The Complete Sherlock Holmes
Arthur Conan Doyle
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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 Puzzle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
339
The Crooked Man . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
351
The Resident Patient . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
361
The Greek Interpreter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
373
The Naval Treaty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
385
The Final Problem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
403
iii
The Return of Sherlock Holmes
The Adventure of the Empty House . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
417
The Adventure of the Norwood Builder . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
429
The Adventure of the Dancing Men . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
443
The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Adventure of the Priory School . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
457
469
The Adventure of Black Peter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
485
The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
497
The Adventure of the Six Napoleons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
507
The Adventure of the Three Students . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
519
The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
529
The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
543
The Adventure of the Abbey Grange . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
555
The Adventure of the Second Stain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
569
The Hound of the Baskervilles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
583
The Valley Of Fear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
659
His Last Bow
Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
741
The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
743
The Adventure of the Cardboard Box . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
761
The Adventure of the Red Circle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
773
The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
787
The Adventure of the Dying Detective . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
803
The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
813
The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
825
His Last Bow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
839
iv
The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes
Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
851
The Illustrious Client . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
853
The Blanched Soldier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
867
The Adventure Of The Mazarin Stone . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Adventure of the Three Gables . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
879
889
The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
899
The Adventure of the Three Garridebs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
909
The Problem of Thor Bridge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
919
The Adventure of the Creeping Man . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
933
The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
945
The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
957
The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
965
The Adventure of the Retired Colourman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
975
v
A Study In Scarlet
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
26
Light In The Darkness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
30
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.)
A Study In Scarlet
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.
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
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
7
A Study In Scarlet
man for him. I should prefer having a partner to
being alone.”
matter. Is this fellow’s temper so formidable, or
what is it? Don’t be mealy-mouthed about it.”
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.”
“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 coldbloodedness. 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.”
“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.
“Very right too.”
“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.”
“Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When
it comes to beating the subjects in the dissectingrooms 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.”
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Stamford, introducing us.
“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
have some reason for washing your hands of the
“How are you?” he said cordially, gripping
my hand with a strength for which I should
8
A Study In Scarlet
hardly have given him credit. “You have been in
Afghanistan, I perceive.”
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.”
“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 medicolegal 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.”
9
A Study In Scarlet
“Do you include violin-playing in your category of rows?” he asked, anxiously.
“It depends on the player,” I answered. “A
well-played violin is a treat for the gods—a badlyplayed 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
long walks, which appeared to take him into the
lowest portions 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
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
10
A Study In Scarlet
stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had
occasion to observe when I watched him manipulating his fragile philosophical instruments.
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.”
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.
“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.”
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.
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 wellinformed. 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—
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.
Sherlock Holmes—his limits.
Knowledge of Literature.—Nil.
Philosophy.—Nil.
Astronomy.—Nil.
Politics.—Feeble.
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.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
“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,
11
A Study In Scarlet
9. Sensational Literature.—Immense. He appears to know every detail of every horror
perpetrated in the century.
10. Plays the violin well.
11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and
swordsman.
12. Has a good practical knowledge of British
law.
any of these nondescript individuals put in an appearance, Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the use
of the sitting-room, and I would retire to my bedroom. 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 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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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 grey-headed, 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
“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
12
A Study In Scarlet
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 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.”
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.”
“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 armchair 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 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.”
“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
“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,
13
A Study In Scarlet
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?”
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 twentyfour 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.
“Deduce what?” said he, petulantly.
14
A Study In Scarlet
“Why, that he was a retired sergeant of
Marines.”
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.”
“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 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 selfimportance 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.”
“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
“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
15
A Study In Scarlet
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.
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.”
“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
“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.”
“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 illomened 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,
16
A Study In Scarlet
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, with vacant sightless eyes staring up at the discoloured ceiling. It was that of a
man about forty-three 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?”
17
A Study In Scarlet
“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.”
“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, and if it was lit this
corner would be the brightest instead of the darkest portion of the wall.”
“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.”
“Have you sent to Cleveland?”
“And what does it mean now that you have
found it?” asked Gregson in a depreciatory voice.
“We telegraphed this morning.”
“How did you word your inquiries?”
“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.”
“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 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.”
“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.”
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 welltrained 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
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.
18
A Study In Scarlet
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.
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.”
“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 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.
Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other
with an incredulous smile.
“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?”
“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’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
“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.”
19
A Study In Scarlet
have been there during the night, and, therefore,
that it brought those two individuals to the house.”
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.”
“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 level of his own eyes.
Now that writing was just over six feet from the
ground. It was child’s play.”
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 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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
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.”
“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
This conversation had occurred while our cab
had been threading its way through a long succession of dingy streets and dreary by-ways. In
20
A Study In Scarlet
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 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 aburnin’. 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.”
21
A Study In Scarlet
“What sort of a man was he?” asked Sherlock
Holmes.
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.”
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.”
We started off for the cab together, leaving our
informant incredulous, but obviously uncomfortable.
“His face—his dress—didn’t you notice them?”
Holmes broke in impatiently.
“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 should think I did notice them, seeing that
I had to prop him up—me and Murcher between
us. He was a long chap, with a red face, the lower
part muffled round—”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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
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 baboonlike 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 bespoke
vice of the most malignant type, they were certainly those of Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland. Still
22
A Study In Scarlet
I recognized that justice must be done, and that
the depravity of the victim was no condonement
in the eyes of the law.
“Look at this advertisement,” he answered. “I
had one sent to every paper this morning immediately after the affair.”
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 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 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.”
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“Would he not consider it as too dangerous?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“And then?” I asked.
“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.”
“Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then.
Have you any arms?”
“I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges.”
“Why?”
23
A Study In Scarlet
“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.”
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.
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 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 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—”
“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.
“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.
“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.”
“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.”
“And what may your address be?” I inquired,
taking up a pencil.
“13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch.
way from here.”
A weary
“The Brixton Road does not lie between any
circus and Houndsditch,” said Sherlock Holmes
sharply.
“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.”
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—?”
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.
“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—”
“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.
“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
“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
24
A Study In Scarlet
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.
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.”
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 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.
“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 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 footsore. 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,’
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.
25
A Study In Scarlet
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:—
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.’ ”
“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.
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.
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
26
A Study In Scarlet
“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.”
“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.
“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?”
“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 brainworkers.”
“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.
27
A Study In Scarlet
“ ‘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.’
“There was silence for a moment, and then the
daughter spoke in a calm clear voice.
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
maid-servants 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.’
“ ‘No good can ever come of falsehood,
mother,’ she said. ‘Let us be frank with this gentleman. We did see Mr. Drebber again.’
“ ‘But why did you stand all this,’ I asked. ‘I
suppose that you can get rid of your boarders
when you wish.’
“ ‘God forgive you!’ cried Madame Charpentier, throwing up her hands and sinking back in
her chair. ‘You have murdered your brother.’
“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.’
“ ‘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.
“ ‘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 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.’
“ ‘Well?’
“ ‘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,
“ ‘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
28
A Study In Scarlet
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.’
“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.”
“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?”
“Well done!” said Holmes in an encouraging
voice. “Really, Gregson, you are getting along. We
shall make something of you yet.”
“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 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!”
“ ‘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?’
“ ‘Yes.’
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.”
“ ‘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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“The Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson,” said
Lestrade gravely, “was murdered at Halliday’s Private Hotel about six o’clock this morning.”
29
A Study In Scarlet
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 dumfoundered. 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.
thickens.”
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 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 plot
“It was quite thick enough before,” grumbled
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
meeting-place 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.
30
A Study In Scarlet
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.”
eyes. I will give you a proof of my knowledge.
Could you lay your hand upon those pills?”
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.
“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 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.
“Did you find nothing in the room which could
furnish a clue to the murderer?” he asked.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“And there was nothing else?” Holmes asked.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an
exclamation of delight.
“The last link,” he cried, exultantly. “My case
is complete.”
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.
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
31
A Study In Scarlet
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.
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.”
“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 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.
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 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.”
“Any delay in arresting the assassin,” I observed, “might give him time to perpetrate some
fresh atrocity.”
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.
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
“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
32
A Study In Scarlet
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 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.
A Study In Scarlet
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.
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
forty-seven, 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 parchment-like 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.
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 huntinggrounds, 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.
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.
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
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
37
A Study In Scarlet
a small, scared face, with very bright brown eyes,
and two little speckled, dimpled fists.
“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.”
“You’ve hurt me!” said a childish voice reproachfully.
“Then mother’s a deader too,” cried the little
girl dropping her face in her pinafore and sobbing
bitterly.
“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.
“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
tear-stained face.
“How is it now?” he answered anxiously, for
she was still rubbing the towsy golden curls which
covered the back of her head.
“I guess that’s about the size of it.”
“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?”
“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.”
“Mother’s gone. I guess you’ll see her before
long.”
“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?”
“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?”
“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.
“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.”
“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?”
“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?”
“Of course He did,” said her companion, rather
startled by this unexpected question.
“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—”
“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.”
“And you couldn’t wash yourself,” interrupted
his companion gravely, staring up at his grimy visage.
“What would ye think of offering up prayer?”
the man asked diffidently.
“It ain’t night yet,” she answered.
38
A Study In Scarlet
“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.”
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.
“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.
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.
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
“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
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A Study In Scarlet
the young fellows had dismounted, fastened their
horses, and were ascending the precipitous slope
which led up 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.
twenty-one people. The rest is all dead o’ thirst
and hunger away down in the south.”
“Is she your child?” asked someone.
“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.”
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 snowwhite 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.
“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.”
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.
They had reached the base of the hill by
this time, and were surrounded by crowds of
the pilgrims—pale-faced meek-looking women,
strong laughing children, and anxious earnesteyed 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 brownbacked volume, but as the crowd approached he
laid it aside, and listened attentively to an account
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’
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A Study In Scarlet
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 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.
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
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.
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A Study In Scarlet
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 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.
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.
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 heavily-laden 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 fierceeyed, long-horned bullocks. Accustomed as she
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-to-do, 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
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A Study In Scarlet
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 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.
“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.
“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.”
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,
“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.”
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A Study In Scarlet
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.
“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.
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.
“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—goodbye. In two months you shall see me.”
“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?”
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.
“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.”
CHAPTER III.
John Ferrier Talks With The Prophet
secutors on their own account, and persecutors of
the most terrible description. Not the Inquisition
of Seville, nor the 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.
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 per-
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.
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A Study In Scarlet
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 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.
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, 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 heifers, 1
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.”
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 lightcoloured 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
1 Heber
C. Kemball, in one of his sermons, alludes to his hundred wives under this endearing epithet.
45
A Study In Scarlet
“She shall have a month to choose,” said
Young, rising from his seat. “At the end of that
time she shall give her answer.”
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.”
He was passing through the door, when he
turned, with flushed face and flashing eyes. “It
were better for 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!”
“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.”
With a threatening gesture of his hand, he
turned from the door, and Ferrier heard his heavy
step scrunching along the shingly path.
“Leave Utah!”
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.
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
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 electrotelegraphs.”
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 the young man of the imminent dan-
46
A Study In Scarlet
ger 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
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 rocking-chair, 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
riding-whip 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.
47
A Study In Scarlet
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 unlooked-for 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:—
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
more-frequented roads were strictly watched and
guarded, and none could pass along them without an order 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.
“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 twentynine 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
48
A Study In Scarlet
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.
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.”
“Good God!” gasped John Ferrier. “How you
scared me! Whatever made you come in like that.”
“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.
“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.
“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.”
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.
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.”
“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.”
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.
While Ferrier was absent, preparing his daughter for the approaching journey, Jefferson Hope
It was as well that his prairie training had
given Jefferson Hope the ears of a lynx. He and
“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.”
49
A Study In Scarlet
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 Whippoor-Will calls three times.”
“It is well,” returned the other. “Shall I tell
Brother Drebber?”
“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 halfcarrying 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 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.
50
A Study In Scarlet
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 snowcapped 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.
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 bighorn—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.
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.
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
About the middle of the second day of their
flight their scanty store of provisions began to run
51
A Study In Scarlet
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. 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.
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 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:
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.
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.
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 half-consumed 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
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
52
A Study In Scarlet
his way. On the sixth day, he reached the Eagle
Cañon, from which they had commenced their illfated 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 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.
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
“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
53
A Study In Scarlet
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 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.
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
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.
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
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.
54
A Study In Scarlet
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.”
“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.
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.
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!”
“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 fellowlodger. “The way you kept on my trail was a caution.”
“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.”
“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.”
The Inspector and the two detectives had a hurried discussion as to the advisability of allowing
him to tell his story.
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.”
“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.”
55
A Study In Scarlet
With these words, Jefferson Hope leaned back
in his chair and began the following remarkable
statement. He spoke in a calm and methodical
manner, 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.
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 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.
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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
“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
56
A Study In Scarlet
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 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.
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
“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-anhour 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,
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A Study In Scarlet
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 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.
“ ‘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.
“ ‘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.’
“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.
“ ‘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.’
“ ‘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.
“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!
“ ‘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.
“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
“ ‘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.
58
A Study In Scarlet
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 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
59
A Study In Scarlet
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.
“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, 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.
“Gregson and Lestrade will be wild about his
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.”
“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.
“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.”
“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
“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.
60
A Study In Scarlet
in criminal annals. The cases of Dolsky in Odessa,
and of Leturier in Montpellier, will occur at once
to any toxicologist.
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.
“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 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.
“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.”
“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 full-blooded,
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.
“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!”
“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.
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
“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
61
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 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.”
“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
The Sign of the Four
Table of contents
The Science of Deduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
67
The Statement of the Case . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
In Quest of a Solution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
70
73
The Story of the Bald-Headed Man . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
100
The Great Agra Treasure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
103
The Strange Story of Jonathan Small . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
106
65
The Sign of the Four
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
black-letter 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.”
hundred and forty 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.”
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.
“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.”
“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, coupde-maı̂tres and tours-de-force, all testifying to the ardent admiration of the Frenchman.
“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.”
“He speaks as a pupil to his master,” said I.
“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.”
“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.”
“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 know, nowhere else in
“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
68
The Sign of the Four
the neighborhood. So much is observation. The
rest is deduction.”
“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 know 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 careless man. Neither is it a very far-fetched inference
“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 yo 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?”
69
The Sign of the Four
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 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 extraordinary concentration upon his
70
The Sign of the Four
clear-cut, hawklike features. “State your case,”
said he, in brisk, business tones.
“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.
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.
“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?”
“The date?” asked Holmes, opening his notebook.
“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.”
“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.”
“Had he any friends in town?”
“But would he come?” she asked, with something appealing in her voice and expression.
“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.”
“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
71
The Sign of the Four
I could appeal to. If I am here at six it will do, I
suppose?”
“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 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-andtwenty 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.
72
The Sign of the Four
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.
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 selfcontrol 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.
“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
73
The Sign of the Four
It was a September evening, and not yet seven
o’clock, but the day had been a dreary one,
and a dense drizzly fog lay low upon the great
city. Mud-colored 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 pocketlantern.
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 our journey. Miss 74
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 Sign of the Four
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 o 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 amber-and-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.
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The Sign of the Four
I took the liberty, therefore, of making an appointment 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.”
We 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 lightweight 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.
“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.”
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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 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
“I very well remember the sensation which was
caused by the disappearance of Captain Morstan.
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The Sign of the Four
to part with, although I had got it out with the design of sending it to her. You, my 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.
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.
“ ‘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.
“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.”
“ ‘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
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
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The Sign of the Four
the other of us with an obvious pride at the effect
which his story had produced, and then continued
between the puffs of his overgrown pipe.
Miss Morstan remarked just now, it is late, and we
had best put the matter through without delay.”
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.”
“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.”
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-andplaster 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.”
“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.”
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
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
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The Sign of the Four
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
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.
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.”
Pondicherry Lodge stood in its own grounds,
and was girt round with a very high stone wall
topped with broken glass. A single narrow ironclamped door formed the only means of entrance. On this our guide knocked with a peculiar
postman-like rat-tat.
“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?”
“Who is there?” cried a gruff voice from within.
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“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.”
Inside, a gravel path wound through desolate grounds to a huge clump of a house, square
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The Sign of the Four
and prosaic, all plunged in shadow save where a
moonbeam struck one corner and glimmered in
a garret 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.
whom no word or even look of affection had ever
passed, and yet now in an 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.
“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.”
“What a strange place!” she said, looking
round.
“Does he always guard the premises in this
way?” asked Holmes.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“None,” said Holmes. “But I see the glint of a
light in that little window beside the door.”
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.
“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?”
“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.
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.
“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.”
“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.
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.
“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.
“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.
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
“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
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The Sign of the Four
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.”
“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.
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.
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, test-tubes, 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, tarlike 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.
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.
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, closegrained 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.
“There is something devilish in this, Watson,”
said he, more moved than I had ever before seen
him. “What do you make of it?”
“You see,” he said, with a significant raising of
the eyebrows.
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.
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
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any mark was left behind. One tiny speck of blood
showed where the puncture had been.
“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.
“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.”
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.
“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 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.”
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 over-confidence. Simple as the case seems
now, there may be something deeper underlying
it.”
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.
“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.”
“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,
“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 round, 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
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The Sign of the Four
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 fair climber, was
not a professional sailor. His hands were far from
horny. My lens discloses more than one bloodmark, 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.”
floor was formed by the rafters, with thin lath-andplaster 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.
“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?”
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?” I asked, eagerly, when we had regained
the lower room once more.
“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?”
“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
“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
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The Sign of the Four
in its defense. As he hunted about, he kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out into a
loud crow of delight.
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“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, 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.”
“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 rabbit-warren!”
“I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney
Jones,” said Holmes, quietly.
Heavy steps and the clamor of loud voices were
audible from below, and the hall door shut with a
loud crash.
“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.”
“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.
“It was a piece of very simple reasoning.”
“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?”
“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?”
“Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid,” I answered,—“some strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus.”
“Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorize
over,” said Holmes, dryly.
“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.”
“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?”
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.
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The Sign of the Four
“On which the dead man very considerately
got up and locked the door on the inside.”
“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.
“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.”
“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—”
“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?”
“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 hocus-pocus,—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 trap-door.
“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.”
“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!”
“I have just been thinking so,” I answered. “It
is not right that Miss Morstan should remain in
this stricken house.”
“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.”
“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?”
“It was I who opened it.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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’s-nest which he may choose to construct.
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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.”
CHAPTER VII.
The Episode of the Barrel
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 middleaged, 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 stairrods. It was soothing to catch even that passing
glimpse of a tranquil English home in the midst of
the wild, dark business which had absorbed us.
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.
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
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The Sign of the Four
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.
“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, brownand-white 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.
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.”
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.”
“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.
We tied Toby to the hall table, and reascended
the stairs. The room was as he had left it, save that
a sheet had been draped over the central figure. A
weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the corner.
“A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome,”
said he. “Step in, sir. Keep clear of the badger; for
he bites. 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 slowworm. 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?”
“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.
“He wanted a dog of yours.”
“I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks,” he said. “Do you observe anything noteworthy about them?”
“Ah! that would be Toby.”
“Yes, Toby was the name.”
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“They belong,” I said, “to a child or a small
woman.”
dropped this. It confirms my diagnosis, as you
doctors express it.”
“Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing
else?”
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 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.”
“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?”
“Quite so. That is the point. Bear that in mind.
Now, would you kindly step over to that flapwindow 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.
“Certainly,” I answered.
“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.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Your leg will stand it?”
“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 water-barrel. 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.
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?”
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
ill-grown shrubs, had a blighted, ill-omened look
which harmonized with the black tragedy which
hung over it.
“A water-barrel.”
“Top on it?”
“Yes.”
“No sign of a ladder?”
“No.”
“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.”
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 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
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“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.”
“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?”
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.
“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?”
“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.”
“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
momento 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
“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
above-board. Two officers who are in command
of a convict-guard 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 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.”
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crime, and usually afford valuable indications as
to the criminal. Do you follow all this?”
“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?”
“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.”
“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 squaretopped corner public houses business was just beginning, and rough-looking 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.
“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 treasure-box 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.”
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 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.
“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 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?”
“What the deuce is the matter with the dog?”
growled Holmes. “They surely would not take a
cab, or go off in a balloon.”
“Fairly so. I worked back to him through Carlyle.”
“Perhaps they stood here for some time,” I suggested.
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“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.
CHAPTER VIII.
The Baker Street Irregulars
“What now?” I asked. “Toby has lost his character for infallibility.”
down the roadway. No, we are on the true scent
now.”
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“We must take care that he does not now bring
us to the place where the creasote-barrel came
from,” I observed.
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.
“I had thought of that. But you notice that he
keeps on the pavement, whereas the barrel passed
“This looks bad,” said he. “These fellows are
sharper than I expected. They seem to have cov-
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.
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ered their tracks. There has, I fear, been preconcerted management here.”
“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.
“What would you do, then?”
“I would engage a launch and go down the
river on the track of the Aurora.”
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, redfaced 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 wooden-legged man, wi’ his ugly face and
outlandish talk. What did he want always knockin’
about here for?”
“A wooden-legged man?” said Holmes, with
bland surprise.
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The Sign of the Four
“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 landingplaces for miles. It would take you days and days
to exhaust them, if you set about it alone.”
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“What are we to do, then?” I asked, as we
landed near Millbank Penitentiary.
“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
“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 postoffice, 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 professional enthusiasm which carried
my companion on, nor could I look at the matter
as a mere abstract intellectual problem. As far as
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The Sign of the Four
the roof of the building, and so through a trapdoor 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.”
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 sandalwearing 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 gazetteer which is now being published.
“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 lounding 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 banks thoroughly.
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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, convictbarracks, 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.
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.
“Can I do anything? I am perfectly fresh now,
and quite ready for another night’s outing.”
“You have slept soundly,” he said. “I feared
that our talk would wake you.”
“Then I shall run over to Camberwell and call
upon Mrs. Cecil Forrester. She asked me to, yesterday.”
“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.”
“I heard nothing,” I answered. “Have you had
fresh news, then?”
“On Mrs. Cecil Forrester?” asked Holmes, with
the twinkle of a smile in his eyes.
“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.”
“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.”
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I did not pause to argue over this atrocious sentiment. “I shall be back in an hour or two,” I remarked.
“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.”
“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.
“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 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.
“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.”
At breakfast-time he looked worn and haggard,
with a little fleck of feverish color upon either
cheek.
“And two knight-errants to the rescue,” added
Miss Morstan, with a bright glance at me.
“You are knocking yourself up, old man,” I
remarked. “I heard you marching about in the
night.”
“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!”
“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.”
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.”
“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.”
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.
“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 to-morrow, and go for the men rather
than the boat. But surely, surely, we shall hear
something.”
“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?”
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
“Why so, Mrs. Hudson?”
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The Sign of the Four
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.”
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.
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.
“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?”
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 ill-assorted 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.
“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
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The Sign of the Four
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.
“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.
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.”
“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.”
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The Sign of the Four
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.
“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?”
“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!”
“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.”
“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.”
“That is easily managed. There is always one
about there; but I can step across the road and telephone to make sure.”
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.
“Then I shall want two stanch men, in case of
resistance.”
“There will be two or three in the boat. What
else?”
“I think that you might offer me a cigar too,”
he said.
“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?”
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?”
“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.”
“Here is the old man,” said he, holding out a
heap of white hair. “Here he is,—wig, whiskers,
eyebrows, and all. I thought my disguise was
pretty good, but I hardly expected that it would
stand that test.”
“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. 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?”
“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?”
“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?”
“Yes; that was what brought me here.”
“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.”
“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.”
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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 miracle-plays, 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.
“Well, hardly that.
launches to beat us.”
But there are not many
“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 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.”
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.
“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.”
“Is there anything to mark it as a police-boat?”
“Yes,—that green lamp at the side.”
“Then take it off.”
“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
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.
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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.”
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.
“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.
“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
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 wooden-legged 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
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“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.”
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 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 good-sized, 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
“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 yardentrance 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 thea Aurora.
“I am sure of it,” said I. “We shall be up with
her in a very few minutes.”
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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
school-ruler, and clapped it to his lips. Our pistols rang 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 woodenlegged 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.
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, recklesseyed 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.
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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
ill-doings. 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 humor in his eyes.
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.”
“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.”
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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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 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.
“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.”
“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
“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
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a matter of duty, send an inspector with you, since
you have so valuable a charge. You will drive, no
doubt?”
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. 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.
“What a pretty box!” she said, stooping over it.
“This is Indian work, I suppose?”
“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!
“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 footfall she sprang to her feet, however, and a bright
flush of surprise and of pleasure colored her pale
cheeks.
“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
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The Sign of the Four
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 metal or jewelry lay within it. It
was absolutely and completely empty.
golden barrier was gone from between us. “Thank
God!” I ejaculated from my very heart.
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.’ ”
“The treasure is lost,” said Miss Morstan,
calmly.
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
“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
“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 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
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.
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The Sign of the Four
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.”
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.
“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.”
“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 half-way 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.
“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.
“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 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 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.
“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
“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
“You forget that we know nothing of all this,”
said Holmes quietly. “We have not heard your
story, and we cannot tell how far justice may originally have been on your side.”
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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 whiskeypegs 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
book-work 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.
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 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
“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,
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doubts as to whether they could arrive in time to
be of any use in case of an actual attack.
eyes. I waited, therefore, in silence, to see what it
was that they wanted from me.
“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,
fierce-looking 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.
“ ‘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 know 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.’
“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.
“ ‘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.’
“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 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
“ ‘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.
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“ ‘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 fosterbrother 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 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,
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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.
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 cold-blooded 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.
“ ‘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.’
“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.”
“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.
“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 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.
“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
“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
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The Sign of the Four
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.
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.
“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 bestpreserved 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.
“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 driven me mad; but I
was always a pretty stubborn one, so I just held on
and bided my time.
“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.
“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
“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
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The Sign of the Four
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.
“ ‘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.
“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 prisonofficials, crafty old hands who played a nice sly
safe game. A very snug little party they used to
make.
“ ‘Well, Small, what is it?’ he asked, taking his
cheroot from his lips.
“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 prison-chaps 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
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.
“ ‘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.
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.
“ ‘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.’
“ ‘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.’
“Two nights later he and his friend Captain
Morstan came to my hut in the dead of the night
with a lantern.
“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.
“ ‘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?’
“ ‘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.’
“Captain Morstan nodded.
113
The Sign of the Four
“ ‘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.
“ ‘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.
“ ‘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 yo 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.’
“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. Even the Agra
treasure had come to be a smaller thing in my
mind than the slaying of Sholto.
“ ‘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.’
“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
“ ‘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.’
114
The Sign of the Four
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 make a sort of sail. For ten days
we were beating about, trusting to luck, 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 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.
115
The Sign of the Four
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 treasurebox 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 wold 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.
“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.
“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.
116
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
A Scandal in Bohemia
A Scandal in Bohemia
Table of contents
Chapter 1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
123
Chapter 2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Chapter 3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
127
132
121
A Scandal in Bohemia
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 highpower 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.
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.
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.
“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
One night—it was on the twentieth of March,
123
A Scandal in Bohemia
the firelight strikes it, the leather is scored by
six almost 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.”
exaggerated. This account 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.”
“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.
“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.”
“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 German-speaking 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.”
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.”
“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 notepaper 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
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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.
“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?”
“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.”
“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 think that I had better go, Holmes.”
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.”
“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.”
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.”
“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.
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“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.
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.
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“You are right,” he cried; “I am the King. Why
should I attempt to conceal it?”
“Stolen.”
“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.”
“And why?”
“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 staffcommander 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.”
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The King took a heavy chamois leather bag
from under his cloak and laid it on the table.
“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.”
“And for present expenses?”
“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.
whiskered, 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 tweed-suited 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.”
“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
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 side127
A Scandal in Bohemia
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 coach-house.
I walked round it and examined it closely from every point of view, but without noting anything else
of interest.
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!’
“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.”
“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.
“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.
“ ‘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.
“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 gentleman’s chambers in
the Temple. It was a delicate point, and it widened
“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
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a surpliced clergyman, who seemed to be expostulating 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.
“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.”
“ ‘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?”
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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.
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!“
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 scissors-grinder
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
double-edged 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 man. Besides, remember that she had
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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 smokerocket from under my ulster. After all, I thought,
we are not injuring her. We are but preventing her
from injuring another.
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 sitting-room, 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.”
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 servantmaids—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.”
“And now?” I asked.
“You have the photograph?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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
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.
us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the
brougham.
“You have really got it!” he cried, grasping
Sherlock Holmes by either shoulder and looking
eagerly into his face.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?” said she.
“I am Mr. Holmes,” answered my companion,
looking at her with a questioning and rather startled gaze.
“Not yet.”
“But you have hopes?”
“I have hopes.”
“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.”
“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.
“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?”
“Never to return.”
“Yesterday.”
“But to whom?”
“And the papers?” asked the King hoarsely.
“All is lost.”
“To an English lawyer named Norton.”
“But she could not love him.”
“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:
“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.
The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon the steps. She watched
132
“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.
“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.
“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 tomorrow. 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,
“Very truly yours,
“Irene Norton, née Adler.”
“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.
“Your Majesty has something which I should
value even more highly,” said Holmes.
“You have but to name it.”
“This photograph!”
The King stared at him in amazement.
“Irene’s photograph!” he cried. “Certainly, if
you wish it.”
“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.
The Red-Headed League
I
The Red-Headed League
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.
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.”
“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 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.
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.”
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.
“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.”
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.”
“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
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
137
The Red-Headed League
you know, for example, that I did manual labour.
It’s as true as gospel, for I began as a ship’s carpenter.”
on Monday, at eleven o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7
Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.”
“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.
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.”
“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
“Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?”
“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-andcompass 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 redheaded men who are sound in body
and mind and above the age of twentyone years, are eligible. Apply in person
138
The Red-Headed League
over our heads and pay our debts, if we do nothing more.
“ ‘But,’ said I, ‘there would be millions of redheaded men who would apply.’
“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:
“ ‘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.’
“ ‘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.’
“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.
“ ‘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
Red-headed Men?’ he asked with his eyes open.
“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 flamecoloured 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.”
“ ‘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
over-good 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.’
“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.
When shall you be able to enter upon your new
duties?’
“ ‘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 blottingpaper, but we provide this table and chair. Will
you be ready to-morrow?’
“ ‘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
“ ‘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.
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The Red-Headed League
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.
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.
“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 goodday, complimented me upon the amount that I had
written, and locked the door of the office after me.
“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 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.”
“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.
“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.
“ ‘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.’
“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.”
“ ‘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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“And you did very wisely,” said Holmes.
“Your case is an exceedingly remarkable one, and I
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The Red-Headed League
shall be 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.”
“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.”
“Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “Why,
I have lost four pound a week.”
“Well, Watson,” said Holmes when our visitor
had left us, “what do you make of it all?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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 hawklike 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.
“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?”
“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?”
“No, I had a dozen.”
“Why did you pick him?”
“Because he was handy and would come
cheap.”
“I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is
never very absorbing.”
“At half-wages, in fact.”
“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!”
“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.”
We travelled by the Underground as far as
Aldersgate; and a short walk took us to SaxeCoburg 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 laurelbushes 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
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.
very much to do of a morning.”
There’s never
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The Red-Headed League
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.
newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City
and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant,
and McFarlane’s carriage-building 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 redheaded clients to vex us with their conundrums.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished
to ask you how you would go from here to the
Strand.”
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.
“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 Redheaded 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 SaxeCoburg 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.
“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 tonight.”
“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
“At what time?”
“Ten will be early enough.”
“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”
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The Red-Headed League
“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.
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.”
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.
“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,”
said the stranger with deference. “Still, I confess
that I 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.”
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.
“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.”
“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.”
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’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.”
“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.”
“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
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The Red-Headed League
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.
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.”
“You are not very vulnerable from above,”
Holmes remarked as he held up the lantern and
gazed about him.
“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.”
“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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“It is our French gold,” whispered the director.
“We have had several warnings that an attempt
might be made upon it.”
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
“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.
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The Red-Headed League
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.
“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.’ ”
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 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.
“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 police-station?”
“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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have you the
chisel and the bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie,
jump, and I’ll swing for it!”
“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.”
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 redheaded idea was very new and effective.”
146
“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 tonight.”
“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.”
A Case of Identity
M
A Case of Identity
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.”
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.”
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.
“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
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A Case of Identity
“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 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.”
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.”
“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 4 12 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.”
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 merchantman 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 fingertips 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
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A Case of Identity
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 Sunday-school 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.”
“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
“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?”
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A Case of Identity
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.”
“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 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.
“It missed him, then?”
“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.”
“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.”
“It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated,” said Holmes.
“I advertised for him in last Saturday’s Chronicle,” said she. “Here is the slip and here are four
letters from him.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is,
then, that some unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“But you have no notion as to what it could
have been?”
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
“None.”
“One more question. How did your mother
take the matter?”
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A Case of Identity
went her way, with a promise to come again whenever she might be summoned.
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.”
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.
“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 toecap, 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, halfbuttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she
came away in a hurry.”
“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.”
“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?”
“Well, she had a slate-coloured, broadbrimmed 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.”
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—”
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.
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A Case of Identity
“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.”
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.
“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 about the signature is very suggestive—in fact, we may call it conclusive.”
“Well, have you solved it?” I asked as I entered.
“Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta.”
“No, no, the mystery!” I cried.
“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.”
“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.”
“Who was he, then, and what was his object in
deserting Miss Sutherland?”
“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.”
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, middlesized fellow, some thirty years of age, cleanshaven, 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.
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.
“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?”
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
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A Case of Identity
“On the contrary,” said Holmes quietly; “I have
every reason to believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
“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.”
Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and
dropped his gloves. “I am delighted to hear it,”
he said.
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.
“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.”
“Certainly,” said Holmes, stepping over and
turning the key in the door. “I let you know, then,
that I have caught him!”
“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.”
“What! where?” shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips and glancing about him like a
rat in a trap.
“It was only a joke at first,” groaned our visitor. “We never thought that she would have been
so carried away.”
“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.”
“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
“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.”
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.
157
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, 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.
“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
The Boscombe Valley Mystery
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:
recent papers in order to master the particulars. It
seems, from what 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 exAustralian. 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.
“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.
“From Hatherley Farm-house to the Boscombe
Pool is a quarter of a mile, and two people saw
“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 travellingcloak 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.
“Have you heard anything of the case?” he
asked.
“Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some
days.”
“The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been looking through all the
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The Boscombe Valley Mystery
him as he passed over this ground. One was an
old woman, 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.
“Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky
thing,” 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.”
“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 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.”
“I could hardly imagine a more damning case,”
I remarked.
“If ever circumstantial evidence
pointed to a criminal it does so here.”
“What are they?”
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The Boscombe Valley Mystery
“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.”
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 lodge-keeper, 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
“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
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The Boscombe Valley Mystery
could only catch some allusion to a rat.
“The Coroner: What did you understand
by 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.’
“ ‘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.”
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The Boscombe Valley Mystery
Lestrade looked startled. “I do not quite follow,” he said.
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 tomorrow. 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.”
“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 tenderhearted 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
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“I think that I see my way to clearing James
McCarthy,” said Holmes. “Have you an order to
see him in prison?”
flight, and 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.
“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.”
It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned.
He came back alone, for Lestrade was staying in
lodgings in the town.
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
“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
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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.”
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.
“But if he is innocent, who has done it?”
“And that is—”
“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.”
“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,
comfortable-looking building, two-storied, slateroofed, 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.
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.”
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. Lestrade and I
“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
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The Boscombe Valley Mystery
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 wood and under the shadow of a great beech,
the largest 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.”
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
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The Boscombe Valley Mystery
“Who was the criminal, then?”
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 found
the ash, I then looked round and discovered the
stump among the moss where he had tossed it. It
“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. Goodbye. 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
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The Boscombe Valley Mystery
was an Indian cigar, of the variety which are rolled
in Rotterdam.”
“It may not come to that,” said Holmes.
“What?”
“And the cigar-holder?”
“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 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.”
“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,” 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—”
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.”
“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.
“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.
“Pray sit down on the sofa,” said Holmes gently. “You had my note?”
“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.
“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.”
“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
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.”
170
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.
The Five Orange Pips
W
The Five Orange Pips
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.
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 tonight? 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 twoand-twenty 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.”
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
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.”
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 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.
“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.”
“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.
“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.
“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
“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
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The Five Orange Pips
trembling hand, ‘K. K. K.!’ he shrieked, and then,
‘My God, my God, my sins have overtaken me!’
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.
“ ‘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.
“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.”
“ ‘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.
“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.”
“ ‘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.’
“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 notebooks 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.
“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
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The Five Orange Pips
“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 breakfast-table. There he was, sitting with a
newly opened 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.
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
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 wellnigh certain that some foul plot had been woven
round him.
“ ‘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?’
“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.
“ ‘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.’
“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.“
“ ‘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.’
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.
“ ‘I should certainly speak to the police,’ I said.
“ ‘And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of
the sort.’
“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.’ ”
“ ‘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.
“What have you done?” asked Holmes.
“Nothing.”
“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
“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.”
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The Five Orange Pips
“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.”
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.
“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.
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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.
from any region within fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy unsystematic, sensational
literature and 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.”
“I think, Watson,” he remarked at last, “that of
all our cases we have had none more fantastic than
this.”
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?”
“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 fingertips 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.”
“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.”
“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
“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
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The Five Orange Pips
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.’
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.”
“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.”
“But of what society?”
“Then the page we have seen—”
“Have you never—” said Sherlock Holmes,
bending forward and sinking his voice—“have you
never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?”
“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.”
“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
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.
181
The Five Orange Pips
“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.”
“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 passersby, it was quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given, and,
by the aid of the water-police, 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 landingplaces 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? 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?”
182
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 sailing-ship 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.
The Man with the Twisted Lip
I
The Man with the Twisted Lip
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.
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 sittingroom 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.
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?
“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 darkcoloured 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.”
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.
“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!”
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
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 find. Did she know where her husband
187
The Man with the Twisted Lip
the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and 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 three-legged
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.
man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed
as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, 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.
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.”
“Holmes!” I whispered, “what on earth are you
doing in this den?”
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.
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.
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 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
“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.”
188
The Man with the Twisted Lip
“I was certainly surprised to find you there.”
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.
“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 murdertrap 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.
“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.”
“Now, Watson,” said Holmes, as a tall dogcart 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.”
“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
“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
189
The Man with the Twisted Lip
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.
fears, she rushed down the lane and, by rare goodfortune, 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 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.
“Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into
town rather earlier than usual, remarking before
he started 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?”
“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.
“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.
“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
“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,
“It is very clear.”
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The Man with the Twisted Lip
his lodger, and that he could not account in any
way for the presence of the missing gentleman’s
clothes.
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.
“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 lefthand 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.”
“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 a cripple!” said I. “What could he have
done single-handed against a man in the prime of
life?”
“But I understand that all the other clothes
were found in the room. Would the body be
dressed in a coat alone?”
“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.”
“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
“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
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The Man with the Twisted Lip
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, and only just
had time to close the window when the police appeared.”
run out to the horse’s head, and springing down,
I followed Holmes up the small, winding graveldrive 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 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.
“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
192
The Man with the Twisted Lip
“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?”
the 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 twentyfive 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
“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 tomorrow.”
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 dressing-gown, 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
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The Man with the Twisted Lip
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.
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
middle-sized 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.
“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.
“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.
“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.”
“He! he! You are a funny one,” chuckled the
inspector.
“Yes. He was brought up and remanded for
further inquiries.”
“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.”
“So I heard. You have him here?”
“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.
“In the cells.”
“Is he quiet?”
“Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty
scoundrel.”
“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.”
“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.
“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.
“Great heavens!” cried the inspector, “it is, indeed, the missing man. I know him from the photograph.”
“He is asleep,” said he. “You can see him very
well.”
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The Man with the Twisted Lip
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?”
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 trade, and when I returned
home in the evening I found to my surprise that I
had received no less than 26s. 4d.
“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 twentyseven years in the force, but this really takes the
cake.”
“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.
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“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.
“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 greenroom 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
“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,
196
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!
spent!”
What a week she must have
“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.”
The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
I
The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
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 dressinggown, 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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“Yes.”
“It is to him that this trophy belongs.”
“Did he not advertise?”
“It is his hat.”
“No.”
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The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
“Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?”
cut within the last few days, and which he anoints
with lime-cream. 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.”
“Only as much as we can deduce.”
“From his hat?”
“Precisely.”
“You are certainly joking, Holmes.”
“But you are joking. What can you gather from
this old battered felt?”
“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?”
“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 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?”
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 hatsecurer, 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.
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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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-to-do 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.”
“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
“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
middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had
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The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
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.”
“Not the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle!”
I ejaculated.
“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.”
“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.”
“But he might be a bachelor.”
“A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!”
The commissionaire plumped down into a chair
and stared from one to the other of us.
“Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a
peace-offering to his wife. Remember the card
upon the bird’s leg.”
“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.”
“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?”
“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, upperattendant 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 evening; but the stone could
“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?”
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The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
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.”
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.”
“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 vitriolthrowing, 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
“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
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The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
occurrences, perhaps I ought to ask Mrs. Hudson
to examine its crop.”
“Oh, certainly, certainly,” answered Mr. Baker
with a sigh of relief.
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.
“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.”
“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?”
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.”
“Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat.”
“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.
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.”
“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?”
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.”
“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
“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?”
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Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar and ordered two glasses of beer from the
ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.
“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.
“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?”
“Your beer should be excellent if it is as good
as your geese,” said he.
“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.
Good-night.”
“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 horsey-looking 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?”
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The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
“Well?”
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.”
“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.
6d.’ ”
Twenty-four geese at 7s.
“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 tomorrow. 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 ratfaced 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
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The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the
stranger. “Well then,” said he, “my real name is
James Ryder.”
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?”
“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 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 sitting-room 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.
“It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it,”
said he in a crackling voice.
“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—”
“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 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!”
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.”
“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.”
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, many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring
with a drawn face, uncertain whether to claim or
to disown it.
“I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country,
sir. Then the charge against him will break down.”
“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!”
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,
“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.”
For a moment he had staggered and nearly
fallen, but the brandy brought a tinge of colour
208
The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
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.
makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen
for the market.’
“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.
“ ‘That white one with the barred tail, right in
the middle of the flock.’
“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.
“ ‘But was there another with a barred tail?’ I
asked, ‘the same as the one I chose?’
“ ‘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?’
“ ‘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.’
“ ‘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.
“ ‘Whatever were you doing with that bird,
Jem?’ says she.
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.
“ ‘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
“Get out!” said he.
“What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!”
209
“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. 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 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
The Adventure of the Speckled Band
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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 sitting-room. 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.”
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.”
“My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything.”
“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
I had no keener pleasure than in following
Holmes in his professional investigations, and in
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The Adventure of the Speckled Band
stand this strain no longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to—none, save only
one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can
be of little aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes;
I have heard of you from Mrs. 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.”
by a gambler in the days of the Regency. Nothing
was left save a few acres of ground, and the twohundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed
under a heavy mortgage. The last squire dragged
out his existence there, 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.
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.”
“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.
“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.”
“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.
“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
“Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over
a parapet into a stream, and it was only by pay214
The Adventure of the Speckled Band
ing 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.
“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
“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 manor-house 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?”
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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 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.”
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.”
“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.”
“One moment,” said Holmes, “are you sure
about this whistle and metallic sound? Could you
swear to it?”
Holmes shook his head like a man who is far
from being satisfied.
“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.”
“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
“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
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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.”
“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.
“You have done wisely,” said my friend. “But
have you told me all?”
“It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister
business.”
“And what do you think of it all, Watson?”
asked Sherlock Holmes, leaning back in his chair.
“Yes, all.”
“Dark enough and sinister enough.”
“Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening
your stepfather.”
“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.”
“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.
“What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the very peculiar words of the
dying woman?”
“I cannot think.”
“You have been cruelly used,” said Holmes.
“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.”
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?”
“But what, then, did the gipsies do?”
“I cannot imagine.”
“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.”
“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!”
“Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?”
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 frockcoat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a huntingcrop 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
“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?”
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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.
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.”
“Which of you is Holmes?” asked this apparition.
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.
“My name, sir; but you have the advantage of
me,” said my companion quietly.
“I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran.”
“I have seen the will of the deceased wife,” said
he. “To determine its exact meaning I have been
obliged 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.”
“Indeed, Doctor,” said Holmes blandly. “Pray
take a seat.”
“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
hunting-crop. “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.”
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.
“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.
“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.
“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.
“Stoke Moran?” said he.
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“Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby
Roylott,” remarked the driver.
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 illtrimmed lawn and examined with deep attention
the outsides of the windows.
“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 footpath over the fields. There it is, where the lady is
walking.”
“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?”
“And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner,” observed Holmes, shading his eyes. “Yes, I think we
had better do as you suggest.”
“Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one.”
We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled
back on its way to Leatherhead.
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
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.”
“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?”
“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.
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.”
“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 tonight. 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.”
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
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
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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.
“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 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.
“Where does that bell communicate with?” he
asked at last pointing to a thick bell-rope which
hung 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.”
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“It is very essential, Miss Stoner,” said he, “that
you should absolutely follow my advice in every
respect.”
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.”
“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
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“Did you observe anything very peculiar about
that bed?”
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.”
“No.”
“It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see
a bed fastened like that before?”
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 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:
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
From outside came the occasional cry of a
night-bird, 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.
“My God!” I whispered; “did you see it?”
Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a
light up in the direction of the ventilator, which
vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a
Holmes was for the moment as startled as I.
His hand closed like a vice upon my wrist in his
222
The Adventure of the Speckled Band
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.
“The band! the speckled band!” whispered
Holmes.
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
“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.
223
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 sharp-eyed 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 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.
“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 stand-
ing 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 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.”
“With the result of driving it through the ventilator.”
“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
The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb
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’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-andtwenty, 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.”
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.
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 librarychair. “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.
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.
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 pale-looking.
“I have been making a fool of myself,” he
gasped.
“I’ve got him here,” he whispered, jerking his
thumb over his shoulder; “he’s all right.”
“Not at all. Drink this.” I dashed some brandy
into the water, and the colour began to come back
to his bloodless cheeks.
“What is it, then?” I asked, for his manner suggested that it was some strange creature which he
had caged up in my room.
“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.”
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The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb
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 have been. It had been hacked or torn right
out from the roots.
the matter up, though of course I must use the official police as well. Would you give me an introduction to him?”
“I’ll do better. I’ll take you round to him myself.”
“I should be immensely obliged to you.”
“Good heavens!” I cried, “this is a terrible injury. It must have bled considerably.”
“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, 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.”
“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.
“Excellent! You should have been a surgeon.”
“It is a question of hydraulics, you see, and
came within my own province.”
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.
“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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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
“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
228
The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb
of money through my poor father’s death, I determined to start in business for myself and took
professional chambers in Victoria Street.
“ ‘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 tonight 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
“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.’
229
The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb
a train back. I should be compelled to stop the
night.’
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 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?’
“ ‘Yes, we could easily give you a shake-down.’
“ ‘That is very awkward. Could I not come at
some more convenient hour?’
“ ‘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 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.’
“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.’
“ ‘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.’
“ ‘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?’
“ ‘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.
“ ‘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?’
“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.
“ ‘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 goldmine. 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
“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
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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
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
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The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb
should not stay here. There is no good for you
to do.’
“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 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 fellowcountryman.
“ ‘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 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 fiftyguinea 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.
“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.’
“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.’
“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
“ ‘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.’
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The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb
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.
“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.
“ ‘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.’
“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.
“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.
“ ‘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!’
“ ‘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!’
“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.
“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.
“ ‘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.
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The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb
“ ‘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!’
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.”
“ ‘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 fell. I was conscious of a dull
pain, my grip loosened, and I fell into the garden
below.
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 ponderous commonplace books in which he
placed his cuttings.
“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 rosebushes.
“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.”
“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.
“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.
“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 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?”
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The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb
“They must have done so. I have a confused
memory, too, of having been lifted and conveyed
somewhere.”
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
rose-bushes 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
“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
235
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 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 con-
veyed 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 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
The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
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 tidewaiter.”
“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
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The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
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 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.’ ”
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. Was UnderSecretary 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.”
“Anything else?” asked Holmes, yawning.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.’
“Before the what?” asked Holmes with a start.
That is all.”
“The vanishing of the lady.”
“Terse and to the point,” remarked Holmes,
stretching his long, thin legs towards the fire.
“When did she vanish, then?”
“At the wedding breakfast.”
“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
“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’:
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The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
“ ‘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.
lar 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—”
“ ‘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 singu-
“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 pageboy, 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.”
241
The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
“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.”
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 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
“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?”
“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?”
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The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
relate and can have no possible bearing upon the
case.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Indeed! You say that there was a gentleman in
the pew. Some of the general public were present,
then?”
“Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars as to
this young lady, and your relations to her.”
“Oh, yes. It is impossible to exclude them when
the church is open.”
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.”
“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.”
“Did your wife hear all this?”
“No, thank goodness, she did not.”
“How long did she speak to this Alice?”
“And she was seen walking with this very
woman afterwards?”
“Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to
think of.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Well, it is a possible supposition.”
“American slang is very expressive sometimes.
And what did your wife do when she finished
speaking to her maid?”
“You think so, too?”
“I did not say a probable one. But you do not
yourself look upon this as likely?”
“She walked into the breakfast-room.”
“On your arm?”
“I do not think Flora would hurt a fly.”
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The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
“Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of characters. Pray what is your own theory as to what
took place?”
“But I have heard all that you have heard.”
“Without, however, the knowledge of preexisting 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 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
pea-jacket.
“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 weddingdress 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.”
“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?”
“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, oldfashioned 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
cross-questioning. 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.”
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The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
“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
card-case. 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:
“ ‘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.”
“ ‘You will see me when all is ready.
Come at once.
“ ‘F.H.M.’
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.
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.
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.
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The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
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.
“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; 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
246
The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
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.
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.”
“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.
“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 breakfasttable 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.
“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
“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 good-night.” He included us all in a sweeping bow and stalked out of the room.
247
“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 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 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
The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
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.”
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.
“It is, of course, well known to you that in
a successful banking business as much depends
My friend rose lazily from his armchair and
stood with his hands in the pockets of his dressinggown, 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.
251
The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
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.
“ ‘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.
“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.
“ ‘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.’
“ ‘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.
“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.
“ ‘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?’
“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
“ ‘One of the most precious public possessions
of the empire,’ said I.
252
The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
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 drawingroom 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.
253
The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
“ ‘Look here, dad,’ said he with his eyes cast
down, ‘can you let me have £200?’
I was wide awake, but it had left an impression
behind it as though a 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.
“ ‘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.’
“ ‘Arthur!’ I screamed, ‘you villain! you thief!
How dare you touch that coronet?’
“ ‘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.’
“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.
“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.
“ ‘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?’
“ ‘Tell me, dad,’ said she, looking, I thought, a
little disturbed, ‘did you give Lucy, the maid, leave
to go out to-night?’
“ ‘There are none missing. There cannot be any
missing,’ said he.
“ ‘Stolen!’ he cried.
“ ‘Yes, thief!’
shoulder.
I roared, shaking him by the
“ ‘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?’
“ ‘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 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 must speak to her in the morning, or I
will if you prefer it. Are you sure that everything
is fastened?’
“ ‘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.’
“ ‘Quite sure, dad.’
“ ‘Then, good-night.’ I kissed her and went up
to my bedroom again, where I was soon asleep.
“ ‘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.’
“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.”
“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
“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
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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.
“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
“ ‘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.
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The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
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 thirtysix into the room in which he exposed himself to
the greatest danger of being discovered. I ask you
now, is such a theory tenable?”
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 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.
“But what other is there?” cried the banker
with a gesture of despair. “If his motives were innocent, why does he not explain them?”
“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.
“No, no, my girl, the matter must be probed to
the bottom.”
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.”
“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.”
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,
“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.”
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The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
“You heard nothing yourself last night?”
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
“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.
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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.
elastic-sided 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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“But the gems, Mr. Holmes. Where are they?”
“I cannot tell.”
“How are you getting on?”
The banker wrung his hands. “I shall never see
them again!” he cried. “And my son? You give me
hopes?”
“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.”
“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 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 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.”
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.
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.
“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 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 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
I had just finished my tea when he returned,
evidently in excellent spirits, swinging an old
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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.”
“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
“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.
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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.
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 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.
“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 dressingroom. 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
260
“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 lifepreserver 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.”
The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
T
The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
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.”
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:
“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.”
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 halfpast ten to-morrow if I do not inconvenience you.
Yours faithfully,
Violet Hunter.
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
“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.”
entered. As I came in he gave quite a jump in his
chair and turned quickly to Miss Stoper.
“ ‘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 comfortablelooking 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 pocket-book 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.
“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
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The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
“ ‘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.’
“ ‘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.’
“ ‘And my duties, sir? I should be glad to know
what they would be.’
“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.
“ ‘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.
“ ‘Do you desire your name to be kept upon the
books?’ she asked.
“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.
“ ‘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.
Good-day to you, Miss Hunter.’ She struck a gong
upon the table, and I was shown out by the page.
“ ‘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?’
“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:
“ ‘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.
“ ‘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
“ ‘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.
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The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
pick for £40? There must be some strong reason
behind.”
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 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.’
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“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.”
“Well, Miss Hunter, if your mind is made up,
that settles the question,” said Holmes, smiling.
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“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
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
268
The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
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.
“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.”
“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.”
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The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
“Let us have everything in its due order.”
Holmes thrust his long thin legs out towards the
fire and composed himself to listen.
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, 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
“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 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 dogcart 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
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The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
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.
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.
“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
271
The Adventure 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 my heart
which I do not think that any burglar could have
done.
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 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.
“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.
“ ‘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.
“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.
“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.
“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
“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.
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The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
“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.
“ ‘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.”
“ ‘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?’
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.
“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!’
“Is Toller still drunk?” he asked.
“Yes. I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that
she could do nothing with him.”
“ ‘Only that?’ said he, looking at me keenly.
“That is well. And the Rucastles go out tonight?”
“ ‘Why, what did you think?’ I asked.
“ ‘Why do you think that I lock this door?’
“Yes.”
“ ‘I am sure that I do not know.’
“Is there a cellar with a good strong lock?”
“ ‘It is to keep people out who have no business there. Do you see?’ He was still smiling in
the most amiable manner.
“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
“ ‘I am sure if I had known—’
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The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
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.”
“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.
“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
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The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
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.”
“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.”
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.
“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.
“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.
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“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.”
“Mr. Fowler was a very kind-spoken, freehanded gentleman,” said Mrs. Toller serenely.
275
“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 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 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
Silver Blaze
am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to
go,” said Holmes, as we sat down together to our breakfast one morning.
simple one. I presume that you have looked into
this matter of the murder of John Straker and the
disappearance of Silver Blaze?”
“Go! Where to?”
“I have seen what the Telegraph and the Chronicle have to say.”
“To Dartmoor; to King’s Pyland.”
I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that he had not already been mixed upon
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.
“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,
conjectu