the calculation is a simple
one. I presume that you have looked into this matter
of the murder of John Straker and the disappearance
of Silver Blaze?”
“I have seen what the Telegraph and the Chronicle
have to say.”
“It is one of those cases where the art of the reasoner should be used rather for the sifting of details
than for the acquiring of fresh evidence. The tragedy
has been so uncommon, so complete and of such
personal importance to so many people, that we are
suffering from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and
hypothesis. The difficulty is to detach the framework
of fact—of absolute undeniable fact—from the embellishments of theorists and reporters. Then, having
established ourselves upon this sound basis, it is our
duty to see what inferences may be drawn and what
are the special points upon which the whole mystery turns. On Tuesday evening I received telegrams
from both Colonel Ross, the owner of the horse, and
from Inspector Gregory, who is looking after the case,
inviting my cooperation.
“Tuesday evening!” I exclaimed. “And this is
Thursday morning. Why didn’t you go down yesterday?”
“Because I made a blunder, my dear Watson—which is, I am afraid, a more common occurrence than any one would think who only knew me
through your memoirs. The fact is that I could not
believe it possible that the most remarkable horse in
England could long remain concealed, especially in
so sparsely inhabited a place as the north of Dartmoor.
From hour to hour yesterday I expected to hear that
he had been found, and that his abductor was the
murderer of John Straker. When, however, another
morning had come, and I found that beyond the arrest
of young Fitzroy Simpson nothing had been done, I
felt that it was time for me to take action. Yet in some
ways I feel that yesterday has not been wasted.”
“You have formed a theory, then?”
“At least I have got a grip of the essential facts of
the case. I shall enumerate them to you, for nothing
clears up a case so much as stating it to another person, and I can hardly expect your co-operation if I do
not show you the position from which we start.”
I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar,
while Holmes, leaning forward, with his long, thin
forefinger checking off the points upon the palm of
his left hand, gave me a sketch of the events which
had led to our journey.
“Silver Blaze,” said he, “is from the Somomy stock,
and holds as brilliant a record as his famous ancestor.
He is now in his fifth year, and has brought in turn
281
Silver Blaze
each of the prizes of the turf to Colonel Ross, his fortunate owner. Up