The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes, Vol. 1 The Complete Short Stories The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and the Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes ( PDFDrive )

TO SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
“Steel true, blade straight”
CONTENTS
Preface
Introduction by John le Carré
The World of Sherlock Holmes
THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA
THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE
A CASE OF IDENTITY
THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY
THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS
THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP
“A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME . . .”
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE
A WINTER’S CROP
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND
“IT IS A SWAMP ADDER! . . . THE
DEADLIEST SNAKE IN INDIA.”
THE GUNS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
AND JOHN H. WATSON, M.D.
THE ADVENTURE
THUMB
OF
THE
ENGINEER’S
THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL CORONET
THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES
THE MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
SILVER BLAZE
“. . . AND THE CALCULATION IS A
SIMPLE ONE”
“I STAND TO WIN A LITTLE ON THIS
NEXT RACE . . .”
THE CARDBOARD BOX
THE YELLOW FACE
THE STOCK-BROKER’S CLERK
THE “GLORIA SCOTT”
THE MUSGRAVE RITUAL
THE RITUAL OF THE MUSGRAVES
THE REIGATE SQUIRES
THE CROOKED MAN
THE INDIAN MUTINY
THE RESIDENT PATIENT
THE TEXT
PATIENT”
OF
“THE
RESIDENT
THE GREEK INTERPRETER
MYCROFT HOLMES
THE NAVAL TREATY
THE FINAL PROBLEM
REVISIONS
PROBLEM”
OF
“THE
FINAL
Chronological Table: The Life and Times of Sherlock
Holmes
Other Annotated Books
Also by Leslie S. Klinger
PREFACE
IN 1968, WHEN I was supposed to be engrossed in law
school studies, I received a gift of William S. BaringGould’s The Annotated Sherlock Holmes, published the
previous year. This magical pair of volumes entranced
me and led me back to the stories that I had enjoyed when
I was young(er) and had subsequently forgotten. More
importantly, the books introduced me to the idea of
Sherlockian scholarship, the “game” of treating the
stories as biography, not fiction. In later years, as I avidly
collected things Sherlockian, I dreamed that someday I,
too, would produce an annotated version of the Canon.
Baring-Gould’s Annotated Sherlock Holmes remained
in print for more than twenty-five years and became the
cornerstone of every Sherlock Holmes library. Yet it had
its idiosyncrasies, with the stories arranged in the
controversial chronological order created by BaringGould and with footnotes that embraced, in many cases,
Baring-Gould’s personal theories regarding the life of
Holmes. Sadly, Baring-Gould did not live to see
publication of his greatest work, and as a result,
occasional errors were not corrected. In contrast to the
Baring-Gould edition, the Oxford Sherlock Holmes,
published in 1993, presented the stories in nine volumes
(as they were originally published in book form), but the
scholarly notes largely ignored Sherlockian scholarship,
concentrating more traditionally on analysis of Conan
Doyle’s sources.
I set out to create for this edition an annotated text that
reflects the spectrum of views on Sherlockian
controversies rather than my own theories. In addition,
this work brings current Baring-Gould’s long-outdated
survey of the literature, including references to hundreds
of works published subsequently. Recognizing that many
of the events recorded in the stories took place in England
over 100 to 150 years ago, it also includes much
background information on the Victorian age, its history,
culture, and vocabulary. For the serious scholar of the
Sherlockian Canon, there is an extensive bibliography at
the end of Volume II. Chronological tables, summarizing
the key dates in the lives of Holmes, Watson, and Conan
Doyle and major world events, are set forth at the end of
each volume. I have avoided “lawyerly” citations of the
works consulted, but full citations may be found in the
nine volumes of my Sherlock Holmes Reference Library,
published by Gasogene Books.
Thirty-seven years have passed since publication of
Baring-Gould’s monumental work, and the world of
Sherlock Holmes has grown much larger. This edition
was created with the assistance of new resources that now
exist for the serious student—Ronald L. DeWaal’s The
Universal Sherlock Holmes, Jack Tracy’s Encyclopaedia
Sherlockiana, Steve Clarkson’s Canonical Compendium,
and scores of other handbooks, reference works, indexes,
and collections, many in computerised format. It also
reflects the aid of a new tool—the Internet, which makes
accessible immense quantities of minute detail.
This is not a work for the serious student of Arthur
Conan Doyle. While Doylean scholarship is vitally
important, the reader of these volumes will not find
reference to the literary sources of the stories or to
biographical incidents in the life of Sir Arthur that may
be reflected in the Canon. I perpetuate the gentle fiction
that Holmes and Watson really lived and that (except as
noted) Dr. John H. Watson wrote the stories about
Sherlock Holmes, even though he graciously allowed
them to be published under the byline of his colleague
and literary agent Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
To keep this work from approaching the length of a
telephone book, it is published in three volumes: The first
two volumes consist of the fifty-six short stories that
appeared from 1891 to 1927 (Volume I containing the
stories collected in the volumes called The Adventures of
Sherlock Holmes and The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes,
Volume II containing the stories collected under the titles
The Return of Sherlock Holmes, His Last Bow, and The
Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes); the third volume (to be
published in 2005) presents the four novels, A Study in
Scarlet (1887), The Sign of Four (1890), The Hound of
the Baskervilles (1902), and The Valley of Fear (1915).
All in all, here is the complete record of the career of Mr.
Sherlock Holmes. For the first-time reader of these tales,
my best advice is to plunge immediately into the stories,
skipping the introduction. Whether this is your first
reading or your fifty-first reading of the Canon, I wish
you joy in the experience, and I hope that you find that
this edition enriches it.
LESLIE S. KLINGER
INTRODUCTION BY JOHN LE CARRÉ
DR. WATSON DOESN’T write to you, he talks to you,
with Edwardian courtesy, across a glowing fire. His voice
has no barriers or affectations. It is clear, energetic, and
decent, the voice of a tweedy, no-nonsense colonial
Britisher at ease with himself. Its owner is travelled. He
has knocked about, as they say, browned his knees. Yet
he remains an innocent abroad. He is a first-class chap,
loyal to a fault, brave as a lion, and the salt of the earth.
All the clichés fit him. But he is not a cliché.
Finer feelings confuse Dr. Watson. He is a stranger to art. Yet, like his creator,
he is one of the greatest story-tellers the world has ever listened to. On the rare
occasions he leaves the stage to Holmes, we long for him to return. Holmes—
mercurial, brilliant, complex, turbulent Holmes—is not safe out there alone. Oh,
he manages. He can dissemble, go underground, disguise himself to the point
where his own mother wouldn’t know him, he can act dead or dying, trawl
opium dens, wrestle with Moriarty on a cliff’s edge, or dupe the kaiser’s spy.
But none of that changes the fact that when he is alone, he is only half the fellow
he becomes the moment faithful Watson takes back the tale.
No amount of academic study, thank Heaven, no earnest dissertations from
the literary bureaucracy, will ever explain why we love one writer’s voice above
another’s. Partly it has to do with trust, partly with the good or bad manners of
the narrator, partly with his authority or lack or it. And a little also with beauty,
though not as much as we might like to think. As a reader, I insist on being
beguiled early or not at all, which is why a lot of the books on my shelves
remain mysteriously unread after page twenty. But once I submit to the author’s
thrall, he can do me no wrong. From my childhood onwards, Conan Doyle has
had that power over me. I love his Brigadier Gerard, and his wicked pirate
Sharkey, and his Professor Challenger, too, but I love Holmes and Watson best
of all. He has the same power over my sons, and I look on with delight as one by
one my grandchildren fall under his spell.
Peek up Conan Doyle’s literary sleeve and you will at first be disappointed;
no fine turns of phrase, no clever adjectives that leap off the page, no arresting
psychological insights. Instead, what you are looking at is a kind of narrative
perfection: a perfect interplay between dialogue and description, perfect
characterisation and perfect timing. No wonder that, unlike other great storytellers of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Conan Doyle translates
without loss into practically any language.
Professional critics can’t lay a glove on Conan Doyle, and never could. They
could mock his spiritualism, his magpie obsessions; they could declare the later
Holmes to be no longer the man he once was. But nobody was listening then,
and nobody is listening today. Now, as in his lifetime, cab-drivers, statesmen,
academics, and raggedy-arsed children sit spellbound at his feet—proof, if proof
were needed, that Doyle’s modesty of language conceals a profound tolerance of
the human complexity. Even in his own day, Conan Doyle had many imitators,
all vastly inferior, though successful. If one of them, by some awful accident,
had spawned the wicked Professor Moriarty, it’s a pound to a penny, Moriarty
would have been a scheming Jew. If Joseph Conrad, then an anguished Balkan
radical hellbent on the destruction of industrial society. But Conan Doyle carried
no such baggage. He knew that evil can live for itself alone. He has no need of
hate or prejudice, and he was wise enough to give the Devil no labels.
Reflect for a moment on the cunning with which Doyle places the reader
midway between his two great protagonists. Holmes the towering genius is miles
ahead of us, and we know we shall never catch him up. We aren’t meant to, and
of course, we don’t want to. But take heart: for we are smarter by a mile than
that plodding Dr. Watson! And what is the result? The reader is delightfully
trapped between his two champions. Is there anywhere in popular literature a
sweeter portrait of what Thomas Mann sonorously called the relationship
between the artist and the citizen? In Holmes, we are never allowed to forget the
artist’s urge towards self-destruction. Through Watson, we are constantly
reminded of our love of social stability.
No wonder, then, if the pairing of Holmes and Watson has triggered more
imitators than any other duo in literature. Contemporary cop dramas draw on
them repeatedly. They are almost singlehandedly responsible for the buddybuddy movie. The modern thriller would have been lost without them. With no
Sherlock Holmes, would I ever have invented George Smiley? And with no Dr.
Watson, would I ever have given Smiley his sidekick Peter Guillam? I would
like to think so, but I doubt it very much.
I was nine years old and at my second boarding school when the headmaster’s
brother, a saintly man with a golden voice, read us The Adventures of Sherlock
Holmes once a week in the junior common room before bedtime. He followed
the next term with The Hound of the Baskervilles and I can hear him now, and
see his great bulk, with his bald head glinting before the coal fire.
“Footprints?”
It is Holmes, questioning Dr. Mortimer.
“Footprints.”
“A man’s or a woman’s?”
Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice sank almost
to a whisper as he answered.
“Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!”
Now read on. You have in your hand the Final Solution to the collected
Sherlock Holmes stories, enriched by a lengthy and learned introduction. Do not
be dismayed. Nobody writes of Holmes and Watson without love.
JOHN LE CARRÉ
October 24, 2003
THE WORLD OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
ALTHOUGH
THE TWENTIETH century produced
many firsts, the mystery or detective story was not among
them. In 1901, one critic made reference to “thousands of
tales of detection” published in the previous fifty years.
Even then, however, only three detectives were
memorable: Edgar Allan Poe had written three stories
about Monsieur Dupin, a private investigator; Émile
Gaboriau had invented tales about Monsieur Lecoq, a
French policeman; and Arthur Conan Doyle had brought
to the public’s attention a series of adventures of
Sherlock Holmes. Today, Lecoq has effectively vanished,
and while Poe’s short stories are revered as models of
writing, the character of Dupin is all but forgotten.
Yet a century after this observation, Sherlock Holmes is quite alive and well.1
The short stories have not been out of print since they first appeared in 1891, and
the books have appeared in virtually every language. Hundreds of actors have
portrayed Holmes on stage, radio, and screen, in his own milieu and in
contemporary—even imaginary—settings. Dozens of scholarly books and
magazines are published about Sherlock Holmes annually, and the stream of
imitations appears to be inexhaustible. Fan clubs, some with scholarly agendas,
others who gather for sheer enjoyment, meet every month in every major
country. Holmes has been characterised as one of the three best-known
personalities in the world, sharing the spotlight only with Mickey Mouse and
Santa Claus.
What is it that we love (or should love) in Sherlock Holmes? Edgar W. Smith,
then leader of The Baker Street Irregulars and editor of the Baker Street Journal,
pondered this question in 1946.2 Perhaps emblematic of the times, he concluded:
Left to right: Robert Barr (publisher of The Idler), Miss
Doyle (probably Ida, Arthur’s sister), Arthur Conan
Doyle, Louise Hawkins Doyle, and Robert McClure
(publisher of McClure’s Magazine).
The Idler, October 1894
[Holmes] stands before us as a symbol . . . of all that we are not but ever
would be. . . . We see him as the fine expression of our urge to trample evil
and to set aright the wrongs with which the world is plagued. . . . [He] is the
personification of something in us that we have lost or never had. For it is
not Sherlock Holmes who sits in Baker Street, comfortable, competent, and
self-assured; it is we ourselves who are there, full of a tremendous capacity
for wisdom, complacent in the presence of our humble Watson, conscious
of a warm well-being and a timeless, imperishable content. . . . That is the
Sherlock Holmes we love—the Holmes implicit and eternal in ourselves.
But this answer, although psychologically insightful, is necessarily only a
partial one, for the stories are not mere character studies of Holmes but rather
detective stories, set in a specific time and place, with a large cast of supporting
players.
THE VICTORIAN AGE
HOLMES was not the first detective in literature. Some say that that honour must
be given to the biblical sleuth Daniel, for his fine investigations into the cases of
Bel and the Dragon and Susanna and the Elders. Others point to François Eugène
Vidocq, a French detective whose memoirs, published in 1828, captured the
public’s eye and established the sleuth as a man of action. American writer
Edgar Allan Poe introduced the cerebral detective, also French, in the character
of C. August Dupin. Dupin first appeared in Poe’s short story “Murders in the
Rue Morgue” (1841). Also, Poe invented the character of the partner and
chronicler (nameless in Poe’s tales) who is less intelligent than the detective but
serves as a sounding board for the detective’s brilliant deductions. In the three
Dupin stories, the detective outwits the police and shows them to be ineffective
crimefighters and problem solvers. Yet Poe apparently lost interest in the notion,
and his detective “series” ended in 1845.
Another Frenchman, Émile Gaboriau, created the detective known as
Monsieur Lecoq, drawing heavily on Vidocq as his model. First appearing in
L’Affaire Lerouge (1866), Lecoq was a minor police detective who rose to fame
in six cases, appearing between 1866 and 1880. Although Sherlock Holmes
describes Lecoq as a “miserable bungler,” Gaboriau’s works were immensely
popular, and Fergus Hume, English author of the best-selling detective novel of
the nineteenth-century The Mystery of a Hansom Cab (1886), which sold over
500,000 copies worldwide, explained that Gaboriau’s financial success inspired
his own work.
In England, criminals and detectives peopled Charles Dickens’s tales as well.
While certainly not regarded as an author of detective fiction, Dickens created
Inspector Bucket, the first significant detective in English literature. When
Bucket appeared in Bleak House (1852–1853), he became the prototype of the
official representative of the police department: honest, diligent, stolid, and
confident, albeit not very colourful, dramatic, or exciting. Wilkie Collins, author
of two of the greatest novels of suspense of the nineteenth century, The Woman
in White (1860) and The Moonstone (1868), contributed Sergeant Cuff, who
appears in The Moonstone. Cuff is known as the finest police detective in
England; he solves his cases with perseverance and energy rather than genius.
Sadly, after The Moonstone, he is not heard from again.
Without question, the British public, by the late nineteenth century, had
become accustomed to the notion of a police force. Introduced in England in
1829 by Sir Robert Peel, the official police spread to the countryside of England
in 1856. The detective bureau—the real Inspector Buckets of London—had been
added to Scotland Yard in 1842, with two detectives, remarkably nonuniformed. By 1868, this had increased to fifteen detectives. In 1878, the
detective and the constable were separated, and the Detective Department was
renamed the Criminal Investigation Department. Thus by the end of the
nineteenth century, the English were familiar with official detectives, and
perhaps, like Holmes, regarded them as a “bad lot,” unlikely to solve complex
crimes without help. In England, as contrasted with America, the rule of law was
intimately connected with the constabulary, and guns and violence were the
domain of the criminal, not the police.
At least a rudimentary understanding of Victorian history is necessary to
appreciate the social milieu of Sherlock Holmes. It is important to know that by
the beginning of Victoria’s reign in 1837, Great Britain had not only helped to
create the Industrial Revolution but had become the greatest industrialized nation
in Europe. During the Victorian era, the acquisition of overseas territories and
complex motives of commerce and charity propelled an exponential burst of
industrial growth. Benjamin Disraeli, after he became prime minister in 1868,
loudly and frequently advocated expansion, which reached its zenith with the
coronation of Victoria, at his instigation, as Empress of India in 1876. Disraeli’s
“imperialist” foreign policies were justified by invoking generalizations partly
derived from Darwin’s theory of evolution, arguing that “imperialism” was a
manifestation of what Kipling would refer to as “the white man’s burden.” The
empire existed, argued its supporters, not for the benefit—economic, strategic, or
otherwise—of Great Britain itself, but so that primitive peoples, incapable of
self-government, could, with British guidance, eventually become civilized and
Christianized. The doctrine served to legitimise Britain’s acquisition of portions
of central Africa and her domination, with other European powers, of China.
In the Victorian age, the study of “natural philosophy” and “natural history”
became “science,” and students, who had once been exclusively gentlemen and
clerical naturalists, now were professional “scientists.” In the general population,
belief in natural laws and continuous progress began to grow, and there was
frequent interaction among science, government, and industry. Science
education was expanded and formalised, and perhaps as a result, a fundamental
transformation occurred in beliefs about nature and the place of humans in the
universe. A revival of religious activity, largely unmatched since the days of the
Puritans, swept England. This religious revival shaped that code of moral
behaviour, or rather that infusion of all behaviour with moralism, which became
known as “Victorianism.” Above all, religion occupied a place in the public
consciousness, a centrality in the intellectual life of the age, that it had not had a
century before and did not retain in the twentieth century.
This was the world into which Sherlock Holmes was born. While his sphere of
influence was global, his spiritual and intellectual home was indubitably
London, that “great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire
[were] irresistibly drained,” in short, the greatest city in the world. Although the
city itself initially consisted of only its ancient centre (called “The City”)
together with the boroughs of Westminster and Mayfair, the industrialisation
movement expanded London’s physical size almost eightfold between 1810 and
1900. In less than a century, it included diverse neighbourhoods such as Chelsea,
Battersea, Belgravia, Brompton, Kensington, Hampstead, and Southwark. The
population rose from about 850,000 citizens in 1810 to almost 5 million by the
turn of the century.
With the growth of the city came an explosion of building. Railroad terminals,
museums, theatres, public buildings, parks, colleges, grand hotels and stores,
churches, and row upon row of connected private houses sprang up and, with
them, a welter of disease and poverty. The air, water, and ground became fouled
from the soot of soft coal burned for heat as well as from the leavings of humans
and the horses that drew their vehicles. Inevitably, the urban sprawl of London
also bred crime: In 1880, in the Metropolitan police district, encompassing most
of London, 23,920 felonies were reported, and 13,336 persons were apprehended
for felonies.
Police going to work.
The Queen’s London (1897)
Sherlock Holmes’s London was home not only to
criminals but also to the greatest celebrities of the era. No more dominating
figure, of course, lived in the nineteenth century than Queen Victoria, the icon of
the age, who, along with her husband, Prince Albert, and their son, Edward,
Prince of Wales, provides a powerful but almost invisible backdrop to the world
of Sherlock Holmes. Other prominent London residents included economist John
Stuart Mill, philosopher-historian Thomas Carlyle, writers Charles Dickens and
Oscar Wilde, statesman William Gladstone, singer Jenny Lind, actress Ellen
Terry, artist and designer William Morris, and painters James McNeill Whistler,
J. M. W. Turner, and John Singer Sargent. London’s cosmopolitanism drew in
large part from the diversity of its citizenry. It was estimated that in 1880 onethird of the population of London had been born outside its limits, and its largest
“foreign” groups were, in order of size, the Irish, Scots, Asiatics, Africans,
Americans, Germans, French, Dutch, Poles, Italians, Swiss, and Jews. Among
this milieu were economist Karl Marx, composer Richard Wagner, writers Henry
James and George Bernard Shaw, and painter-poet Dante Gabriel Rosetti. The
shadows of many of these prominent Londoners fall across the adventures of
Sherlock Holmes.
THE LIFE OF SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
A SCOT named Arthur Conan Doyle, credited with authorship of every tale of
Sherlock Holmes, is one of the most famous men associated with the literary
history of London, even though he lived there only briefly. Conan Doyle was
born in Edinburgh on May 22, 1859, the second of nine children, seven of whom
survived to maturity. His early family life was difficult. His father, Charles
Altamont Doyle, was the youngest son of John Doyle, the popular political
caricaturist “H.B.” Charles’s brothers were all prominent: James authored The
Chronicles of England; Henry managed the National Gallery in Dublin; and
Richard was well known for his cover design for Punch and for his illustrations
of fairies. Charles, however, pursued an unambitious post as a civil servant, a
post that he eventually lost, and then descended into alcoholism. Suffering
severely from epilepsy, he was eventually institutionalised, dying in 1893.
Because the family was poor, Conan Doyle’s early education took place at
home, administered by his beloved mother, Mary. “The Ma’am” was of Irish
extraction and traced her ancestry back to the famous Percy family of
Northumberland and from there to the Plantagenet line. She told young Arthur,
her eldest son, tales of his illustrious ancestors.
At the age of nine, Conan Doyle was sent to the Jesuit preparatory school of
Hodder in Lancashire. Hodder was attached to the Jesuit secondary school of
Stonyhurst, and it was to the latter that Conan Doyle moved two years later. His
time at Stonyhurst was not a particularly happy one. Here, his agnosticism
developed, and at the end of his time at Stonyhurst, by 1875, Conan Doyle no
longer considered himself a Catholic. After leaving Stonyhurst, he spent a
further year with the Jesuits in Feldkirch, Austria, before returning to Edinburgh
to study medicine at the university from 1876 to 1881.
At Edinburgh, Conan Doyle met Dr. Joseph Bell, whose medical observations
and deductions amazed Bell’s colleagues and impressed the young students. Bell
was thirty-nine years old when Conan Doyle first attended one of his lectures.
By the end of Conan Doyle’s second year Bell had selected him to serve as an
assistant in his ward. This gave Conan Doyle the opportunity to view Dr. Bell’s
remarkable ability to quickly deduce a great deal about a patient. Conan Doyle
wrote about it in 1892, in a letter to Bell:
Joseph Bell.
It is most certainly to you that I owe Sherlock Holmes, and though in the
stories I have the advantage of being able to place [the detective] in all sorts
of dramatic positions, I do not think that his analytical work is in the least
an exaggeration of some effects which I have seen you produce in the outpatient ward. Round the centre of deduction and inference and observation
which I have heard you inculcate, I have tried to build up a man who
pushed the thing as far as it would go—further occasionally . . .
In his autobiography, Memories and Adventures, published in 1924, Conan
Doyle expanded:
I felt now that I was capable of something fresher and crisper and more
workmanlike. Gaboriau had rather attracted me by a neat dovetailing of his
plots, and Poe’s masterful detective, M. Dupin, had from boyhood been one
of my heroes. But could I bring an addition of my own? I thought of my old
teacher Joe Bell, of his eagle face, of his curious ways, and his eerie trick of
spotting details. If he were a detective he would surely reduce this
fascinating but unorganized business to something nearer an exact science.
I would try if I could get this effect. It was surely possible in real life, so
why should I not make it plausible in fiction? It is all very well to say that a
man is clever, but the reader wants to see examples of it—such examples as
Bell gave us every day in the wards.
Reflecting on Doyle’s days as a medical student, Dr. Bell wrote for the Strand
Magazine and its loyal Sherlock Holmes fans,
You asked me about the kind of teaching to which Mr. Conan Doyle has so
kindly referred, when speaking of . . . Sherlock Holmes. Dr. Conan Doyle
has, by his imaginative genius, made a great deal out of very little, and his
warm remembrance of one of his old teachers has coloured the picture. In
teaching the treatment of disease and accident, all careful teachers have first
to show the student how to recognize accurately the case. The recognition
depends in great measure on the accurate and rapid appreciation of small
points in which the diseased differs from the healthy state. In fact, the
student must be taught to observe carefully. To interest him in this kind of
work we teachers find it useful to show the student how much a trained use
of the observation can discover in ordinary matters such as the previous
history, nationality and occupation of a patient.
During his term as a medical student at Edinburgh, Conan Doyle took various
jobs to assist with the family’s upkeep, including service as a ship’s doctor
aboard a Greenland whaler. When a friend remarked to him that his letters were
vivid and that surely he could write for pay, Conan Doyle, ever anxious to find
new sources of money, tried his hand at a story. “The Mystery of Sasassa
Valley,” a treasure-hunt yarn set in South Africa, drew heavily from Poe and
Bret Harte, two of his favourite writers at the time. To Conan Doyle’s delight, it
was accepted by a prominent Edinburgh magazine called Chambers’s Journal,
and the story appeared anonymously there in 1879.
Conan Doyle’s initial interest in writing was as a means of making money, but
the dozens of stories that he wrote at this stage had little success. Upon
publication of his second story, “An American’s Tale,” in 1880, the publisher
advised him to give up medicine for writing, but Conan Doyle was too uncertain
of his economic future to heed the advice. Graduating in 1881, he accepted an
appointment as a ship’s doctor on a voyage to the West African coast. When he
returned, he visited London to confer with his prominent family relations about
establishing a practice there. Problems arose, however, with the Catholic Doyles,
for Conan Doyle refused to compromise his agnostic stand. Returning to
Edinburgh, he continued to seek opportunities.
Louise Hawkins.
In 1882, a fellow student at Edinburgh, Dr. George Turnavine Budd, invited
Conan Doyle to join him in a medical practice in Plymouth. After their stormy
partnership broke up, Conan Doyle moved to Southsea and established his own
practice. In 1885 Conan Doyle moved a patient named Jack Hawkins into his
house so as to supervise his treatment. The treatment failed, and Hawkins died
(without any blame ascribed to Conan Doyle). Conan Doyle subsequently
looked after the welfare of the patient’s mother and sister, who also resided in
Southsea, and within a few months, he courted and married Louise Hawkins
(“Touie”), Jack’s sister. By all accounts Touie was a sweet-natured young
woman with a pleasant, open face and captivating blue-green eyes. Conan Doyle
described her as “gentle and amiable.” They remained married until Louise’s
death of tuberculosis in 1906 and produced two children, Mary Louise and
Kingsley.
In 1886, apparently inspired by meetings he attended in Southsea, Conan
Doyle became interested in psychic studies. In later years, such studies, or
“Spiritualism,” would become the entire focus of his life, and he often pointed to
these early interests as evidence of the long and careful study he had made of the
field. Legend has it that Conan Doyle’s Southsea medical practise was a failure;
in truth, it was increasingly successful. In his spare moments, Conan Doyle kept
at his avocation of story writing, publishing thirty stories between 1879 and
1887.
Conan Doyle at his desk in Southsea.
While the famous meeting of Sherlock Holmes and John H. Watson, m.d., is
well documented (in A Study in Scarlet), the meeting of Conan Doyle and Dr.
Watson remains in the imagination. Perhaps these two young writers met in
Edinburgh; perhaps they attended some literary society meeting together; or
perhaps their similar medical backgrounds led them to the same lecture. But they
must have met, for in 1887, a portion of Dr. Watson’s reminiscences were
published under the byline of Arthur Conan Doyle, with the title A Study in
Scarlet.3 Conan Doyle had struggled to find a publisher for this modest book.
After rejection by three publishers, Ward, Lock and Company of London
accepted the manuscript in September 1886, printing it the following year in
their Beeton’s Christmas Annual for 1887. This publication was a collection of
fiction and short occasionals that had been founded in 1867 by Samuel Orchart
Beeton, publisher and husband of the renowned Mrs. Beeton of cookbook fame.
Priced at one shilling, the annual had a red, white, and yellow cover that
apparently featured the villain of A Study in Scarlet, warming a syringe by the
flame of a hanging lamp. The annual sold out rapidly, although this owed more
to the Beeton reputation than to the contents. The story was published in a
separate edition in 1888 illustrated by Conan Doyle’s father, Charles Doyle.
Following the acceptance of A Study in Scarlet—for which Conan Doyle
received only £254 for all rights to the tale (undoubtedly to be shared with Dr.
Watson)—Conan Doyle wrote The Mystery of Cloomber, his first published
novel. It was first serialised in the Pall Mall Budget and the Pall Mall Gazette, a
format that had been wildly popularised by Charles Dickens. Published in 1888,
Cloomber, which Conan Doyle considered immature, was not among his
favourite works. It drew heavily on Conan Doyle’s Edinburgh experiences and
used Wilkie Collins’s “thrillers” as models. After completion, Conan Doyle
turned his hand to an historical novel, Micah Clarke, which appeared in book
form in 1889. It was successful commercially, and Conan Doyle regarded it as
the “first solid cornerstone laid for some sort of literary reputation.” As a result,
he was able to arrange publication of several collections of his previously
published short stories.
A Study in Scarlet.
Conan Doyle also found time in 1890 to prepare for publication The Firm of
Girdlestone, a novel he had begun in 1884, and to respond to a commission from
J. M. Stoddart, agent for Lippincott’s Magazine of Philadelphia, with a short
book. In a letter in 1890, Conan Doyle described it to Stoddart: “My story will
either be called ‘The Sign of the Six’ or ‘The Problem of the Sholtos.’ You said
you wanted a spicy title. . . . I shall give Sherlock Holmes of ‘A Study in Scarlet’
something else to unravel.” Because of the limited publication of A Study in
Scarlet, The Sign of Four, as it was finally called in its initial appearance, was
America’s introduction to Sherlock Holmes, and the work had some success. It
was published in book form later that year, and after the appearance of the first
series of Holmes stories in the Strand Magazine in 1891, it became a best-seller.
By late 1890, however, Conan Doyle concluded that he had reached a
professional and domestic plateau, and, compelled by the announcement of
Robert Koch’s new treatment for tuberculosis (ironically, the disease that would
strike his wife in these years), he acted on impulse and travelled to Berlin to
witness the demonstrations of the treatment. On the trip, he met a medical
specialist—a dermatologist—who urged him to develop his own speciality. Two
days later, he announced the closing of his Southsea practice and hurried off to
Vienna to study the eye. The Viennese trip was a failure, for Conan Doyle found
himself unable to understand sufficient portions of the German lectures to make
use of the information. Leaving after two months, he and Louise took an
extended vacation, returning in the spring of 1891 to London. There, they rented
rooms in Montague Place, while Conan Doyle sought a suitable medical office.
He eventually located one at 2 Upper Wimpole Street but, to the delight of future
readers everywhere, found that he had no patients. Conversely, literary planets
were moving into alignment. In January 1891, a publisher named George
Newnes conceived the idea of the Strand Magazine. Newnes, who had had
remarkable success with a weekly paper entitled Tit-Bits, hoped to create a
publication in the style of the American magazines Harper’s and Scribner’s. He
wanted a British magazine with a picture on every page but soon modified his
plan to allow for a picture every other page. Further, he resolved that the
magazine should be complete in itself each month, “like a book.” This meant
that the Strand would not feature the serial stories other magazines preferred,
instead publishing short stories. Newnes’s idea caught hold immediately, and the
first issue sold 300,000 copies, which no other magazine, British or American,
approached. Conan Doyle had a story, “The Voice of Science,” in one of the first
issues.
In the late spring of 1891, Greenhough Smith, the newly appointed literary
editor of the Strand, received a submission of two handwritten manuscripts.
Forty years later he described how he reacted on that day:
The Strand Magazine (February 1893).
I at once realised that here was the greatest short story writer since Edgar
Allan Poe. I remember rushing into Mr. Newnes’s room and thrusting the
stories before his eyes. . . . Here was a new and gifted story-writer; there
was no mistaking the ingenuity of the plot, the limpid clearness of the style,
the perfect art of telling a story.
The two stories that excited Smith’s interest were “A Scandal in Bohemia” and
“The Red-Headed League.” Conan Doyle received thirty guineas each for the
first set of stories, titled the Adventures, and fifty guineas each for the Memoirs.5
In another great stroke of fortune, W. J. K. Boot, the Strand art editor, sent the
commission for illustration of the Holmes stories to an illustrator named Paget.
According to one source, Boot wanted Walter Paget, an artist for the Illustrated
London News with the General Gordon Relief Expedition in Africa. Instead, the
commission ended up in Sidney Paget’s hands. Winifred Paget, Sidney Paget’s
daughter, says Boot wrote to Sidney (Walter’s brother) because he had forgotten
Walter’s first name. In another version of this story, Sidney opened an envelope
addressed to “Mr. Paget the illustrator.” Happily, Sidney, himself a commercial
artist, took the commission and began an association with the Holmes stories
that lasted until Paget’s death in 1908. Sidney Paget produced over 350
illustrations of the stories, all included in this edition. Sidney Paget’s Holmes
was a commanding figure, tall but not overly lean, perhaps, in the words of one
writer, “only a shade less elegant in person and appearance than a popular
matinee idol.” This bore little resemblance to Conan Doyle’s descriptions.
Unlike Sidney, Walter, reported Winifred, was “an artist who took great pains to
get every detail accurate. It is thus possible that he would have given the world a
less handsome Holmes, portraying him perhaps more as the author saw him,
‘with a great hawks-bill of a nose and two small eyes set close together.’ ”
“Perhaps,” Conan Doyle admitted, “from the point of view of my lady readers it
was as well.”6
Sidney Paget.
The combination of writer, subject, and artist was an immense success. “A
Scandal in Bohemia” created a considerable sensation when it appeared in
England in July 1891, and each subsequent Holmes adventure published that
year saw an increase in sales of the Strand Magazine. An historian of the
magazine called the circulation response “as immediate and as conclusive as a
reflex action.” Readers reportedly stood in line for new issues of the magazine
containing Holmes tales, and Conan Doyle wrote his mother, “Sherlock Holmes
appears to have caught on . . .” By the end of the second series of stories, in
1893, it was estimated that Conan Doyle’s name on the cover of the magazine
added 100,000 copies to its circulation.
In November 1891, Conan Doyle had apparently had enough of his
association with Holmes and Watson. He wrote to his mother, “I think of slaying
Holmes . . . and winding him up for good and all.” Mary Doyle persuaded him to
defer any final resolution, and the stories continued. Twelve appeared between
July 1891 and June 1892 and were collected in book form as The Adventures of
Sherlock Holmes. In an extraordinary period of productivity, Conan Doyle
published three novels, The Refugees: A Tale of Two Continents (concerning the
suppression of the Huguenots), The Great Shadow (the Battle of Waterloo), and
Beyond the City (a tale of domestic life and manners). He let Greenhough Smith
of the Strand Magazine know that for the unprecedented sum of £1,000,7 he
would produce another dozen Holmes stories. Later collected as The Memoirs of
Sherlock Holmes, these began appearing in December 1892, with “Silver Blaze.”
In December 1893, upon publication of “The Final Problem,” the last story of
the second series, the public was shocked to learn that Conan Doyle and Watson
had for over two years kept secret a fatal struggle between Sherlock Holmes and
Professor Moriarty, which had occurred in May 1891. The revelation of
Holmes’s death horrified the nation, and young City men that month put
mourning crepe on their silk hats or wore black armbands. One anguished
correspondent wrote to Conan Doyle: “You brute!” “I was amazed,” Conan
Doyle admitted, “at the concern expressed by the public.” The publisher of the
Strand Magazine described Holmes’s death to his shareholders as the “dreadful
event,” and twenty thousand people reportedly cancelled their subscriptions.
Conan Doyle turned away from Sherlock Holmes, with no regret. “Poor
Holmes is dead and damned,” he was to say in 1896.
I have had such an overdose of him that I feel towards him as I do towards
paté de foie gras, of which I once ate too much, so that the name of it gives
me a sickly feeling to this day. . . . I have been much blamed for doing that
gentleman to death, but I hold that it was not murder, but justifiable
homicide in self-defence, since, if I had not killed him, he would certainly
have killed me.
Jean Leckie.
In 1893, in the midst of Conan Doyle’s greatest celebrity, tragedy struck.
Louise was diagnosed with tuberculosis, then a virtual death sentence. The
disease completely disrupted the lives of the couple, with the family travelling
from spa to spa in search of a cure or at least a respite. In the autumn of 1895,
they journeyed to Cairo, hoping that the hot, dry climate would aid Louise’s
convalescence. Here Conan Doyle absorbed the background for his desert drama
The Tragedy of the Korosko, which first appeared in 1898. When fighting broke
out in the Sudan between the British-controlled Egyptian army and the Sudanese
Dervishes (an anti-British faction), Conan Doyle became the war correspondent
for the Westminster Gazette. Returning to England in 1896, he continued to
produce a variety of literary works, including his sporting novel of the Regency,
Rodney Stone; a charming tale of a young married couple, A Duet with an
Occasional Chorus; and his first novel of the Napoleonic era, Uncle Bernac.
On March 15, 1897, while his wife was ill, Arthur Conan Doyle met Jean
Leckie. In Conan Doyle’s autobiography, he makes no mention of her until
reporting their 1907 wedding, describing Jean as “the younger daughter of a
Blackheath family whom I had known for years, and who was a dear friend of
my mother and sister.” While that characterisation is true, it conceals the fact
that Conan Doyle fell in love with Jean immediately in 1897. He was a married
man, however, and his personal code of chivalry and honour kept him at
Louise’s side. Instead, he conducted secret meetings with Jean—secret, that is,
from Louise, for apparently everyone else in Conan Doyle’s family, including
his mother and even Louise’s mother, knew about and condoned the
relationship. Divorce appeared to be out of the question, and Conan Doyle
struggled to maintain balance in his personal life. Certainly neither Holmes (“I
am not a whole-souled admirer of womankind, as you are aware, Watson”) nor
Watson (with “an experience of women which extends over many nations and
three continents”) could serve as a rôle model for the troubled writer. “[Louise]
is as dear to me as ever,” he wrote in 1899, “but, as I said, there is a large side of
my life which was unoccupied but is no longer so.”
Sherlock Holmes was still very much a part of Conan Doyle’s commerce. In
late 1897, he drafted a play about Sherlock Holmes, probably because his
expenses had been unexpectedly heavy in building a new home in Hindhead,
which he named “Undershaw.” Production of the play languished until May
1899, when American stage actor William Gillette approached Conan Doyle
about a stage play based on the Adventures and the Memoirs (to be backed by
American impresario Charles Frohman), and Conan Doyle revived the idea. The
play, although styled Sherlock Holmes and billed as having been written by
Conan Doyle and Gillette, was wholly written by Gillette. Drawing freely from
the stories, the “melodrama in four acts” opened in Buffalo, New York, on
October 23, 1899, and, some say, has never really ceased being performed.
Gillette, who wrote his plays principally for himself, toured in it virtually
continuously in America and England until 1932, giving over 1,300
performances as Holmes;8 and numerous amateur and professional theatre
companies essayed the drama throughout the twentieth century and around the
globe on stage, radio, and television. Since 1976, such luminaries as John Wood,
Leonard Nimoy, and Frank Langella have assumed the lead rôle.
In 1898, war broke out in South Africa between the British and the Boers.
Conan Doyle, keen to serve in any capacity but denied recruitment in the
military on the grounds of his age and weight, agreed to supervise a hospital in
Cape Town. His experiences there left an indelible mark on his character, and
the Sherlock Holmes adventure “The Blanched Soldier” echoes many of those
experiences. When, after the war, Britain’s treatment of its enemies (and in
particular the British “concentration camps”) was called into question in world
opinion, Conan Doyle rose to the defence of England, penning a pamphlet
entitled The War in South Africa: Its Cause and Conduct (1900). Widely
translated, the pamphlet caused much public attention, and Conan Doyle stood
for Parliament as a Unionist candidate.
Conan Doyle at Bloemfontein.
To the great benefit of the reading public, Conan Doyle lost the election, and
he returned full-time to writing. In March 1901, he approached the Strand
Magazine with “the idea of a real creeper.” This was to be a novel based on
Dartmoor, home of many legends and nightmares in the west of England.
Although Conan Doyle reportedly stated that he introduced Sherlock Holmes
into the tale because the story needed a strong central character, the decision to
do so was undoubtedly partially influenced by money, for he earned nothing
from his Boer War activities. Conan Doyle well understood that a new Sherlock
Holmes book would revive sales of the Adventures and the Memoirs. In August
1901, the first installment of his greatest work, The Hound of the Baskervilles,
appeared in the Strand Magazine.
Publication of The Hound of the Baskervilles was not a real return of Sherlock
Holmes. Carefully styled a “reminiscence” of Holmes, the tale is set in an
uncertain period, likely before the events recounted in “The Final Problem,” set
in 1891. Public clamour continued as his friends around the world hoped for
more news of the detective. In 1902, Conan Doyle received a knighthood, and
while no specific grounds were cited for the monarch’s action, there were many
who felt that the tale of the detective and the spectral hound was a prime cause.
In 1903, Dr. Watson penned a remarkable tale, entitled “The Empty House.”
In it, he revealed that Holmes had not died in 1891 but instead had gone into
hiding from the vengeance of Professor Moriarty’s gang. After a series of
sojourns in the Indian peninsula, the Middle East, and the south of France,
Holmes secretly returned to England in 1894 and again took up his career as a
consulting detective. Conan Doyle and Watson conspired to suppress this news
for nine years, until Holmes relented and Conan Doyle was able to strike a
remarkably lucrative deal with the Strand Magazine for another series of tales
about the celebrated detective. These appeared from 1903 through 1905 and
were collected under the title The Return of Sherlock Holmes, published in 1905.
Some critics felt that the tales did not measure up to Watson’s earlier works.
“The most trenchant criticism of the stories as a series came from a Cornish
boatman,” wrote Conan Doyle later in an article for the Strand Magazine, “who
remarked to me: ‘When Mr. Holmes had that fall he may not have been killed,
but he was certainly injured, for he was never the same afterwards.’ ” Whether
Holmes’s performance suffered, however, is a different question from that
regarding the quality of Watson’s writing, and it is difficult to find fault with
such gems as “The Adventure of the Six Napoleons,” “The Adventure of the
Bruce-Partington Plans,” “The Problem of Thor Bridge,” and “The Adventure of
the Devil’s Foot.”
Louise died in July 1906, after thirteen years of illness. Sinking into
depression, Conan Doyle ceased to work, until the case of George Edalji seized
his attention at the end of 1906. Conan Doyle, who, like Dickens, came to use
his celebrity to right social injustices, became convinced that Edalji, a young
solicitor of Parsee Indian descent, had been wrongly accused of the crime of
mutilating local livestock. Having been imprisoned for the crime and then
released without explanation, Edalji sought to prove his innocence and return to
the practice of law, from which he was now banned. Doyle, calling it an
“appalling tragedy,” plunged into investigation of the matter and wrote a book
on the Edalji case. In 1907, Conan Doyle helped to secure a pardon for George
Edalji, married Jean Leckie (Edalji attended the wedding), and published his
paean to reading entitled Through the Magic Door. The following year, perhaps
in an effort to regain his popularity to impress his new wife, Conan Doyle
arranged for the publication of new tales of Holmes in the Strand Magazine,
“Wisteria Lodge” and “The Bruce-Partington Plans.” Four more adventures
appeared in print from 1910 through 1913.
In 1912 Conan Doyle introduced Professor George Challenger to the public,
in his highly influential account The Lost World (strikingly filmed in 1925 with
stop-motion animation of dinosaurs by pioneer Willis O’Brien). Challenger’s
further adventures were recounted in The Poison Belt (1913) and The Land of
Mist (1926). Challenger’s popularity at its peak was said to have rivalled
Holmes’s.
The Strand Magazine.
When World War I broke out in 1914, Conan Doyle, then fifty-five years old,
sought to enlist. This act was consistent with Conan Doyle’s love of chivalry and
his personal code of conduct. Not surprisingly, he was rejected. Frustrated, he
conceived of the idea of a civilian volunteer corps, forming a company in
Crowborough, his residence. Within weeks, the government took over his idea
and formed a centrally administered volunteer corps, into which the
Crowborough company was incorporated. Conan Doyle refused command and
entered service as Private Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, actively contributing ideas to
the War Department about the conduct of the war and in particular advocating
various life-saving devices such as inflatable collars, inflatable lifeboats, and
body armour. He also assisted Dr. Watson in publication of The Valley of Fear,
the last “long” story of Sherlock Holmes, a tale of murder set in the countryside
near Conan Doyle’s home. In 1916 Conan Doyle began writing his six-volume
history The British Campaign in France and Flanders, which was completed in
1920. This work drew on his correspondence with at least fifty generals, many of
whom gave him access to their personal papers. The work, which sacrificed
historical perspective for contemporary reporting, was ultimately criticised for
its excessive fascination with troop movements and technical details. Conan
Doyle was actually approached by the government about heading up a
propaganda office, but he declined, preferring to be a free agent. Almost as a
response, His Last Bow, a collection of short adventures of Holmes, which
included the remarkable tale of Holmes’s war service entitled “His Last Bow,”
appeared in 1917.
By late 1917, however, Conan Doyle’s interest in Sherlock Holmes was
waning once again. At a meeting of the London Spiritualist Alliance, Conan
Doyle publicly declared himself a dedicated Spiritualist. Psychic phenomena had
interested him for many years, and Conan Doyle, who had long sought “some
big purpose” for which he was destined, became convinced that he should
devote the balance of his life to the promotion of Spiritualism. He began to write
extensively on Spiritualism, in such works as The New Revelation (1918), The
Vital Message (1919), and, in 1921, after the death of his mother (and perhaps,
along with her, the severing of his connection to his childhood religion),
Wanderings of a Spiritualist. He toured extensively, lecturing on Spiritualism
around the world. Conan Doyle’s assertions, and his apparent gullibility, were
widely assailed by the press and the public. In October 1919, the New York
Times, under the heading “Credulity Hard to Understand,” wrote:
Admirers of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle as a writer of detective stories—a
company about as numerous as readers of the English language—have
reason for a peculiar grief because of the strange, the pathetic, thoroughness
with which he has accepted as realities the “spiritualistic” interpretation of
the phenomena of trance speaking and writing. There is little of the
mysterious and nothing of the other world in these phenomena for modern
psychologists, and yet this well-educated and intelligent man—with not a
little of the scientific and the philosophic, too, in his mental furnishings—
talks much as did the followers of the Fox sisters [notorious fraudulent
psychics of the nineteenth century] fifty years ago.
Conan Doyle’s personal experiences with communication with the dead made
him impervious to these criticisms. In his autobiography, Memories and
Adventures (1924), he wrote,
People ask me, not unnaturally, what is it which makes me so perfectly
certain that this thing is true. That I am perfectly certain is surely
demonstrated by the mere fact that I have abandoned my congenial and
lucrative work, left my home for long periods at a time, and subjected
myself to all sorts of inconveniences, losses, and even insults, in order to
get the facts home to the people. . . . I may say briefly that there is no
physical sense which I possess which has not been separately assured.
Conan Doyle’s most recent biographer, Daniel Stashower, in the awardwinning Teller of Tales: The Life of Arthur Conan Doyle (1999), summed up
Conan Doyle’s mission:
Many others felt as [Conan Doyle] did [about Spiritualism]; all but a few
kept quiet about it. Conan Doyle’s sense of duty would not permit him to
keep quiet. He had found solace in the face of devastating loss, and felt he
must share it with others. The task would absorb him for the rest of his life.
If this makes him a madman, so be it.
There were still a few more adventures of Holmes to be published (some said
to finance the Spiritualism cause), and the last round of tales, commencing in
1921 with “The Mazarin Stone” and concluding in 1927 with “Shoscombe Old
Place,” included some cases which critics found offered little challenge to
Holmes’s talents; yet “Thor Bridge,” “The Retired Colourman,” and “The
Illustrious Client” must rank among Holmes’s triumphs. The cases were
collected in the last Holmes volume under Conan Doyle’s supervision, The
Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes, in 1927. One in particular, “The Sussex
Vampire,” shows the marked differences between Conan Doyle and Sherlock
Holmes, as the latter rejects entirely the notion of supernatural intervention in his
cases—“No ghosts need apply.”
Conan Doyle also wrote a science fiction story in 1927. The Maracot Deep,
set in Atlantis, seems to express Conan Doyle’s frustration with the public’s
reception of his Spiritualist message. A very personal Spiritualist book, Pheneas
Speaks, which details spirit messages delivered through his wife, was published
that year as well. In 1928–1929, Conan Doyle and his family toured Africa, and
he produced a book (Our African Winter) covering both his psychical researches
there and his political and economic commentary on the continent. His last
Spiritualist tract (The Edge of the Unknown) was published in 1930, but at last
Conan Doyle’s seemingly inexhaustible pen came to rest. In 1929, he toured
Scandinavia and Holland but returned to England exhausted, and there he
suffered a heart attack.
Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle died at home on July 7–8, 1930. Five days later,
almost 6,000 people crowded London’s Royal Albert Hall to hear him speak
from beyond the grave. A medium, Mrs. Estelle Roberts, sat on stage with Lady
Conan Doyle (Jean Leckie) and other family members, and the audience was
electrified by Roberts’s shout: “He is here!” She then delivered a message to
Lady Conan Doyle. Later Lady Conan Doyle told a reporter, “I am as sure of . . .
the fact that he has been here, as I am that I am speaking to you.” Not all were
convinced, however; a reporter from the Saturday Review wrote, “I should like
to have heard Sherlock Holmes examining the medium at Albert Hall last
Sunday, for the methods that were employed were hardly reminiscent of Baker
Street. Indeed, far from satisfying Holmes, I doubt if the evidence would even
have been good enough for Watson.”9
Christopher Roden, founder of the Arthur Conan Doyle Society, recently
summed up Conan Doyle’s contribution to the literature of the English language
as “immense.” While Conan Doyle was proudest of his major historical novels,
The White Company, Sir Nigel, Micah Clarke, Uncle Bernac, The Refugees, and
The Great Shadow, contemporary readers hardly know them. Instead, Conan
Doyle is remembered best for his extraordinary production of short stories,
chiefly for the popular magazines of his time: tales of sport, the outdoors,
pirates, science fiction, horror and the supernatural—over 200 stories, published
between 1879 and 1930. His records of the adventures of Professor George
Challenger and the boisterous memoirs of Brigadier Etienne Gerard, soldier of
the Napoleonic Wars, have loyal fans today. Professor Challenger’s adventures
in The Lost World have inspired a book by Michael Crichton and a series of
films (the Jurassic Park series) and numerous television productions. In sum,
Conan Doyle was a successful playwright and poet, political journalist, war
correspondent, historian, detective, scientist, visionary, prophet—a giant of the
Victorian age.
Conan Doyle’s autobiography Memories and Adventures was published in
1924. While the work is seen by some as primarily another vehicle for Conan
Doyle’s Spiritualist message, it is fascinating to examine Conan Doyle’s
selection of the portions of his life that he sought to emphasize. For example, he
suppresses entirely his terrible yet exemplary ordeal of suffering with Louise’s
illness and his own love for Jean Leckie. The book was a great disappointment
as well to readers of Sherlock Holmes. Conan Doyle had little to say about
Holmes, devoting only one chapter to the work that was to immortalize him. He
termed Holmes “my most notorious character.” “I do not wish to be ungrateful to
Holmes,” wrote Conan Doyle,
who has been a good friend to me in many ways. If I have sometimes been
inclined to weary of him it is because his character admits of no light or
shade. He is a calculating machine, and anything you add to that simply
weakens the effect. Thus the variety of the stories must depend upon the
romance and compact handling of the plots. I would say a word for Watson
also, who in the course of seven volumes never shows one gleam of humour
or makes one single joke. To make a real character one must sacrifice
everything to consistency and remember Goldsmith’s criticism of Johnson
that “he would make the little fishes talk like whales.”10
Arthur Conan Doyle.
Quite a remark from one whose lack of attention to detail in recounting the
adventures of Holmes has led to one hundred years of correcting “errors” in the
tales and a volume like this one!
THE RECORDED LIFE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE study of the life of Sherlock Holmes begins with the records attributed to
Conan Doyle,11 and from those sixty episodes, a biographical outline may be
created. While no specific date is given in the stories, January 6 (the traditional
Twelfth Night of Christmas), 1854, is traditionally celebrated as Holmes’s
birthday, based on the flimsy evidence of a description of Holmes as “a man of
60” in 1914 (though Holmes is only in disguise at the time as a man of 60) and
Holmes’s supposed fondness for Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night (because he twice
quotes from the play). Nothing is known of his early years, and Holmes is
remarkably reticent about his parents and his childhood. The only link to these
years is his brother Mycroft, whom he concealed from Dr. Watson for many
years.
Mycroft, seven years Sherlock’s senior, was ostensibly employed to audit the
books in some of the government departments. In fact, in Sherlock’s words,
Mycroft occasionally was the British government: “The same great powers
which I have turned to the detection of crime he has used for this particular
business. The conclusions of every department are passed to him, and he is the
central exchange, the clearing-house, which makes out the balance. All other
men are specialists, but his specialism is omniscience.”
Holmes insisted that his brother had even better powers of observation and
deduction than he had himself, but that Mycroft had no ambition and no energy
and would rather be considered wrong than take the trouble to prove himself
right. “Mycroft has his rails and he runs on them,” Sherlock remarked. “His Pall
Mall lodgings, the Diogenes Club, Whitehall—that is his cycle.”12 Reported
Watson:
Heavily built and massive, there was a suggestion of uncouth physical
inertia in the figure, but above this unwieldy frame there was perched a
head so masterful in its brow, so alert in its steel-gray, deep-set eyes, so
firm in its lips, and so subtle in its play of expression, that after the first
glance one forgot the gross body and remembered only the dominant mind.
Although scholars attempt to make much of the rôle of Mycroft in Sherlock’s
life (and in the Victorian era), he had little apparent influence on Sherlock,
except perhaps as a negative example. The earliest recollections that Sherlock
Holmes shared with Dr. Watson were of the two years he spent at college. There,
after astonishing Trevor Sr. with a series of deductions, he realized that “a
profession might be made out of what had up to that time been the merest
hobby.”13 Later, he recalled that “during my last years at the university there was
a good deal of talk there about myself and my methods.”14
After two years of university, Holmes moved to London, where he took up
rooms in Montague Street, near the British Museum. There he continued his
unique study of the literature of crime, criminals, and related sciences, handling
only occasional cases of which little or nothing is recorded. In 1881 he came to
the momentous decision to seek other lodgings. He found a “most desirable
residence” at 221 Baker Street, in the flat labelled “221B,” but concluded that
his economic circumstances required that he share the rooms. Through the
offices of his acquaintance Stamford, whom he met at St. Bartholomew’s
Hospital in London, he was introduced to John H. Watson, recently invalided out
of the British Army, and the two became flat-mates. In March 1881, Holmes was
brought in by Inspector Tobias Gregson of Scotland Yard to assist with a case, a
mysterious murder near the Brixton Road. Holmes suggested that if Watson had
nothing better to do, he might accompany him on the initial investigation. From
this seed grew the first reported adventure of Sherlock Holmes, A Study in
Scarlet, published in 1887, and the partnership of Holmes and Watson.
St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.
While his practice began slowly, by 1889 Holmes could
claim to have investigated some five hundred cases “of capital importance” and
a thousand in all by 1891. His clients ranged from humble typewritists to
royalty, from the police to the crowned heads of Europe, while his cases took
him across London and its suburbs, to the countryside and villages of England,
even to the capitals of the Continent and the Vatican. While he pursued criminal
investigation as a means of earning a living and asserted that he charged fees “on
a fixed scale,” he added “or not at all,” for he often took up matters out of public
interest or even to avoid boredom. Although Holmes protested that he “was not
engaged by the police to supply their deficiencies,” in fact he often was brought
in by the police to assist with a case, for he had learned early to deflect publicity
and to allow the official police to claim credit for his successes. Whether Holmes
actually charged police officials for his assistance is unknown, but he was well
The Queen’s London (1897)
regarded by the regular forces. “We’re not jealous of you at Scotland Yard,”
Holmes was told by Inspector Lestrade. “No, sir, we are very proud of you, and
if you come down to-morrow, there’s not a man, from the oldest inspector to the
youngest constable, who wouldn’t be glad to shake you by the hand.” Sadly for
the scholar, this lack of publicity has made it impossible to trace Holmes’s
activities in the reports of the press.
From the end of the 1880s to April 1891, Holmes, in addition to handling
numerous smaller matters, devoted himself to exposing and breaking up the
criminal organisation of Professor James Moriarty. Moriarty was the “Napoleon
of crime,” cried Holmes, “the organizer of half that is evil and of nearly all that
is undetected in this great city. He is a genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker.
He has a brain of the first order. He sits motionless, like a spider in the centre of
its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver
of each of them.” While Holmes expected these activities to lead to “the greatest
criminal trial of the century, the clearing up of over forty mysteries, and the rope
for all of [the gang],”15 instead it led to a ledge above the Reichenbach Falls,
near Meiringen, Switzerland, and a face-to-face confrontation with the professor.
Here the two wrestled on the brink of the falls, and here the professor died.
Holmes vanished as well, presumed dead.
In 1894, however, the newspaper reports of the murder of the Honourable
Ronald Adair, which had “all London . . . interested and the fashionable world
dismayed,” had an unanticipated benefit: Holmes returned to active practice. In
the course of capturing the criminal, Colonel Sebastian Moran, the lieutenant of
the Moriarty “gang,” the detective revealed to Watson that he had not fallen into
the abyss with Professor Moriarty but had survived their hand-to-hand combat
and intentionally gone into hiding. He travelled for two years in Tibet and
amused himself by visiting Lhassa and spending some days with the head lama.
He then passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca, and paid a “short but
interesting visit” to the Khalifa at Khartoum, the results of which he
communicated to the Foreign Office. Returning to France, he spent some months
in a research into the coal-tar derivatives, which he conducted in a laboratory at
Montpellier, in the south of France. Or so he said, for numerous scholars contend
that the “Great Hiatus,” as the period from 1891 to 1894 has become known, was
spent in an entirely different fashion.16
Following Holmes’s return, from 1894 to 1901 he handled hundreds of cases.
It was apparently during this period that Watson at last weaned him from the
“drug mania which had threatened once to check his remarkable career.” His
services to England earned him a private audience with Queen Victoria in 1895
(the Royal Family reportedly were devoted readers of Dr. Watson’s stories), and
though a devoted servant of the Crown, in June 1902, without explanation, he
refused the offer of a knighthood (coincidentally Arthur Conan Doyle received
his knighthood in 1902). He retired in 1903 or 1904 to the solitude of the Sussex
coast, where he took up bee-keeping and began work on his monumental The
Whole Art of Detection, a comprehensive work on criminology that has
apparently never been completed. He also penned (sans Watson) two reports of
old cases, “The Blanched Soldier,” published in 1903, and “The Lion’s Mane,”
published in 1907, with the aid of Arthur Conan Doyle. In 1912, he put aside this
work and took up his most dangerous assignment: building an identity as an Irish
dissident and obtaining employment from German intelligence. In this capacity,
he was able to communicate much false intelligence to the Germans and, in
1914, bring about the arrest of the Prussian spymaster Von Bork.
There is no credible record of any further activities of Holmes. His death, if it
occurred at all—and there are those who claim that his mastery of chemistry and
bee-keeping led him to an elixir of immortality derived from the royal jelly of
the queen bee—has not been reported. Some attribute the ultimate triumph of
reason and order over the madmen of the twentieth century—the downfall of
Hitler, Stalin, and the Communist Party—to his continued undercover work, but
present no evidence for this supposition. Others, such as Laurie King, author of a
series of books about Mary Russell, record Holmes’s life post-1914, but these
works are plainly fiction. While Holmes was a prolific writer of monographs on
various aspects of criminology and other topics of idiosyncratic interest (such as
the polyphonic motets of Lassus, early English charters), there are no extant
copies of these publications.
THE RECORDED LIFE OF JOHN H. WATSON, M.D.
WITH the exception of two weak efforts by Holmes himself,17 only the records of
his friend and partner John H. Watson preserve Holmes’s history. The eminent
writer Christopher Morley subtitled his 1944 annotated collection of Holmes’s
adventures, A Study in Friendship, and the remarkable relationship between the
men is the connecting thread among virtually all of the published stories. “I am
lost without my Boswell,” cries Holmes in one adventure, and Watson is absent
from only two reported cases.18 Even in those cases, Watson’s literary skills are
much on Holmes’s mind as he writes his own reports of the events, and it is
through Watson’s eyes that we learn virtually everything known about Holmes.
In the words of Monsignor Ronald Knox, “Any studies in Sherlock Holmes must
be, first and foremost, studies in Dr. Watson.”
As in the case of Holmes, little is known of the young adulthood of John H.
Watson.19 He took his doctor’s degree at the University of London in 1878, and
scholars place his birthdate at 1851 or 1852, seven or eight years before Arthur
Conan Doyle’s. There is some evidence that he spent a portion of his boyhood in
Australia,20 and he attended public school in England. Watson’s mother
apparently died shortly after the birth of young John, although his father (H.
Watson) and his elder brother survived until the mid-1880s. In his youth, Watson
played rugby for Blackheath, and his love of sport and physical activity may
have led him, after his residency at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, to take up a
military career. Whatever his motivations, Dr. Watson enrolled in the required
course for army surgeons at Netley. Upon completion of his training, he was
posted to the Northumberland Fusiliers as assistant surgeon.
The second Afghan war had broken out before Watson could join the
Fusiliers. In spring 1880 he was sent to India. Upon arriving in Bombay, he
received word that his corps “had advanced through the passes and was already
deep in the enemy’s country.” At Kandahar (now famous as a former Taliban
stronghold), which had been occupied by the British in July, he joined his
regiment. His assignment to the regiment was brief; he was quickly attached to
the Berkshires (the 66th Foot) and rushed into battle—in particular, the battle of
Maiwand, where the Berkshires won glory for their heroic resistance. After
seeing his comrades “hacked to pieces,” Watson was struck on the left shoulder
by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. His
orderly, Murray, in a remarkable display of courage and devotion, saved Watson
from falling into the hands of “the murderous Ghazis” and carried Watson to the
British lines on a pack horse.
Watson convalesced at the base hospital at Peshawar, where he unfortunately
developed a near-fatal case of enteric fever. Upon recovering, he was discharged
from the army and returned to England, in late 1880 or early 1881. Here, with no
“kith or kin,” he stayed in a hotel in the Strand, eking out existence on his wound
pension of 11s. 6d. a day. When his former dresser, young Stamford, introduced
him to a friend seeking a roommate, Watson’s life was changed forever: “Dr.
Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes . . .”
“How are you?” said Holmes. “You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.”
“How on earth did you know that?” replied Watson.21
Watson took rooms with Sherlock Holmes, and in March 1881 accompanied
him on an investigation. Upon its conclusion, Watson uttered fatal words to
Holmes: “It is wonderful! . . . 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,” he answered.
And Watson did, though not until 1887, when, evidently with the aid of his
friend Arthur Conan Doyle, he arranged for publication of “A Reprint from the
Reminiscences of John H. Watson, M.D., Late of the Army Medical Department,”
under the shorter title of A Study in Scarlet.
From what source arose Watson’s urge to take up his pen? There is no direct
evidence of any literary training or artistic bent in Watson’s own records.
However, another branch of the family produced celebrated artists, most notably
the Scottish painter John Watson, known as John Watson Gordon (1788–1864)
and his brother George Watson, both noted portraitists. After the death of Sir
Henry Raeburn in 1823, John Watson succeeded to much of his clientele; and as
there were at that time in Edinburgh four artists of the name of Watson, all of
them portrait painters, he assumed in 1826 the name of Gordon, by which he is
best known. Watson Gordon was unmarried and childless. His fame was at its
zenith in 1850, shortly before the birth of young John H., and therefore it is
possible that the parents of John H. Watson named him after Watson Gordon, in
a deliberate attempt at flattery, to win young John a patron.22
If John H. Watson had kin in Scotland, it seems unlikely that he would visit
there without exposure to the public buildings and museums of Edinburgh
housing his illustrious relative’s work. Indeed, he may have spent time in
Watson Gordon’s studio, soaking up the artistic culture of Edinburgh. He might
even have met a young Arthur Conan Doyle at this time, for Conan Doyle’s
family were renowned artists. And he would have visited London with his
family and viewed Watson Gordon’s work there in the galleries. Watson’s
fascination with art is notable in his records of Holmes’s cases. The title of
Watson’s first book, A Study in Scarlet, while suggested by Holmes, deliberately
apes “art jargon.” In “The Copper Beeches,” Holmes contrasts his and Watson’s
viewpoints: “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.”
In “The Crooked Man,” Holmes refers to Dr. Watson’s tales as “these little
sketches of yours.”
Whatever the origin of Watson’s talent and interest, he pursued it diligently. A
Study in Scarlet could only have brought him slight commercial reward;23 yet he
followed this effort with The Sign of Four (1890), another report of a singular
case of Holmes’s—especially memorable to Watson, for it occasioned the first
meeting with his future wife, Mary Morstan. Mary Morstan entered Watson’s
life as a client of Holmes’s, and Watson fell under her spell immediately: “In an
experience of women which extends over many nations and three separate
continents,” Watson records, in recollecting his first sight of her, “I have never
looked upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensitive
nature.”24 When the Agra treasure was recovered and Mary Morstan stood to
become the richest woman in England, Watson despaired that a gulf had opened
between them that he would be unable to cross. But the treasure sank to the
bottom of the Thames, and Watson joyfully proposed. They were wed in a few
months.
Watson naturally moved out of the Baker Street flat at that time, and Holmes
lived there alone. Mary, however, revealed herself to be most supportive of
Watson’s relationship with Holmes, and their friendship and association
continued unabated. When Mary travelled out of town, Watson returned to the
“digs” to stay with Holmes and to record Holmes’s adventures. While it is clear
that Watson kept notes of numerous cases that took place between 1881 and
1891, surprisingly only two records were published during that period.25
Apparently Holmes was displeased by the publicity attendant upon Watson’s
books, and it is understandable that Holmes may have believed that further
publications would hamper his movements among the criminal classes. Also,
Holmes may have been concerned about Watson’s ability to disguise the true
names and events, for it would have been a severe breach of professional ethics
for “doctor” Holmes to have disclosed his “patients’ ” confidences. In any event,
Watson ceased publishing.
In 1891, two events appear to have ended Watson’s silence. First, as reported
in certain newspapers in May 1891,26 Holmes died.27 Second, Watson’s beloved
Mary became fatally ill, perhaps with tuberculosis. Perhaps out of grief for
Holmes, perhaps out of an effort to create an enduring record, Watson wrote his
first series of short stories recounting his adventures with Holmes. The first
published was “A Scandal in Bohemia,” and it appeared in the Strand Magazine
to great acclaim. This was quickly followed by seven more stories of Holmes.28
Mary died in 1892, and Watson’s writing, now fuelled by a double bereavement,
gave him solace. Ten more stories of Holmes29 were published in 1893, and
Watson’s fame as a writer soared.
Then, in December 1893, he was moved by a series of letters to the press,
written by Colonel James Moriarty, brother of the late Professor Moriarty,
attacking Sherlock Holmes, to write one more report. “In an incoherent and, as I
deeply feel, an entirely inadequate fashion,” he wrote,
I have endeavoured to give some account of my strange experiences in . . .
[the] company [of Sherlock Holmes] from the chance which first brought us
together at the period of the “Study in Scarlet,” up to the time of his
interference in the matter of the “Naval Treaty”—an interference which had
the unquestionable effect of preventing a serious international complication.
It was my intention to have stopped there, and to have said nothing of that
event which has created a void in my life which the lapse of two years has
done little to fill.
What followed was the painful account of the death of Sherlock Holmes and
Watson’s paean to “the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known.”
In 1894 an event occurred that caused Watson to faint for the first and only
time in his life: the return of Sherlock Holmes. Cruelly deceived by Holmes,
Watson had mourned for three years for his friend but now embraced him upon
his “resurrection.” Without a selfish thought (for Watson clearly had ample notes
of pre-1891 cases to write up), Watson sold his practice and returned to Baker
Street to live with Holmes. Then began another “Great Hiatus”—the temporary
cessation of Watson’s career as a writer. While Holmes continued to jibe at
Watson regarding his writing (see Holmes’s remarks in “The Abbey Grange”
and “Wisteria Lodge,” both definitely post-1891 cases), he apparently forbade
Watson to publish anything further. Holmes did not relent until 1901, when
Watson was permitted to publish the first instalment of The Hound of the
Baskervilles, a report of an astonishing case that evidently took place before
Holmes’s disappearance in 1891. This case is all the more remarkable because it
was published while Holmes was in active practice in London.30
Clearly, after 1894 Holmes made no secret of his return to active practice.
Clients continued to turn up on the steps of 221 Baker Street with pleasant
regularity, and Holmes’s career flourished. Why, then, did Holmes impose a ban
on publication, which was not to relent until Holmes’s retirement in 1903? In
part, the ban appears to have been a matter of Holmes’s ego: “Your fatal habit of
looking at everything from the point of view of a story instead of as a scientific
exercise,” he remarks to Watson, “has ruined what might have been an
instructive and even classical series of demonstrations. You slur over work of
the utmost finesse and delicacy, in order to dwell upon sensational details which
may excite, but cannot possibly instruct, the reader.”31 Perhaps Holmes wished
to save the recounting of his cases for his Whole Art of Detection, where he
could present the cases as he wished. Then too, Holmes may have had quite
legitimate concerns regarding client confidentiality. For example, one may read
“The Boscombe Valley Mystery” with horror at Watson’s naivete (or crass
commercialism), when, after presumably disguising the names and places
involved in the appalling crime, and after Holmes’s efforts to keep the matter
from the public, Watson writes, “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.” While Watson may have concealed the clients’
names and the locales from the public, did he think that those involved would
not learn of his report and so dispel their “ignorance of the black cloud”?
Watson must have been convinced by Holmes, for he refrained from any
further publication until Holmes retired. In 1902, Watson remarried.32 This wife
is never named. The couple moved to rooms in Queen Anne Street. There
Watson took up the practice of medicine again, but fortunately, notwithstanding
his remarks in September 1902 on the demands of his practice,33 he must not
have been very engaged. Perhaps with the encouragement of the new Mrs.
Watson, perhaps from a feeling of uselessness resulting from Holmes’s
retirement, another flood of stories burst forth in 1903, and, apparently with
Holmes’s permission, Watson was able to acknowledge publicly his elation at
Holmes’s return. He may also have sought subtle revenge against Holmes for
Holmes’s cruel treatment of Watson, for though Holmes utters no unkind words
in “The Empty House,” he comes across as cold and unfeeling, utterly heedless
of the emotional pain caused by his years of hiding.
Watson published fifteen more stories between 1904 and 1913, and then, in
1914, came the call he had subconsciously awaited for so long: Holmes needed
his assistance with a case. Watson’s rôle in the capture of Von Bork, the German
spy, was a small one compared to Holmes’s, but the two old friends had an
opportunity to chat intimately and recall the days of the past. “Good old Watson!
You are the one fixed point in a changing age,” remarked Holmes. Watson
continued to write and publish, producing a long tale of Holmes detecting
murder in Sussex (The Valley of Fear, 1915, which probably occurred in 1888)
and additional short reports through 1927, recording pre-1904 cases. Curiously,
he allowed the last batch of short stories to be collected as The Case-Book of
Sherlock Holmes (1927), with an introduction by Arthur Conan Doyle, rather
than by himself (as in the case of His Last Bow, 1917).
The date of Watson’s death is unknown, and those who dream of an immortal
Sherlock Holmes long for Watson to remain by his side. Without Holmes’s aid,
however, the “old campaigner,” as he styled himself in 1891, must have passed
over those Reichenbach Falls in the sky not long after his friend and colleague
Arthur Conan Doyle. “Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself; but talent
instantly recognizes genius,” Watson wrote of Inspector Macdonald in The
Valley of Fear, but he might well have said the same of himself. Without the
talents of John H. Watson, Holmes may well have laboured in obscurity.
THE PUBLIC LIFE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES AND
JOHN H. WATSON
OBSCURITY has surely not been the fate of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, nor of John H.
Watson. Holmes’s “public life,” as film historian Michael Pointer put it in his
ground-breaking study The Public Life of Sherlock Holmes (1975), began in
1893. In that year a production of “Under the Clock,” a parody of Sherlock
Holmes written by and starring C.H.E. Brookfield and Seymour Hicks, ran on
the stage of the Royal Court Theatre in London for 92 performances. This was
followed by a five-act play in 1894 by Charles Rogers. In 1899, William
Gillette’s “Sherlock Holmes,” nominally co-authored by Conan Doyle, began its
remarkable record of performances, and in 1900 Holmes made his debut on the
screen, in Sherlock Holmes Baffled, a 49-second-long peep-show (mutascope).
In 1905, Vitagraph made The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, shown in England
as “Held for a Ransom,” based loosely on The Sign of Four. Most scholars credit
Maurice Costello as starring in this film, and if this is correct, Costello was the
first identifiable filmed Sherlock Holmes.
“After this,” Pointer writes, “scarcely a year passed without Sherlock Holmes
appearing on the screen somewhere in the world, even if only in the title.” While
well over one hundred Sherlock Holmes films have been made, three actors
dominate the public’s vision of Holmes: William Gillette, star of the stage play
and later silent film; Basil Rathbone, appearing as Holmes in a series of 14 films
in the 1940s; and Jeremy Brett, cast as Holmes in 44 television episodes. One’s
Holmes of choice seems to be almost a matter of generation rather than taste, for
each of these three actors dominated his era’s portrayals.
William Gillette (from a contemporary cigar label).
Among silent films, the most notable are the Nordisk Film Company series
from 1908 to 1911 starring Viggo Larsen (13 films), the Franco-British Film
Company series of 1912 starring George Treville (8 films), the 1916 film
production of Gillette’s stage play (starring Gillette himself), and the remarkable
Stoll Picture Productions from 1921 to 1923 starring Eille Norwood and Hubert
Willis (45 films). Sadly, most of the silent films are lost or viewable only in
museums, but public domain reproductions of some of the Norwood films are
widely available. Conan Doyle applauded Norwood’s performances, calling
them “extraordinary clever personations”; the views of Holmes and Watson are
unknown. Certainly the actor had a magnetic and masterful appearance as the
detective.
Sound was introduced to the Holmes films in 1929 (Clive Brook’s Return of
Sherlock Holmes).34 Raymond Massey (The Speckled Band, 1931), the splendid
actor known to later generations as “Dr. Gillespie” on television’s “Dr. Kildare,”
Robert Rendel (The Hound of the Baskervilles, 1932), and Reginald Owen (A
Study in Scarlet, 1933) all had single film appearances as Holmes. The first great
series of Holmes performances of the sound era were those of Arthur Wontner,
who took on the rôle of Holmes in a quintet of films made from 1930 to 1936.35
Wontner’s performance as Holmes was magnificent—“Sherlock Holmes come
to life,” in the words of one critic. He was age sixty-two in his last appearance,
however, and with his retirement from the rôle, he soon came to be
overshadowed.
The year 1939 saw the fortunate convergence of man and rôle, in the casting
of Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce as Holmes and Watson, in the first Holmes
film to be set in the Victorian period, The Hound of the Baskervilles. Curiously,
every previous Holmes film had been set in the contemporary scene of the 1910s
and 1920s. This highly successful Twentieth Century Fox production, which
electrified a generation, was quickly followed by The Adventures of Sherlock
Holmes. When Fox lost interest in the series, it was taken up by Universal
Pictures in 1942, with the first of twelve more films starring Rathbone and
Bruce.36 Sadly, these were set in contemporary times and showed Holmes
battling Nazis and other villains in contemporary dress. Nevertheless, Rathbone
captured perfectly the nervous energy and dominating personality of Holmes,
and while Bruce’s buffoonish portrait of Watson would shame the memory of
the “trusty comrade” and “man of action,” as the real Holmes characterized him,
the public adored both actors, and neither found he could leave the rôle behind.
The series lapsed in 1946, and it was not until 1959 that another theatrical
feature brought Holmes to the Victorian age—Peter Cushing’s The Hound of the
Baskervilles, the first Holmes film in colour. Over a dozen more films have
appeared since then, including most recently Without a Clue (1988), a comedy
disclosing that Watson was the real investigator, with Holmes merely an actor
hired to handle the public aspects of Watson’s investigations. Michael Caine
starred as Holmes, and Ben Kingsley as Watson. None of these recent versions
has risen to the heights of perfection, but many point to the 1965 A Study in
Terror (known as Fog in England), starring John Neville and Donald Houston,
as the most literate script and high-quality production ever combined in a
Sherlock Holmes film. The first film to depict Holmes dealing with Jack the
Ripper, it broke new ground in its theory of the Ripper and showed a warm and
believable relationship between Holmes and a highly competent Dr. Watson.
Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce (publicity photo).
Television has produced an equally large number of Sherlock Holmes stories.
One of the very first television broadcasts was an NBC field test dramatization
of “The Three Garridebs,” in 1937. In 1953, a series of 39 episodes were
produced for the series called The New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, starring
Ronald Howard and Howard Marion Crawford. The series is notable for its poor
production quality and rushed scripts, but in “The Case of the Cunningham
Heritage,” it presented the first filmed version of the meeting of Holmes and
Watson. Peter Cushing returned to his film rôle as Holmes, opposite Nigel Stock
as Watson, in a series of 17 stories for BBC television, aired in 1968. In 1980, a
Polish television series of 24 episodes was filmed, using the “New Adventures”
scripts but starring English actors Geoffrey Whitehead and Donald Pickering,
which received limited release in Germany and the U.S. in dubbed versions.
Two splendid films were made for television in 1983, of The Sign of Four and
The Hound of the Baskervilles, starring Ian Richardson as Holmes and David
Healy (in the former) and Donald Churchill (in the latter) as Watson. Then,
commencing in 1984, another fortunate combination of man and rôle occurred,
when the U.K.’s Granada Television cast Jeremy Brett as Holmes in a
magnificent series of 44 episodes, beginning with the series entitled “Adventures
of Sherlock Holmes.” David Burke played Watson splendidly in the first 13
episodes and was replaced in later episodes by the equally superb Edward
Hardwicke. The stories are by and large excellent interpretations of the Canon,
and while Brett is not the Holmes of everyone’s imagination, his larger-than-life
characterisation will certainly stand for a generation as the screen Sherlock
Holmes. Even more importantly, Burke’s and Hardwicke’s portrayals of Watson
finally do justice to the “old campaigner” as a man of courage, intelligence, and
compassion. Most recently, Matt Frewer and Kenneth Welsh have appeared in a
series of Canadian productions of original Sherlock Holmes stories.
Jeremy Brett and David Burke (publicity photo).
Other media have also provided venues for portrayals of Holmes and Watson.
There are over 750 radio shows in the English language alone, with such brilliant
actors as Rathbone and Bruce (in an American series that ran from 1939 to 1950,
with a few cast changes along the way), Sir John Gielgud and Sir Ralph
Richardson, Carleton Hobbs and Norman Shelley, and most recently Clive
Merrison and Michael Williams. The latter pair had the honour of being the first
team ever to perform all sixty tales of Sherlock Holmes. Comic strip versions of
the Sherlock Holmes stories appeared in newspapers as early as the 1930s, and
there are hundreds of appearances of Holmes (or an iconic version of the Great
Detective) in comic books. Animated cartoon portrayals of Sherlock Holmes are
plentiful as well, both serious adaptations of the stories and comedic gems such
as Daffy Duck’s “Deduce, You Say!” by Chuck Jones. There are hundreds of
board games, puzzles, and toys incorporating the figure of Sherlock Holmes and
the stories. Holmes has even penetrated the world of computers, starring in
several computer games.
IMITATIVE WRITINGS
“THERE are probably more imitations of Sherlock Holmes than of any other
character from literature,” writes Paul D. Herbert, introducing his masterful
historical survey of parodies, pastiches, and other imitative writings of Sherlock
Holmes, The Sincerest Form of Flattery (1983).37 The “flattery” of Dr. Watson
began quite early in Watson’s literary career. The earliest parody found, “My
Evening with Sherlock Holmes,” appeared in The Speaker, an English magazine,
in its November 28, 1891, issue, only four months after the first Holmes story
appeared in the Strand Magazine. Through 1979, over nine hundred imitative
stories had been tabulated. In the 1995 bibliography prepared by Ronald B.
DeWaal, over two thousand were listed. Some are “pastiches,” fictional
adventures written in the style of Dr. Watson. The first group of these reports the
unpublished cases of Dr. Watson actually mentioned in the Canon, including
such tantalizing references as the “giant rat of Sumatra,” the “red leech,” the
“remarkable worm,” and a dozen more. Even Arthur Conan Doyle’s son Adrian
joined in this pursuit, collaborating with mystery doyen John Dickson Carr to
pen the “Exploits of Sherlock Holmes,” collected in book form in 1954. Other
“tributes” are wholly invented and supplement the Canon. These purport to
report Holmes’s activities in some very unlikely places, including Minnesota,
New York, the Vatican, and South America. Some include other historical
figures, such as Karl Marx, W. S. Gilbert, Arthur Sullivan, Harry Houdini,
Winston Churchill, Teddy Roosevelt, Sigmund Freud, Annie Oakley, Oscar
Wilde, Aleister Crowley, Albert Einstein, George Bernard Shaw, Bertrand
Russell, Robert Louis Stevenson, Harry Flashman, Count Dracula, Jack the
Ripper (of course), and even Arthur Conan Doyle! Some pastiches are science
fictional, placing Holmes in time machines or spaceships or transporting him to
distant galaxies.
The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes.
One particular imitation, Solar Pons, is so well drawn that he has inspired
pastiches and study groups himself. The creation of August Derleth, also known
for his horror and science fiction writing and publishing, Pons was admittedly
not a copy of Holmes but a purported student of the Master. Set in the decades of
the 1910s and 1920s, Pons’s adventures (with his companion Dr. Lyndon
Parker) were meticulously crafted mysteries. Derleth’s first story of Pons was
written in 1928, with the express permission of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; his
seventieth was written in 1971. “Solar Pons is not a caricature of Sherlock
Holmes,” wrote Vincent Starrett, in his foreword to the first Pons collection. “He
is, rather, a clever impersonator, with a twinkle in his eye, which tells us that he
knows he is not Sherlock Holmes, knows that we know it, but that he hopes we
will like him anyway for what he symbolizes.” Indeed, Pons was so liked that in
1967, Luther Norris formed the Praed Street Irregulars, patterned after the Baker
Street Irregulars, the Sherlock Holmes literary society, and after Derleth’s death,
author Basil Copper wrote a number of additional volumes of short stories and a
novel about Pons’s further adventures.
A different branch of imitations consists of parodies of the original
adventures. The first known series, by R. C. Lehmann, began in 1893, almost
immediately upon completion of the appearance of the Memoirs. These were the
“Picklock Holes” adventures, which were first published in the magazine Punch.
When the adventures comprising the Return began to appear in the Strand
Magazine, Lehman revived Picklock, and “Picky Back” stories began in 1903.
The parodies were not only British; John Kendrick Bangs, a well-known
American humourist, wrote a series of parodies, under both the character name
of “Sherlock Holmes” and later that of “Shylock Homes.” The first of these, The
Pursuit of the House-Boat, was novel-length and appeared in 1897, dedicated to
A. Conan Doyle. The largest series of parodies, with a lead character named
Herlock Sholmes, were written by Charles Hamilton under the pseudonym Peter
Todd. His efforts were published in various boys’ magazines, including, The
Gem, The Magnet, and The Greyfriar’s Herald, between 1915 and 1925.
Another early parodist was Maurice Leblanc, creator of the successful rogue
Arsène Lupin, who matched wits with Herlock Sholmes in several tales. Modern
parodies include such gems as John Ruyle’s “Turlock Loams,” among whose
cases are found “The Five Buffalo Chips,” “The Freckled Hand,” and “The
Giant Bat of Sonoma,” and Robert L. Fish’s priceless “Schlock Homes” (and
“Dr. Watney”) of 221 Bagel Street.
“Picklock Holes.”
A third class of imitations is those using Holmes as an instructor. There are
several series of stories relating to bridge (the card game), including Frank
Thomas’s and George Gooden’s Sherlock Holmes, Bridge Detective (the series
was continued by Thomas alone), and Alfred Sheinwold’s frequent columns.
The great mathematician Raymond Smullyan created The Chess Mysteries of
Sherlock Holmes, and there are books on computer languages (e.g., Elementary
Basic), numerology, life insurance, gardening, logic, mathematics, and balloon
modelling in which Holmes teaches a novice Watson to master these pursuits.
THE STUDY OF THE CANON
SERIOUS study of Sherlock Holmes and the Watsonian Canon is generally
considered to begin with Frank Sidgwick, who, under the signature “F. S.,”
wrote an “open letter to Dr. Watson,” published in the Cambridge Review of
January 23, 1902. Almost simultaneously, in America, Arthur Bartlett Maurice
wrote “Some Inconsistencies of Sherlock Holmes” for The Bookman. In 1904,
the English critic and poet Andrew Lang, best known for his collections of fairy
tales, carefully analysed “The Three Students” in Longman’s Magazine. The real
launch of Sherlockian studies, however, can be attributed to Father Ronald
Knox, who wrote, as a parody of serious biblical scholarship, a paper entitled
“Studies in the Literature of Sherlock Holmes” (1911). He urged the reader of
the Holmes cycle (which in a Biblical reference, became known as the Canon) to
apply “the method by which we treat as significant what the author did not mean
to be significant, by which we single out as essential what the author regarded as
incidental.” There was a special fascination, he suggested, in applying this
method to Sherlock Holmes “because it is, in a sense, Holmes’s own method. ‘It
has long been an axiom of mine,’ he says, ‘that the little things are infinitely the
most important.’ It might be the motto of his life’s work.” The essay became
very popular among his fellow Oxford students, but not until 1928, when the
essay was published in book form, did it have a more widespread impact. Other
scholars in England and America began to publish works considering the
biographical aspects of Watson and later Holmes, and in 1934, the first
collection of essays, Baker Street Studies, was published in England (by an
American, H. W. Bell).
Bell’s fine anthology marks the beginning of the “golden age” of Sherlockian
scholarship. This era saw publication of such cornerstones as Christopher
Morley’s introduction to The Complete Sherlock Holmes (1930), still in print;
Vincent Starrett’s Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1934); 221B: Studies in
Sherlock Holmes, an anthology of essays edited by Starrett (1940); Christopher
Morley’s Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson: A Textbook of Friendship (1944),
the first annotated effort (five stories); Ellery Queen’s The Misadventures of
Sherlock Holmes (1944), a collection of parodies and pastiches; Edgar W.
Smith’s anthology Profile by Gaslight: An Irregular Reader about the Private
Life of Sherlock Holmes (1944); and An Irregular Chronology of Sherlock
Holmes of Baker Street by Professor Jay Finley Christ.
While many other excellent scholarly works were published between the
1940s and the late 1960s, the year 1967 produced probably the most influential
work of Sherlockian scholarship ever published, William S. Baring-Gould’s
Annotated Sherlock Holmes. Christopher Morley, in introducing his own modest
effort at annotating some of Watson’s writing (Sherlock Holmes and Dr.
Watson: A Study in Friendship, 1944), wrote, “The enthusiast likes to dream of
the great omnibus volume in which the whole Sherlockian codex would be
annotated from end to end for a new generation.” Baring-Gould’s two-volume
work did precisely that: It included all 60 of the Sherlock Holmes tales, with
numerous annotations collecting into summary form the scholarship of the
golden age as well as Baring-Gould’s own theories, especially relating to the
internal chronology of the stories. With numerous illustrations and useful
introductory essays on a variety of Sherlockian topics, Baring-Gould’s work
became the standard text of reference for every student of the Canon.
Baring-Gould, the creative director of Time magazine’s Circulation and
Corporate Education Department, was known in Sherlockian circles for his
chronology of the stories. He had achieved previous success with his biography
of Holmes, entitled Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street: A Life of the World’s First
Consulting Detective, published in 1962. That book had the curious preface, “No
characters in this book are fictional, although the author should very much like
to meet any who claim to be.” The book was both hailed and criticised by
Sherlockians for achieving great success in bringing the “serious” study of
Holmes to the public’s attention and for its outlandish theories of Holmes’s
encounter with Jack the Ripper, his romance with Irene Adler, and his death.
Baring-Gould, the grandson of Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould, author of numerous
books of ghost lore and local colour, also wrote The Lure of the Limerick and,
with his wife, Ceil, co-wrote The Annotated Mother Goose. Unfortunately, he
died before The Annotated Sherlock Holmes was published.
A great deal of additional scholarship was written in the ensuing decades. The
most important work was the publication of a bibliography by Ronald B.
DeWaal in 1974. Entitled The World Bibliography of Sherlock Holmes and Dr.
Watson: A Classified and Annotated List of Materials Relating to Their Lives
and Adventures, the work included a near-comprehensive listing of editions of
the tales, foreign editions, scholarly works, pastiches, parodies, films, radio and
television shows, stage plays, cartoons, comics, and even puzzles, games, and
toys, with over 6,000 entries. This was supplemented in 1980 with another
volume of over 6,000 entries. In 1995, the entire work was reformulated as The
Universal Sherlock Holmes, with over 13,000 new entries, for a total of over
25,000 listings. Now available on the Internet, the award-winning bibliography
is also available in computerised format.
More recently, another milestone was achieved with the publication in 1993 of
the Oxford Sherlock Holmes, edited by Owen Dudley Edwards, Reader in
History at the University of Edinburgh and author of Quest for Sherlock Holmes:
A Biographical Study of Arthur Conan Doyle, as well as Christopher Roden,
founder of the “Arthur Conan Doyle Society” and editor of its A.C.D. journal,
W. W. Robson, professor emeritus of the University of Edinburgh and author of
Modern English Literature, and Richard Lancelyn Green, co-author (with John
Michael Gibson) of the definitive bibliography of the works of Arthur Conan
Doyle. As may be expected, the Oxford edition treats the stories as fiction and
traces in detail the literary and biographical antecedents for many of the
references in the tales. As such, therefore, it offers little for the Sherlockian
scholar, that is, the follower of Father Knox’s dictates, and virtually ignores the
vast literature created in Knox’s wake. This deficit was partially remedied in
1998, with the commencement of publication by this editor of the Sherlock
Holmes Reference Library, a series of heavily annotated editions of the original
nine volumes of the Canon, designed to survey all Sherlockian scholarship to
date.
The Baker Street Journal.
Notwithstanding these valuable books, the deepest source for the study of
Sherlock Holmes remains the same as at its inception: the scholarly journal. The
leading publication is, and has been for over fifty years, The Baker Street
Journal, the official publication of The Baker Street Irregulars, a nonprofit
organisation whose headquarters is in New York. To understand the origins of
the Journal and its numerous companions, one must first consider Holmes’s
friends, the various Sherlock Holmes societies and literary organisations around
the world.
THE FRIENDS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
ALTHOUGH recent studies suggest that there may have been an organisation of
students of Sherlock Holmes in Germany in the 1910s, the first-known formal
organisation dedicated to “the study of the Sacred Writings” (as the constitution
of the organisation states its purpose) was The Baker Street Irregulars. Officially
founded in 1934, it was an outgrowth of the literary critic and author Christopher
Morley’s “3 Hours for Lunch” club, an informal group of his literary cronies
who met “irregularly” to discuss art and literature over long, alcoholic lunches.
Morley had a regular column entitled “Bowling Green” in the Saturday Review
of Literature, which he used frequently to write about Holmes, and from
Morley’s great love of the Canon sprang the notion for a more formal
organisation dedicated to Holmes. Initially, the members exchanged notes of
research and contributed “papers” to the general knowledge of Holmes, much as
did other scientific and literary groups. In late 1934, a formal meeting was held:
a dinner at Christ Cella’s restaurant in New York, attended by luminaries
including Morley, actor William Gillette, bookman Vincent Starrett, well-known
wit and Algonquin Round Table regular Alexander Woollcott (who wrote a long
report on the dinner), and retired boxer Gene Tunney. Morley resisted the notion
of regular meetings, however, and the organisation proceeded in a desultory
fashion until Morley ceded the leadership to Edgar W. Smith, a vice-president of
General Motors overseas operations and a loyal fan of the Great Detective. With
the ascension of Smith, the Irregulars took on “regularity.” Membership
expanded nationally and today stands at around three hundred diverse
individuals. The current head of the Irregulars is known as “Wiggins,” after the
head of the gang of street urchins first mentioned in A Study in Scarlet from
which the organisation takes its name. Membership is not “open”; it is conferred
autocratically on a select few each year by “Wiggins” using criteria shrouded in
mystery. Members are young and old and include actors, doctors, lawyers,
writers, businesspeople, teachers, librarians, and others who love the study of
Holmes; they hail from the United States, England, Canada, Denmark, Sweden,
Norway, France, Germany, Italy, Japan, Switzerland, New Zealand, and
Australia. Franklin Delano Roosevelt and Harry S. Truman were Irregulars; so,
too, were leading literary figures such as Christopher Morley, Vincent Starrett,
Ellery Queen (both of them!), Rex Stout, Isaac Asimov, and Poul Anderson. The
Irregulars meet once a year in New York City at a formal dinner attended by
Irregulars and specially invited guests that includes toasts, rituals, papers,
remembrances, and camaraderie.
Christopher Morley.
In 1946, the Irregulars undertook to publish their “papers” in an academic
journal known as The Baker Street Journal. The original Journal was a financial
fiasco, and it ceased publication in 1949, after thirteen issues. In January 1951,
however, Edgar Smith revived the Journal on a more modest scale, and it
flourished. The Journal has been published continuously since 1951 on a
quarterly basis and, in celebration of its fiftieth volume in 2001, released its
entire run as a CD-ROM archive, containing over 16,000 pages of Sherlockian
study.
The friends of Christopher Morley were not alone. Coincidentally, in 1934, a
small group of English aficionados formed the Sherlock Holmes Society, which
sadly languished.38 As an offshoot of the 1951 Festival of Britain and a
magnificent exhibition on Sherlock Holmes, the organisation reformed as the
Sherlock Holmes Society of London and today boasts hundreds of members. The
English group has published The Sherlock Holmes Journal regularly since 1951,
and it contains much serious “Holmesian”39 study as well as reports of the
meetings of the Society. Numerous other national groups have formed as well,
including Australian, French, Italian, Spanish, Danish, German, Canadian, and
Japanese societies.
While the national-based groups were growing, local interest was also rising.
Known as “scion societies”—many of which have been “officially” recognised
by the national “root” societies—local or special-interest groups arose to further
the study of Holmes. The first of these was The Five Orange Pips of Westchester
County, formed in 1935, followed by others in metropolitan areas around
America. In Canada, the Bootmakers of Toronto was formed. In Great Britain,
independent organisations called the Northern Musgraves (based in northern
England) and the Franco-Midland Hardware Company, billing itself as an
“international Sherlock Holmes study group,” were formed and fostered their
own offspring. Other occupation-based groups arose, such as the Sir James
Saunders Society of dermatologists interested in the Canon, The Practical but
Limited Geologists, and the Sub-Librarians. A blemish on the history of The
Baker Street Irregulars is its evolution into a group that excluded women from
active membership. This was rectified in 1991, but not before the Adventuresses
of Sherlock Holmes, a national organisation excluding male members, was
formed. In 1989, Christopher Roden founded the Arthur Conan Doyle Society,
dedicated to the study of all of the works of the author. An incomplete list of the
current societies is included as an appendix to these volumes.
Not every “scion society” has a publication, but many produce elaborate,
carefully edited journals, rivalling the output of academia. Donald Hobbs’s
checklist The Crowded Box-Room, published in 1998, listed over 200
publications, most of which remain active. Among the leaders are Canadian
Holmes, the publication of the Bootmakers of Toronto; The Ritual and The
Musgrave Papers of the Northern Musgraves; The Camden House Journal of the
Occupants of the Empty House; The Passengers’ Log of the Sydney Passengers;
and the Shoso-in Bulletin, published by a consortium of Japanese and American
scholars. While some societies’ releases consist only of local news, many
include high-quality essays and “papers” written by members and other
contributors, rivalling those that appear in The Baker Street Journal or The
Sherlock Holmes Journal. DeWaal’s bibliography lists thousands of such
scholarly works, but thousands more have been published since 1995. With the
advent of the Internet, scholarship has expanded into electronic format as well,
with scholars around the world contributing their views and thoughtful essays. In
addition, dozens of websites feature articles about Holmes and Watson, parodies,
pastiches, and other material relating to their lives and times. Especially
noteworthy are the websites of Christopher Redmond, www.sherlockian.net, the
centre of the “spider’s web” of Sherlockian materials; The Sherlock Holmes
Society of Lon-don (www.sherlock-holmes.org.uk) and The Baker Street
Journal (www.bakerstreetjournal.com); and the invaluable reference tools online
at the University of Minnesota Sherlock Holmes Collection website
(http://special.lib.umn.edu/rare/ush/ush.html). See the appendix “The
Sherlockian Web” for further references.
The topics of Sherlockian scholarship seem inexhaustible. While the classic
issues—Watson’s wounds, Watson’s marriages, Holmes’s education, the Great
Hiatus, and of course, the chronology of the tales—were amply debated in the
golden age, some student always seems to find a new approach. For example,
Carey Cummings has daringly created a biorhythmic analysis of the tales and
constructed part of an excellent chronology. Also, studies related to the author’s
own interests persist. Such a formula follows the logic, “I am interested in the
study of X. I am interested in the study of Sherlock Holmes. Therefore, Sherlock
Holmes must have been interested in X.” Scholarly works have demonstrated
that Holmes was a Christian, a Jew, a Muslim, a druid, an agnostic, a Catholic, a
Stoic, a deist, an atheist; that Holmes studied medicine, law, music, graphology,
phrenology, early computer science, astronomy, astrology, numerology, and
endless other subjects; that Holmes travelled to Russia, China, India, Tibet, the
South Seas, America, Canada, Japan; that Holmes was an American (a thesis
asserted by no less than Franklin Delano Roosevelt), a Canadian, a Frenchman.
No student of the Canon need fear that, even after 100 years of study, there is
nothing left to write about!
Sherlock Holmes was born into the Victorian age, but at the beginning of the
twenty-first century, interest in the detective, his companions, and his life and
adventures continues unabated—and indeed, has swelled. The fifty-six short
adventures in these volumes, and the four short novels that will appear in the
final volume, represent all that can be definitely known about the Great
Detective and the Good Doctor. Yet, as the annotations that appear below in the
following stories will reveal, there is an infinite universe to study and in which
to speculate.
The game is afoot!
LESLIE S. KLINGER
July 4, 2003
1 Some students of the Master Detective contend that he is indeed still among the living. Their principal
proof for this contention is the observation that the death of one so famous would not have gone unreported
by The Times of London, which has to date published no obituary for Holmes. Others sneer that Sherlock
Holmes was a fictional character. However, such a wild assertion will not be considered in a work as
serious as these volumes. In the words of the eminent bookman Vincent Starrett, writing of Holmes, “Only
those things the heart believes are true.”
2 “The Implicit Holmes,” Baker Street Journal (O. S.) 1, no. 2 (April 1946), 111–112 (The Editor’s GasLamp).
3 Whether Conan Doyle ever met Sherlock Holmes is equally speculative, although it is widely reported
that Conan Doyle gave illustrator Sidney Paget a cigarette case on the occasion of Paget’s wedding with the
inscription “From Sherlock Holmes, 1893.”
4 £1,595 in current purchasing power. All conversions to modern equivalencies of currency are based on
the work of John J. McCusker, “Comparing the Purchasing Power of Money in Great Britain from 1264 to
Any Other Year Including the Present,” Economic History Services, 2001, URL
http://www.eh.net/hmit/ppowerbp/, and McCusker’s How Much Is That in Real Money?: A Historical
Commodity Price Index for Use as a Deflator of Money Values in the Economy of the United States
(Worcester: American Antiquarian Society, 2001).
5 Conan Doyle apparently omitted to mention to either Newnes or Smith that he was submitting the
manuscripts on behalf of his friend John Watson, and, as happened with A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of
Four, the stories—and every successive tale of Sherlock Holmes—were published with Arthur Conan
Doyle credited as the author.
6 Walter himself illustrated only one story, “The Dying Detective” (included in volume II).
7 £61,039 in current purchasing power.
8 Gillette was not the only actor who was identified with the rôle; English actor H. A. Saintsbury gave an
estimated 1,400 performances in the part in England between 1902 and 1905 and in 1929, and H. Hamilton
Stewart appeared as Holmes more than 2,000 times in the English provinces between 1906 and 1918.
9 Quoted in Stashower, Teller of Tales: The Life of Arthur Conan Doyle.
10 Memories and Adventures, p. 103.
11 Some skeptics say that the study of Holmes’s life ends with the records of Conan Doyle as well. See
Preface.
12 “The Bruce-Partington Plans.”
13 “The ‘Gloria Scott’.”
14 “The Musgrave Ritual.”
15 “The Final Problem.”
16 The variety of theories is discussed in detail on page 745 below.
17 “The Lion’s Mane” and “The Blanched Soldier.” Although “The Mazarin Stone” and “His Last Bow”
are written in the third person, both are generally attributed to Watson. Subsequent to Watson’s publication
of “Shoscombe Old Place” in 1927, numerous writers claimed to have “discovered” lost writings of Watson
or other records of Holmes’s life and adventures, but these must be discarded as weak fictions. This edition
contains every authentic record of Sherlock Holmes.
18 “The Lion’s Mane” and “The Blanched Soldier.” Note that while Watson does not participate in the
events recounted in “The ‘Gloria Scott’ ” or “The Musgrave Ritual,” he is present as an audience for
Holmes’s reminiscences.
19 The student of Watson’s life is bedeviled with the same problems as a biographer of Holmes, namely,
the lack of any record of his existence outside the purportedly fictional works of Arthur Conan Doyle. See
Preface.
20 Dr. Watson evidences a familiarity with the diggings at Ballarat, Victoria, which suggests personal
knowledge (The Sign of Four). However, Watson states there that he “visited” Ballarat, and in “Boscombe
Valley Mystery,” he had no knowledge of the Australian slang expression “Cooee!” The matter is unsettled
at best.
21 A Study in Scarlet.
22 See this editor’s “Art in Whose Blood?” for a more detailed consideration of this speculation.
23 Conan Doyle reported that he received £25 for all rights to the story.
24 The Sign of Four.
25 A Study in Scarlet (1887) and The Sign of Four (1890), both classed as “novels” even though quite short
by modern standards.
26 Sadly, no scholar has been able to find any copies of the articles in newspaper archives.
27 “The Final Problem.”
28 “The Blue Carbuncle,” “The Speckled Band,” “The Engineer’s Thumb,” “The Noble Bachelor,” “The
Beryl Coronet,” “The Copper Beeches,” and “Silver Blaze.”
29 “The Cardboard Box,” “The Yellow Face,” “The Stock-Broker’s Clerk,” “The ‘Gloria Scott’,” “The
Musgrave Ritual,” “The Reigate Squires,” “The Crooked Man,” “The Resident Patient,” “The Greek
Interpreter,” and “The Naval Treaty.”
30 Holmes practised in London from 1881 (perhaps earlier, but not recorded by Watson) to 1891 and 1894
to 1902. Only A Study in Scarlet, The Sign of Four, and The Hound of the Baskervilles (1902) were
published during these periods.
31 “The Abbey Grange.”
32 Watson’s second marriage is evident in “The Blanched Soldier,” set in January 1903 (“The good Watson
had at that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our association”), and in
1902, in “The Illustrious Client” and “The Three Gables,” it is plain that he is no longer living with Holmes
at Baker Street, suggesting that the marriage had already occurred.
33 These remarks were made to Baron Gruner in “The Illustrious Client,” however, and may have been
dissembling.
34 Brooks also appeared as Holmes in Sherlock Holmes (1932), based on Gillette’s play.
35 The Sleeping Cardinal (1930), The Missing Rembrandt (1932), The Sign of Four (1932), The Triumph of
Sherlock Holmes (1934; released in the United States as The Valley of Fear), and Silver Blaze (1936;
released in the United States as Murder at the Baskervilles).
36 These were Sherlock Holmes and the Voice of Terror (1942), Sherlock Holmes and the Secret Weapon
(1943), Sherlock Holmes in Washington (1943), Sherlock Holmes Faces Death (1943), Sherlock Holmes
and the Spider Woman (1944), The Scarlet Claw (1944), The Pearl of Death (1944), The House of Fear
(1945), The Woman in Green (1945), Pursuit to Algiers (1946), Terror by Night (1946), and Dressed to Kill
(1946).
37 A “pastiche” is generally a serious attempt to produce a story in the style of the original author. A
“parody” imitates the writer’s style for comic effect or ridicule.
38 A. G. Macdonnell, then head of the English group, actually attended the first formal dinner of the
Irregulars in late 1934.
39 For reasons undiscerned, English Sherlockians are known as “Holmesians”; American Holmesians are
known as “Sherlockians.”
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (London: George
Newnes, 1892);
The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes (London: George
Newnes, 1893).
A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA1
“A Scandal in Bohemia” is the first of the
Sherlock Holmes short stories to have
appeared in the Strand Magazine; eventually,
all of the works but the novels A Study in
Scarlet and The Sign of Four appeared there.
“A Scandal in Bohemia” is memorable for
what it reveals about Holmes’s attitude toward
women, and it is the only story in which we see
Holmes defeated—although he may well have
decided that he was on the wrong side in the
matter and been glad of his “defeat.” The
opera singer “heroine,” Irene Adler, has
inspired generations of women Sherlockians,
leading to the 1965 formation of the
“Adventuresses of Sherlock Holmes” by
women who were banned from joining The
Baker Street Irregulars (a rule subsequently
reversed). In “Scandal,” we see for the first
time the partnership of Holmes and Watson in
action. Watson is no longer merely the
reporter, as he is in A Study in Scarlet or The
Sign of Four, and his participation is essential
in carrying out Holmes’s plans. There is little
mystery in this first tale, but the reader’s
interest is seized by Watson’s opening words:
“To Sherlock Holmes she is always the
woman.”
I
TO SHERLOCK HOLMES she is always the woman.2 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.3 They were admirable things for the observer—excellent for
drawing the veil from men’s motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to
admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was
to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental
results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power
lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as
his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene
Adler,4 of dubious and questionable memory.
I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each
other. My own complete happiness,5 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
society6 with his whole Bohemian7 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.8 From time to time I heard some
vague account of his doings: of his summons to Odessa9 in the case of the
Trepoff murder,10 of his clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson
brothers at Trincomalee,11 and finally of the mission which he had accomplished
so delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland.12 Beyond these
signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers of the
daily press, I knew little of my former friend and companion.
One night—it was on the twentieth of March, 1888—I was returning from a
journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil practice13), when my way led
me through Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered door,14 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 case15 and a
gasogene16 in the corner. Then he stood before the fire, and looked me over in
his singular introspective fashion.
“Wedlock suits you,” he remarked. “I think, Watson, that you have put on
seven and a half pounds since I saw you.”
“Seven,” I answered.
“Then he stood before the fire.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“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.”17
“Then, how do you know?”
Spirit case.
Harrod’s Catalogue, 1895
“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,18 she is incorrigible, and my
wife has given her notice; but there again I fail to see how you work it out.”
He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long nervous hands together.
“It is simplicity itself,” said he; “my eyes tell me that on the inside of your left
shoe, just where the firelight strikes it, the leather is scored by six almost parallel
cuts. Obviously they have been caused by some one 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.19 As to your practice, if a gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of
iodoform,20 with a black mark of nitrate of silver21 upon his right-forefinger, and
a bulge on the right side of his top-hat to show where he has secreted his
stethoscope,22 I must be dull indeed, if I do not pronounce him to be an active
member of the medical profession.”
Harrod’s Catalogue, 1895
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,23 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,”24 said he.
“Read it aloud.”
The note was undated, and without either signature or address.
There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o’clock [it said], a
gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the very deepest
moment. Your recent services to one of the Royal Houses of Europe have
shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with matters which are of
an importance which can hardly be exaggerated. This account 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-crown25 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.”
“I carefully examined the writing.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“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.”26 He took down a heavy brown volume from his shelves. “Eglow,
Eglonitz—here we are, Egria.27 It is in a German-speaking country28—in
Bohemia,29 not far from Carlsbad.30 ‘Remarkable as being the scene of the death
of Wallenstein,31 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.”
As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses’ hoofs and grating wheels
against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes whistled.
“A pair, by the sound,” said he. “Yes,” he continued, glancing out of the
window. “A nice little brougham32 and a pair of beauties. A hundred and fifty
guineas apiece.33 There’s money in this case, Watson, if there is nothing else.”
“I think that I had better go, Holmes.”34
“Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell.35 And
this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.”
“But your client—”
“Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes. Sit
down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention.”
A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the
passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and
authoritative tap.
“Come in!” said Holmes.
“A man entered.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1894
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
Astrakhan36 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 half way 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 cheek-bones, a black vizard mask,37 which he had
apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand was still raised to it as he
entered. From the lower part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong
character, with a thick, hanging lip, and a long straight chin suggestive of
resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy.
“You had my note?” he asked, with a deep harsh voice and a strongly marked
German accent. “I told you that I would call.” He looked from one to the other of
us, as if uncertain which to address.
“Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr.
Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom have I
the honour to address?”
“You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I
understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and discretion,
whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. If not, I should
much prefer to communicate with you alone.”
I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into my
chair. “It is both, or none,” said he. “You may say before this gentleman
anything which you may say to me.”
The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I must begin,” said he, “by
binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years, at the end of that time the
matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too much to say that it is of
such weight it may have an influence upon European history.”
“I promise,” said Holmes.
“And I.”
“You will excuse this mask,” continued our strange visitor. “The august
person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I may
confess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is not exactly my
own.”
“I was aware of it,” said Holmes drily.
“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.”
“He tore the mask from his face.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
The man sprang from his chair, and paced up and down the room in
uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask
from his face and hurled it upon the ground. “You are right,” he cried, “I am the
King. Why should I attempt to conceal it?”
“I am the King.”
Artist unknown, Chicago Inter-Ocean, July 11, 1891
“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.”38
“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,39 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 Rabbi40 and that
of a staff-commander41 who had written a monograph upon the deep sea fishes.
“Let me see,” said Holmes. “Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year 1858.42
Contralto—hum! La Scala,43 hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw—
yes! Retired from operatic stage44—ha! Living in London—quite so! Your
Majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young person,45 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 notepaper.”
“Stolen.”
“My own seal.”
“Imitated.”
“My photograph.”
“Bought.”46
“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,47 second daughter of the King of
Scandinavia.48 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?”
“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,49 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?”
The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak and laid it on
the table.
“There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes,”50 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.”51
Holmes took a note of it. “One other question,” said he. “Was the photograph
a cabinet?”52
“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 tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock, I should like to chat this little matter over
with you.”
II
AT three o’clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not yet
returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the house shortly after eight
o’clock in the morning. I sat down beside the fire, however, with the intention of
awaiting him, however long he might be. I was already deeply interested in his
inquiry, for, though it was surrounded by none of the grim and strange features
which were associated with the two crimes which I have elsewhere recorded,53
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 side-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 groom out of
work. There is a wonderful sympathy and freemasonry among horsy men. Be
one of them, and you will know all that there is to know. I soon found Briony
Lodge. It is a bijou54 villa, with a garden at the back, but built out in front right
up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock55 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.
“A drunken-looking groom.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“I then lounged down the street, and found, as I expected, that there was a
mews56 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,57 two fills of shag tobacco,58 and as much information as I
could desire about Miss Adler, to say nothing of half a dozen other people in the
neighbourhood in whom I was not in the least interested, but whose biographies
I was compelled to listen to.”
“And what of Irene Adler?” I asked.
“Oh, she has turned all the men’s heads down in that part. She is the daintiest
thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say the Serpentine-mews, to a man. She
lives quietly, sings at concerts, drives out at five every day, and returns at seven
sharp for dinner. Seldom goes out at other times, except when she sings. Has
only one male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark, handsome, and
dashing; never calls less than once a day, and often twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey
Norton, of the Inner Temple.59 See the advantages of a cabman as a confidant.
They had driven him home a dozen times from Serpentine-mews, and knew all
about him. When I had listened to all they had to tell, I began to walk up and
down near Briony Lodge once more, and to think over my plan of campaign.
“This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the matter. He was
a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the relation between them, and what
the object of his repeated visits? Was she his client, his friend, or his mistress? If
the former, she had probably transferred the photograph to his keeping. If the
latter, it was less likely. On the issue of this question depended whether I should
continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my attention to the gentleman’s
chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate point, and it widened the field of my
inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these details, but I have to let you see my little
difficulties, if you are to understand the situation.”
“I am following you closely,” I answered.
“I was still balancing the matter in my mind, when a hansom cab60 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’s61 in Regent Street, and then to the church of St.
Monica in the Edgware Road.62 Half a guinea63 if you do it in twenty minutes!’
A hansom in Baker Street (1900).
Victorian and Edwardian London
“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,64 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.
Regent Street.
“ ‘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
The Queen’s London (1897)
before he could object. ‘The church of St. Monica,’ said I, ‘and half a sovereign
if you reach it in twenty minutes.’ It was twenty-five minutes to twelve, and of
course it was clear enough what was in the wind.
“My cabby drove fast. I don’t think I ever drove faster, but the others were
there before us. The cab and the landau with their steaming horses were in front
of the door when I arrived. I paid the man, and hurried into the church. There
was not a soul there save the two whom I had followed and a surpliced
clergyman, who seemed to be expostulating with them. They were all three
standing in a knot in front of the altar. I lounged up the side aisle like any other
idler who has dropped into a church. Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at the
altar faced round to me, and Godfrey Norton came running as hard as he could
towards me.
“ ‘Thank God!’ he cried. ‘You’ll do. Come! Come!’
“ ‘What then?’ I asked.
“ ‘Come man, come, only three minutes, or it won’t be legal.’
“I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before I knew where I was, I found
myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear, and vouching for
things of which I knew nothing, and generally assisting in the secure tying up of
Irene Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was all done in an instant,
and there was the gentleman thanking me on the one side and the lady on the
other, while the clergyman beamed on me in front. It was the most preposterous
position in which I ever found myself in my life, and it was the thought of it that
started me laughing just now. It seems that there had been some informality
about their license, that the clergyman absolutely refused to marry them without
a witness of some sort, and that my lucky appearance saved the bridegroom from
having to sally out into the streets in search of a best man.65 The bride gave me a
sovereign, and I mean to wear it on my watch-chain in memory of the occasion.”
“I found myself mumbling responses.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“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 Park66 at
five as usual,’ she said as she left him. I heard no more. They drove away in
different directions, and I went off to make my own arrangements.”
“Which are?”
“Some cold beef and a glass of beer,” he answered, ringing the bell. “I have
been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to be busier still this evening. By
the way, Doctor, I shall want your co-operation.”
“I shall be delighted.”
“You don’t mind breaking the law?”
“Not in the least.”
“Nor running a chance of arrest?”
“Not in a good cause.”
“Oh, the cause is excellent!”
Rotten Row/Hyde Park.
The Queen’s London (1897)
“Then I am your man.”
“I was sure that I might rely on you.”
“But what is it you wish?”
“When Mrs. Turner67 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,68 fitted with a cap69 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
rôle I have to play.”
He disappeared into his bedroom, and returned in a few minutes in the
character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman.70 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 Hare71
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.
“A simple-minded clergyman.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
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’s 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 guardsmen72 who were flirting with a nurse-girl, and
several well-dressed young men who were lounging up and down with cigars in
their mouths.
“You see,” remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of the house,
“this marriage rather simplifies matters. The photograph becomes a doubleedged weapon now. The chances are that she would be as averse to its being
seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton, as our client is to its coming to the eyes of his
Princess. Now the question is—Where are we to find the photograph?”
“Where, indeed?”
“It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It is cabinet size. Too
large for easy concealment about a woman’s dress. She knows that the King is
capable of having her waylaid and searched. Two attempts of the sort have
already been made. We may take it, then, that she does not carry it about with
her.”
“Where, then?”
“Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility. But I am inclined
to think neither. Women are naturally secretive, and they like to do their own
secreting. Why should she hand it over to any one 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 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,73 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!”
Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge, and laid out in the
principal room, while I still observed the proceedings from my post by the
window. The lamps had been lit, but the blinds had not been drawn, so that I
could see Holmes as he lay upon the couch. I do not know whether he was
seized with compunction at that moment for the part he was playing, but I know
that I never felt more heartily ashamed of myself in my life than when I saw the
beautiful creature against whom I was conspiring, or the grace and kindliness
with which she waited upon the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest
treachery to Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had intrusted to
me. I hardened my heart and took the smoke-rocket from under my ulster.74
After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We are but preventing her from
injuring another.
“He gave a cry and dropped.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man who is in
want of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the window. At the same
instant I saw him raise his hand, and at the signal I tossed my rocket into the
room with a cry of “Fire!” The word was no sooner out of my mouth than the
whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and ill—gentlemen, ostlers, and servant
maids—joined in a general shriek of “Fire!” Thick clouds of smoke curled
through the room,75 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 Edgware Road.
“You did it very nicely, Doctor,” he remarked. “Nothing could have been
better. It is all right.”
“You have the photograph!”
“I know where it is.”
“And how did you find out?”
“She showed me, as I told you that 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 every one in the street was an
accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening.”76
“I guessed as much.”
“Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in the palm of my
hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand to my face, and became a
piteous spectacle. It is an old trick.”
“That also I could fathom.”
“Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What else could she
do? And into her 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 Darlington77 Substitution Scandal it was of use to me, and also in the
Arnsworth Castle78 business. A married woman grabs at her baby—an
unmarried one reaches for her jewel box. Now it was clear to me that our lady of
to-day had nothing in the house more precious to her than what we are in quest
of. She would rush to secure it. The alarm of fire was admirably done. The
smoke and shouting were enough to shake nerves of steel. She responded
beautifully. The photograph is in a recess behind a sliding panel just above the
right bell-pull. She was there in an instant, and I caught a glimpse of it as she
half drew it out. When I cried out that it was a false alarm, she replaced it,
glanced at the rocket, rushed from the room, and I have not seen her since. I
rose, and, making my excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated whether to
attempt to secure the photograph at once; but the coachman had come in, and as
he was watching me narrowly, it seemed safer to wait. A little over-precipitance
may ruin all.”
“And now?” I asked.
“I saw it as she half drew it out.”
Artist unknown, Chicago Inter-Ocean, July 11, 1891
“Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the King to-morrow, and
with you, if you care to come with us. We will be shown into the sitting-room to
wait for the lady, but it is probable that when she comes she may find neither us
nor the photograph. It might be a satisfaction to his Majesty to regain it with his
own hands.”
“And when will you call?”
“At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall have a clear
field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage may mean a complete
change in her life and habits. I must wire to the King without delay.”
We had reached Baker Street, and had stopped at the door. He was searching
his pockets for the key, when some one 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.
“Good-night, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“I’ve heard that voice before,” said Holmes, staring down the dimly lit street.
“Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have been.”
III
I SLEPT at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our toast and
coffee79 when the King of Bohemia rushed into the room.
“You have really got it!” he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by either
shoulder and looking eagerly into his face.
“Not yet.”
“But you have hopes?”
“I have hopes.”
“Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone.”
“We must have a cab.”
“No, my brougham is waiting.”
“Then that will simplify matters.” We descended and started off once more for
Briony Lodge.
“Irene Adler is married,” remarked Holmes.
“Married! When?”
“Yesterday.”
“But to whom?”
“To an English lawyer named Norton.”
“But she could not love him.”
“I am in hopes that she does.”
“And why in hopes?”
“Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future annoyance. If the lady
loves her husband, she does not love your Majesty. If she does not love your
Majesty, there is no reason why she should interfere with your Majesty’s plan.”
“It is true. And yet—! Well! I wish she had been of my own station! What a
queen she would have made!” He relapsed into a moody silence which was not
broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue.
The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman80 stood upon the
steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the brougham.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?” said she.
“I am Mr. Holmes,” answered my companion, looking at her with a
questioning and rather startled gaze.
“Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left this
morning with her husband by the 5:15 train from Charing Cross for the
Continent.”
“What!” Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and surprise.
“Do you mean that she has left England?”
“Never to return.”
“And the papers?” asked the King, hoarsely. “All is lost.”
“We shall see.” He pushed past the servant, and rushed into the drawingroom, 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—
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 upstairs, got into my
walking clothes, as I call them, and came down
81
82
just as you departed.
Charing Cross Station.
The Queen’s London (1897)
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.83 “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.84
“Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly,” said
Holmes.
“You have but to name it.”
“This photograph!”85
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.
“This photograph!”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
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.86
1 “A Scandal in Bohemia” was published in the Strand Magazine in July 1891. There was a New York
edition of the Strand Magazine, and the story appeared there as well, in August 1891. However, many of
the stories from the Adventures were also syndicated, that is, sold by a syndicate to newspapers across the
United States. “A Scandal in Bohemia,” for example, appeared in at least seven newspapers before the New
York Strand Magazine publication. Some of the papers did not use Watson’s titles as they appeared in the
Strand Magazine; “A Scandal in Bohemia” appeared in one paper as “Woman’s Wit” and “The King’s
Sweetheart” in another. “The Man with the Twisted Lip” ran under the title “The Strange Tale of a Beggar,”
while “The Blue Carbuncle” was headed “The Christmas Goose that Swallowed a Diamond.”
2 Holmes is characterised throughout the balance of the Canon as verging on misogynistic. “Women are
never entirely to be trusted—not the best of them,” he expresses in The Sign of Four. “I am not a wholesouled admirer of womankind, as you are aware, Watson,” he remarks in The Valley of Fear. His feelings
toward Irene Adler, then, eventually form a startling contrast to the accepted picture of Holmes, and it is
perhaps a shrewd touch by Watson to introduce Holmes to the Strand Magazine readers by showing his
softer side.
“Whether Holmes in fact falls in love with [Irene Adler],” writes Christopher Redmond, “is not a
question to be answered at once, but there cannot be much doubt that Sherlockians have done so—
Sherlockians who are male, that is . . . ; Sherlockians who are female have been inclined to identify with
her.” Indeed, Irene Adler has captured the readers’ imagination to the point where a series of novels about
her adventures, beginning with Good Night, Mr. Holmes, by mystery writer Carole Nelson Douglas, has
flourished.
3 There is no real record of this reported attitude of Holmes, but here Watson wants to highlight Holmes’s
reaction to Irene Adler as uncharacteristic, and so he exaggerates Holmes’s coldness. In “The Three
Garridebs,” Watson remarks on Holmes’s “great heart,” and Holmes often endeavours to assist young
lovers (for example, in “The Boscombe Valley Mystery” and “The Missing Three-Quarter”).
4 There is no evidence that Irene Adler was deceased at the time of publication of this story in July 1891.
Some scholars suggest that “late” was used by Watson in the sense of “former” Irene Adler, who becomes
Irene Norton after her marriage. On the other hand, J. N. Williamson concludes (“A Scandal in ‘A Scandal
in Bohemia’”) that the “Count von Kramm” had Irene murdered, using Holmes for an alibi. If this is so,
then Holmes’s apparent relish (in “His Last Bow”), when he speaks of “the late King of Bohemia,” may be
explained.
A natural death cannot be ruled out. Some wonder if Irene Adler had some long-standing complaint that
accounted for her retirement from the operatic stage, even though, at the age of thirty-one, she might have
been expected to be at the height of her powers.
5 Watson’s conduct in this case, in which he spends two nights at Baker Street with no mention of
communication with his wife, is hardly consistent with his declaration of marital bliss—unless Watson did
send a telegram to his wife and simply failed to mention it.
6 Watson means that Holmes preferred the solitary life to the social “whirl.” Cf. Holmes’s dread that he
had received “one of those unwelcome social summonses” (“The Noble Bachelor”).
7 Holmes’s life style was certainly eccentric, and one who expresses as his philosophy “My life is spent in
one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence” (“The Red-Headed League”) can hardly be
regarded as conventional. Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable (1894) characterises the Bohemians as
men “of loose and irregular habits, living by what they can pick up by their brains.” This description surely
fits the world’s first consulting detective.
8 Crime in England became less violent and declined in proportion to the population during the second
half of the nineteenth century. Although the popular view may be that cities breed crime, in fact, as London
grew, it became more orderly. The idea of the police, new in 1829, became more widely accepted, and the
number of “official police” in Greater London grew as the population burgeoned. The Encyclopœdia
Britannica (9th Ed.) reports that from 6,158 men in 1861, the Metropolitan force had swelled to 16,943 by
1880—one for every 430 citizens; the City of London police force grew from 628 to 830, or one policeman
for every 61 citizens.
9 Odessa, at the time the third-largest city in Russia (now part of Ukraine), was one of the chief centres of
the 1905 uprisings against the tsar. A mutiny took place that year on board the warship Potemkin, docked in
Odessa, and Sergey Eisenstein’s classic 1925 film Potemkin, filmed in the city and on the docks,
memorialised the suffering of the rebels.
10 One Fyodor Fyodorovich Trepoff (1803–1889) was military policemaster of St. Petersburg. Might he
be connected with Holmes’s “summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder”? Such an
identification would mean that Trepoff was not the victim but perhaps the murderer. Another possibility,
suggested by Richard Lancelyn Green, is General Trepoff, who was shot by a Nihilist on January 24, 1878.
11 Trincomalee is in the eastern province of Ceylon. This is not the only reference to Ceylon, then a
British territory and now Sri Lanka: In The Sign of Four, Holmes displays a mastery of the subject of
Buddhism in Ceylon, suggesting that he actually visited there.
12 The “reigning family of Holland” was that of William III (1817–1890), who married Princess Emma of
Waldeck-Pyrmont; they produced only one child, Wilhelmina, born 1880. When William died in 1890,
Wilhelmina became queen.
13 This phrase implies that before 1888, Watson had been in private practice and then given it up. In A
Study in Scarlet (Watson’s first novel, published in 1887, recording Holmes’s capture of an American
killer), which is set in 1881, Watson had not yet taken up private practice. Little is known about the
intervening years. See Chronological Table.
14 Watson refers here to the fact that during the events of A Study in Scarlet and through the events of The
Sign of Four, Watson lived at 221 Baker Street as Holmes’s flat-mate. In the latter story, Watson met and
courted the heroine Mary Morstan, and we learn in this tale of their wedding.
15 A “spirit case” or “tantalus” is a stand containing usually three cut-glass decanters, which, though
apparently free, cannot be removed until the bar that engages the stoppers is raised. Many such cases have a
padlock on the bar, to avoid “tantalising” the servants. The “tantalus” is also mentioned in “Black Peter.”
16 A “gasogene” is a device that produces sparkling soda water (seltzer). Despite its popular association
with Sherlock Holmes, the gasogene is mentioned only in “A Scandal in Bohemia” and “The Mazarin
Stone.”
17 That is, back to work.
18 “Mary Jane” was a generic name for a maid. Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management (1861)
characterises the general servant, or maid-of-all-work, evidently the person described here, as “perhaps the
only one of her class deserving of commiseration; her life is a solitary one, and in some places, her work is
never done.” She starts in life, Mrs. Beeton explains, probably as a girl of thirteen, employed by some
“small tradesman’s wife,” and, if she succeeds, moves to a respectable tradesman’s house, where she has to
do herself all the work that, in larger establishments, is performed by cook, kitchen maid, housemaid, and
even footman.
“The Canon is, in fact, pervaded with servants,” comments Christopher Redmond in his Sherlock
Holmes Handbook. A. N. Wilson, the prominent biographer, notes that among nineteenth-century
Englishwomen, “the largest occupational group . . . was, overwhelmingly, the servant class.” The 1841
census listed 751,540 domestic servants; forty years later, there were 1,386,167. As the middle class
swelled, more servants were called upon to do more demeaning and back-breaking work; then again, it was
preferable to factory employment, and servants often created their own household “below stairs” and were
treated as members of their employers’ families. Holmes, as a lodger in a lodging house, had no personal
servants.
19 “Slavey” was a term used for maid servants assigned primarily the lowest duties.
20 A compound of iodine then used as an antiseptic.
21 Silver nitrate is a caustic chemical reagent and compound then used as an antiseptic and disinfectant.
22 The stethoscope was invented by Laennec in 1819 but took the form of a hollow cylinder, rather than
the modern tubing. W. J. Cairns, writing in the Daily Telegraph of May 24, 1951, reports, “Doctors were in
the habit of carrying them in their hats, and as these caused a slight bulge it was always an elementary
matter to pick out doctors from other wearers of silk hats.”
23 What “one or two”? Only A Study in Scarlet had been published by 1889. In “The Red-Headed
League,” which apparently takes place in 1890, Holmes goes even further: “The enthusiasm which has
prompted you to chronicle so many of my own little adventures . . .” [emphasis added]. Watson may have
shown Holmes the manuscript of some of his early stories pre-publication.
24 Contrary to modern expectations, the mail was then a reliable and rapid means of communication.
Reform began in 1837, with British educator Rowland Hill’s study of the postal system, and in 1840,
prepaid postage by stamps was introduced. The advent of the railway and the steamship permitted a far
speedier, more regular, and more reliable mail service as the nineteenth century passed. By 1900, according
to Whitaker’s Almanack (1900), in the City district of London, there were twelve deliveries daily, while in
other London districts there were from six to eleven collections and deliveries. Letters were normally
delivered within two to four hours of posting. More urgent messages could be designated for “express
delivery” at a small additional cost, or the “district messenger service,” a private carrier, could be used for 3
pennies per half-mile. Overnight delivery was the standard for mail outside London.
25 English currency is explained by Baedeker’s London and Its Environs, the classic guidebook, in its
1896 edition: “The ordinary British Gold coins are the sovereign or pound (1.= libra), equal to 20 shillings,
and the half-sovereign. The Silver coins are the crown (5 shillings), the half-crown, the double florin (4
shillings; seldom seen), the florin (2 shillings), the shilling (s. = solidus), and the six-penny and three-penny
pieces. The Bronze coinage consists of the penny (d. = denarius), of which 12 makes a shilling, the
halfpenny (½ d.), and the farthing (¼ d.).” A half-crown, or approximately 60¢ in U.S. currency at the time,
would have been a considerable expenditure for writing paper in Holmes and Watson’s day.
26 This volume also appears in Holmes’s hands in The Sign of Four.
27 The name “Egria” is an apparent corruption of Eger, the chief town of one of the twelve “circles” or
districts of the kingdom of Bohemia, situated on the river Eger. The town was called Agria by the Romans,
which may be the source of Holmes’s error. In 1552, István Dóbó is said to have repelled a Turkish army of
100,000 with only 2,000 townspeople by arming the women with rocks and instructing the men to imbibe
the local red wine. According to legend, the invading soldiers, whose religious scruples forbade drink, saw
the wine stains on the men’s clothes and, imagining that the men had become enraged by drinking bull’s
blood, fled the city. Today Eger, now in northern Hungary, is famed for its Bull’s Blood wine.
28 Holmes’s Gazetteer was in error: German Bohemians were actually then a minority; the balance of the
population was Slavonic, speaking Czech.
29 A kingdom of the Austrian empire, marked by a continual struggle between its German and Czech
residents for supremacy. Bohemia was the greatest coal-producing province of the empire as well as the
most educated. Prague was its chief city, but Bohemia contained over 400 cities within its boundaries. By
the late nineteenth century, the Austro-Hungarian empire, formerly the Holy Roman Empire, was falling
apart as Czech nationalism increased. In 1918 Bohemia became part of the new state of Czechoslovakia and
now occupies the centre portion of the Czech Republic.
30 Karlsbad (German) or Karlovy Vary (Czech), was then a town and famous health-spa in Bohemia. The
town was named after King Charles IV of Bohemia, whose dog, legend has it, discovered the hot springs.
31 Albrecht Wenzel Eusebius von Waldstein, 1583–1634, Duke of Friedland, Sagan, and Mecklenburg.
The subject of Friedrich Schiller’s Wallenstein: A Historical Drama in Three Parts, Wallenstein served as a
general of the Bohemian army in the Thirty Years’ War. He was assassinated in Eger.
32 A light closed carriage with seats inside for two or four.
33 About $825 apiece in U.S. currency at the time. A guinea is a former English gold coin, worth twentyone shillings. It was customary to express professional fees and prices of luxury items in guineas. To some
extent, this was a marketing ploy: 20 guineas sounds like less than 21 pounds, just as a $99.99 sales ticket
seems much less than $100.00. There was also an element of snob appeal. Mme. Lesurier of Bond St.
charged 22 guineas for a costume (“Silver Blaze”).
34 Why does Watson start to go? By 1889, he had collaborated with Holmes on numerous cases. D.
Martin Dakin, in his Sherlock Holmes Commentary, observes, “Watson’s mind seems to have worked in a
curious way: He writes [A Study in Scarlet, The Sign of Four, “A Scandal in Bohemia,” and “The RedHeaded League”] as if they were Holmes’s first cases, although his own dating of them and of the others
shows that this was not so.” See Chronological Table.
35 Contrast this affectionate reference to James Boswell (1740–1795), author of the classic Life of Samuel
Johnson, which appears to express approval of Watson’s writing, to Holmes’s criticism of Watson in “The
Copper Beeches”: “You have degraded what should have been a course of lectures into a series of tales.”
Boswell met Johnson in 1763, when he was twenty-two, Johnson fifty-three. Ten years later, they toured the
Hebrides together, and Boswell’s journal of the tour became the basis for the Life, which was not completed
until 1784. In 1888, the time of “A Scandal in Bohemia,” Watson had only known Holmes for seven years,
and Dr. Watson’s two published memoirs hardly constitute a biography of Holmes. However, the remark
may indicate that during this period Dr. Watson had begun his lifelong habit of careful note-taking on
Holmes’s activities. It also is indicative of Holmes’s attitude of superiority to the older Watson.
36 Lambskin with a curled wool, derived from Middle Eastern sheep; or a rough fabric made in imitation
of this.
37 A mask that conceals the eyes and disguises the face, as worn by the “Lone Ranger” of comic strip and
television fame.
38 The “King of Bohemia” may be a thin disguise for another historical personage. Suggestions include
Archduke Rudolf, only son of Franz Josef, emperor of Austria-Hungary; Prince Alexander of Battenberg,
monarch of Bulgaria; Archduke Franz Ferdinand; Kaiser Wilhelm II; the “Iron Chancellor” Otto von
Bismarck; Milan Obrenovich IV, first King of Serbia; Ferdinand of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, Second Prince and
first tsar of Bulgaria; Edward Albert, Prince of Wales, son of Queen Victoria, later King Edward VII;
“mad” King Ludwig of Bavaria; Oscar Wilde (because of his relationship with Lillie Langtry, often
identified with Irene Adler, and the subsequent scandal surrounding Wilde’s homosexuality); the “Count of
Luxemburg,” immortalised in the eponymous musical comedy by Franz Lehár; Albert Wilhelm Heinrich
von Hohenzollern, King of Prussia; and Count Herbert von Bismarck. Some are plainly impossible, based
on the dates in Watson’s account, but the similarities are tantalising.
39 An opportunistic woman, although the implication is a “kept woman” or “mistress.” The nineteenth
century termed the class the “grandes horizontales,” or “pretty horsebreakers,” and notables of the
nineteenth century included Laura Bell, Cora Pearl, Catherine Walters, Caroline Otero, Sarah Bernhardt,
Lillie Langtry, and Lola Montez. Many pursued “careers” on the stage, exploiting their celebrity, and had
liaisons with nobility, including (in the case of Langtry) Albert Edward, Prince of Wales.
40 Ruth Berman suggests that this may be Hermann Adler, chief rabbi of the United Congregations of the
British Empire from 1891 to 1911. Alternatively, Hartley Nathan and Clifford S. Goldfarb propose that this
is Samuel Adler, the German-American Reformist (1809–1891). They contend that he was Irene’s father
and that Irene was trained to become the first female rabbi. When she was barred from pursuing this career,
she renounced her religion and turned to the stage, building on her oratorical and cantorial training.
41 Probably Cort Siverstein Adeler (1622–1675), a Danish naval commander, whose name, according to
Richard Lancelyn Green, appears in contemporary biographical dictionaries above that of Rabbi Nathan
Adler.
42 Historical personages nominated as the “real” Irene Adler include the male Viktor Adler; Johanna
Loisinger; Pauline Lucca; Jersey-born Lillie Langtry (companion of Prince Albert Edward); Irene Heron
Forsyte (of John Galsworthy’s Forsyte Chronicles); legendary actress Sarah Bernhardt; Lola Montez; Clara
Stephens (“Aunt Clara”); Lillian Nordica (New Jersey-born opera singer); and Mme. Adler-Dévriès. Again,
the dates in Watson’s account render some of these impossible.
43 The Teatro alla Scala, the great opera house of Milan. It opened August 3, 1778, with a performance of
Salieri’s L’Europa Riconosciuta. It was first remodelled in 1867 and, bombed during World War II,
restored in 1946.
44 What parts Irene Adler sang in her heyday is unknown, and contralto parts are limited. Possibilities
suggested include Adalgisa of Bellini’s Norma (premiered La Scala, December 26, 1831), Amneris of
Verdi’s Aïda (premiered Cairo December 12, 1871), Azucena in Verdi’s Il Trovatore (premiered Rome,
January 19, 1853), and Maddalena in Verdi’s Rigoletto (premiered Venice, March 11, 1851).
45 As William S. Baring-Gould points out, Holmes is being smug here: “When one considers that Irene
was at the most twenty-nine at this time, and that Holmes himself was a mere thirty-three, this superior
attitude begins to look a trifle absurd.”
46 Holmes’s frivolous estimate of the seriousness of the letters and other documents is contrary to his
characterisation of the notorious blackmailer Charles Augustus Milverton as the “worst man in London.”
He says of Milverton, “How could one compare the ruffian, who in hot blood bludgeons his mate, with this
man, who methodically and at his leisure tortures the soul and wrings the nerves in order to add to his
already swollen money-bags?”
47 Properly Saxe-Meiningen, then a duchy of south-central Germany, one of the states of the German
Empire. George II, duke of Saxe-Meiningen (1826–1914), pursued a career as founder of the influential
theatrical group known as the Meiningen Company, which he served as producer, director, financial backer,
and costume and scenery designer. The duke may have been the first to recognise the importance of central
artistic control of a theatrical company, and under his direction, the company, using historically accurate
costumes and settings, influenced a generation of theatrical directors. There is no record of Irene Adler
performing with the company, but it is intriguing to imagine that the king and Irene met through the duke.
48 This was a monarch for whom Holmes managed a confidential case mentioned in “The Final Problem”
and “The Noble Bachelor.” At this time, Oscar II (1829–1907) was the king of Scandinavia (Sweden and
Norway). He presided over the peaceful separation of the Swedish and Norwegian thrones in 1905 and was
also a prolific poet, playwright, translator, and amateur musician, winning a prize from the Swedish
Academy after submitting his 1858 poetry collection, Memorials of the Swedish Fleet, anonymously.
49 The Langham opened June 12, 1863. Now the Langham Hotel Hilton and restored in 1991, it was built
in a florid style and, according to William H. Gill, it “was by far the most magnificent hotel in the world. It
covered an acre of ground [and] contained over 600 rooms. Its huge dining room was packed with 2,000
diners on the day of its opening . . . Small wonder that it attracted the flashy King of Bohemia!”
50 The current equivalent of over £65,000 in purchasing power.
51 Upper Baker Street extended almost into St. John’s Wood, a fashionable area the residents of which
included author George Eliot, educator and writer Thomas Huxley, popular author George du Maurier, and
sociologist and philosopher Herbert Spencer.
52 “Cabinet” was a commercial term that referred to a photograph 3-7/8” x 5-1/2” in size.
53 The two crimes of which Watson’s records had been published were those reported in A Study in
Scarlet (1887) and The Sign of Four (1890). It will be evident later that Watson had actually recorded (in
the sense of note-taking) numerous cases by this time. See Chronological Table. This is perhaps the first
instance of Watsonian self-advertising. In the Strand Magazine text, the word “elsewhere” is replaced by
“already.”
54 Small, marked by fine detail and workmanship.
55 A patent lock with tumblers. Named after its inventor, Charles Chubb, it was advertised in 1887 to be
pick-proof.
56 Short streets or alleys behind London’s main thoroughfares. Originally intended for the stabling of
horses, the mews now house mostly garages.
57 A drink, half ale and half porter or other bitter beer.
58 A strong smoking tobacco, usually of inferior grade, cut into fine shreds. Joseph Fune, writing in 1839,
advised, “Persons of a nervous temperament, who take little exercise, ought to particularly avoid smoking
this kind of tobacco, as its frequent use is apt to induce paralytic afflictions.” Shag tobacco was an
“institution” in Holmes’s life (“The Creeping Man”).
59 In England, barristers are the class of lawyers who are permitted to appear in the superior courts. Every
barrister must be a member of one of the four ancient societies called Inns of Court: Lincoln’s Inn, the Inner
and Middle Temples, and Gray’s Inn.
60 These two-wheeled cabs, which were named after their inventor, Joseph Aloysius Hansom (1802–
1882), were ubiquitous in London in the 1880s and 1890s. The interior seated two passengers; the driver sat
on the outside.
61 A fictional name for a firm of jewellers, of which several were situated in Regent St.
62 The identity of the true “St. Monica’s” (a fictional name) has been hotly debated. St. Agnes’ Church,
Cricklewood, just off the Edgware Road at the southern end, is suggested, as well as St. Anthony’s, at the
far end of the Edgware Road. St. Saviour’s, at the Junction of Clifton Gardens and Warrington Crescent, is
also a possibility, while Patrick J. Campbell contends that the Marylebone Presbyterian Chapel, near Baker
Street, is a more likely candidate.
63 Note that Godfrey Norton pays half a guinea for this drive, while Irene Adler tenders half a sovereign.
From this it has been suggested that Irene valued her prospective bridegroom less, by sixpence, than he did
her, for a half-guinea is worth half a shilling (6d.) more than a half-sovereign. But consider that Norton was
offering a half-guinea for a speedy trip involving two stops.
64 A four-wheeled carriage, with a top in two parts, so that it may be closed, half-open, or entirely open.
65 Although scholars argue over the full purport of the English law of marriage at the time, the short of the
matter is that after 1886, there appears to have been no legal barrier to a marriage shortly after noon. Surely
Norton, as a lawyer, knew this. Why, then, this rushing around to get married before twelve noon? In the
words of J. F. Christ, “the ‘informality about their license’ seems to have been in someone’s imagination.”
There are also questions about Holmes’s report of the witnessing of the marriage. The law of the time
required at least two witnesses. Witnesses were not required to make responses; rather, they sign the
register. Holmes did not report a second witness, although Irene Adler’s coachman was apparently
available.
None of these defects would affect the legality of the wedding in the eyes of the Church of England,
which required only that the couple intended to be wed. However, these disparities have led some to call
Holmes’s whole account of the marriage “phony.”
66 Probably Hyde Park, “one of the most frequented and lively scenes in London,” according to Baedeker.
Dickens’s Dictionary of London calls it “the great fashionable promenade of London.” Rotten Row is a road
set aside for equestrians, extending originally from Hyde Park Corner to Queen’s Gate. There is also a
carriage drive alongside, passing the site of the original Great Exhibition of 1851. “For two or three hours
every afternoon in the season, except Sunday, the particular section of the drive which happens that year to
be ‘the fashion’ is densely thronged with carriages moving round and round at little more than a walking
pace, and every now and then coming to a dead-lock.” Only the road from Queen’s Gate to Victoria Gate
was open to cabs; the remainder of the park to private carriages only.
The first Hyde Park was enclosed by Henry VIII, and the French ambassador hunted there in 1550. In
the time of Charles I, the park was opened to the public, but Cromwell sold it, and the new owners charged
a toll of a shilling for coaches and sixpence for horse. When the Commonwealth was overthrown, the park
was reacquired by the nation. In the late nineteenth century, the park was much used for radical meetings,
and on Sundays numerous open-air congregations near the Marble Arch held “revival” meetings.
Adler could also refer to the smaller Regent’s Park, on the Outer Circle, close by St. John’s Wood.
While not as popular as Hyde Park, the grounds served as the site for the world’s first glass-constructed
aquarium, introduced to the public in 1853. Designed by city planner and architect John Nash in the early
part of the nineteenth century, Regent’s Park also housed the Royal Botanical Society and the Royal
Zoological Society (now known as the London Zoo).
67 Who is this? The landlady is identified in the opening chapter of The Sign of Four as Mrs. Hudson
(curiously, she is unnamed in A Study in Scarlet). In every other Canonical tale, when identified, the name
of the landlady is Mrs. Hudson. William S. Baring-Gould remarks, “Is this simple absent-mindedness or
forgetfulness on the part of Holmes (thinking, perhaps, of the principal in another case he was following at
the time [“The Boscombe Valley Mystery”]) or Watson (thinking, perhaps, of a patient waiting in his
consulting room)?” Perhaps Watson was writing up his notes of “The Boscombe Valley Mystery,” proposes
D. Martin Dakin.
There are even more explanations offered: Mrs. Turner was only substituting for Mrs. Hudson, suggests
Page Heldenbrand. Could she have been the Martha Turner who became the second victim of Jack the
Ripper on the night of August 7, 1888? Russell McLauchlin ingeniously proposes that Mrs. Turner was the
mistress of one of Holmes’s “five small refuges” mentioned in “Black Peter” and that Holmes and Watson
actually lived in Mrs. Hudson’s house in Gloucester Place.
All this may be a tempest in a teapot: Notwithstanding her unusual name (maids were usually known by
their first name only, and “Mrs.” was usually the cook or housekeeper), Mrs. Turner may simply have been
a maid. Possibly Irene Adler disguised herself as this maid to investigate Holmes.
Richard Lancelyn Green notes that in the manuscript of “The Empty House,” there is a similar reference
to “Mrs. Turner,” which has been corrected to “Mrs. Hudson.” This repeated reference would seem to
support the more romantic suggestion of Manly Wade Wellman that “Turner” was an alias used by Holmes
and Mrs. Hudson while on a tryst at a fashionable hotel or country inn.
68 A smoke-generating device used by plumbers to test for leaky pipes.
69 That is, a percussion cap.
70 To impersonate a minister of the Church of England was a legal offense. Yet to masquerade as a freechurch clergyman was not (then) illegal.
71 Actor and manager of the Court Theatre, later the St. James Theatre, and finally the Garrick Theatre,
Hare (1844–1921) was knighted in 1907 for his work on and off the stage. Best known as a comic actor, he
raised the rôle of the actor-manager to the highest level, nurturing actors and playwrights alike. He was an
early supporter of the work of Arthur Wing Pinero and commissioned the dramatisation of Oliver
Goldsmith’s Vicar of Wakefield (“discovering” leading lady Ellen Terry, who starred in the production).
Although Hare retired from the stage in 1912 after more than forty years on the stage, he went on to appear
in three silent films.
72 Two regiments of Life Guards and one of Royal Horse Guards formed together the Household Brigade
of the British Army, the body-guard of the sovereign, furnishing the escorts on all state occasions. They
were recruited regimentally and took none but picked men, of “good character,” and over 5 feet 10 inches in
height.
73 A penny.
74 A long, loose overcoat of Irish origin.
75 Holmes’s debt to the French private detective M. Dupin, whose work is reported by Edgar Allan Poe in
“Murders in the Rue Morgue,” “Mystery of Marie Roget,” and “The Purloined Letter,” is evident
throughout the Canon. Here, Holmes may have copied a similar device used by Dupin in “The Purloined
Letter.” “There was always just a touch of professional jealousy in Holmes’s character,” writes Vincent
Starrett, “—entirely natural, no doubt—that even Watson could not gloss away.” But Morris Rosenblum
suggests Holmes may have had an older source for the idea: Pausanias told of Phryne, the most beautiful of
all Athenian “adventuresses,” using the same trick in 150 A.D.
76 How did Holmes so quickly engage his accomplices? William S. Baring-Gould believes that he may
have recruited his troupe from persons known to him from his early days as an actor; Harald Curjel suggests
a “grown-up wing” of the Baker Street Irregulars, with Wiggins, the head of the Irregulars (according to A
Study in Scarlet and The Sign of Four), acting as booking-agent and Mr. Wilson, manager of the District
Messenger Office in Regent St., where young Cartwright worked (The Hound of the Baskervilles), running
this “theatrical agency.”
77 A small town in the county of Durham, known for its school of art. It may be that a forged painting was
involved in the “Substitution Scandal.” Holmes demonstrates his interest in contemporary art in The Hound
of the Baskervilles, in which he waxes eloquent on the “modern Belgian masters.”
78 Arnsberg Castle is located in north-central Germany, but there is no known connection to Holmes.
79 The Strand Magazine text adds the phrase “in the morning.”
80 This may well also be Irene Adler in disguise, notes Dean Dickensheet.
81 Does this imply that Irene knew of Holmes’s early career on the stage?
82 This suggests to Guy Warrack, in Sherlock Holmes and Music, that Irene Adler may have sung maleimpersonation or “trouser” contralto rôles in her operatic career, such as Gluck’s Orfeo in Orfeo ed Euridice
(premiered Vienna, October 5, 1762), Arsace in Rossini’s Semiramide (premiered Venice, February 3,
1823), Maffo Orsini in Donizetti’s Lucrezia Borgia (premiered Milan, December 26, 1833), and the page
Urbain in Meyerbeer’s Les Hugenots (premiered Paris, February 29, 1836). Holmes may have actually seen
Irene Adler perform this rôle in 1886 (see The Hound of the Baskervilles). Most commentators, however,
date the events of The Hound of the Baskervilles well after the date of “A Scandal in Bohemia” (see
Chronological Table). Other possible rôles are Siébel in Gounod’s Faust (premiered Paris, March 19,
1859), Stéphano in his Romeo et Juliette (premiered Paris, April 27, 1867), and Pieretto in Donizetti’s
Linda di Chamounix (premiered Vienna, May 19, 1842).
83 Indeed, it is hard to see from the case why Watson characterises Irene Adler as of “dubious and
questionable memory.” D. Martin Dakin points out that although her opera career was short, it was
respectable, and although Adler spitefully intended to ruin the king’s marriage, she did nothing illegal.
James Edward Holroyd, in Baker Street By-Ways, comments, “One may fairly claim that the only dubious
and questionable aspect of the adventure was the conduct of the three men principally concerned!”
84 In “A Case of Identity,” Holmes remarked that he had accepted a snuff-box of old gold with a great
amethyst in the centre of the lid as a “little souvenir” of the king (“A Case of Identity”). It seems rather
inconsistent with the disdain expressed here that Holmes should later accept a rich gift from him.
85 “Those who are sentimentally inclined seize on the fact that Holmes asked the King of Bohemia for the
photograph as evidence of [Holmes’s] attachment [to Irene],” writes Dr. Richard Asher. “Is it not patently
obvious that Holmes, having been deceived by her skill in disguising herself, may have simply wanted the
photograph to add to his records, to make sure that he would recognize her if she ever crossed his path
again?”
86 There is no evidence that Holmes and Irene Adler Norton ever met again. William S. Baring-Gould, in
his Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, speculates that Holmes and Irene had an affair in Montenegro,
resulting in a son, detective Nero Wolfe (whose exploits were subsequently published by Rex Stout).
Kenneth Lanza, in “Scandal in Bensonhurst,” makes the whimsical suggestion that Irene had three sons:
William Kramden (baptized Wilhelm von Kramm), the issue of the king of Bohemia; Edward Norton, the
son of Godfrey Norton; and Nero Wolfe, Sherlock Holmes’s son. Lanza goes on to speculate that the two
eldest sons, “Willie” and Edward, each produced one son—Ralph Kramden and Edward Norton, Junior,
half-cousins and stars of the television series The Honeymooners.
THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE1
“The Red-Headed League” has appeared in
dozens of collections of short stories. Best
remembered are the buffoonish Jabez Wilson,
the bizarre spectacle of Fleet Street crowded
with red-headed men, the first of the many
night watches to appear in the Canon, and the
intricate plan of John Clay, the “fourth
smartest man in London.” Almost in the
manner of a conjurer, Holmes rattles off a
series of quite startling deductions, perhaps
matched only by Holmes’s dissection of a hat
in “The Blue Carbuncle.” And then, to our
delight, Watson records Holmes’s deflation by
Wilson: “I thought at first you had done
something clever, but I see that there was
nothing in it at all.” Watson kindly refrains
from comment, but our understanding of the
friendship of Holmes and Watson is enriched.
I HAD CALLED UPON my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of
last year,2 and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced,
elderly gentleman,3 with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was
about to withdraw, when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room, and closed
the door behind me.
“You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he
said, cordially.
“I was afraid that you were engaged.”
“So I am. Very much so.”
“Then I can wait in the next room.”4
“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in
many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the
utmost use to me in yours also.”
The stout gentleman half rose from his chair, and gave a bob of greeting, with
a quick little questioning glance from his small, fat-encircled eyes.
“Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his
finger-tips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. “I know, my dear
Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions
and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the
enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my
saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures.”
“Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,” I observed.
“You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into
the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland,5 that for strange
effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always
far more daring than any effort of the imagination.”
“A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.”
“You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for
otherwise I shall keep piling fact upon fact on you, until your reason breaks
down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here
has been good enough to call upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative
which promises to be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some
time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things are
very often connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and
occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any positive crime
has been committed. As far as I have heard, it is impossible for me to say
whether the present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events
is certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr.
Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask
you, not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part,
but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every
possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some slight
indication of the course of events I am able to guide myself by the thousands of
other similar cases which occur to my memory.6 In the present instance I am
forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, unique.”
The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some little pride,
and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his
greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement column, with his head thrust
forward, and the paper flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the
man, and endeavoured after the fashion of my companion to read the indications
which might be presented by his dress or appearance.
I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore every
mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous, and
slow.7 He wore rather baggy grey shepherd’s check8 trousers, a not over-clean
black frockcoat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy
brassy Albert chain,9 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.
Mr. Jabez Wilson.
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
Sherlock Holmes’s 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,10 that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable
amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the paper,
but his eyes upon my companion.
“How, in the name of good fortune, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?” he
asked. “How did you know, for example, that I did manual labour? It’s as true as
gospel, and I began as a ship’s carpenter.”
“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.”11
“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,12 you use an arc-and-compass
breastpin.”13
“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 which you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist14 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
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,’15 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—
Fleet Street.
The Queen’s London (1897)
TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE
On account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah
Hopkins, of Lebanon, Penn., U.S.A., there is now
another vacancy open which entitles a member of the
League to a salary of four pounds a week for purely
nominal services. All red-headed men who are sound
in body and mind, and above the age of twenty-one
years, are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at
eleven o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the
League, 7, Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.
16
17
“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,18 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,19 of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago.”20
“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 business21 at
Coburg Square,22 near the City.23 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 on earth does this mean?”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“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 employe who comes
under the full market price. It is not a common experience among employers in
this age. I don’t know that your assistant is not as remarkable as your
advertisement.”
“Oh, he has his faults, too,” said Mr. Wilson. “Never was such a fellow for
photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought to be improving his
mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole to develop
his pictures. That is his main fault; but on the whole he’s a good worker. There’s
no vice in him.”
“He is still with you, I presume?”
“Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple cooking, and
keeps the place clean—that’s all I have in the house, for I am a widower, and
never had any family. We live very quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a
roof over our heads, and pay our debts, if we do nothing more.
“The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he came
down into the office just this day eight weeks with this very paper in his hand,
and he says— “ ‘I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.’
“ ‘Why that?’ I asks.
“ ‘Why,’ says he, ‘here’s another vacancy on the League of the Red-headed
Men. It’s worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets it, and I understand
that there are more vacancies than there are men, so that the trustees are at their
wits’ end what to do with the money. If my hair would only change colour,
here’s a nice little crib24 all ready for me to step into.’
“ ‘Why, what is it, then?’ I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very stay-athome 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.
“ ‘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.’
“The League has a vacancy.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“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.’
“ ‘But,’ said I, ‘there would be millions of red-headed men who would apply.’
“ ‘Not so many as you might think,’ he answered. ‘You see it is really
confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started from
London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn.
Then, again, I have heard it is no use your applying if your hair is light red, or
dark red, or anything but real, bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to
apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be worth
your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.’
“Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my hair is of
a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if there was to be any
competition in the matter, I stood as good a chance as any man that I had ever
met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that I thought he
might prove useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for the day, and
to come right away with me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut
the business up, and started off for the address that was given us in the
advertisement.
Men in Fleet Street.
(contemporary photograph)
“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,25 and Pope’s Court looked like a coster’s26 orange barrow. I should not
have thought there were so many in the whole country as were brought together
by that single advertisement. Every shade of colour they were—straw, lemon,
orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were not
many who had the real vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how many were
waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear of it.
How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted until he
got me through the crowd, and right up to the steps which led to the office. There
was a double stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming
back dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could, and soon found ourselves
in the office.”
“Your experience has been a most entertaining one,” remarked Holmes, as his
client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff. “Pray
continue your very interesting statement.”
“There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a deal27
table, behind which sat a small man, with a head that was even redder than mine.
He said a few words to each candidate as he came up, and then he always
managed to find some fault in them which would disqualify them. Getting a
vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy matter, after all. However, when our
turn came, the little man was much more favourable to me than to any of the
others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he might have a private
word with us.
“ ‘This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,’ said my assistant, ‘and he is willing to fill a
vacancy in the League.’
“ ‘And he is admirably suited for it,’ the other answered. ‘He has every
requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine.’ He took a step
backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at my hair until I felt quite
bashful. Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated
me warmly on my success.
“ ‘It would be injustice to hesitate,’ said he. ‘You will, however, I am sure,
excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.’ With that he seized my hair in both
his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the pain. ‘There is water in your eyes,’
said he, as he released me. ‘I perceive that all is as it should be. But we have to
be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could
tell you tales of cobbler’s wax28 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.
“He congratulated me warmly.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“ ‘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 redheads as well as for their maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you
should be a bachelor.’
“My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not to have
the vacancy after all; but, after thinking it over for a few minutes, he said that it
would be all right.
“ ‘In the case of another,’ said he, ‘the objection might be fatal, but we must
stretch a point in favour of a man with such a head of hair as yours. When shall
you be able to enter upon your new duties?’
“ ‘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 shall 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 four pounds a week.’29
“ ‘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 for ever. 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.’30
“ ‘And the work?’
“ ‘Is to copy out the “Encyclopædia Britannica.”31 There is the first volume of
it in that press.32 You must find your own ink, pens, and blotting-paper,33 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 any one could make such a will, or that they would pay
such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying out the ‘Encyclopædia
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,34 I started off for Pope’s
Court.
“Well, to my surprise and delight everything was as right as possible. The
table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to see that I got
fairly to work. He started me off upon the letter A, and then he left me; but he
would drop in from time to time to see that all was right with me. At two o’clock
he bade me good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had written, and
locked the door of the office after me.
“This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager came
in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week’s work. It was the
same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning I was there at ten,
and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in
only once of a morning, and then, after a time, he did not come in at all. Still, of
course, I never dared to leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he
might come, and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I
would not risk the loss of it.
“Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots, and
Archery, and Armour, and Architecture, and Attica, and hoped with diligence
that I might get on to the B’s35 before very long. It cost me something in
foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my writings. And then
suddenly the whole business came to an end.”
“To an end?”
“Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual at ten
o’clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little square of cardboard
hammered on to the middle of the panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read
for yourself.”
“The door was shut and locked.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of notepaper. It
read in this fashion—
THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE
IS
DISSOLVED.
Oct. 9, 1890.
36
Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful face
behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely overtopped every
other consideration that we both burst out into a roar of laughter.
“I cannot see that there is anything very funny,” cried our client, flushing up
to the roots of his flaming head. If you can do nothing better than laugh at me, I
can go elsewhere.”
“No, no,” cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he had
half risen. “I really wouldn’t miss your case for the world. It is most refreshingly
unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying so, something just a little
funny about it. Pray what steps did you take when you found the card upon the
door?”
“I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at the offices
round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it. Finally, I went to the
landlord, who is an accountant living on the ground-floor, and I asked him if he
could tell me what had become of the Red-headed League. He said that he had
never heard of any such body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He
answered that the name was new to him.
“ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘the gentleman at No. 4.’
“ ‘What, the red-headed man?’
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor,37 and was
using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises were ready.
He moved out yesterday.’
“ ‘Where could I find him?’
“ ‘Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17, King Edward
Street, near St. Paul’s.’
“I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a manufactory
of artificial knee-caps,38 and no one in it had ever heard of either Mr. William
Morris, or Mr. Duncan Ross.”
“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.
“I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my assistant.
But he could not help me in any way. He could only say that if I waited I should
hear by post. But that was not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to
lose such a place without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good
enough to give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right away to
you.”
“And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your case is an exceedingly
remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you have told me
I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from it than might at first sight
appear.”
“Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “Why, I have lost four pound a
week.”
“As far as you are personally concerned,” remarked Holmes, “I do not see that
you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On the contrary, you
are, as I understand, richer by some thirty pounds, to say nothing of the minute
knowledge which you have gained on every subject which comes under the letter
A. You have lost nothing by them.”
“No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what their
object was in playing this prank—if it was a prank—upon me. It was a pretty
expensive joke for them, for it cost them two-and-thirty pounds.”39
“We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first, one or two
questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called your attention to
the advertisement—how long had he been with you?”
“About a month then.”
“How did he come?”
“In answer to an advertisement.”
“Was he the only applicant?”
“No, I had a dozen.”
“Why did you pick him?”
“Because he was handy, and would come cheap.”
“At half-wages, in fact.”
“Yes.”
“What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?”
“Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face, though he’s not
short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his forehead.”
Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. “I thought as much,”
said he. “Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for earrings?”
“Yes, sir. He told me that a gypsy had done it for him when he was a lad.”
“Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. “He is still with you?”
“Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.”
“And has your business been attended to in your absence?”
“Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s never very much to do of a morning.”
“That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the
subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I hope that by
Monday we may come to a conclusion.”
“Well, Watson,” said Holmes, when our visitor had left us, “what do you
make of it all?”
“I make nothing of it,” I answered, frankly. “It is a most mysterious business.”
“As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it
proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really
puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify. But I must
be prompt over this matter.”
“What are you going to do, then?” I asked.
“He curled himself up in his chair.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg that you
won’t speak to me for fifty minutes.”40 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.
Arrangement in Black: Pablo de Sarasate.
James Abbot McNeil Whistler, 1884
“Sarasate41 plays at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he remarked. “What
do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few hours?”
“I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing.”
“Then put on your hat, and come. I am going through the City first, and we
can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal of German
music on the programme, which is rather more to my taste than Italian or French.
It is introspective, and I want to introspect. Come along!”
We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate;42 and a short walk took
us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we had listened
to in the morning. It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of
dingy two-storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure, where
a lawn of weedy grass, and a few clumps of faded laurel bushes made a hard
fight against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls43 and a
brown board with “JABEZ WILSON” in white letters, upon a corner house,
announced the place where our red-headed client carried on his business.
Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side and looked it all
over, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he walked
slowly up the street and then down again to the corner, still looking keenly at the
houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker’s, and, having thumped
vigorously upon the pavement with his stick44 two or three times, he went up to
the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven
young fellow, who asked him to step in.
“Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how you would go from
here to the Strand.”45
“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,46 and for daring I am not sure that
he has not a claim to be third. I have known something of him before.”47
“Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts for a good deal in this
mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired your way merely
in order that you might see him.”
“Not him.”
“What then?”
“The knees of his trousers.”
“The door was instantly opened.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“And what did you see?”
“What I expected to see.”
“Why did you beat the pavement?”
“My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in an
enemy’s country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us now
explore the parts which lie behind it.”
The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from the
retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to it as the front of a
picture does to the back. It was one of the main arteries which conveyed the
traffic of the City to the north and west. The roadway was blocked with the
immense stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward,
while the foot paths were black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was
difficult to realise as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately business
premises that they really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant
square which we had just quitted.
“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner, and glancing along the line,
“I should like just to remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of
mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is Mortimer’s, the
tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and
Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane’s carriage-building
depôt. That carries us right on to the other block. And now, Doctor, we’ve done
our work, so it’s time we had some play. A sandwich, and a cup of coffee, and
then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness, and delicacy, and harmony, and
there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums.”
The Strand.
Victorian and Edwardian London
My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very capable
performer but a composer of no ordinary merit.48 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, keenwitted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his
singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself,49 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.50 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.
“All afternoon he sat in the stalls.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,” he remarked, as we emerged.
“Yes, it would be as well.”
“And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This business at
Coburg Square is serious.”
“Why serious?”
“A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to believe that
we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday rather complicates
matters. I shall want your help to-night.”
“At what time?”
“Ten will be early enough.”
“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”
“Very well. And, I say, Doctor! There may be some little danger, so kindly
put your army revolver in your pocket.” He waved his hand, turned on his heel,
and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.
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
“Encyclopædia” down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous
words with which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition,
and why should I go armed? Where were we going, and what were we to do? I
had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant was a
formidable man—a man who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but
gave it up in despair, and set the matter aside until night should bring an
explanation.
It was a quarter past nine when I started from home and made my way across
the Park,51 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 recognized as Peter Jones,52 the official police
agent; while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and
oppressively respectable frock coat.
“Ha! our party is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket, and
taking his heavy hunting-crop53 from the rack. “Watson, I think you know Mr.
Jones, of Scotland Yard?54 Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to
be our companion in to-night’s adventure.”
“We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,” said Jones in his
consequential way. “Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All
he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down.”
“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,” observed Mr.
Merryweather, gloomily.
“You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,” said the police
agent, loftily. “He has his own little methods, which are, if he won’t mind my
saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of a
detective in him. It is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that business
of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure,55 he has been more nearly correct
than the official force.”
New Scotland Yard.
“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the
stranger with deference. “Still, I confess that I miss my rubber.56 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 thirty thousand
pounds, and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your
hands.”
“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher,57 and forger. He is 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.58 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 crib59 in Scotland one week, and be raising money to build an
orphanage in Cornwall the next. I’ve been on his track for years, and have never
set eyes on him yet.”
“I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I’ve had one
or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the
head of his profession. It is past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If
you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second.”
Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive, and lay
The Queen’s London (1897)
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.60
“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 any one. Here we are, and they
are waiting for us.”61
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.
“Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes remarked as he held up
the lantern, and gazed about him.
“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the flags62
which lined the floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!” he remarked,
looking up in surprise.
“I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!” said Holmes severely. “You
have already imperilled the whole success of our expedition. Might I beg that
you would have the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not to
interfere?”
The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very
injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon the
floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely the
cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang
to his feet again, and put his glass in his pocket.
“We have at least an hour before us,” he remarked, “for they can hardly take
any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they will not lose a
minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer time they will have for their
escape. We are at present, Doctor—as no doubt you have divined—in the cellar
of the City branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is
the chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that there are reasons why
the more daring criminals of London should take a considerable interest in this
cellar at present.”
“It is our French gold,” whispered the director. “We have had several
warnings that an attempt might be made upon it.”
“Your French gold?”
“Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources, and
borrowed, for that purpose, thirty thousand napoleons from the Bank of France.
It has become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the money, and
that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which I sit contains two
thousand 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.”63
“And sit in the dark?”
Dark lantern.
“I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket,64 and I thought
that, as we were a partie carrée,65 you might have your rubber after all. But I see
that the enemy’s preparations have gone so far that we cannot risk the presence
of a light. And, first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring men,
and, though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm
unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal
yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly.
If they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down.” I placed
my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind which I crouched.
Holmes shot the slide across the front of his lantern, and left us in pitch darkness
—such an absolute darkness as I have never before experienced. The smell of
hot metal remained to assure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at
a moment’s notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy,
there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the
cold, dank air of the vault.
“They have but one retreat,” whispered Holmes. “That is back through the
house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I asked you,
Jones?”
“I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.”
“Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and wait.”
What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an hour
and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have almost gone, and the
dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary and stiff, for I feared to
change my position; yet my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of
tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the gentle
breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier inbreath of the bulky Jones from the thin sighing note of the bank director. From
my position I could look over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my
eyes caught the glint of a light.
At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it lengthened
out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any warning or sound, a gash
seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white, almost womanly hand, which felt
about in the centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with
its writhing fingers, protruded out of the 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.
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.
“It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have you the chisel and the bags? Great Scott!
Jump, Archie,66 jump, and I’ll swing for it!”67
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’s 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.”
“It’s no use, John Clay.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“And I you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was very new and
effective.”
“You’ll see your pal again presently,” said Jones. “He’s quicker at climbing
down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the derbies.”68
“I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,” remarked our
prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. “You may not be aware that I
have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness, also, when you address me
always to say ‘sir’ and ‘please.’ ”
“All right,” said Jones with a stare and a snigger. “Well, would you please, sir,
march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your Highness to the policestation?”
“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.”
“I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John Clay,”
said Holmes. “I have been at some small expense over this matter, which I shall
expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am amply repaid by having had an
experience which is in many ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable
narrative of the Red-headed League.”
“You see, Watson,” he explained in the early hours of the morning, as we sat
over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, “it was perfectly obvious from
the first that the only possible object of this rather fantastic business of the
advertisement of the League, and the copying of the ‘Encyclopædia,’ 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 four pounds a week was a lure which
must draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands? They
put in the advertisement; one rogue has the temporary office, the other rogue
incites the man to apply for it, and together they manage to secure his absence
every morning in the week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having
come for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive for
securing the situation.”
“But how could you guess what the motive was?”
“Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere vulgar
intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The man’s business was a small
one, and there was nothing in his house which could account for such elaborate
preparations, and such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be
something out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant’s
fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar!
There was the end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this
mysterious assistant and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and
most daring criminals in London. He was doing something in the cellar—
something which took many hours a day for months on end. What could it be,
once more? I could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel to some
other building.
“So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I surprised you by
beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining whether the cellar
stretched out in front or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I
hoped, the assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had
never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His knees
were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn,
wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The
only remaining point was what they were burrowing for.69 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.70 But it was essential that they should use it soon, as it
might be discovered, or the bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them
better than any other day, as it would give them two days for their escape. For all
these reasons I expected them to come to-night.”
“You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed, in unfeigned admiration. “It is
so long a chain, and yet every link rings true.”71
“It saved me from ennui,”72 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.”73
1 “The Red-Headed League” was published in the Strand Magazine in August 1891.
2 In 1890, when the events of “The Red-Headed League” occurred (for this consensus, see Chronological
Table), only A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of Four had been published.
3 “How old was Mr. Wilson?” Thomas L. Stix asks in “Concerning ‘The Red-Headed League.’” “Watson
regarded him as ‘an elderly gentleman’—which would mean sixty, perhaps. At sixty one does not possess
fiery red hair. Indeed, at fifty the pigmentation has changed.”
4 This presumably means Holmes’s bedroom.
5 “A Case of Identity,” the case of Miss Mary Sutherland, was not published in the Strand Magazine until
September 1891, the month after publication of “The Red-Headed League.”
6 Holmes’s knowledge of crime reports, which Watson refers to in A Study in Scarlet as “sensational
literature,” is noted there as “immense.”
7 In the nineteenth century, the middle class (loosely defined as employers of servants), burgeoned,
separating into various substrata, from factory workers, clerks, bookkeepers, and mail carriers (known in
England as the “working class, in Germany as the Mittelstand, and in France as nouvelle couches) to
lawyers and doctors (the “professional class”), each with attitudes and concerns of their own. Its members
worked hard to regard those below them with proper disdain, as is evident here, but, as Peter Gay, the
eminent Victorian historian, observes, while they may have attended concerts and purchased new furniture,
the apprehensions of the working class “over dropping into the proletariat were very real, one reason why
so many of them were almost comically insistent on bourgeois formal manners and bourgois ethical stands
for their children . .. they were respectable people. They were not proletarians!”
8 A woollen cloth with a black and white checked pattern.
9 A watch-chain made up of heavy links, named after Albert, prince consort of Queen Victoria, also worn
by Enoch Drebber (A Study in Scarlet) and Hosmer Angel (“A Case of Identity”). Albert, himself viewed as
stolid and pompous by the masses, was not very popular but nonetheless set the style of male society.
10 A member of a secret society, the origin of which, by tradition, has been traced back to the Knights
Templar, the old Roman empire, the pharaohs, Hiram of Tyre, the Temple of Solomon, or even to the times
of the Tower of Babel and the Ark of Noah. The masons of England date back to 926 A.D., although modern
freemasonry arose in the eighteenth century.
11 Cf. “Peculiarities of Workmen,” in Tit-Bits (January 10, 1891): “A carpenter’s shoulder is almost
invariably higher than his left, in consequence of having to use his right arm all the time in planing and
hammering. With every shaving his body rises with a jerk, and it finally becomes natural to him to hold
himself in that way.”
12 Freemasons were obliged to keep secret the several words and various signs revealed to them, and the
motto of the order was “Audi Vide Tace” (“Hear, See, Keep Silent”). It was commonly supposed that
Masons would reveal themselves to other members by secret hand grips, signs, and code words.
13 Correctly, the “square and compass,” the emblems of the mason’s craft. The square and compass
combined were at one time a fairly common object of personal adornment in the form of watch-chain
ornaments or on signet rings.
14 While the wrist may seem to be an unlikely place for a tattoo, Tit-Bits for February 14, 1891, reported:
“[T]here are a great many women who employ [the art of tattooing]. With women the decoration is usually
a bee, a butterfly, a spray of flowers, or a monogram. These ornaments are worn inside the wrist, so that
they may be hidden by the glove, if necessary.” Why Wilson’s tattoo was on his wrist is unknown.
15 “Everything unknown passes for something splendid,” an epigram of Tacitus, written about 98 A.D.
Tacitus was a Roman historian, whose writings are the most trustworthy sources of knowledge of Roman
times. This epigram is from his Life of Agricola, regarded as one of the finest biographies ever written, and
Holmes, educated as a gentleman, evidently read it in the original Latin.
16 According to Stoll’s Editorial News of June 2, 1921, the Stoll Film Company placed a similar
advertisement in the Times on January 20, 1920, when filming “The Red-Headed League”: “On account of
circumstances not unconnected with the bequest of the late Hezekiah [sic] Hopkins of Lebanon, Penn. USA,
lucrative employment for One Day Only is now available for twenty CURLY, RED-HEADED MEN who
are sound in mind and body. Those who have served in HM Forces and have some knowledge of acting
preferred.” Forty curly, red-haired ex-servicemen applied to the Cricklewood Studio and the producer
decided to engage them all.
17 “Fleet Street [is] one of the busiest streets in London,” according to the 1896 Baedeker. Celebrated for
its newspaper and other printing and publishing offices, by 1896, it was the headquarters of and
synonymous with London’s “penny press,” sensational newspapers of the day that were the ancestors of
today’s tabloids.
18 The starting line in a race; therefore, a point at the beginning of a project at which nothing has been
done ahead of time.
19 The Morning Chronicle went bankrupt around 1860. Watson (or Wilson) thus made an error in the
name of the newspaper.
20 The evident impossibility of the newspaper bearing the correct date has been noted by numerous
chronologists, who point out that considerably more than two months elapse between the newspaper date
and the October 9 date given for dissolution of the League, when Wilson appears in Holmes’s sitting-room.
See note 36.
21 The pawnbroker was the major financial resource available to much of the Victorian population.
Persons in need of cash deposited their valuables with the pawnbroker as security, who lent them a fraction
of the value. Items not “redeemed” for the amount lent within twelve months were sold. Customers came
from all strata of society, ranging from clerks struggling to rise above their working class background to
wealthier members of society who had fallen on hard times. In 1836, Charles Dickens, in his Sketches by
Boz, wrote: “Of the numerous receptacles for misery and distress with which the streets of London
unhappily abound, there are, perhaps, none which present such striking scenes as the pawnbrokers’ shops.
The very nature and description of these places occasions their being but little known, except to the
unfortunate beings whose profligacy or misfortune drives them to seek the temporary relief they offer. . . .”
22 Given later as “Saxe-Coburg Square,” no such place exists in London. Albert, Victoria’s consort, was
“Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha.” Watson commonly disguised the locations reported in his tales,
evidently out of concern for Holmes’s clients, to preserve their confidences and to spare them sightseers.
23
The original “City of London,” with its own government. Charles Dickens, Jr., writes, “The
Municipality of the City originally exercised jurisdiction over London proper, but the town has so outgrown
its original limits that the Corporation is now entirely surrounded by rival powers . . .” The City remains the
financial centre of London and is the venue for Hugh Boone’s begging (“The Man with the Twisted Lip”)
and Hall Pycroft’s employment (“The Stock-Broker’s Clerk”).
24 A situation or job.
25 Novelist-scholar Dorothy Sayers, in “The Dates in ‘The Red-Headed League,’” deduces that the day
was August Bank Holiday Monday. That it was a holiday also explains why so many red-headed men were
not at work during normal working hours and perhaps why the newspapers—headquartered on Fleet Street
—failed to report this remarkable event.
26 A fruit-seller, who typically sold fruit from a wheelbarrow.
27 A board of sawn fir or pine.
28 Used to make shoemaker’s thread more supple. It is not clear why cobbler’s wax disgusts Ross—
perhaps he implies that it has been used to attach false hair to men’s heads.
29 Very substantial pay for a half-time job in Victorian England, with a middle class defined by some as
those earning over £300 per year. Compare Hugh Boone (“The Man with the Twisted Lip”), who earned £2
per week for “arduous work” as a reporter (and £2 per day as a beggar). In 1890, £300 had the purchasing
power of £19,302 in 2001.
30 Another slang term for a job.
31 The Britannica was already well established as the encyclopaedia. After its first edition in 1768 (a mere
three volumes), it had numerous printings and editions and few competitors. Wilson undoubtedly worked
on the Ninth Edition, publication of which was completed in 1889. The Ninth Edition is extensively quoted
throughout these volumes as a source with which Holmes himself would have been familiar.
32 An upright case or cupboard.
33 How odd that an employer paying four pounds a week cannot provide pens and paper!
34 Paper varying in size according to the grade, usually 16 x 13 inches for writing and drawing paper, socalled from the watermark formerly applied to it.
35 Thomas L. Stix calculates that based on the average page of the Britannica, according to Jabez Wilson,
he copied 6,419,616 words in eight weeks, working only four hours a day. This is a rate of 33,435 words
per hour, or 557.25 words per minute. What a phenomenon!
36 There is a serious confusion of dates here, observes Stix. The first advertisement appeared on April 27,
1890. Wilson started work on April 29. Eight weeks and thirty-two pounds thereafter brings us to June 23.
But the announcement of dissolution of the League is dated October 9, 1890. “In other words, fourteen
weeks and four days have been unaccounted for, and 58 pounds, 10 shillings, 2 pence unpaid.”
Ian McQueen, in Sherlock Holmes Detected: The Problems of the Long Stories, attempts to reconcile
Wilson’s remark of “eight weeks” passing, the October 9 “dissolution” date, and the April 27 date on the
newspaper advertising the league. He suggests that the latter date could be correct if the advertisement had
been inserted in connection with earlier plans that had failed to materialize. When the plans gelled,
Spaulding entered Wilson’s employment about the middle of July, using the same newspaper but
concealing the date. However, this ignores Watson’s “just two months ago” remark about the date on the
paper.
37 A lawyer who practises law but is not permitted to appear as counsel in the courts, except magistrates’
courts and before Justices of the Peace. William Morris was a name well known to the public; the
prominent English painter, designer, poet, manufacturer, and Socialist leader (1834–1896) was one of the
founders of England’s Arts and Crafts movement, named for the Arts and Crafts Exhibition Society
founded in the 1880s, which promoted hand-craftsmanship in the decorative arts.
38 Donald Redmond, in Sherlock Holmes: A Study in Sources, suggests that Wilson confused the address,
which properly was a few doors away at No. 44, Little Britain, the premises of Arnold & Sons,
“manufacturers of trusses, elastic stockings, belts, artificial legs, arms, eyes &c.”
39 If he was indeed paid £32, Wilson is incorrect in his statement that “Spaulding . . . came down to the
office just this day eight weeks with the advertisement”; it would have been nine weeks, because Wilson
was not paid on this last Saturday.
40 “Three pipes of shag in fifty minutes!” R. D. Sherbrooke-Walker writes in “Holmes, Watson and
Tobacco.” “It was not a feat—it was a monstrous abuse of the membrane of the nose and throat!”
41
Pablo Martin Meliton Sarasate (1844–1908) was a renowned violinist, who began by winning
competitions at the Paris Conservatory. At age sixteen, he took up his concert career. In “Portraits of
Celebrities at Different Times of Their Lives,” appearing in the Strand Magazine (1892), the editors write:
“[T]he extreme beauty of his execution, aided doubtless by his singularly striking appearance, ensured his
immediate success. . . . It is a disputed point among musicians whether Señor Sarasate or Herr Joachim is to
be considered the greatest violinist of the age.”
42 The Aldersgate Street Station is on the Metropolitan line. The “Underground Railways,” more properly
the Metropolitan and Metropolitan District Railways, irrevocably changed the fabric of everyday life in
London, carrying over 110 million passengers per year by 1896. First opened in 1863, the trains for the
most part ran through tunnels or cuttings between high walls. London was the first city to adopt
underground railways. The railway figures prominently in “The Bruce-Partington Plans,” and Watson
remarks, in A Study in Scarlet, that he would like to see Holmes attempt to deduce the lines of work of the
occupants of a third-class Underground carriage. However, this is the only recorded instance of Holmes or
Watson actually travelling by Underground.
43 The traditional emblem of a pawnbroker’s shop.
44 This is one of the two Canonical adventures in which Holmes carries a walking stick; the other is “The
Illustrious Client.” Holmes is frequently depicted by Sidney Paget in the dress of an English gentleman,
and, in the words of Daniel Pool (What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew), “no gentleman was
ever without one or its doppelgänger, the tightly furled umbrella.” In modern London, these took the place
of the eighteenth-century sword.
45 So named from skirting the bank of the river Thames, the Strand was the great artery of traffic between
the City and the West End. It contained many newspaper offices and theatres and has Canonical
associations as the home of “Simpson’s” restaurant, a favourite of Holmes (“The Dying Detective” and
“The Illustrious Client”), and the namesake of the Strand Magazine, headquartered on the corner of the
Strand and Southampton Street, as depicted on its cover.
46 D. Martin Dakin, assessing Holmes’s adversaries Professor Moriarty as number one and Colonel
Sebastian Moran as number two, asks, “[W]ho was the third? . . . Perhaps the most likely of those known to
us is Charles Augustus Milverton, whose description as the worst man in London does not prevent him
from being the third smartest. But of course it might be Brooks or Woodhouse or any one of the fifty men
who wished harm to Holmes [“The Bruce-Partington Plans”] . . .” Banesh Hoffman, in “Red Faces and ‘The
Red-Headed League,’” nominates Holmes himself, Mycroft, and Professor Moriarty.
47 Robert R. Pattrick, in “Moriarty Was There,” suggests that the gentleman of this encounter may have
been in league with other Holmes rivals: “The ‘fourth smartest man in London’ would not be a freelance. It
is even possible that the scheme of “The Red-Headed League” was originated by Moriarty himself.
Certainly it was worthy of him . . .” This conclusion—the involvement of Moriarty—was adopted by
Granada Television in its 1985 production of “The Red-Headed League.”
48 “In a lifetime of frequenting music shops and libraries,” writes William Hyder, in “Sherlock Holmes as
Musician,” “I have never run across any published works by Sherlock Holmes, and neither, to my
knowledge, has any one else. It seems reasonable, then, to assume that Watson inaccurately used the term
‘composer’ when what he was thinking of was Holmes’s way of improvising tunes on his violin.”
49 Compare the narrator’s observations of the private investigator C. Auguste Dupin in Edgar Allan Poe’s
The Murders in the Rue Morgue: “Observing him in these moods, I often dwelt meditatively upon the old
philosophy of the Bi-Part Soul, and amused myself with the fancy of a double Dupin—the creative and the
resolvent.” Many have characterised Dupin as Holmes’s rôle model, but Holmes himself thought poorly of
Dupin, calling him “a very inferior fellow” in A Study in Scarlet. Watson might well observe that we are
most critical of others in whom we recognise ourselves.
50 Books printed in the type used by the early printers. Holmes remarks in A Study in Scarlet on a “queer
old book” he picked up in a London bookstall, and Madeleine B. Stern suggests, in Sherlock Holmes: RareBook Collector, that Holmes devoted many leisure hours to book collecting.
51 If this case can be firmly set in 1890 (see Chronological Table), Watson is married to Mary Morstan
Watson and living near Paddington Station (“The Engineer’s Thumb”). The reference here to “the Park”
can only mean Hyde Park, which suggests that Watson’s residence and practice were located south or west
of the park. Otherwise, one would not pass through the park to get to Oxford Street, which bounds the park
on the north, or Baker Street, which lies to the east of the park.
52
Several scholars identify this police agent as Athelney Jones (The Sign of Four), both from the
description of his person and characteristics and reference to the “Sholto murder.” Richard Lancelyn Green
further suggests that Watson’s slip of the pen may have resulted because “Peter Jones” was the name of a
department store on the west side of Sloane Square that opened in 1877.
53 A straight whipstock with a leather loop. The “loaded” hunting-crop, that is, one with its handle
weighted with iron, is Holmes’s “favourite weapon,” according to Dr. Watson (“The Six Napoleons”),
although it appears only here, in “The Six Napoleons,” and in “A Case of Identity.”
54
Scotland Yard, originally a place, became the popular name for the detectives of the London
Metropolitan Police. The first headquarters of the Metropolitan Police were the back premises of 4
Whitehall Place. The location had been the site of a residence owned by the kings of Scotland before the
Union and used and occupied by them and/or their ambassadors when in London, and was known as
“Scotland.” The courtyard was later used by Sir Christopher Wren and known as “Scotland Yard.” The
residence backs on to three streets incorporating the words “Scotland Yard” in their names, which were also
said to have been derived from the Scott family’s ownership during the Middle Ages. In either case, by
1887, the police headquarters embraced numbers 3, 4, 5, 21, and 22 Whitehall Place, numbers 8 and 9 Great
Scotland Yard, numbers 1, 2, and 3 Palace Place, and various stables and outbuildings. In 1890, the
headquarters were removed to premises on the Victoria Embankment designed by Richard Norman Shaw,
which became known as “New Scotland Yard” and was presumably well known to Holmes. In 1967,
because of the need for a larger and more modern headquarters, a further move took place to the present site
at Broadway, S.W.1, which is also known as “New Scotland Yard.”
55 The events recorded in The Sign of Four.
56 Merryweather is presumably referring to the card game whist, the forerunner of modern contract
bridge. A “rubber” is a unit in scoring denoting the winning of two games by a side. Although some form of
whist existed as far back as the sixteenth century, a formal system for the playing of the game was not
created until Henry Jones’s 1862 Principles of Whist. Once bridge was introduced to London in 1894, it
quickly supplanted whist. Other whist players mentioned in the Canon are the Tregennises (“The Devil’s
Foot”) and the Hon. Ronald Adair and Colonel Sebastian Moran and their opponents (“The Empty House”).
57 Slang: One who passes bad coins or forged notes.
58 Jacques Barzun, in “A Note on John Clay’s Education,” speculates that Clay might have attended
Cambridge, rather than Oxford, where he could have seen the following footnote in a treatise by Henry
Sidgwick, praelector in moral science at the University of Cambridge since 1869: “ ‘It would not be
commonly thought unjust in a rich bachelor with no near relatives to leave the bulk of his property in
providing pensions exclusively for indigent red-haired men, however unreasonable and capricious the
choice might appear . . .’ ”
59 To break into a building.
60 If Aldersgate Station was only “a short walk” from Saxe-Coburg Square, as Watson previously noted,
why would Holmes and party endure a “long drive” through “an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets”?
61 One notes a certain similarity in Holmes’s metaphorical descriptions of Scotland Yard men, for in “The
Cardboard Box,” Holmes describes Inspector Lestrade as “tenacious as a bulldog.” Holmes had little regard
for Scotland Yard in his youth—in A Study in Scarlet, he calls Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson “the pick of
a bad lot”—but by the time of his retirement, while he still decried their want of imaginative intuition, he
praised their thoroughness and method (“The Three Garridebs”).
62 That is, flagstones.
63 The “dark lantern” was a modification of an ordinary gas or kerosene hand lantern that could be
darkened while lit, by a sliding shield that covered the light without extinguishing the flame. In this way, it
was the predecessor of the electric hand torch or flashlight.
64 Holmes’s intense interest in whist is evidenced by his frequent choice of phrase: “At present it must be
admitted that the odd trick is in his possession, and, as you are aware, Watson, it is not my habit to leave the
game in that condition” (“The Missing Three-Quarter”).
“He will hold a card back for years in order to play it at the moment when the stake is best worth
winning” (“Charles Augustus Milverton”).
“We have added one card to our hand, Watson, but it needs careful playing all the same. . . . We are
getting some cards in our hands. . . . It’s not an easy one to play . . .” (“Shoscombe Old Place”).
“Now, Count, you are a cardplayer. When the other fellow has all the trumps, it saves time to throw
down your hand. . . . That’s the hand I play from, I put it all upon the table. But one card is missing. It’s the
king of diamonds” (“The Mazarin Stone”).
“I see the fall of the cards” (“The Bruce-Partington Plans”).
“We must see what further cards we have in our hands, and play them with decision” (The Hound of the
Baskervilles).
However, notwithstanding a series of pastiches by bridge experts George Gooden and Frank Thomas
(commencing with Sherlock Holmes, Bridge Detective) and Alfred Sheinwold in numerous bridge columns,
this is the only Watsonian record of Holmes’s cardplaying.
65 In French, this means a “square party,” using the feminine adjective, meaning a party consisting of two
men and two women. Holmes is being somewhat facetious here, for the party actually consisted of two male
couples.
66 “Archie” was presumably the real name of “Duncan Ross.” Jerry Neal Williamson, in “The Sad Case of
Young Stamford,” speculates that this Archie was the same Archie Stamford, the forger, later taken by
Holmes and Watson near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey (“The Solitary Cyclist”) and also the young
Stamford who introduced Watson to Holmes (in A Study in Scarlet).
67 Clay may have meant that he would swing back through the trapdoor, or he may have anticipated that
he would be hanged for his crime. John Camden Hotten’s 1865 Slang Dictionary gives “to be hanged” as
the contemporary meaning of “swing.” Hanging remained the principal method of British capital
punishment until abolition of the death penalty in 1965. By 1861, however, reformers had limited the death
penalty to persons convicted of murder, treason, arson in a royal dockyard, and piracy “with violence.” Is it
possible that Clay had by this point murdered Jabez Wilson?
68 Slang: Handcuffs.
69 How the excavated earth was to be disposed of is not explained, points out Nathan L. Bengis, in
“Sherlock Stays After School.” The large amount of dirt removed from the tunnel could not have been piled
up in the cellar, for Wilson would surely have noticed it, nor could it have been deposited in the street
without attracting considerable attention.
“Patience Moran” (who claims to have been the “girl of fourteen” employed by Wilson) states (in “Two
Canonical Problems Solved”) that the earth was loaded into large empty cardboard boxes that were then
taken away by a dray that delivered more cardboard boxes. Charles Scholefield speculates that the
excavated earth might have been cast upon the neighbours’ lawns, but finds it unlikely that the neighbours
would not mention Spaulding’s mound-building to his employer.
70 The notice to Wilson, which preceded the robbery, has occasioned much comment and speculation.
Thomas L. Stix suggests that Clay may have terminated the league early to economize, but if he did so, then
although Clay may have been the fourth smartest man in London, “he was doubtless the first most
penurious.” Greg Darak, in “But Why Dissolve the League?,” suggests that Clay’s need to establish his
superiority to the fatuous Wilson, not economy, caused Clay to publish the notice. It may be that Clay had
so little regard for Wilson that he could not conceive that the sheeplike pawnbroker would complain to
anyone of his loss.
71 It is unknown how the criminals hoped to remove the bullion, the weight of which must have been
enormous. A. Carson Simpson estimates that each of the cases would weigh almost 60 pounds, and while
removal of the boxes from the building, one at a time, would not have been difficult, the story does not
disclose any means by which the criminals planned to transport over 900 pounds of loot.
Charles Scholefield suggests that the criminals intended to use carriages from McFarlane’s Depot, noted
as nearby. The tunnel may have connected not only Wilson’s but also McFarlane’s with the bank, and the
carriages could also have been used to carry earth and broken bricks and other spoil from the tunnel. David
H. Galerstein, in “The Real Loot,” proposes a more radical solution: Clay and his confederate were not after
the gold but rather currency and gems, with which the vaults were undoubtedly filled. These smaller, lighter
items would pose neither transportation nor disposition problems.
72 In Oscar Wilde’s Picture of Dorian Gray, Lord Henry Wotton remarks: “The only horrible thing in the
world is ennui, Dorian. That is the one sin for which there is no forgiveness.” Holmes confessed in The Sign
of Four, written almost simultaneously with Dorian Gray: “ ‘My mind 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 stimulation. But I abhor the dull routine of
existence.’ ”
73 Correctly, “L’homme n’est rien, l’oeuvre tout.” “The man is nothing, the work is everything.”
A CASE OF IDENTITY1
As in “A Scandal in Bohemia,” no crime is
actually committed in “A Case of Identity,”
and scholars wonder why Watson chose to
include it among the sixty published cases out
of the more than 1,000 that Holmes handled.
Could the villain be more wicked than the
events reveal? While the near-comic Mary
Sutherland, the whispering Hosmer Angel, and
the strident James Windibank are only minor
characters on Watson’s stage, we are
reminded that a single woman of Holmes’s era
can get along quite nicely on £60 per year.
The “gasfitters’ ball,” a grand social event for
the plumbing trade at which Mary meets her
fate, has inspired many Sherlockian societies
to hold similar galas. Here, too, we first see
the masterful side of Holmes, as he hands out
punishment and withholds information as he
alone sees fit.
MY 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.2 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.”3
“And yet I am not convinced of it,” I answered. “The cases which come to
light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and vulgar enough. We have in our
police reports realism pushed to its extreme limits, and yet the result is, it must
be confessed, neither fascinating nor artistic.”
“A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a realistic
effect,” remarked Holmes. “This is wanting in the police report, where more
stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of the magistrate than upon the details,
which to an observer contain the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon
it, there is nothing so unnatural as the commonplace.”
I smiled and shook my head. “I can quite understand your thinking so,” I said.
“Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser and helper to everybody who is
absolutely puzzled, throughout three continents,4 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.”5
“Q.E.D.
‘What’s up wi’ Sal?’ ‘Aint yer ’erd? She’s married agin!’
”
Phil May, Punch Magazine, September 1, 1894
“Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument,” said Holmes,
taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. “This is the Dundas separation
case, and, as it happens, I was engaged in clearing up some small points in
connection with it. The husband was a teetotaler, there was no other woman, and
the conduct complained of was that he had drifted into the habit of winding up
every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his wife,6 which, you
will allow, is not an action likely to occur to the imagination of the average
story-teller. Take a pinch of snuff,7 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
souvenir8 from the King of Bohemia in return for my assistance in the case of
the Irene Adler papers.”9
“And the ring?” I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant10 which sparkled
upon his finger.
“It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in which I
served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it even to you, who have
been good enough to chronicle one or two of my little problems.”
“And have you any on hand just now?” I asked with interest.
“Some ten or twelve, but none which presents any feature of interest.11 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,12 there is
nothing which presents any features of interest. It is possible, however, that I
may have something better before very many minutes are over, for this is one of
my clients, or I am much mistaken.”
He had risen from his chair, and was standing between the parted blinds,
gazing down into the dull, neutral-tinted London street. Looking over his
shoulder I saw that on the pavement opposite there stood a large woman with a
heavy fur boa round her neck, and a large curling red feather in a broad-brimmed
hat which was tilted in a coquettish Duchess-of-Devonshire13 fashion over her
ear. From under this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous, hesitating fashion
at our windows, while her body oscillated backwards and forwards, 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.
Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire.
Thomas Gainsborough, 1784
“I have seen those symptoms before,” said Holmes, throwing his cigarette into
the fire. “Oscillation upon the pavement always means an affaire de coeur.14 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.”
As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons15 entered to
announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself loomed behind his small
black figure like a full-sailed merchant-man16 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 arm chair, 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 realizing the full purport of his words, she gave a
violent start, and looked up with fear and astonishment upon her broad, goodhumoured face. “You’ve heard about me, Mr. Holmes,” she cried, “else how
could you know all that?”
“Sherlock Holmes welcomed her.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“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 every one 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 year17 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 to consult me in such a hurry?”
Artist unknown, Chicago Inter-Ocean, September 5, 1891
“Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?” asked Sherlock
Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to the ceiling.
Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss Mary
Sutherland. “Yes, I did bang out of the house,” she said, “for it made me angry
to see the easy way in which Mr. Windibank—that is, my father—took it all. He
would not go to the police, and he would not go to you, and so at last, as he
would do nothing and kept on saying that there was no harm done, it made me
mad, and I just on with my things and came right away to you.”
“Your father,” said Holmes, “your stepfather, surely, since the name is
different.”
“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,18 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.19 It is in New Zealand20 Stock, paying 4½ per cent. Two thousand
five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can only touch the interest.”
Tottenham Court Road.
Victorian and Edwardian London
“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 sixty pounds.21
“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.22
“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.”
Contemporary typewriter advertisement.
Victorian Advertisements
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’23 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 plush24 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.”
“At the Gasfitter’s Ball.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“I suppose,” said Holmes, “that when Mr. Windibank came back from France,
he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball.”
“Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and shrugged
his shoulders, and said there was no use denying anything to a woman, for she
would have her way.”
“I see. Then at the gasfitters’ ball you met, as I understand, a gentleman called
Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
“Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if we had got
home all safe, and after that we met him—that is to say, Mr. Holmes, I met him
twice for walks, but after that father came back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel
could not come to the house any more.”
“No?”
“Well, you know, father didn’t like anything of the sort. He wouldn’t have any
visitors if he could help it, and he used to say that a woman should be happy in
her own family circle. But then, as I used to say to mother, a woman wants her
own circle to begin with, and I had not got mine yet.”
“But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see you?”
“Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer wrote and
said that it would be safer and better not to see each other until he had gone. We
could write in the meantime, and he used to write every day. I took the letters in
in the morning, so there was no need for father to know.”
“Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that we took.
Hosmer—Mr. Angel—was a cashier in an office in Leadenhall Street25—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.26 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
quinsy27 and swollen glands when he was young, he told me, and it had left him
with a weak throat, and a hesitating, whispering fashion of speech. He was
always well dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak, just as mine
are, and he wore tinted glasses against the glare.”
“Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather, returned to
France?”
“Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again, and proposed that we should
marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest, and made me swear,
with my hands on the Testament, that whatever happened I would always be true
to him. Mother said he was quite right to make me swear, and that it was a sign
of his passion. Mother was all in his favour from the first, and was even fonder
of him than I was. Then, when they talked of marrying within the week, I began
to ask about father; but they both said never to mind about father, but just to tell
him afterwards, and mother said she would make it all right with him. I didn’t
quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that I should ask his leave, as he
was only a few years older than me; but I didn’t want to do anything on the sly,
so I wrote to father at Bordeaux,28 where the company has its French offices, but
the letter came back to me on the very morning of the wedding.”
“It missed him, then?”
“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.29 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,30 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 he could not
imagine what had become of him, for he had seen him get in with his own eyes.
That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard anything since
then to throw any light upon what became of him.”
“It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated,” said Holmes.
“Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all the morning
he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to be true; and that even if
something quite unforeseen occurred to separate us, I was always to remember
that I was pledged to him, and that he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It
seemed strange talk for a wedding morning, but what has happened since gives a
meaning to it.”
Midland Grand Hotel.
“Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that
some unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?”
The Queen’s London (1897)
“There was no one there.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he would not have
talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw happened.”
“But you have no notion as to what it could have been?”
“None.”
“One more question. How did your mother take the matter?”
“She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter again.”
“And your father? Did you tell him?”
“Yes, and he seemed to think, with me, that something had happened, and that
I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest could any one 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.
“I shall glance into the case for you,” said Holmes, rising, “and I have no
doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the weight of the matter rest
upon me now, and do not let your mind dwell upon it further. Above all, try to
let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from your memory, as he has done from your life.”
“Then you don’t think I’ll see him again?”
“I fear not.”
“Then what has happened to him?”
“You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an accurate
description of him, and any letters of his which you can spare.”
“I advertised for him in last Saturday’s Chronicle,”31 said she. “Here is the
slip, and here are four letters from him.”
“Thank you. And your address?”
“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 importers32 of
Fenchurch Street.”
“Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will leave the
papers here, and remember the advice which I have given you. Let the whole
incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect your life.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be true to
Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back.”
For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was something noble
in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled our respect. She laid her little
bundle of papers upon the table, and went her way, with a promise to come again
whenever she might be summoned.
Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his finger tips still pressed
together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze directed upwards to
the ceiling. Then he took down from the rack the old and oily clay pipe,33 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.
“She laid a little bundle upon the table.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“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,34 in Andover35 in ’77, and there
was something of the sort at The Hague36 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.37 Now, what did you gather from that woman’s
appearance? Describe it.”
“Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a feather of a
brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn upon it, and a fringe
of little black jet38 ornaments. Her dress was brown, rather darker than coffee
colour, with a little purple plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were
greyish, and were worn through at the right forefinger. Her boots I didn’t
observe. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being
fairly well-to-do in a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way.”
Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.
“Upon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have really
done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed everything of importance,
but you have hit upon the method, and you have a quick eye for colour. Never
trust to general impressions, my boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My
first glance is always at a woman’s sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first to
take the knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush upon her
sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing traces. The double line a
little above the wrist, where the typewritist presses against the table, was
beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of the hand type, leaves a similar
mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side of it farthest from the thumb,
instead of being right across the broadest part, as this was.39 I then glanced at her
face, and, observing the dint of a pince-nez40 at either side of her nose, I
ventured a remark upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to surprise
her.”
“It surprised me.”
“But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and interested on
glancing down to observe that, though the boots which she was wearing were not
unlike each other, they were really odd ones, the one having a slightly decorated
toe-cap, and the other a plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower
buttons out of five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see
that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd
boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a
hurry.”
“And what else?” I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by my friend’s
incisive reasoning.
“I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home, but after
being fully dressed. You observed that her right glove was torn at the forefinger,
but you did not apparently see that both glove and finger were stained with violet
ink. She had written in a hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been
this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger. All this is
amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go back to business, Watson.
Would you mind reading me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?”
I held the little printed slip to the light. “Missing,” it said,
on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer Angel. About
five ft. seven in. in height; strongly built, sallow complexion, black hair, a
little bald in the centre, bushy, black side whiskers and moustache; tinted
glasses, slight infirmity of speech. Was dressed, when last seen, in black
frock coat41 faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and grey
Harris tweed42 trousers, with brown gaiters43 over elastic-sided boots.
Known to have been employed in an office in Leadenhall Street. Anybody
bringing, &c., &c.
“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 Balzac44 once. There is one remarkable point, however,
which will no doubt strike you.”
“They are typewritten,” I remarked.
“Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the neat little ‘Hosmer
Angel’ at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no superscription, except
Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The point about the signature is very
suggestive—in fact, we may call it conclusive.”
“Of what?”
“My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it bears upon the
case?”
“I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished to be able to deny his
signature if an action for breach of promise were instituted.”
“No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters which should
settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City, the other is to the young lady’s
stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking him whether he could meet us here at six
o’clock to-morrow evening. It is just as well that we should do business with the
male relatives. And now, Doctor, we can do nothing until the answers to those
letters come, so we may put our little problem upon the shelf for the interim.”
I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend’s subtle powers of
reasoning, and extraordinary energy in action, that I felt that he must have some
solid grounds for the assured and easy demeanour with which he treated the
singular mystery which he had been called upon to fathom. Once only had I
known him to fail, in the case of the King of Bohemia and of the Irene Adler
photograph, but when I looked back to the weird business of ‘The Sign of Four,’
and the extraordinary circumstances connected with ‘A Study in Scarlet,’ I felt
that it would be a strange tangle indeed which he could not unravel.
I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the conviction that
when I came again on the next evening I would find that he held in his hands all
the clues which would lead up to the identity of the disappearing bridegroom of
Miss Mary Sutherland.
A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own attention at the
time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside of the sufferer. It was
not until close upon six o’clock that I found myself free, and was able to spring
into a hansom and drive to Baker Street, half afraid that I might be too late to
assist at the dénouement of the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone,
however, half asleep, with his long, thin form curled up in the recesses of his
armchair. A formidable array of bottles and test-tubes, with the pungent cleanly
smell of hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent his day in the chemical
work which was so dear to him.45
“Well, have you solved it?” I asked as I entered.
“Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta.”46
“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.”
“I found Sherlock Holmes half asleep.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss Sutherland?”
The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet opened his
lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the passage, and a tap at the
door.
“This is the girl’s stepfather, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “He has
written to me to say that he would be here at six. Come in!”
The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some thirty years of
age, clean shaven, and sallow skinned, with a bland, insinuating manner, and a
pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating grey eyes. He shot a questioning
glance at each of us, placed his shiny top hat upon the sideboard,47 and with a
slight bow sidled down into the nearest chair.
“Good evening, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “I think that this
typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an appointment with me for
six o’clock?”
“Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite my own master,
you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has troubled you about this little
matter, for I think it is far better not to wash linen of the sort in public. It was
quite against my wishes that she came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive girl,
as you may have noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has made up
her mind on a point. Of course, I did not mind you so much, as you are not
connected with the official police, but it is not pleasant to have a family
misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides it is a useless expense, for how could
you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes quietly; “I have every reason to believe that I
will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel.”
Mr. Windibank gave a violent start, and dropped his gloves. “I am delighted to
hear it,” he said.
“It is a curious thing,” remarked Holmes, “that a typewriter has really quite as
much individuality as a man’s handwriting. Unless they are quite new, no two of
them write exactly alike. Some letters get more worn than others, and some wear
only on one side. Now, you remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in
every case there is some little slurring over of the ‘e,’ and a slight defect in the
tail of the ‘r.’ There are fourteen other characteristics, but those are the more
obvious.”
“We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office, and no doubt it
is a little worn,” our visitor answered, glancing keenly at Holmes with his bright
little eyes.
“And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study, Mr.
Windibank,” Holmes continued. “I think of writing another little monograph
some of these days on the typewriter and its relation to crime. It is a subject to
which I have devoted some little attention. I have here four letters which purport
to come from the missing man. They are all typewritten. In each case, not only
are the ‘e’s’ slurred and the ‘r’s’ tailless, but you will observe, if you care to use
my magnifying lens, that the fourteen other characteristics to which I have
alluded are there as well.”
Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat. “I cannot waste
time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “If you can catch the
man, catch him, and let me know when you have done it.”
“Certainly,” said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the door. “I let
you know, then, that I have caught him!”
“What! where?” shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips and
glancing about him like a rat in a trap.
“Oh, it won’t do—really it won’t,” said Holmes, suavely. There is no possible
getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too transparent, and it was a very bad
compliment when you said that it was impossible for me to solve so simple a
question. That’s right! Sit down and let us talk it over.”
“Glancing about him like a rat in a trap.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a glitter of moisture
on his brow. “It—it’s not actionable,” he stammered.
“I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves, Windibank, it
was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a petty way as ever came before
me. Now, let me just run over the course of events, and you will contradict me, if
I go wrong.”
The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his breast, like
one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on the corner of the
mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands in his pockets, began talking,
rather to himself, as it seemed, than to us.
“The man married a woman very much older than himself for her money,”
said he, “and he enjoyed the use of the money of the daughter as long as she
lived with them. It was a considerable sum for people in their position, and the
loss of it would have made a serious difference. It was worth an effort to
preserve it. The daughter was of a good, amiable disposition, but affectionate
and warm-hearted in her ways, so that it was evident that with her fair personal
advantages, and her little income, she would not be allowed to remain single
long. Now her marriage would mean, of course, the loss of a hundred a year, so
what does her stepfather do to prevent it? He takes the obvious course of keeping
her at home, and forbidding her to seek the company of people of her own age.
But soon he found that that would not answer for ever. She became restive,
insisted upon her rights, and finally announced her positive intention of going to
a certain ball. What does her clever stepfather do then? He conceives an idea
more creditable to his head than to his heart. With the connivance and assistance
of his wife he disguised himself, covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses,
masked the face with a moustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear
voice into an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the girl’s
short sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by
making love himself.”
“It was only a joke at first,” groaned our visitor. “We never thought that she
would have been so carried away.”
“Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very decidedly
carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that her stepfather was in
France, the suspicion of treachery never for an instant entered her mind. She was
flattered by the gentleman’s attentions, and the effect was increased by the
loudly expressed admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it
was obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as it would go, if a real
effect were to be produced. There were meetings, and an engagement, which
would finally secure the girl’s affections from turning towards any one else. But
the deception could not be kept up for ever. 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 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.”
A Victorian four-wheeler.
“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.
“He took two swift steps to the whip.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“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.48 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 recognize 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 employé James Windibank. Voilà tout!”49
He reached for the hunting crop.
Sherlock Holmes in America
“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,50 and as much knowledge of the world.”
1 “A Case of Identity” was published in the September 1891 issue of the Strand Magazine. It appeared
simultaneously in the September-October copy of the New York edition of the Strand Magazine and was
widely printed in newspapers in America that month.
2 Holmes here paraphrases Byron’s Don Juan: “ ’Tis strange—but true; for truth is always stranger; /
Stranger than fiction” (Canto XIV, ci.). George Gordon, Lord Byron, had died in 1824, but it is not
surprising to find that Holmes is familiar with the great Romantic individualist. While Holmes would also
have known Carlyle’s warning against Romantic self-preoccupation in Sartor Resartus (1833–1834/1836)
to “Close thy Byron; open thy Goethe” (in A Study in Scarlet, he paraphrases Carlyle’s famous aphorism
about genius being an infinite capacity for taking pains), Holmes was the consummate individualist who
administered his own justice (see “The Boscombe Valley Mystery” for an example).
3 In another literary fillip, Holmes paraphrases Shakespeare: “How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable /
Seem to me all the uses of this world” (Hamlet, Act I, Scene ii). Catherine Bell, in her annotation of
Hamlet, calls this ejaculation “immediately recognizable as a sign of what we’d now call clinical
depression.” Another scholar labelled the statement “dangerously self-dramatising melancholy.” Watson
has already commented (in “The Red-Headed League”) on Holmes’s alternating fits of energy and
melancholy, and Holmes seems here to be preparing himself to be depressed.
William S. Baring-Gould, in Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street: A Life of the World’s First Consulting
Detective, speculates that Holmes spent some of his post-collegiate years acting in a Shakespearean
company touring America.
4 Which continents? In “A Scandal in Bohemia,” we learned of Holmes’s involvements in cases in or
involving Russia, Ceylon, Scandinavia, Holland, and Bohemia. In The Sign of Four, Watson boasts of a
knowledge of women extending over “many nations and three separate continents,” which most
commentators conclude refers to Europe, Asia (India), and Australia. While Holmes plainly had American
contacts (see, for example, “The Dancing Men”) and was often engaged in matters relating to Indian affairs
(for example, The Sign of Four, “The Speckled Band,” “The Crooked Man”), there is no evidence of him
advising or helping anyone outside Europe or Asia.
5 In an age in which married women were considered little more than chattel, the property of their
husbands, domestic abuse of Victorian women was a significant concern. In his feminist tract The
Subjection of Women (1869), economist John Stuart Mill laments that a wife was “the personal bondservant of a despot,” who “vows a lifelong obedience to him at the altar, and is held to it all through her life
by law.” Eighteen Married Women’s Property bills were introduced into Parliament between 1857 and
1882, of which five were passed, granting married women some of the same rights accorded to those who
were unmarried, but the divorce laws continued to shackle women to their husbands. Conan Doyle was
deeply involved in divorce reform, and the restricted divorce laws are central to Holmes’s investigation in
“The Abbey Grange.”
Numerous students of London testify to the plague of wife-beating. For example, Montagu Williams,
Q.C., in Round London: Down East and Up West (1894), writes: “If any one has any doubts as to the
brutalities practised on women by men, let him visit the London Hospital on a Saturday night. Very terrible
sights will meet his eye. Sometimes as many as twelve or fourteen women may be seen seated in the
receiving-room, waiting for their bruised and bleeding faces and bodies to be attended to. In nine cases out
of ten the injuries have been inflicted by brutal and perhaps drunken husbands. The nurses tell me, however,
that any remarks they may make reflecting on the aggressors are received with great indignation by the
wretched sufferers. They positively will not hear a single word against the cowardly ruffians.” The Phil
May sketch reproduced here from Punch (September 1, 1894) bears witness to the common understanding
of domestic relations.
6 “This interesting case . . . involved a bit of leg-pulling, I’m afraid, for . . . even today, with all the skill of
modern dental science, we cannot construct a set of artificial teeth that would withstand such violent and
frequent abuse,” Dr. Charles Goodman writes in “The Dental Holmes.” Michael Ramos, D.D.S., a prominent
collector of dentures, opines, however, that the “vulcanized” rubber dentures of the last century might well
have stood up to such abuse where modern porcelain or even plastic dentures would not. “The rubber
dentures often had a horrible smell, but they were hard as stone,” states Ramos in a letter to this editor.
7 A powdered preparation of tobacco, used by inhalation or by dipping—that is, by rubbing on the teeth
and gums. Holmes’s use of snuff is never mentioned again. Note, however, that Mycroft Holmes took snuff
(“The Greek Interpreter”), as did Jabez Wilson (“The Red-Headed League”).
8 The snuffbox, on display at the 1951 Sherlock Holmes Exhibition for the Festival of Britain, is now in
the collection of the Sherlock Holmes Tavern in the Northumberland Hotel in London. This reference
seems to make evident that “A Scandal in Bohemia” took place before “A Case of Identity.” However, Dr.
Richard Asher, in “Holmes and the Fair Sex,” argues that the snuffbox was sent to Holmes not by the King
of Bohemia but by Violet Hunter (of “The Copper Beeches”) as a part of a campaign to capture his
affections.
9 It is unclear to which “papers” Holmes refers. There were no legal papers or certificates involved in “A
Scandal in Bohemia,” although the king himself refers to “the papers” when Irene Adler has fled. Holmes
makes a similar reference in “The Blue Carbuncle.”
10 A diamond or other gem cut to display its brilliance.
11 William S. Baring-Gould points to this as evidence of the financial situation in which Holmes still finds
himself, needing to handle small cases.
12 France’s main seaport and oldest city, Marseilles prospered greatly in the nineteenth century with the
conquest of Algeria by France and the opening of the Suez Canal. Could this “intricate matter . . . from
Marseilles” have involved the “great claret importers Westhouse & Marbank” and their employee Mr.
James Windibank? See note 32. This might explain Holmes’s harsh judgment of the unscrupulous wine
traveller. See note 48.
13 Georgiana Spencer, fifth Duchess of Devonshire (1757–1806), was a great beauty and leader of
fashion, as well as a novelist and political activist. An intimate of Marie Antoinette, her portrait by Thomas
Gainsborough illustrates her captivating charm. An award-winning 2000 biography of her by Amanda
Foreman was an international best-seller.
14 French: literally, an “affair of the heart,” a love affair.
15 A uniformed pageboy who was employed to clean boots and run errands—a jack of all trades in a
Victorian household. The pageboy appears in ten of the tales of the Canon but is identified by name (as
Billy) only three times. In “The Greek Interpreter,” “A Case of Identity,” “The Naval Treaty,” “The Noble
Bachelor,” “Shoscombe Old Place,” “Wisteria Lodge,” and “The Yellow Face,” anonymous pages appear;
Billy is named in “The Mazarin Stone,” “Thor Bridge,” and The Valley of Fear, although this may be two
different boys.
16 A vessel of the mercantile (or merchant) marine.
17 A hundred pounds was worth about $500 U.S. at the time.
18 Donald Redmond notes that Kelly’s London Directory of 1903 lists a Henry Albert Hardy, plumber, of
109, Southwark Bridge Road, and a William Allan Hardy, gas engineer, of Bale & Hardy, 181, Queen
Victoria Street. “Mary Sutherland’s quondam foreman seems to have prospered, whichever he was.”
19 Both the name of the northern province of New Zealand and the first provincial capital, Auckland was
not founded until 1840, coincident with the Anglo-New Zealand treaty. The history of Auckland is largely
the history of New Zealand.
20 New Zealand was then a British colony, with a population of 815,862, actively engaged in the export of
locally grown agricultural products and the import of manufactured goods. Although it signed a treaty with
England in 1840, New Zealand went through long periods of economic instability in the late 1800s. During
the 1870s, the government spent freely on public policies, but the country suffered a severe depression in
the 1880s. Uncle Ned was clearly a shrewd investor to find profit in such times.
21 “A highly revealing statement on the cost of living in Britain in the 1880’s,” notes William S. BaringGould.
22 In 1873, the first commercial typewriter was produced by Philo Remington from the designs of
Christopher Latham Sholes and Carlos Glidden. When typewriters were first introduced, shorthand was in
common use, but there were few trained operators of the new machines. In 1881, the American YWCA
foresaw the advantages of training women to use the typewriter and began classes. By 1886, it was
estimated that there were some 60,000 young women typing in offices in the United States. Rudyard
Kipling, in letters from America, referred at this time to the “Typewriter Maiden” who earned her living
rather than remain dependent on her parents. It was not uncommon for manufacturers to train women to
type and to “sell” the trained typists to businesses along with their machines. Before he died in 1890, Sholes
himself was quoted as saying, “I do feel I have done something for the women who have always had to
work so hard. This will enable them more easily to earn a living.”
23 One who fits up the pipes for gas appliances.
24 A thick velvety cotton or silk.
25 Named after a fourteenth-century mansion with a great hall roofed entirely with lead. The mansion was
purchased by “Dick” Whittington, legendary mayor of London, for the city and in 1445, the structure was
opened as a market hall.
26 Mary does not seem to have objected to his typewritten letters. Why did Angel insist that Mary
handwrite hers?
27 An acute inflammation of the tissue surrounding the tonsils—that is, acute tonsilitis.
28 A major city and port of southwestern France, located on the Garonne River, the city of Bordeaux has
long been the commercial centre of the eponymous wine region, regarded as the greatest in the world.
Bordeaux had a unique relationship with England. Part of Britain’s Aquitaine properties, in 1224 the town
declared itself ready to defend itself for “our lord the King of England.” In return, the king of England
bought its wine. By the middle of the thirteenth century, it is estimated, three-quarters of England’s royal
supply of wine—including wine for his armies—was coming from Bordeaux. By the first half of the
fourteenth century, the British Isles bought almost half of Bordeaux’s output, enough to provide six bottles
of “claret,” the English generic term for the red wine of Bordeaux, for each man, woman, and child.
The rivalry between England and France made trade between Bordeaux and England turbulent over the
ensuing years. In the seventeenth century, French wine was subjected to severe tariffs, and the English
turned to port, a product of Portugal, to satisfy their cravings for red wine. In 1860, however, the AngloFrench trade treaty ended the discriminatory tariffs, and between 1860 and 1873, the British increased their
importation of French wine eightfold. “Gladstone claret” (named after the British prime minister) was the
affectionate term used for affordable red wines from Bordeaux. Bordeaux’s exports in 1875 exceeded 650
million bottles.
29 William S. Baring-Gould calls St. Saviour’s, or Southwark Cathedral, “a most unlikely place for Miss
Sutherland’s wedding,” because of its distance from King’s Cross. Jack Tracy proposes that the church was
St. Saviour’s, Fitzroy Square, in a parish near King’s Cross, the eastern boundary of which was the
Tottenham Court Road, where Mary Sutherland’s father’s business had been located. The “St. Pancras
Hotel” is properly the Midland Grand Hotel, at St. Pancras Station, a building that now serves as offices for
BritRail.
30 That is, a four-wheeled cab, as contrasted to the two-wheeled hansom cab.
31 Mary Sutherland undoubtedly refers to the Daily Chronicle, which began in 1855, under the name of
the Clerkenwell News. It captured a large and important reading public from the monopoly of The Times
and became the great organ of the middle classes.
32 Earlier, Holmes mentioned an “intricate matter” referred to him from Marseilles. It is intriguing to
speculate that, based on the questionable character of its employee Mr. Windibank, the matter involved this
firm. In the 1880s, the “fraudeurs” flooded England with bogus first-growth wine. Raisins were used
extensively to produce wine that was substituted for the crops of Bordeaux devastated by phylloxera for
over forty years. Marseilles and Sète, another prominent French port, became bywords for fraud and
fabrication, their vintners importing raisins from Greece and mysteriously exporting first-growth claret.
33 Watson complains later that he became an institution in Holmes’s life like the “old black pipe” (“The
Creeping Man”), mentioned also in “The Blue Carbuncle,” “The Copper Beeches,” The Hound of the
Baskervilles, and “The Red-Headed League,” probably also identifiable as his “meditative” pipe (“The
Solitary Cyclist”) and as “the unsavoury pipe which was the companion of his deepest meditations” (The
Valley of Fear).
34 Holmes possessed a number of commonplace books, or scrapbooks, which needed an index. He also
appears to have filed the “agony columns” of the daily newspapers. Holmes appears to use the terms
“index” and “commonplace book” interchangeably.
35 A borough and market town of Hampshire, lying in the Anton Valley.
36 Called “the handsomest, the most fashionable, and the most modern-looking” town in the Netherlands
by a contemporary guidebook, this city in the province of South Holland was the seat of government and
the residence of the court of Holland. Ever since the first “Hague Conference” in 1899, The Hague has been
a centre of international law.
37 Holmes’s scrupulous methods of observation and the results he obtained were adopted by some official
detectives. According to “A Night with the Thames Police,” an article appearing in the Strand Magazine in
1891, “The river police could tell of many a remarkable clue to identification—a piece of lace, or the button
of a man’s trousers.” For budding detectives, Tit-Bits magazine published in 1893 the results of a “Holmes
Examination Paper” providing over a dozen examples of how boot-laces provide “a tolerably reliable index
both to the character of the wearer and the extent of his worldly possessions.”
38 Jet is a velvet-black coal-like mineral, usually highly polished and used for ornaments.
39 The marks could also have been caused by pressure against some hard edge of furniture, such as a
dining table, a dressing table, or the front panel of a piano, argues Lenore Glen Offord.
40 The earliest use of “pince-nez” in print was in the Saturday Review in 1880. Widely popular in
Victorian times and still in use in the 1940s, they have generally been associated in literature and film as
worn by weak or effeminate men (but compare the character of Morpheus, played by Lawrence Fishburne,
in the popular film The Matrix). See also “The Golden Pince-Nez,” in which a woman’s glasses are found
clenched in the hand of a murder victim.
41 A double-breasted men’s coat with long tails that are of the same length in front as behind, reaching to
about the knees.
42 “Harris tweed” is manufactured in Harris, the name of the southern portion of Lewis, the largest and
most northerly island of the Outer Hebrides, off the western coast of Scotland.
43 A cloth or leather leg-protector, covering the top of the shoe—more commonly known, in the twentieth
century, as “spats.”
44 This is, of course, Honoré de Balzac (1799–1850), the great French novelist and author of eighty-five
novels, including Le Père Goriot and the multi-volume La Comédie humaine. Why Holmes found
Windibank’s quotation of Balzac interesting is unknown. Early in the nineteenth century, British critics
attacked Balzac as exemplary of the shockingly immoral fiction imported from France. By the end of the
nineteenth century, however, his reputation was secure, and English translations abounded. Perhaps Holmes
sensed a hidden “French connection” in Angel’s life.
45 In A Study in Scarlet, Holmes cautioned Watson, before agreeing to be his flat-mate, that he generally
had chemicals around and occasionally did experiments. Watson characterised Holmes’s knowledge of
chemistry as “profound.”
46 In chemistry, a “sulfate” or “sulphate” is a salt or ester of sulfuric acid. “Baryta” or barite is barium
sulfate occurring as a mineral. Barium hydrogen sulphate, as the editors of the Catalogue of the 1951
Sherlock Holmes Exhibition in London refer to it, was first prepared by J. J. Berzelius in 1843. These
editors dismiss the compound as a decidedly non-commercial “curiosity,” concluding, “The only source of
such a compound would be from a private collection. It seems probable that a sealed tube of the substance
which had lost its label was found by one of Holmes’s friends in a university laboratory; and the finder,
knowing that Holmes made something of a hobby of routine chemical analysis, asked him to identify it.”
More recently, Donald A. Redmond, in “Some Chemical Problems in the Canon,” notes that a
compound of barium known as hexasulphide of barium may be precipitated by acetone. Holmes had long
been interested in investigating the acetones (see “The Copper Beeches”), and this analysis may be an
offshoot of that work.
47 A piece of dining-room furniture having compartments and shelves for holding articles of table service.
The Baker Street sideboard is also mentioned in “The Beryl Coronet,” “The Blue Carbuncle,” “The Five
Orange Pips,” “The Noble Bachelor,” and “The Veiled Lodger.”
48
D. Martin Dakin comments, “[This] remark [seems] more worthy of a hell-fire preacher than of a
practical detective. If all minor sins led straight to the gallows, the hangman would have been an even
busier man than he was in the last century.” But this judgement may be justified if Holmes had knowledge
of Windibank’s involvement in other crimes. See note 12.
49 French: That’s it—that’s everything.
50 “Hafiz” is also spelled “Hafez.” His more complete name is Mohammed Shams Od-Dīān Haāfez (b.
1325/26, Shīāraāz, Iran–d. 1389/90, Shīāraāz), and he was one of the finest lyric poets of Persia. The Diwan
(Collected Poems) of the poet was not translated in its entirety into English prose until 1891. However,
scholars have been unable to trace the proverb to any published works of Hafiz.
“Horace” is Quintus Horatius Flaccus (65–8 B.C.), the greatest of the Latin lyric poets.
THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY1
Australia, particularly as the movement for
independence grew, fascinated the Victorians
in the late nineteenth century. Because of
Australia’s history as a penal colony for
British convicts and political dissidents, it held
a position not unlike the Wild West in America.
The Victorian public readily believed that
Australians in England were frequently
involved in violent crime, and so they would
have preconceptions about the characters of
the McCarthys and the Turners, the key
players in “The Boscombe Valley Mystery.” It
is the first of the short stories in the Canon to
involve murder and the first short-story
appearance of Inspector Lestrade of Scotland
Yard. In Lestrade’s earlier case with Holmes,
recorded by Watson as A Study in Scarlet,
Holmes called him and his partner Inspector
Gregson “the pick of a bad lot.” Lestrade is
treated little better here: Holmes calls him an
“imbecile.” As in “A Case of Identity,”
Holmes has little use for the “regulars” and
takes it upon himself to be both jury and judge.
WE WERE SEATED at breakfast one morning, my wife2 and I, when the maid
brought in a telegram.3 It was from Sherlock Holmes, and ran in this way:
Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from the west
of England in connection with Boscombe Valley4 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.5
“Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you.6 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’s cases.”
“The Boscombe Valley Mystery.”
Staff artists “Cargs” and E. S. Morris, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, October 29, 1911
“I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained through one of
them,” I answered.7 “But if I am to go I must pack at once, for I have only half
an hour.”
The telegraph instrument galleries, General Post Office.
My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had
the effect of making me a prompt and ready traveller.8 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.9 Sherlock Holmes was pacing up and down the
platform, his tall, gaunt figure made even gaunter and taller by his long grey
traveling cloak and close-fitting cloth cap.10
“It is really very good of you to come, Watson,” said he. “It makes a
considerable difference to me, having some one with me on whom I can
thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or else biased. 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.11 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 Queen’s London (1897)
Paddington Station.
“The London press has not had very full accounts. I have
just been looking through all the recent papers in order to master the particulars.
It seems, from what 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.12 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,13 was let to Mr.
Charles McCarthy, who was also an ex-Australian. The men had known each
other in the Colonies,14 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 meetings15
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.
The Queen’s London (1897)
“We had the carriage to ourselves.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“On June 3, 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 Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a mile, and
two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an old woman,
whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William Crowder, a
gamekeeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both these witnesses depose that Mr.
McCarthy was walking alone. The gamekeeper adds that within a few minutes of
his seeing Mr. McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going
the same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the father was
actually in sight at the time, and the son was following him. He thought no more
of the matter until he heard in the evening of the tragedy that had occurred.
“The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder, the
gamekeeper, 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,16 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.17 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.18 Those are the main facts of the case as they came out
before the coroner and the police-court.”
“They found the body.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“I could hardly imagine a more damning case,” I remarked. “If ever
circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so here.”
“Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing,” 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.19 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 land owner, who believe in his innocence, and who have retained
Lestrade,20 whom you may remember in connection with the ‘Study in Scarlet,’
to work out the case in his interest.21 Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred
the case to me, and hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are flying
westward at fifty miles an hour, instead of quietly digesting their breakfasts at
home.”
“I am afraid,” said I, “that the facts are so obvious that you will find little
credit to be gained out of this case.”
“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,” he answered,
laughing. “Besides, we may chance to hit upon some other obvious facts which
may have been by no means obvious to Mr. Lestrade. You know me too well to
think that I am boasting when I say that I shall either confirm or destroy his
theory by means which he is quite incapable of employing, or even of
understanding. To take the first example to hand, I very clearly perceive that in
your bedroom the window is upon the right-hand side, and yet I question
whether Mr. Lestrade would have noted even so self-evident a thing as that.”
“How on earth—!”
“My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness which
characterises you. You shave every morning, and in this season you shave by the
sunlight, but since your shaving is less and less complete as we get farther back
on the left side, until it becomes positively slovenly as we get round the angle of
the jaw, it is surely very clear that that side is less illuminated than the other.22 I
could not imagine a man of your habits looking at himself in an equal light and
being satisfied with such a result. I only quote this as a trivial example of
observation and inference. Therein lies my métier, and it is just possible that it
may be of some service in the investigation which lies before us. There are one
or two minor points which were brought out in the inquest, and which are worth
considering.”
“What are they?”
“It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after the return to
Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of constabulary informing him that he was a
prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised to hear it, and that it was no
more than his deserts. This observation of his had the natural effect of removing
any traces of doubt which might have remained in the minds of the coroner’s
jury.”
“It was a confession,” I ejaculated.
“No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence.”
“Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at least a most
suspicious remark.”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes, “it is the brightest rift which I can at present
see in the clouds. However innocent he might be, he could not be such an
absolute imbecile as not to see that the circumstances were very black against
him. Had he appeared surprised at his own arrest, or feigned indignation at it, I
should have looked upon it as highly suspicious, because such surprise or anger
would not be natural under the circumstances, and yet might appear to be the
best policy to a scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation marks him
as either an innocent man, or else as a man of considerable self-restraint and
firmness. As to his remark about his deserts, it was also not unnatural if you
consider that he stood beside the dead body of his father, and that there is no
doubt that he had that very day so far forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words
with him, and even, according to the little girl whose evidence is so important, to
raise his hand as if to strike him. The self-reproach and contrition which are
displayed in his remark appear to me to be the signs of a healthy mind, rather
than of a guilty one.”
I shook my head. “Many men have been hanged on far slighter evidence,” I
remarked.
“So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged.”
“What is the young man’s own account of the matter?”
“It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters, though there are one
or two points in it which are suggestive. You will find it here, and may read it
for yourself.”
He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire paper,23 and
having turned down the sheet he pointed out the paragraph in which the
unfortunate young man had given his own statement of what had occurred. I
settled myself down in the corner of the carriage, and read it very carefully. It
ran in this way—
Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the
deceased, was then called and gave evidence as
follows: “I had been away from home for three
days at Bristol, and had only just returned upon
the morning of last Monday, the 3rd. My father
was absent from home at the time of my arrival,
and I was informed by the maid that he had driven
over to Ross with John Cobb, the groom. Shortly
after my return I heard the wheels of his trap in the
yard, and, looking out of my window, I saw him
get out and walk rapidly out of the yard, though I
was not aware in which direction he was going. I
then took my gun and strolled out in the direction
of the Boscombe Pool, with the intention of
visiting the rabbit warren which is upon the other
side. On my way I saw William Crowder, the
gamekeeper, 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 on 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.”
“I held him in my arms.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
The Coroner: “Did your father make any
statement to you before he died?”
Witness: “He mumbled a few words, but I could
only catch some allusion to a rat.”
The Coroner: “What did you understand by
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?”
24
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.
The Severn.
“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,25 and not another word shall I say
of this case until we are on the scene of action. We lunch at Swindon,26 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,27 found ourselves at the
pretty little country-town of Ross. A lean, ferret-like man, furtive and slylooking, was waiting for us upon the platform.28 In spite of the light brown
dustcoat and leather leggings which he wore in deference to his rustic
surroundings, I had no difficulty in recognizing Lestrade, of Scotland Yard. With
him we drove to the Hereford Arms29 where a room had already been engaged
for us.
“I have ordered a carriage,” said Lestrade, as we sat over a cup of tea. “I knew
your energetic nature, and that you would not be happy until you had been on the
scene of the crime.”
“It was very nice and complimentary of you,” Holmes answered. “It is entirely
a question of barometric pressure.”
Lestrade looked startled. “I do not quite follow,” he said.
“How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud in the sky.30
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 had heard of you, and would
have your opinion, though I repeatedly told her that there was nothing which you
could do which I had not already done. Why, bless my soul! here is her carriage
at the door.”
He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the most
lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet eyes shining,
her lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all thought of her natural reserve
lost in her overpowering excitement and concern.
“Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” she cried, glancing from one to the other of us,
and finally, with a woman’s quick intuition, fastening upon my companion, “I
am so glad that you have come, I have driven down to tell you so. I know that
James didn’t do it. I know it, and I want you to start upon your work knowing it,
too. Never let yourself doubt upon that point. We have known each other since
we were little children, and I know his faults as no one else does; but he is too
tender-hearted to hurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to any one who really knows
him.”
“I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner,” said Sherlock Holmes. “You may
rely upon my doing all that I can.”
“But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion? Do you
not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that he is
innocent?”
“I think that it is very probable.”
“There, now!” she cried, throwing back her head and looking defiantly at
Lestrade. “You hear! He gives me hopes.”
Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am afraid that my colleague has been a
little quick in forming his conclusions,” he said.
“But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never did it. And about his
quarrel with his father, I am sure that the reason why he would not speak about it
to the coroner was because I was concerned in it.”
“Lestrade shrugged his shoulders.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“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 tomorrow?”
“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.”31
“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.”32
“Yes, certainly.”
“Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to me.”
“You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow. No doubt you will go to
the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell him that I know him
to be innocent.”
“I will, Miss Turner.”
“I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so if I leave him.
Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking.” She hurried from the room as
impulsively as she had entered, and we heard the wheels of her carriage rattle off
down the street.
“I am ashamed of you, Holmes,” said Lestrade with dignity after a few
minutes’ silence. “Why should you raise up hopes which you are bound to
disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I call it cruel.”
“I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy,” said Holmes. “Have
you an order to see him in prison?”
“Yes, but only for you and me.”
“Then I shall re-consider my resolution about going out. We have still time to
take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?”
“Ample.”
“Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very slow, but I shall
only be away a couple of hours.”
“I tried to interest myself in a yellow-backed novel.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
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.33 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 fiction 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’s attention to it. Then there was the peculiar dying reference to a rat.
What could that mean? It could not be delirium. A man dying from a sudden
blow does not commonly become delirious. No, it was more likely to be an
attempt to explain how he met his fate. But what could it indicate? I cudgelled
my brains to find some possible explanation. And then the incident of the grey
cloth, seen by young McCarthy. If that were true, the murderer must have
dropped some part of his dress, presumably his overcoat, in his flight, and 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’s insight that
I could not lose hope as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his
conviction of young McCarthy’s innocence.
It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, for
Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.
“The glass still keeps very high,” he remarked as he sat down. “It is of
importance that it should not rain before we are able to go over the ground. On
the other hand, a man should be at his very best and keenest for such nice work
as that, and I did not wish to do it when fagged by a long journey. I have seen
young McCarthy.”
“And what did you learn from him?”
“Nothing.”
“Could he throw no light?”
“None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who had done it
and was screening him or her, but I am convinced now that he is as puzzled as
every one 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?34 No one knows a word of the matter, but you can imagine
how maddening it must be to him to be upbraided for not doing what he would
give his very eyes to do, but what he knows to be absolutely impossible. It was
sheer frenzy of this sort which made him throw his hands up into the air when
his father, at their last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss Turner.
On the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself, and his father, who
was by all accounts a very hard man, would have thrown him over utterly had he
known the truth. It was with his barmaid wife that he had spent the last three
days in Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. Mark that point. It is
of importance. Good has come out of evil, however, for the barmaid, finding
from the papers that he is in serious trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown
him over utterly and has written to him to say that she has a husband already in
the Bermuda Dockyard, so that there is really no tie between them. I think that
that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all that he has suffered.”
“But if he is innocent, who has done it?”
“Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two points. One is
that the murdered man had an appointment with some one at the Pool, and that
the some one 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,35 if you please, and we shall leave all minor matters until to-morrow.”
There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke bright and
cloudless. At nine o’clock Lestrade called for us with the carriage, and we set off
for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe Pool.
“There is serious news this morning,” Lestrade observed. “It is said that Mr.
Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is despaired of.”
“An elderly man, I presume?” said Holmes.
“About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life abroad, and he
has been in failing health for some time. This business has had a very bad effect
upon him. He was an old friend of McCarthy’s, and, I may add, a great
benefactor to him, for I have learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm rent free.”
“Indeed! That is interesting,” said Holmes.
“Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody about here
speaks of his kindness to him.”
“Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this McCarthy, who
appears to have had little of his own, and to have been under such obligations to
Turner, should still talk of marrying his son to Turner’s daughter, who is,
presumably, heiress to the estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner, as if
it were merely a case of a proposal and all else would follow? It is the more
strange, since we know that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The daughter
told us as much. Do you not deduce something from that?”
“We have got to the deductions and the inferences,” said Lestrade, winking at
me. “I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without flying away after
theories and fancies.”
“You are right,” said Holmes demurely; “you do find it very hard to tackle the
facts.”
“Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult to get
hold of,” replied Lestrade with some warmth.
“And that is—”
“That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that all
theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine.”
“Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog,” said Holmes, laughing. “But I
am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm upon the left.”
“Yes, that is it.” It was a widespread, comfortable-looking building, twostoried, slate roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon the grey walls.
The drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys, however, gave it a stricken look,
as though the weight of this horror still lay heavy upon it. We called at the door,
when the maid, at Holmes’s 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 courtyard, from which we all
followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.
“The maid showed us the boots.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
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 recognize 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 détour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked behind
him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while I watched my friend with
the interest which sprang from the conviction that every one of his actions was
directed towards a definite end.
The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some fifty yards
across, is situated at the boundary between the Hatherley Farm and the private
park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods which lined it upon the farther
side we could see the red, jutting pinnacles which marked the site of the rich
landowner’s dwelling. On the Hatherley side of the Pool the woods grew very
thick, and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between
the edge of the trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us the
exact spot at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was the
ground, that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by the fall of the
stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager face and peering eyes, very
many other things were to be read upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a
dog who is picking up a scent, and then turned upon my companion.
“What did you go into the Pool for?” he asked.
“I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or other
trace. But how on earth—?”
“Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its inward twist is all
over the place. A mole could trace it, and there it vanishes among the reeds. Oh,
how simple it would all have been had I been here before they came like a herd
of buffalo, and wallowed all over it. Here is where the party with the lodgekeeper 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? Tip-toes! tip-toes! Square, too, quite unusual boots!
They come, they go, they come again—of course that was for the cloak. Now
where did they come from?” He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes
finding the track until we were well within the edge of the wood and under the
shadow of a great beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced
his way to the further 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.”
“For a long time he remained there.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
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 penknife 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 skeptic,” he said. “Theories are
all very well, but we have to deal with a hard-headed British jury.”
“Nous verrons,”36 answered Holmes calmly. “You work your own method,
and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall probably return to
London by the evening train.”
“And leave your case unfinished?”
“No, finished.”
“But the mystery?”
“It is solved.”
“Who was the criminal, then?”
“The gentleman I describe.”
“But who is he?”
“Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a populous
neighbourhood.”
Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “I am a practical man,” he said, “and I really
cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a left-handed gentleman
with a game leg. I should become the laughing-stock of Scotland Yard.”
“All right,” said Holmes quietly. “I have given you the chance. Here are your
lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before I leave.”
Having left Lestrade at his rooms we drove to our hotel, where we found
lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in thought with a pained
expression upon his face, as one who finds himself in a perplexing position.
“Look here, Watson,” he said when the cloth was cleared; “just sit down in
this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don’t know quite what to do, and
I should value your advice. Light a cigar, and let me expound.”
“Pray do so.”
“Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about young
McCarthy’s narrative which struck us both instantly, although they impressed
me in his favour and you against him. One was the fact that his father should,
according to his account, cry ‘Cooee!’ before seeing him. The other was his
singular dying reference to a rat. He mumbled several words, you understand,
but that was all that caught the son’s ear. Now from this double point our
research must commence, and we will begin it by presuming that what the lad
says is absolutely true.”
“What of this ‘Cooee!’ then?”
“Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The son, as far as
he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that he was within earshot. The
‘Cooee!’ was meant to attract the attention of whoever it was that he had the
appointment with. But ‘Cooee’ is a distinctly Australian cry, and one which is
used between Australians.37 There is a strong presumption that the person whom
McCarthy expected to meet him at Boscombe Pool was some one who had been
in Australia.”
“What of the rat, then?”
Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it out on
the table. “This is a map of the Colony of Victoria,” he said. “I wired to Bristol
for it last night.” He put his hand over part of the map. “What do you read?”
“ARAT,” I read.
“And now?” He raised his hand.
“BALLARAT.”38
“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.39
“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 observance 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 enabled 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.40
Having found the ash, I then looked round and discovered the stump among the
moss where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar, of the variety which are
rolled in Rotterdam.”
“He had stood behind that tree.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“And the cigar-holder?”
“I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore he used a
holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the cut was not a clean one,
so I deduced a blunt penknife.”
“Holmes,” I said, “you have drawn a net round this man from which he cannot
escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as truly as if you had cut the
cord which was hanging him. I see the direction in which all this points. The
culprit is—”
“Mr. John Turner,” cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our sittingroom, and ushering in a visitor.
“ ‘Mr. John Turner,’ said the waiter.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow, limping
step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude, and yet his hard,
deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous limbs showed that he was
possessed of unusual strength of body and of character. His tangled beard,
grizzled hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows combined to give an air of
dignity and power to his appearance, but his face was of an ashen white, while
his lips and the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was
clear to me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic
disease.
“Pray sit down on the sofa,” said Holmes gently. “You had my note?”
“Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to see me here
to avoid scandal.”
“I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall.”
“And why did you wish to see me?” He looked across at my companion with
despair in his weary eyes, as though his question was already answered.
“Yes,” said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. “It is so. I
know all about McCarthy.”
The old man sank his face in his hands. “God help me!” he cried. “But I
would not have let the young man come to harm. I give you my word that I
would have spoken out if it went against him at the Assizes.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” said Holmes gravely.
“I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It would break her
heart—it will break her heart when she hears that I am arrested.”
“It may not come to that,” said Holmes.
“What?”
“I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter who required
my presence here, and I am acting in her interests. Young McCarthy must be got
off, however.”
“I am a dying man,” said old Turner. “I have had diabetes41 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 gaol.”42
Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a bundle of
paper before him. “Just tell us the truth,” he said. “I shall jot down the facts. You
will sign it, and Watson here can witness it. Then I could produce your
confession at the last extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I
shall not use it unless it is absolutely needed.”
“It’s as well,” said the old man; “it’s a question whether I shall live to the
Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I should wish to spare Alice the shock.
And now I will make the thing clear to you; it has been a long time in the acting,
but will not take me long to tell.
“You didn’t know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil incarnate. I tell
you that. God keep you out of the clutches of such a man as he. His grip has
been upon me these twenty years, and he has blasted my life. I’d tell you first
how I came to be in his power.
“It was in the early ’60’s at the diggings. I was a young chap then, hotblooded 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 station43 from time to time,
or stopping the wagons on the road to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was
the name I went under, and our party is still remembered in the colony as the
Ballarat Gang.
“One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne,44 and we lay
in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers45 and six of us, so it was a
close thing, but we emptied four of their saddles at the first volley. Three of our
boys were killed, however, before we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of
the wagon-driver, who was this very man McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I
had shot him then, but I spared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on
my face, as though to remember every feature. We got away with the gold,
became wealthy men, and made our way over to England46 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, down47 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.48 You are yourself aware that you will soon
have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the Assizes.49 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 death-beds, 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.50
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.51
“ ‘Farewell, then,’ said the old man.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
1 “The Boscombe Valley Mystery” was published in the Strand Magazine in October 1891.
2 While almost all chronologists agree that this wife was Mary Morstan, the proposed dates of the wedding
range from the spring of 1887 to 1902. See Chronological Table for further issues of dating “The
Boscombe Valley Mystery.”
3 Watson said of Holmes: “[H]e was never known to write where a telegram would serve” (“The Devil’s
Foot”). By the end of the nineteenth century—despite the invention of the telephone in 1876—sending
telegrams was still an immensely popular way to communicate personal messages quickly. England’s first
electromagnetic telegraph, which used a battery, copper wires, and a magnetic needle to tap out messages,
had been patented in 1837 by physicists Sir William Cooke and Charles Wheatstone. That year, the first
practical telegraph was constructed in London with the purpose of enabling railway stations to relay simple
emergency signals to each other. Meanwhile, in America, Samuel Morse had invented his own telegraph
and alphabetic code (his first message, sent in 1844 on a wire between Washington and Baltimore, was
“What hath God wrought!”). The Morse telegraph would eventually become the most commonly used
telegraph in the world.
An important factor in the public’s acceptance of the telegram as a powerful means of communication
was the sensational 1845 Tawell murder case. Tawell was hunted for the murder of a woman near Windsor.
When he was spotted at the Slough railway station boarding a train to London’s Paddington Station, a
telegram was dispatched to London officials with his description, and he was apprehended on his arrival.
After his conviction and execution, the telegraph was dubbed “the wires that hanged Tawell” (described in
Robert N. Brodie’s “ ‘Take a Wire, Like a Good Fellow’: The Telegraph in the Canon”). By 1869, 80,000
miles of telegraph wire had been erected throughout the United Kingdom. Designed along the low-cost
lines of the postal system, an ordinary telegram from 1885 to 1915 cost 6d. for twelve words or less, plus
½d. for every excess word. As late as 1903, Holmes was sending his customary terse telegraphic messages
to Watson: “Come at once if convenient—if inconvenient come all the same.” (“The Creeping Man”)
4 “Boscombe Valley” is a disguised name. See note 12 for a discussion of possible identification of
locations.
5 Contrast this with Watson’s description of his medical practice in “The Red-Headed League,” as “never
very absorbing.” Most chronologists place this tale in 1889, a year before “The Red-Headed League” (see
Chronological Table). 1889 was so filled with cases for Holmes and Watson that evidently Watson grew
bored with his medical practice.
6 In “The Stock-Broker’s Clerk,” Watson says to Holmes: “I do my neighbour’s [practice] when he goes.
He is always ready to work off the debt.” In “The Final Problem,” Watson refers to his “accommodating
neighbour,” and in “The Crooked Man,” the neighbour is named “Jackson.” Presumably Anstruther moved
or sold his practice and was replaced by Jackson. Both “The Boscombe Valley Mystery” and “The Crooked
Man” likely took place in 1889, with the former occurring in June and the latter in August. See
Chronological Table.
7 Watson is referring to his introduction to and courtship of Mary Morstan, which occurred in The Sign of
Four.
8 D. Martin Dakin accuses Watson of slight exaggeration here, for his military service could not have been
more than a year and ended in July 1880. In 1878 Watson received his medical degree and took the course
prescribed for surgeons in the army. He was attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, a regiment that
was stationed in India at the time, as assistant surgeon. However, before he could join his company, the
Second Afghan War had broken out, and his corps was posted to Candahar. Travelling there, he was
removed from his brigade and attached to the Berkshires, with whom he served at the “fatal” battle of
Maiwand. Wounded by a Jezail bullet but saved by his orderly, Murray, Watson was sent to the base
hospital at Peshawar. Enteric fever compounded Watson’s ailments, and only after months of convalescence
was he sent back to England, returning in late 1880.
9 Rail travel was invented in England in the early nineteenth century. The first passenger train, the Rocket,
was inaugurated in 1830, marred by the world’s first railway fatality, when William Huskisson, a member
of Parliament, was struck and killed. By 1848, about 5,000 miles of rail track spanned England; by 1900,
the tracks had expanded to more than 15,000 miles.
The social and economic impact of the railways was immense. As travel times shrunk, railroads helped
to increase the pace and possibilities of Victorian life, as workers and holiday-goers found it easy to travel
long distances. The railroads consumed large amounts of natural resources and employed vast numbers of
people.
London’s growth was affected by the railroads as well, with the marked expansion of its suburbs. The
“Commissioners on Railway Termini within or in the immediate vicinity of the Metropolis” (1846),
however, saw no need for a single central terminus, and under their guidance, termini sprung up around the
city, financed by seemingly limitless private capital.
The first Paddington Station was built in 1838, by engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel, as the London
terminus of the Great Western Railway, serving the rural heartlands, the West Country, industrial Bristol,
and the South Wales coalfields. It was at this station that Queen Victoria arrived on completing her first
railway journey in 1842, on the Phlegethon, which travelled at 44 mph. Reportedly, the Prince Consort
asked afterward that future trains carrying the queen travel more slowly. In 1853, Brunel began construction
on the permanent terminus, working with eminent architect Matthew Digby Wyatt. Completed in 1855, its
ironwork and Art Nouveau-like cement work created a light, elegant, and graceful structure. In 1854, the
Great Western Hotel was opened adjacent to the station. Since its original construction, the station has been
expanded and rebuilt numerous times.
10 This, and a reference in “Silver Blaze” to an “ear-flapped travelling-cap,” are the only references to the
“deerstalker” hat in which Sidney Paget depicted Holmes and which became his trademark.
11 A municipal and parliamentary borough and market and post town, in Berkshire, situated on the river
Kennet, thirty-eight miles west from London. Reading houses the ruins of the Benedictine Abbey, founded
by Henry I in 1121 and containing his grave.
12 Despite the fictional name “Boscombe Valley,” Ross is a real town in Herefordshire, on the Wye (which
also flows past Tintern Abbey, memorialised by Wordsworth), about eleven miles southeast from Hereford.
13 In the quest to identify the locations of Hatherley Farm and the other “Boscombe Valley” sites, both
Philip Weller (in “Boscombe Byways”) and David L. Hammer (in For the Sake of the Game) have
identified Goodrich Court as the Turner house. Hammer suggests Homme Farm as the story’s “Hatherley
Farm,” while Weller favours the Flannesford Priory as the real site.
14 At that time, Australia was still a British territory; the Australian Colonies Government Act (known
formally as the Act for the Better Government of Her Majesty’s Australian Colonies), adopted in August
1850, had designated New South Wales, Victoria, South Australia, West Australia, Queensland, and
Tasmania as self-governing colonies.
Ever since the establishment of the first British settlement—a penal colony at Port Jackson, founded in
1788—the transportation of criminals to Australia had been a common practice. But the occasional
depiction of Australia as a land of lawless ruffians was markedly exaggerated. According to popular
historian Robert Hughes’s monumental book The Fatal Shore, most of the men and women sent to
Australia spent only a few years doing government labour or working for settlers and upon liberation chose
to stay and integrate themselves into colonial society. After extended efforts by various anti-transportation
efforts to persuade the British government, early in 1865, Lord Palmerston’s cabinet announced that
transportation would cease within three years. The last convict ship to Australia unloaded its human cargo
on January 10, 1868.
By the late nineteenth century, fear of foreign influences and a desire to restrict Asian immigration
helped unify Australia, and in 1901, the disparate colonies became the Commonwealth of Australia.
Nonetheless, Australia retained the popular image of the wild “frontier.”
15 That is, horse racing.
16 She does not appear again in “The Boscombe Valley Mystery.” But S. Tupper Bigelow, in “Two
Canonical Problems Solved,” fancifully suggests that when she had gained a few years, she went into
“service,” working first for her mother’s brother, Jabez Wilson, and doing “a bit of simple cooking and
keep[ing] the place clean” (“The Red-Headed League”). Bigelow also suggests that her father’s brother was
none other than Colonel Sebastian Moran, the lieutenant of the Moriarty gang (“The Empty House”).
17 Robert C. Burr points out that no one seems to have examined the gun for blood, which would certainly
be present if it had been used for “repeated” blows. Furthermore, there is no sign of blood on the stone
identified by Holmes as the murder weapon. Burr hypothesises that the murder weapon was instead the cane
shown as carried by John Turner in Sidney Paget’s illustrations for the Strand Magazine, which were “no
doubt drawn based on information provided by Watson.”
18 The assize courts were the superior courts in each county, which held sessions to determine civil and
criminal cases twice a year. Established by Herny II in the 1100s to restore order to a country long
embroiled in civil war, the first assize courts were meant to reinstate property that had been wrongfully
seized. In the thirteenth century, the Statute of Westminster dictated that justices travel on a circuit to rule
on these and other matters of law. The assize courts were abolished in 1972, and their jurisdiction was
transferred to the Royal Court.
19 By contrast, in “The Noble Bachelor,” Holmes calls circumstantial evidence “occasionally very
convincing, as when you find a trout in the milk, to quote Thoreau’s example.” More in line with his
general wariness of circumstantial evidence is his comment in “Thor Bridge”: “When once your point of
view is changed, the very thing which was so damning becomes a clue to the truth.” In fact, Holmes’s
general method seems to be to form a provisional theory based on the preliminary evidence and then to wait
for time or further evidence to support or discredit his theory.
Seeking to use these teachings of the Master Detective in support of his client, Michael Tigar, defense
attorney for Oklahoma City bomber Terry L. Nichols, attempted to reference Holmes on the subject of
evidence. Tigar is quoted in the New York Times of May 19, 1995, as saying: “I kind of believe what
Sherlock Holmes said to Watson. It’s like a stick on the ground. It does point in one direction till you turn it
around and look at it from the other side and it points just as equally in the other direction.” Tigar wrongly
attributes to Holmes a statement actually made by Father Brown in G. K. Chesterton’s “The Mistake of the
Machine” (Wisdom of Father Brown, 1914).
20 It was not uncommon for Scotland Yarders to aid the provincial police, and Holmes’s use of the word
“retained” was probably purely conversational. Although the Police Act of 1840 allowed for applications to
be made to the chief constable of a county for extra constables to be appointed at an individual’s expense, it
is more probable that, as Herefordshire at that time had no Criminal Investigation Department, the
neighbours approached the chief constable to ask for the assistance of the Metropolitan Police.
21 David H. Galerstein argues that Miss Turner must have known that her father was a likely suspect and
insisted that Holmes be brought into the case, “in the hope that an outsider would be able to clear McCarthy
Junior without implicating her father.”
22 J. B. Mackenzie, in “Sherlock Holmes’ Plots and Strategy” (1904), points out that the validity of
Holmes’s conclusion depends on Watson’s facing north, with the light striking on his right cheek, a fact
“not in evidence,” as attorneys say.
23 There was one local daily paper, the Hereford Mercury and Independent (established 1832). The
“weekly county paper” referred to later could have been the Hereford Journal (1713), the Hereford Times
(1832), or the Hereford Weekly Marvel (1869).
24 Under English law, the coroner held inquests, that is, enquired into violent or unexplained deaths. The
coroner supervised a jury of twelve persons, took evidence on oath, and hence directly questioned
witnesses. Upon conclusion of the inquest, if a person were found guilty of murder or manslaughter, the
person was jailed and held for trial.
25 Holmes here announces to Watson that he is “taking a break,” intending to read a book carried in his
pocket. Petrarch, or Francesco Petrarca (1304–1374), was an Italian poet. Howard B. Williams notes that in
the sonnets of Petrarch is to be found the portrayal of perfect love, which can never be consummated, and
suggests that Holmes made Petrarch his pocket companion because the sonnets “mirrored that torture for
ever burning within the core of his [own] being”—his love “for a woman who never could be possessed,”
Irene Adler. Jane Sayle takes a contrary view, arguing that Holmes would have been more interested in the
humanist writings of Petrarch, pondering the potential of mankind for good and evil, than in the lyricism of
his poems. Debra McWilliams suggests that Holmes would have rather “noted with approval Petrarch’s
admonition that there ‘are three poisons to sound judgment: love, hate, and envy.’ ”
26 By contractual restriction, withdrawn in 1895, trains on the Great Western were obligated to pause ten
minutes at Swindon.
27 The Severn is Britain’s longest river, about 180 miles, rising near the Wye on the north-eastern slopes of
the upland mass of Plynlimon, Wales, and following a semicircular course to the Bristol Channel and the
Atlantic Ocean. William Wordsworth, in his 1842 poem “When Severn’s Sweeping Flood Had
Overthrown,” wrote about one occasion of the phenomenon known as the “Severn Bore,” a wave rushing
upstream from the estuary of the Severn on a spring tide which can be more than 8 feet high and attain
speeds over 25 m.p.h.
28 This is the Strand Magazine reader’s first glimpse of Inspector G. Lestrade of Scotland Yard, introduced
earlier in A Study in Scarlet, who appears in fourteen of Watson’s published accounts. While Holmes
upheld a friendly attitude toward Lestrade and his brethren, he disdained their methods. Holmes called
Lestrade the best of the professionals (The Hound of the Baskervilles), the “pick of a bad lot” (A Study in
Scarlet), lacking in imagination (“The Norwood Builder”), and normally out of his depth (The Sign of
Four).
Lestrade frequently patronised Holmes’s methods yet evidently bore a secret respect for Holmes. At the
conclusion of “The Six Napoleons,” Lestrade, congratulating Holmes on his successful investigation,
remarks, “We’re not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are very proud of you, and if you come
down to-morrow there’s not a man, from the oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn’t be
glad to shake you by the hand.”
29 After considering the three contemporary hotels in Ross, Philip Weller identifies the hotel as the
Rosswyn, based on its proximity to the station and the presence of a communal sitting-room.
30 William P. Schweickert, in “A Question of Barometric Pressure,” points out that a barometer reading of
29 is extremely low and indicates storm. “A person of Holmes’s scientific knowledge normally would never
interpret a reading of 29 as indicative of fair weather. . . . Actually, at that reading, if it were not already
raining it was extremely probable that precipitation would soon start.”
31 Although “Victoria” was omnipresent as the name of various capitals, provinces, peaks, and bodies of
water throughout the British Empire, the earlier mention of Australia must have instantly called to mind the
British colony in the south-eastern part of Australia.
32 The discovery of gold in Victoria in 1851 created a huge rush of prospectors hoping to make their
fortune. By 1854, the population of Victoria had quadrupled; the lucky claimed some portion of the £80
million worth of gold taken in that decade. See note 38.
33 A novel usually bound in vividly illustrated yellow boards, intended for railway travellers. Also known
as “sensation novels,” books of this genre revelled in stories of adultery, bigamy, murder, and illegitimacy.
For example, in Mary Elizabeth (M. E.) Braddon’s Lady Audley’s Secret (1862), the heroine abandons her
child, murders her husband, and considers poisoning her second husband. Other very popular works were
Wilkie Collins’s The Woman in White (1860) and Ellen (Mrs. Henry) Wood’s East Lynne (1861). Sensation
novels were in many ways precursors to thriller and even detective fiction.
34 Victorian law authorised marriage under four circumstances: (1) Publication of “banns” from the pulpit
of a Church of England for three consecutive weeks (the least expensive but most public method); (2) an
“ordinary” licence, obtainable for a few pounds from Doctors’ Commons in London or the local clergyman;
(3) a “special” licence, obtained from the Archbishop of Canterbury at great expense, permitting marriage
anyplace at any time; and (4) an inexpensive “civil” licence, issued by the superintendent registrar of a
district. The last permitted marriage in a church or in the registrar’s office with no religious service. Young
McCarthy undoubtedly chose this alternative for its low cost and the lack of publicity.
35 Intellectual English novelist and poet, 1828–1909, whose writings focus on psychological effects, the
relationship between the individual and social events, and the idea of life as an evolutionary process. His
works of poetry include Modern Love (1862) and Poems and Lyrics of the Joy of Earth (1883); among his
many novels are The Ordeal of Richard Feverel (1859), banned by libraries as prurient, and The Egoist
(1879) and Diana of the Crossways (1885). It should be noted that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had a longlasting friendship with Meredith and often went to see him.
36 French: “We shall see.”
37 According to The Oxford Dictionary of English Etymology, the word was a call originally used as a
long-distance signal by Australian aborigines. Partridge’s Dictionary of Slang and Unconventional English
states that this was the Australian native’s signal cry, which was eventually adopted by the colonists and has
(since 1840) been the general hailing or signalling cry. That Watson did not know this suggests that in fact,
he did not visit Australia, as he states in The Sign of Four. See note 38.
38 In September 1851, a rich gold field was discovered by John Dunlop at Ballarat, seventy-five miles west
of Melbourne. Robert Hughes writes in The Fatal Shore: “The word ran back to Melbourne that gold was
everywhere. It lay scattered on the rocks and between the wiry tussocks, glistening as it had done for
unregarded thousands of years; now the deepest obsessions of a frontier society would clamp themselves to
it, and it would transform that society beyond recognition.” Hughes records that as early as November 1851
“a cataract of gold was pouring from Ballarat” and by mid-1852, near 50,000 people were on the site.
In conversation with Mary Morstan (The Sign of Four) Watson stated he had seen excavations at
Ballarat similar to those in the earth at Pondicherry Lodge. Did Watson actually visit Australia? His
behaviour in this case leaves some room for doubt. John Hall suggests, in “And Now?—Ballarat,” that
Watson added the reference to Ballarat in The Sign of Four after Holmes’s exposition here (which may
have taken place while Watson was writing up his notes of The Sign of Four), and that Watson may have
seen not the mines themselves but a sketch or photograph in a book. Christopher Redmond, in “Art in the
Blood: Two Canonical Relatives. II. ‘The History of My Unhappy Brother,’ ” speculates that Watson did in
fact go to Australia between the events of A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of Four, to look after his older
brother, whose history is obscure and whose death of alcohol abuse is reported in the latter work. Both of
these views are thoughtfully rejected by William Hyder, in “Watson’s Education and Medical Career,” who
adopts the orthodox view that Watson spent at least part of his boyhood in Australia.
39 William S. Baring-Gould points out that there are many other towns in Australia—Ararat, for example
—to which “ARAT” would equally apply.
40 Holmes first mentioned his monograph, without disclosing the actual title, in A Study in Scarlet. He
refers to it again in The Sign of Four, giving the full title of his monograph as “Upon the Distinction
between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos: An Enumeration of 140 Forms of Cigar, Cigarette, and Pipe
Tobacco, with Coloured Plates Illustrating the Difference in the Ash,” and remarks that François le Villard
of the French detective service was translating the work into his native language.
41 Diabetes mellitus was, before the discovery of insulin in 1921, an extremely malignant disease. Foot
ulcerations, which may become infected, are still frequent among diabetics (compare John Turner’s limp),
as is coronary artery disease and gangrene of the lower extremities. Turner’s symptoms could well have fit
other diseases, such as emphysema, with the limp disassociated from the principal illness, but his symptoms
certainly do not rule out a correct diagnosis of diabetes mellitus.
42 British spelling of “jail,” pronounced in the same manner as the American word.
43 A stock farm or ranch, especially of Australia or New Zealand. Australia’s stations were often hundreds
of miles apart and had to be self-sustaining sheep or cattle-producing industries.
44 Robert Hughes writes, “By the middle of 1852 . . . the average weekly shipment on the gold-escorts
from Ballarat and Bendigo was more than 20,000 ounces—half a ton a week.”
45 Richard Lancelyn Green identifies these as the mounted infantry, established in 1824, who originally
dealt with escaped convicts. They were typically armed with sabres, carbines, and horse-pistols. The
government frequently used the troopers to maintain order in Ballarat and other populous areas and
included aboriginal troopers to supplement its regular forces.
46 In “Some Diggings Down Under,” Jennifer Chorley notes that Turner’s account bears marked
similarities to “two famous bushranging exploits,” the McIvor Gold Robbery of 1853 and the Eugowra
Escort Robbery of 1862, both involving battles between six troopers and six bushrangers. In one incident,
the driver sustained wounds; in the other, the driver was killed. In both exploits, the criminals escaped, and
though some were later caught and executed, others were never captured. In neither case was any gold
recovered. Chorley observes, “The raids . . . seem to bear the mark of the same gang and a few weeks after
Eugowra ‘a man named Turner was arrested at Yass.’ No doubt he later escaped as his name is not among
those executed later. All the bushrangers used a multitude of aliases.”
47 Philip Weller suggests, in “Ramble Round Ross: Some Geographical Considerations,” that although
Ross is actually well to the north of London, this reference is likely “a reflection of the popular usage of
railway terminology, whereby all lines leading away from London are ‘down’ lines and all those leading
towards London are ‘up’ lines.”
48 John Ball, Jr., author of the popular In the Heat of the Night and other mysteries, in his essay “Early
Days in Baker Street,” marks this case as another confirmation of Holmes’s “high official position” in the
British government. Even though Holmes gave Lestrade a unique description of the murderer, Lestrade
made no arrest. “It is inconceivable that a Scotland Yard inspector would let a known murderer off scot free
unless he was under direct orders to do so.”
49 Indeed, it would seem that Turner would be called upon to stand trial for numerous crimes. By his own
admission, Turner was a multiple murderer and thief, and Holmes’s sympathy seems sadly misplaced.
50 William S. Baring-Gould calls this “[a] paraphrase of the words uttered by John Bradford, 1510–1555,
whenever he saw a criminal go by; wrongly credited by Holmes to the great English divine Richard Baxter,
1615–1691.”
51 After publication of Turner’s confession in Watson’s 1891 account of “The Boscombe Valley Mystery,”
it is inconceivable how James and Alice could “live happily together in ignorance of the black cloud which
rests upon their past.”
THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS1
In “The Five Orange Pips,” which takes place
in 1887, Sherlock Holmes tells his client that
he has been beaten only four times in his
career. When Holmes fails to take immediate
steps to protect his client, however, we must
conclude that Holmes has been beaten again.
Yet the case is a favourite among readers, not
least for its tantalising mention of cases that
Watson never records, including those of the
Paradol Chamber, the Grice Patersons “in the
island of Uffa,” the Camberwell poisoning, the
loss of the barque “Sophy Anderson,” and the
Amateur Mendicant Society. Repeating his
formula from A Study in Scarlet, Watson
shrewdly selects an adventure with an
American setting featuring vengeance by a
secret society. In the former case, Holmes
tracks down a killer who took revenge on the
avengers. Here, Holmes himself seeks revenge
on the wrongdoers. We are left to wonder
whether Holmes truly seeks justice or is merely
trying to soothe his bruised ego.
WHEN I GLANCE over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes cases
between the years ’82 and ’90,2 I am faced by so many which present strange
and interesting features, that it is no easy matter to know which to choose and
which to leave. Some, however, have already gained publicity through the
papers, and others have not offered a field for those peculiar qualities which my
friend possessed in so high a degree, and which it is the object of these papers to
illustrate. Some, too, have baffled his analytical skill, and would be, as
narratives, beginnings without an ending, while others have been but partially
cleared up, and have their explanations founded rather upon conjecture and
surmise than on that absolute logical proof which was so dear to him. There is,
however, one of these last which was so remarkable in its details and so startling
in its results that I am tempted to give some account of it in spite of the fact that
there are points in connection with it which never have been, and probably never
will be, entirely cleared up.
“The Five Orange Pips.”
Staff artists “Cargs” and E. S. Morris,
Seattle Post-Intelligencer, November 5, 1911
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,3 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.4 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 ago,5 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 gales6 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 recognize the presence of those great elemental forces which shriek at
mankind through the bars of his civilization, like untamed beasts in a cage. As
evening drew in the storm grew higher and louder, and the wind cried and
sobbed like a child in the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of
the fireplace cross-indexing his records of crime, whilst I at the other was deep
in one of Clark Russell’s fine sea-stories,7 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,8
and for a few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at Baker Street.
“Why,” said I, glancing up at my companion, “that was surely the bell. Who
could come to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?”
“Except yourself I have none,” he answered.9 “I do not encourage visitors.”
“A client, then?”
“If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out on such a day
and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more likely to be some crony of the
landlady’s.”
Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there came a step
in the passage, and a tapping at the door. He stretched out his long arm to turn
the lamp away from himself and towards the vacant chair upon which a newcomer must sit. “Come in!” said he.
The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at the outside, wellgroomed 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.”
“He looked about himself anxiously.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“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.”10
“That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe-caps is quite
distinctive.”11
“I have come for advice.”
“That is easily got.”
“And help.”
“That is not always so easy.”
“I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast how you
saved him in the Tankerville Club Scandal.”
“Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards.”
“He said that you could solve anything.”
“He said too much.”
“That you are never beaten.”
“I have been beaten four times—three times by men, and once by a
woman.”12
“But what is that compared with the number of your successes?”
“It is true that I have been generally successful.”
“Then you may be so with me.”
“I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire, and favour me with some
details as to your case.”
“It is no ordinary one.”
“None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of appeal.”
“And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you have ever
listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of events than those which
have happened in my own family.”
“You fill me with interest,” said Holmes. “Pray give us the essential facts
from the commencement, and I can afterwards question you as to those details
which seem to me to be most important.”
The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out towards the
blaze.
“My name,” said he, “is John Openshaw, but my own affairs have, as far as I
can understand it, 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,13 which he enlarged at
the time of the invention of bicycling. He was a patentee of the Openshaw
unbreakable tire, and his business met with such success that he was able to sell
it and to retire upon a handsome competence.
“My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man, and
became a planter in Florida, where he was reported to have done very well. At
the time of the war he fought in Jackson’s army, and afterwards under Hood,
where he rose to be a colonel.14 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 Republican15 policy
in extending the franchise to them. He was a singular man, fierce and quicktempered, very foul-mouthed when he was angry, and of a most retiring
disposition. During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I doubt if ever he set
foot in the town. He had a garden and two or three fields round his house, and
there he would take his exercise, though very often for weeks on end he would
never leave his room. He drank a great deal of brandy, and smoked very heavily,
but he would see no society and did not want any friends, not even his own
brother.
“He didn’t mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the time when he
saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. That 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 draughts16 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 any one else to enter. With a
boy’s curiosity I have peeped through the keyhole, but I was never able to see
more than such a collection of old trunks and bundles as would be expected in
such a room.
“One day—it was in March, 1883—a letter with a foreign stamp lay upon the
table in front of the colonel’s plate. It was not a common thing for him to receive
letters, for his bills were all paid in ready money, and he had no friends of any
sort. ‘From India!’ said he, as he took it up, ‘Pondicherry17 postmark! What can
this be?’ Opening it hurriedly, out there jumped five little dried orange pips,18
which pattered down upon his plate. I began to laugh at this, but the laugh was
struck from my lips at the sight of his face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were
protruding, his skin the colour of putty, and he glared at the envelope which he
still held in his trembling hand. ‘K.K.K.!’ he shrieked, and then, ‘My God, my
God, my sins have overtaken me!’
“ ‘What is it, uncle?’ I cried.
“ ‘Death,’ said he, and rising from the table he retired to his room, leaving me
palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope, and saw scrawled in red ink upon
the inner flap, just above the gum, the letter K three times repeated. There was
nothing else save the five dried pips. What could be the reason of his
overpowering terror? I left the breakfast table, and as I ascended the stair I met
him coming down with an old rusty key, which must have belonged to the attic,
in one hand, and a small brass box, like a cashbox, in the other.
“ ‘They may do what they like, but I’ll checkmate them still,’ said he with an
oath. ‘Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my room to-day, and send down to
Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.’
“Death!” said he.
Artist unknown, Chicago Inter-Ocean, November 7, 1891
“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 were
printed the treble K which I had read in the morning upon the envelope.
“ ‘I wish you, John,’ said my uncle, ‘to witness my will. I leave my estate,
with all its advantages and all its disadvantages to my brother, your father,
whence it will, no doubt, descend to you. If you can enjoy it in peace, well and
good! If you find you cannot, take my advice, my boy, and leave it to your
deadliest enemy. I am sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I can’t say
what turn things are going to take. Kindly sign the paper where Mr. Fordham
shows you.’
“I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with him.19 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 it, though the sensation grew less keen as the weeks passed, and nothing
happened to disturb the usual routine of our lives. I could see a change in my
uncle, however. He drank more than ever, and he was less inclined for any sort
of society. Most of his time he would spend in his room, with the door locked
upon the inside, but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of drunken frenzy, and
would burst out of the house and tear about the garden with a revolver in his
hand, screaming out that he was afraid of no man, and that he was not to be
cooped up, like a sheep in a pen, by man or devil. When these hot fits were over,
however, he would rush tumultuously in at the door, and lock and bar it behind
him, like a man who can brazen it out no longer against the terror which lies at
the roots of his soul. At such times I have seen his face, even on a cold day,
glisten with moisture as though it were new raised from a basin.
“Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to abuse your
patience, there came a night when he made one of those drunken sallies from
which he never came back. We found him, when we went to search for him, face
downwards 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.20 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 fourteen thousand pounds which lay to his credit at the bank.”
“One moment,” Holmes interposed, “your statement is, I foresee, one of the
most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me have the date of the
reception by your uncle of the letter, and the date of his supposed suicide.”
“The letter arrived on March the 10th, 1883. His death was seven weeks later,
upon the night of the 2nd of May.”
“Thank you. Pray proceed.”
“We found him face downwards in a little greenscummed pool.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“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.21 For the rest, there was nothing of much importance in the
attic, save a great many scattered papers and note-books bearing upon my
uncle’s life in America. Some of them were of the war time, and showed that he
had done his duty well, and had borne the repute of a brave soldier. Others were
of a date during the reconstruction of the Southern States, and were mostly
concerned with politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in opposing the
carpet-bag politicians who had been sent down from the North.
“Well, it was the beginning of ’84 when my father came to live at Horsham,
and all went as well as possible with us until the January of ’85. On the fourth
day after the New Year I heard my father give a sharp cry of surprise as we sat
together at the 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 puzzled and scared now that the same
thing had come upon himself.
“ ‘Why, what on earth does this mean, John?’ he stammered.
“My heart had turned to lead. ‘It is K.K.K.,’ said I.
“He looked inside the envelope. ‘So it is,’ he cried. ‘Here are the very letters.
But what is this written above them?’
“ ‘Put the papers on the sundial,’ I read, peeping over his shoulder.
“ ‘What papers? What sundial?’ he asked.
“ ‘The sundial in the garden. There is no other,’ said I; ‘but the papers must be
those that are destroyed.’
“ ‘Pooh!’ said he, gripping hard at his courage. ‘We are in a civilized land
here, and we can’t have tomfoolery of this kind. Where does the thing come
from?’
“ ‘From Dundee,’22 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.’
“What on earth does this mean?”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“ ‘I should certainly speak to the police,’ I said.
“ ‘And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.’
“ ‘Then let me do so?’
“ ‘No, I forbid you, I won’t have a fuss made about such nonsense.’
“It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate man. I went
about, however, with a heart which was full of forebodings.
“On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went from home to
visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is in command of one of the forts
upon Portsdown Hill.23 I was glad that he should go, for it seemed to me that he
was further from danger when he was away from home. In that, however, I was
in error. Upon the second day of his absence I received a telegram from the
Major, imploring me to come at once. My father had fallen over one of the deep
chalk-pits which abound in the neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a
shattered skull. I hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever
recovered his consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from
Fareham24 in the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him, and the
chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of ‘death
from accidental causes.’ Carefully as I examined every fact connected with his
death, I was unable to find anything which could suggest the idea of murder.
There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no robbery, no record of
strangers having been seen upon the roads. And yet I need not tell you that my
mind was far from at ease, and that I was well-nigh certain that some foul plot
had been woven round him.
“In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why I did
not dispose of it? I answer because I was well convinced that our troubles were
in some way dependent upon an incident in my uncle’s life, and that the danger
would be as pressing in one house as in another.
“It was in January, ’85, that my poor father met his end, and two years and
eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I have lived happily at
Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this curse had passed away from the
family, and that it had ended with the last generation. I had begun to take
comfort too soon, however; yesterday morning the blow fell in the very shape in
which it had come upon my father.”
The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and, turning to
the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips.
“Shook out five little dried orange pips.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“This is the envelope,” he continued. “The postmark, is London—eastern
division.25 Within are the very words which were upon my father’s last message:
‘K.K.K.’; and then ‘Put the papers on the sundial.’ ”
“This is the envelope.”
Sherlock Holmes in America
“What have you done?” asked Holmes.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“To tell the truth”—he sank his face into his thin, white hands—“I have felt
helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when the snake is writhing
towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some resistless, inexorable evil, which no
foresight and no precautions can guard against.”
“Tut! tut!” cried Sherlock Holmes. “You must act, man, or you are lost.
Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for despair.”
“I have seen the police.”
“Ah?”
“But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that the inspector
has formed the opinion that the letters are all practical jokes, and that the deaths
of my relations were really accidents, as the jury stated, and were not to be
connected with the warnings.”
Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. “Incredible imbecility!” he cried.
“They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in the house
with me.”
“Has he come with you to-night?”
“No. His orders were to stay in the house.”
Again Holmes raved in the air.
“Why did you come to me,”26 he said; “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 trouble, 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 have escaped
destruction. Beyond the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us much. I
think myself that it is a page from some private diary. The writing is
undoubtedly my uncle’s.”
Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper, which
showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a book. It was
headed, “March, 1869,” and beneath were the following enigmatical notices:
4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.
7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and
John Swain of St. Augustine.
9th. McCauley cleared.
10th. John Swain cleared.
12th. Visited Paramore. All well.
27
“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.”28
“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
seaweed in a gale—and now to have been reabsorbed by them once more.
Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence with his head sunk forward, and
his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he lit his pipe, and leaning back
in his chair he watched the blue smoke rings as they chased each other up to the
ceiling.
“I think, Watson,” he remarked at last, “that of all our cases we have had none
more fantastic than this.”
“His eyes bent upon the glow of the fire.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“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.”29
“But have you,” I asked, “formed any definite conception as to what these
perils are?”
“There can be no question as to their nature,” he answered.
“Then what are they? Who is this K.K.K., and why does he pursue this
unhappy family?”
Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes, and placed his elbows upon the arms of his
chair, with his finger-tips together. “The ideal reasoner,” he remarked, “would,
when he has 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 Cuvier30 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 utilize 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.”31
“Yes,” I answered, laughing. “It was a singular document. Philosophy,
astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I remember. Botany variable,
geology profound as regards the mud stains from any region within fifty miles of
town, chemistry eccentric,32 anatomy unsystematic, sensational literature and
crime records unique, violin player, boxer, swordsman, lawyer, and self-poisoner
by cocaine and tobacco.33 Those, I think, were the main points of my analysis.”
Holmes grinned at the last item. “Well,” he said, “I say now, as I said then,
that a man should keep his little brain attic stocked with all the furniture that he
is likely to use, and the rest he can put away in the lumber room of his library,
where he can get it if he wants it. Now, for such a case as the one which has
been submitted to us to-night, we need certainly to muster all our resources.
Kindly hand me down the letter K of the American Encyclopædia 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 some one or something, so we may assume as a working
hypothesis that it was fear of some one or something which drove him from
America. As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by considering
the formidable letters which were received by himself and his successors. Did
you remark the postmarks of those letters?”
“The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the third from
London.”
“From East London. What do you deduce from that?”
“They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship.”
“Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that the probability
—the strong probability—is that the writer was on board of a ship. And now let
us consider another point. In the case of Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed
between the threat and its fulfillment, in Dundee it was only some three or four
days. Does that suggest anything?”
“A greater distance to travel.”
“But the letter had also a greater distance to come.”
“Then I do not see the point.”
“There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man or men are is
a sailing ship. It looks as if they always sent 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.34 In this way you see K.K.K.
ceases to be the initials of an individual, and becomes the badge of a society.”
“But of what society?”
“Have you never—” said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking his
voice—”have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?”35
“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 a 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 terrorizing of
the negro voters, and the murdering and driving
from the country of those who were opposed to its
views. Its outrages were usually preceded by a
warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic
but generally recognized shape—a sprig of oakleaves 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 organization 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 organization flourished, in spite of the
efforts of the United States Government and of the
better classes of the community in the South.
Eventually, in the year 1869, the movement rather
suddenly collapsed, although there have been
sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date.
“You will observe,” said Holmes, laying down the volume, “that the sudden
breaking up of the society was coincident with the disappearance of Openshaw
from America with their papers. It may well have been cause and effect. It is no
wonder that he and his family have some of the more implacable spirits upon
their track. You can understand that this register and diary may implicate some
of the first men in the South, and that there may be many who will not sleep easy
at night until it is recovered.”36
“Then the page we have seen—”
“Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, ‘sent the pips to A, B,
and C’—that is, sent the society’s warning to them. Then there are successive
entries that A and B cleared, or left the country, and finally that C was visited,
with, I fear, a sinister result for C. Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let some
light into this dark place, and I believe that the only chance young Openshaw has
in the meantime is to do what I have told him. There is nothing more to be said
or to be done to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget for half
an hour the miserable weather, and the still more miserable ways of our
fellowmen.”
It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued brightness
through the dim veil which hangs over the great city. Sherlock Holmes was
already at breakfast when I came down.
“You will excuse me for not waiting for you,” said he; “I have, I foresee, a
very busy day before me in looking into this case of young Openshaw’s.”
“What steps will you take?” I asked.
“It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I may have to
go down to Horsham after all.”
“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:
“Holmes,” I cried, “you are too late.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H
Division,37 on duty near Waterloo Bridge,38 heard a cry for help and a
splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and stormy, so
that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it was quite impossible to
effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given, and, by the aid of the water
police,39 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 Embankment40 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.
The Embankment.
“You are hungry,” I remarked.41
“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,42 Barque Lone Star, Savannah,
The Queen’s London (1897)
Georgia.”
“That will await him when he enters port,” said he, chuckling. “It may give
him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor of his fate as Openshaw
did before him.”
“And who is this Captain Calhoun?”
“The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first.”
“How did you trace it, then?”
He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with dates and
names.
“I have spent the whole day,” said he, “over Lloyd’s registers43 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 river by the early tide this morning;
homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend,44 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,45 and not very far from the Isle of Wight.”46
Cleopatra’s Needle.
“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 the 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 Queen’s London (1897)
1 “The Five Orange Pips” was published in the Strand Magazine in November 1891 and in the American
Strand Magazine in December 1891.
2 Why is 1881, the year in which the events of A Study in Scarlet occurred, omitted? Gavin Brend suggests
that Watson spent most of his time that year writing up his account of that case, the only one in which he
participated. He would be ignorant of any other case of Holmes’s that occurred during or before that year.
“It was only at the beginning of 1882 that systemized records of the cases came into existence.”
3 Numerous pastiches have explored this strange reference, but Klas Lithner, in “A Key to the Paradol
Chamber,” identifies the chamber as the residence of Lucien-Anatole Paradol, a French journalist and
political figure.
4 As early as July 1901, the editor of The Bookman complained that the Adventures and the Memoirs were
replete with “allusions to affairs of which the reader knows nothing” and demanded that the author “clear
away the mystery of all the titles.” There are over 110 “unrecorded cases” mentioned in the Canon,
according to Christopher Redmond, but John Hall, in The Abominable Wife, points out that there is
meaningful information about only thirty-nine of these cases.
5 The word “ago” becomes “before” in American editions. Lord Donegall, in “The Horological Holmes,”
observes, “Dr. Watson’s statement as it stands is palpable nonsense. Holmes would have had to wind the
watch and let it run down completely before being able to tell how many turns of the key or pendant
represented 2 hours—even approximately. . . . Watson must have omitted some essential link in the chain of
reasoning.”
6 The autumnal equinox is an imaginary event, occurring annually about September 23, when the sun first
travels southerly across the celestial equator. Of course, an equinox, as a mere convenience of reference,
cannot actually cause any storms. However, seasonal shifts of air masses may create unusually violent
weather, and the belief in “equinoctial gales” likely originated with sailors who observed West Indian
hurricanes occurring most often at the time of the autumnal equinox.
7 William Clark Russell (1844–1911) was an American novelist, the writer of many nautical tales.
Between 1867 and 1905 he published 65 titles of fiction, most of them in three volumes, and 15 nonfiction
titles. Russell’s novels included The Wreck of the Grosvenor (1877), The Frozen Pirate (1887), and The
Romance of a Midshipman (1898).
8 The Doubleday edition’s version of “The Five Orange Pips” follows the Strand Magazine version in
using the word “mother.” In the first book publication of “The Five Orange Pips,” the word “mother” has
been replaced with “aunt.” The latter was adopted as the “definitive text” by Edgar W. Smith for the
Limited Editions Club publication of the Adventures in 1950 and has been widely copied.
Based in part on the reference to Watson’s “wife,” some chronologists reject Watson’s explicit date of
September 1887 and put the case after The Sign of Four, following which Watson married Mary Morstan.
However, this is a shaky foundation, for according to Mary Morstan in The Sign of Four, her mother died
before 1878, and she had no living relatives in England (“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”). Ian
McQueen states: “Let us say here and now that we no more believe in the existence of Mary Watson’s aunt
than we do in the orphan-girl’s mother. Both were figments of Conan Doyle’s imagination, erroneously
inserted in the manuscript while he was editing Watson’s notes for publication.” McQueen suggests that
Conan Doyle was misled by Watson’s notes into assuming that Watson was already married in September
1887 and invented the visit to Mary’s mother as the most plausible explanation for his absence from home.
It has been ingeniously suggested that Mary Morstan’s relationship to Mrs. Cecil Forrester, with whom
she lodges in The Sign of Four in an unexplained relationship, was practically that of aunt and niece. Philip
Weller, in “A Relative Question,” suggests that the “mother” is Mary Morstan’s stepmother. However,
neither argument seems very convincing, and this editor believes that this aunt/wife reference must be to a
wife who preceded Mary Morstan and died before 1888 and to whom Watson, out of delicacy for the
feelings of his current wife, makes little or no reference.
9 Indeed, Holmes is not exaggerating here—there is no report in the entire Canon of any person with whom
Holmes has regular social intercourse, save for Dr. Watson, his brother Mycroft, and his professional
colleagues Inspector Lestrade and Inspector Stanley Hopkins.
10 A small town in the county of West Sussex. In “The Sussex Vampire,” Holmes and Watson visited
Lamberley, which is south of Horsham. Percy Bysshe Shelley was born on the outskirts of Horsham in
1792. According to Baedeker’s Great Britain (1894), the town’s Free Library was opened in 1892 as a
memorial to Shelley, and the Horsham Museum now has an extensive collection of first and early editions
of his works, as well as memorabilia of his life and career.
11 The editors of the Catalogue of the 1951 Sherlock Holmes Exhibition in London dispute this deduction,
suggesting that Holmes made a rare error, Watson’s notes were incorrect, or Openshaw was not wholly
honest about his movements. According to the editors, Horsham sits atop the Tunbridge Wells Sands,
surrounded on three sides by the Weald Clay. “Apart from material deposited by builders or from some
similar artificial source, it would have been quite impossible for Openshaw to get chalk on his toe-caps in or
around Horsham. Sand and clay, perhaps; chalk and clay, no.” To the north of Horsham, however, is a zone
in which may be found “the Lower Greensand, Gault Clay, Upper Greensand (a very narrow strip) and the
Chalk. . . . In this zone even a short walk could provide a mixture of chalk and clay.” Perhaps Holmes
actually said “south,” and Watson embellished Holmes’s statement when writing up his notes.
The editors offer three possible explanations for Openshaw’s acquisition of clay and chalk on his boots.
First, Watson may have changed a reference to Dorking, for example, to Horsham, either erroneously or to
disguise the actual location. Second, Openshaw may have “acquired the chalk on a previous journey and
had simply omitted to clean his boots.” Third, Openshaw may have passed through Dorking, for reasons
undisclosed, and neglected to mention it to Holmes. The editors of the Catalogue profess a preference for
the first theory, blaming Dr. Watson’s report, inasmuch as the second conflicts with Watson’s description of
Openshaw as “well-groomed and trimly clad” and the third would have been penetrated by Holmes.
12 Chronologists such as H. W. Bell and Ernest Bloomfield Zeisler are quick to identify this woman with
Irene Adler and use the remark to find Watson’s September 1887 date in error, instead assigning the case to
a date after the March 1888 events of “A Scandal in Bohemia.” A few proponents of the year 1887 for “The
Five Orange Pips” propose other candidates for the woman purported to have beaten Holmes. Gavin Brend,
for example, nominates Effie Munro (of “The Yellow Face,” which Brend places in 1882). Tempting as
such speculation is, however, it seems that the best that can be said is that if Watson’s dating is correct,
plainly the victorious woman was not Irene Adler; perhaps one of the unreported cases was the source of
this defeat. As Brend wisely notes, “After all, we do not know who the three men were who beat Holmes.
Why should not the woman be equally anonymous?” For more questions on the dating of this case, see note
29.
13 Baedeker describes Coventry in 1896 as “an ancient city with 54,740 inhab., possesses extensive
manufactories of ribbons, dress-trimmings, coach-lace, and watches, and is famous for its artistic work in
metal. It is also the headquarters of the manufacture of bicycles and tricycles.” However, Coventry is
perhaps most famous for a legendary horseback ride. In the eleventh century, Lady Godiva bargained with
her husband, a powerful noble, to reduce taxes in the district. He promised to do so if she rode naked on
horseback through the Coventry marketplace at midday. Lady Godiva made her now-famous ride, and the
taxes were eliminated. The story was recorded several times before 1400. In later accounts, probably at the
urging of churchmen, the account was embellished with the tale of “Peeping Tom,” who was struck blind
(or dead) when he alone gazed upon Lady Godiva. Another later invention was the detail of the story, often
added, that Godiva was covered totally, except for her legs, by an enormous and improbable quantity of
hair. Alfred, Lord Tennyson, commemorated a visit to Coventry with a poem about the legend entitled
“Godiva” (1842).
14 Openshaw was far from the only Englishman participating in America’s Civil War. Of course, the vast
majority of Americans at the time of the Civil War were of British descent, and many in England had
family connections in America, on both sides of the war. Although England remained officially neutral in
the war, the British aided the Confederacy with the building and manning of commerce raiders and
blockade running to Southern ports. There were pro-Confederate and anti-slavery movements and
politicking in England itself, as well as natural concern for the security of its colony Canada. Thousands of
Britons, including Irishmen Captain John J. Coppinger, Major Myles Walter Keogh, and Joseph A.
O’Keeffe (recruited by Secretary of War Seward for the Union), and Englishmen Sir Percy Wyndham (the
flamboyant Union cavalryman), Currie, Morley, Jenkins, Gordon, Broud, and Major John Carwardine
(Union), came to America to fight.
15 In an era when “Republican” implies “conservative,” it is perhaps hard to remember that the Republican
Party was organised in 1856 on the basis of opposition to the growth of slavery.
16 The board game referred to by Americans as “checkers,” so-called as early as 1400.
17 A town on the eastern coast of India, part of the French colony of Pondicherry until 1954. It was said to
have the purest water in southern India. Major Sholto and his son Bartholomew (The Sign of Four) lived in
Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Norwood.
18 The seeds of an orange or any small fruit.
19 “I am not a lawyer,” W. G. Daish writes in “Ponderings and Pitfalls,” “but I have sometimes wondered
how far young Openshaw would have got with the will he witnessed . . . under which he was eventually to
be a beneficiary and which, meanwhile, made his own father, his closest relative, the sole legatee.” In the
United States, however, more modern laws do not automatically invalidate a will witnessed by an interested
witness if there are sufficient other disinterested witnesses. Furthermore, if a witness is an “interested”
witness, there is merely a presumption that the witness caused the person whose will was witnessed to make
gifts to the witness by means of undue influence, menace, fraud, or duress. This presumption may be
rebutted by adequate proof to the contrary.
20 “[This is] surely an extraordinary verdict, under the circumstances,” observes Benjamin Clark in “The
Horsham Fiasco,” “for who, drunk or sober, would ever attempt to end his life by lying face down in a twofeet-deep puddle?”
21 Why the colonel took the records is never explained. Was he perhaps contemplating blackmailing
fellow members of the K.K.K.?
22 A former royal burgh in Scotland, it was made a city in 1892. This industrial seaport was the site of the
1879 Tay Bridge disaster, in which the two-mile bridge—then the longest in the world—collapsed in heavy
winds, killing all seventy-five passengers and crew aboard the evening train from Edinburgh. It stands as
perhaps the worst rail disaster in British history. Support for the nomination of poet William McGonagall, a
native of Dundee, as Scotland’s (and perhaps the world’s) worst poet can be found in his memorable 1890
poem, “The Tay Bridge Disaster,” which ends with the lines:
“Oh! Ill-fated Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.”
23 A hill in southern Hampshire, just north of Portsmouth, overlooking the Solent. Six forts were
constructed there in 1868 to defend against possible attack by the French. The invasion never came,
however, and the forts became known as “Palmerston’s Folly,” after the British prime minister who ordered
them built.
24 A market town and English Channel seaport in Hampshire, at the head of a creek opening into the northwestern corner of the major harbour of Portsmouth. Arthur Conan Doyle knew this area well, having lived
for several years in nearby Southsea and later purchasing a cottage in the neighbouring New Forest (Bignell
Wood). This fondness for the area was apparently shared by Doctor Watson, who, when the weather was
hot, longed for the glades of the New Forest and the shingle of Southsea (“The Cardboard Box”).
25 In 1856, after the successful reforms of Rowland Hill (see “A Scandal in Bohemia,” note 24), the post
office divided the city into eight postal districts (West Central, East Central, East, South East, South West,
West, North West, and North). Each had its district post office, from which letters were distributed to the
surrounding district.
26 This sentence, repeated verbatim in the Strand Magazine and all book editions, would seem to make
more sense as “Why did you not come to me.”
27 The meaning of “ ‘Same old platform’ ” is far from clear, whether it was a literal railway platform on
which a meeting took place or was arranged or the Ku Klux Klan’s stated “platform” of subjugating,
torturing, and killing blacks and their collaborators.
28 For almost fifty years, until reconstruction of Euston Station began in 1951, Waterloo Station was
London’s most modern, the first terminus built in the twentieth century. Opened in 1838 as “Nine Elms,”
the metropolitan station of the London & Southampton Railway, in 1848, it was taken over by the South
Western Railway and altered and expanded. In 1854, the London Necropolis & National Mausoleum
Company opened a cemetery nearby, and strange one-way traffic began at a private “necropolis” station at
Waterloo, from which funeral trains with specially built hearse-carriages operated daily.
29 Virtually every bit of internal evidence in “The Five Orange Pips” points to 1887 as the year in which
the events occurred. Yet The Sign of Four, in which the Sholtos appeared, seems equally unalterably set in
1888. It is clear that the remark respecting the Sholtos and The Sign of Four is gratuitous at best. It has no
relation to the flow of the story and contains none of the critical character that Watson’s readers have come
to expect in Holmes’s comments respecting Watson’s literary efforts. What purpose does the remark serve?
It seems likely that Watson was engaged in a bit of advertising for the recently published book. Note the
proximity of publication dates: The Sign of Four, published in late 1890, and “The Five Orange Pips,”
published in late 1891. What better way to boost sales of a relatively obscure novel than a “plug,” in
modern parlance, in a “hot” new series of short stories. Watson, of course, could expect additional royalties
from further sales, but suspicion for the marketing ploy rests heavily on Arthur Conan Doyle, who had yet
to achieve marked financial success. It may well be that Watson made a much more lucrative commission
arrangement with Conan Doyle for The Sign of Four than for the Adventures. Until the details of this
arrangement come to light, however, investigators can only speculate on the contractual terms between this
author and agent.
30 Georges (Jean-Léopold-Nicolas-Frédéric), Baron Cuvier (1769–1832), French zoologist and statesman,
established the science of comparative anatomy and palaeontology and demonstrated that extinct animals
could be “reconstructed” from fragmentary remains by applying his law of the “correlation of growth” (later
observed by T. H. Huxley to have numerous exceptions, apparently unknown to Holmes). Holmes’s remark
here is similar to his assertion in his article “The Book of Life” (quoted in A Study in Scarlet) that “[f]rom a
drop of water, a logician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard
of one or the other.”
31 The incident is recorded in the second chapter of A Study in Scarlet.
32 Watson called Holmes’s knowledge of chemistry “profound” in A Study in Scarlet. Perhaps closer
observation had led Watson to amend his earlier characterisation.
33 The latter seems to be “the pot calling the kettle black,” in light of Watson’s own habitual smoking of
“ship’s” tobacco (A Study in Scarlet).
34 Benjamin Clark, in “The Horsham Fiasco,” points out various irregularities in the case if the papers
were indeed of “vital importance.” Whoever murdered Elias Openshaw, for instance, seemingly made no
attempt to retrieve the papers after Openshaw’s death. Further, the delay of almost two years before Elias’s
brother was contacted proves puzzling, writes Clark, for “while Colonel Openshaw was in possession of the
papers he could not make public their contents without implicating himself, whereas his brother, if the
records had still been in existence, ran no risk, and in fact might even, without being aware of their
significance, have turned them over to the police who in turn would have given them to the American
authorities.” Even more difficult to understand is how the murderers of John Openshaw’s father, if they
were in fact Southern-accented Americans, managed to pursue him first to Horsham and then to Portsdown
Hill without attracting his notice. With the records still uncollected, Clark quips, “Presumably there is no
end to insomnia in Dixieland.”
35 The original Ku Klux Klan was founded in Pulaski, Tennessee, in 1866 and grew to become the most
prominent of various secret terrorist organisations (the Knights of the White Camelia was another)
promoting white resistance to post-Civil War Reconstruction. Contrary to the information in Holmes’s
encyclopaedia, the name is believed to have been derived from the Greek word kuklos, meaning circle. The
Klan was officially disbanded in 1869 by order of Grand Wizard Nathan Bedford Forrest, a former
Confederate cavalry general, after the increasing lawlessness of local chapters began to concern the
society’s leaders. Such disbanding did little to stop various splinter groups from taking violent acts in the
Klan’s name, and in 1870 Congress passed the Force Act, and in 1871 the Ku Klux Klan Act, authorizing
federal prosecutions of Klan members. During the late 1870s, Southern political power gradually reverted
to traditional white Democratic control, and the organisations disappeared as the need for secret antiRepublican groups diminished.
A second Ku Klux Klan was formed in Georgia by William J. Simmons in 1915, inspired in part by
books about the original Klan and by D. W. Griffith’s powerful film The Birth of a Nation, which expressed
pro-Klan sentiments. This incarnation of the Klan embraced a broader, more national agenda, expanding its
targets of hate to include Catholics, Jews, foreigners, and organised labour. At its peak, the Klan counted
millions of members. While the membership has dwindled sharply today, the organisation continues to
deliver its messages of hate throughout America and has apparently gained footholds in England and
Canada.
36 Manly Wade Wellman argues that Holmes’s tale of the hounding of Elias Openshaw is a distortion of
reality. He writes, “Preservation of Klan secrets were no matter for killing men in far countries: John C.
Lester, one of the Klan’s original six founders, published a revealing history of the order in 1884, and he
was neither ambushed nor threatened nor even blamed by his former fellows. . . .” Wellman surmises that
the case of Elias Openshaw was “something more—a history of theft or extortion or robbery. . . . The
adventure unquestionably revolved around membership in a post-Klan mob of Southern hoodlums.”
Conversely, Richard Lancelyn Green notes that after the Civil War, the leaders of the former
Confederacy still maintained their ties to the Klan and its offshoots, in many cases fraternising with those
people in charge of orchestrating murderous activitites. Thus the existence of papers proving that the
supposed “new” rough element who had taken over the Klans were in fact the original leaders would have
had politically devastating consequences for Southern Democratic leaders, the “first men in the South.” “So
the background of the story is historically sound,” Green concludes. “What is wrong is the date. By 1891, or
indeed from the return of the Democratic party to presidential power in 1885, such revelations would have
had little effect, and ex-Confederate white power in the ex-Confederate states would have quashed any
attempt to bring prosecutions. In 1881–2, on the other hand, something might have been made of serious
proofs of participation in the Klan murders of 1867–8 by members of the social élite.”
37 In 1891, this was one of the twenty-two administrative divisions of the Metropolitan Police, now sixtythree districts. H Division was very generally analogous to the metropolitan borough of Stepney, at the
extreme western edge of which lie the Tower of London and the Royal Mint. Stepney, along with the
boroughs of Rotherhithe, Limehouse, and Shadwell, borders the Thames and enclosed the docks. It was
filled with lodgings for sailors, warehouses, pubs, and other nautical necessities, as well as immigrants such
as the Huguenots and the Jews who landed there, bringing the weaving and clothing trades. There is an old
tradition that any child born on the high seas may claim to be a native of Stepney.
38 Built in 1817 over the Thames, this bridge was known as the “Bridge of Sighs” for the numerous
suicides leaping from its railings. Thomas Hood’s 1844 poem, “The Bridge of Sighs,” mourns “One more
unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, / Gone to her death!”
39 Properly the Thames Division of the Metropolitan Police, the “water police” was the oldest of the police
branches incorporated within Scotland Yard, established in 1798. Its area of patrol included the whole of
the Thames from just below Kingston to Barking. According to Dickens’s Dictionary of the Thames, “Both
night and day several boats patrol the river in different parts; a fresh boat starting from the station hard
every two hours to relieve the one whose watch is up. Each boat contains an inspector and two men, the
latter of whom do the rowing, and a careful system of supervision is maintained by which the passing of
each boat is checked at varying points.” Steam launches of the River Police figure prominently in the
conclusion of The Sign of Four.
40 The “Victoria Embankment,” on the north bank of the Thames, stretches about one and one-quarter
miles from Westminster Bridge to Blackfriars Bridge. There are various pedestals from which to view the
Thames and various statues. Its most prominent landmark is “Cleopatra’s Needle,” an Egyptian obelisk
erected here in 1878, which stands 681-2 feet in height and is flanked by two (modern) sphinxes. The “sister”
to the Embankment’s obelisk stands in New York City’s Central Park.
41 In The Valley of Fear, likely set in 1887 or 1888, Holmes remarks that Watson is “developing a certain
unexpected vein of pawky humour,” implying that, in general, Watson is not very humourous.
Commentators point to this sterling bit of Watsonian understatement as a refutation of such criticism.
42 Several scholars conclude that it is not the K.K.K. whom Holmes pursued but rather his adversary from
“The Final Problem,” Professor Moriarty, who, they contend, organised all three murders. John Lockwood,
in “A Study in White,” suggests that because “The Five Orange Pips” was published in the Strand
Magazine in 1891, Watson may have left out any mention of Moriarty in the story so as not to prejudice the
forthcoming trials of the rest of the Moriarty gang.
43 The world’s first and largest ship-classification society began in 1760 as a register of ships likely to be
insured by marine insurance underwriters meeting at Lloyd’s coffeehouse in London. Though it remains
headquartered in London, Lloyd’s Register is now an international nonprofit organisation focussed on
maritime management and safety. Its register book, issued annually, lists all merchant ships of 100 or more
tonnes gross. Today the register is accessible on the Internet and in CD-ROM format, a development that
Holmes would undoubtedly have appreciated!
44 A city on the Thames, known as the “gateway to the port of London.” Pocahontas, the Indian princess
who saved the life of Captain John Smith, coloniser of Virginia, is buried there at St. George’s Church,
having died of tuberculosis while visiting England with her husband, John Rolfe, in 1616–1617. In 1896 a
memorial tablet to Pocahontas was placed in the chancel of the Church, and the Colonial Dames of America
presented memorial windows in 1914.
45 The Goodwin Sands is a dangerous line of shoals at the entrance to the Strait of Dover, about six miles
off the east coast of Kent, and a once-frequent scene of shipwrecks. Attempts to erect a lighthouse on the
shifting sands have failed, and lightships mark the limits of the sands.
46 An island county in the English Channel, off the southern coast of Hampshire. Prince Albert and Queen
Victoria summered there at Osborne House, a thousand-acre property that they bought and rebuilt in 1845.
After Albert’s death in 1861, the queen spent even more time at Osborne with her family; she died there in
1901.
THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP1
“The Man with the Twisted Lip” opens in an
opium den in the crime-ridden East End of
London, a milieu vivid in the Victorian
popular imagination. Watson’s tale is one of
the earliest examples of a “play-fair” mystery,
in which all of the clues are known to the
reader at the same time as the detective.
Holmes solves the puzzle in a manner
available to the reader—by sheer intellect—
and Watson draws the indelible image of
Holmes, surrounded by pillows, sitting crosslegged in his dressing gown, smoking his pipe
and contemplating the problem before him.
There are tantalising hints of a romantic
interlude between Holmes and the lovely Mrs.
Neville St. Clair, but Watson’s unexpected
appearance on the scene leaves her longings
apparently unfulfilled, and the reader is left to
wonder whether Watson’s cynical views of
Holmes’s feelings towards women (expressed
in his opening remarks in “A Scandal in
Bohemia”) are accurate.
ISA
WHITNEY, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the
Theological College of St. George’s,2 was much addicted to opium.3 The habit
grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he was at
college, for having read De Quincey’s4 description of his dreams and sensations,
he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum5 in an attempt to produce the same
effect. 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.
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 needlework down in her lap and
made a little face of disappointment.
“A patient!” said she. “You’ll have to go out.”
I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.
We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the
linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some dark-coloured stuff,
with a black veil, entered the room.
“You will excuse my calling so late,” she began, and then, suddenly losing her
self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my wife’s neck, and sobbed
upon her shoulder. “Oh! I’m in such trouble!” she cried; “I do so want a little
help.”
“Why,” said my wife, pulling up her veil, “it is Kate Whitney. How you
startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in.”
“I didn’t know what to do, so I came straight to you.” That was always the
way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a lighthouse.6
“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
James7 off to bed?”
“Oh, no, no, I want the doctor’s advice and help, too. It’s about Isa. He has not
been home for two days. I am so frightened about him!”
It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband’s trouble, to
me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school companion.
We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find. Did she know
where her husband was? Was it possible that we could bring him back to her?
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 furthest 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.8 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?
There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it. Might I not
escort her to this place? And, then, as a second thought, why should she come at
all? I was Isa Whitney’s medical adviser, and as such I had influence over him. I
could manage it better if I were alone. I promised her on my word that I would
send him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed at the address which
she had given me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery
sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a strange
errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only could show how
strange it was to be.
But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure. Upper
Swandam Lane9 is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which line the
north side of the river to the east of London Bridge.10 Between a slop shop11 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.
London Bridge.
The Queen’s London (1897)
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 upwards, with here and there a dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the
new-comer. Out of the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light,
now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the
metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and 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 further 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.12
“Staring into the fire.”
Sidney Paget, strand Magazine, 1891
As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me and a
supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.
“Thank you. I have not come to stay,” said I. “There is a friend of mine here,
Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him.”
There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering
through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring out at
me.
“My God! It’s Watson,” said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction, with
every nerve in a twitter. “I say, Watson, what o’clock is it?”
“Nearly eleven.”
“Of what day?”
“Of Friday, June 19th.”13
“Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What d’you
want to frighten a chap for?” He sank his face onto his arms and began to sob in
a high treble key.
“I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two days for
you. You should be ashamed of yourself!”
“So I am. But you’ve got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few
hours, three pipes, four pipes—I forget how many. But I’ll go home with you. I
wouldn’t frighten Kate—poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Have you a cab?”
“Yes, I have one waiting.”
“Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe, Watson. I
am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself.”
I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers,
holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug, and
looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat by the brazier I
felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice whispered, “Walk past me, and
then look back at me.” The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced
down. They could only have come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat
now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium
pipe14 clanging down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer
lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all
my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of astonishment. He
had turned his back so that none could see him but I. His form had filled out, his
wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the
fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made
a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face half
round to the company once more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped
senility.
“Holmes!” I whispered, “what on earth are you doing in this den?”
“As low as you can,” he answered, “I have excellent ears. If you would have
the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I should be
exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you.”
“I have a cab outside.”
“Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he appears to
be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend you also to send a note
by the cabman to your wife to say that you have thrown in your lot with me. If
you will wait outside, I shall be with you in five minutes.”
“ ‘Holmes!’ I whispered.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes’s 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;15 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.
“Holmes,” I whispered,
“what on earth are you doing in this den?”
Staff artists “Cargs” and E. S. Morris,
Seattle Post-Intelligencer, November 12, 1911
“I suppose, Watson,” said he, “that you imagine that I have added opiumsmoking to cocaine injections and all the other little weaknesses on which you
have favoured me with your medical views.”
London cabmen.
(contemporary photograph)
“I was certainly surprised to find you there.”
“But not more so than I to find you.”
“I came to find a friend.”
“And I to find an enemy.”
“An enemy?”
“Yes, one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey. Briefly,
Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have hoped to find
a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had
I been recognized 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
Lascar16 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 a thousand pounds for
every poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest murdertrap on the whole river-side, 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 fore-fingers
between his teeth and whistled shrilly, a signal which was answered by a similar
whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink
of horses’ hoofs.
“Now, Watson,” said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart17 dashed up through the
gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side lanterns.
“You’ll come with me, won’t you?”
“If I can be of use.”
“Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use, and a chronicler still more so. My
room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one.”
“The Cedars?”
“Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair’s house.18 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;19 we shall not need you. Here’s half a crown. Look out for me tomorrow, about eleven. Give her head. So long, then!”
He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the endless
succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened gradually, until we
were flying across a broad balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing
sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another broad 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 revelers. A dull wrack20 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, whilst 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.
“He flicked the horse with his whip.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“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 some
one 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 in my hand. Now, I’ll state
the case clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you may see a spark
where all is dark to me.”
“Proceed, then.”
“Some years ago—to be definite, in May, 1884—there came to Lee a
gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of money.
He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and lived generally in
good style. By degrees he made friends in the neighbourhood, and in 1887 he
married the daughter of a local brewer, by whom he has now had 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 37 years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a good
husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know
him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as far as we have
been able to ascertain, amount to £88 10s., while he has £220 standing to his
credit in the Capital and Counties Bank.21 There is no reason, therefore, to think
that money troubles have been weighing upon his mind.
“Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier than usual,
remarking before he started that he had two important commissions to perform,
and that he would bring his little boy home a box of bricks.22 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 exactly at 4.35 walking through Swandam Lane on
her way back to the station. Have you followed me so far?”
“It is very clear.”
“If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St. Clair
walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, as she did not like the
neighbourhood in which she found herself. While she walked 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.
And then vanished.
Artist unknown, Chicago Inter-Ocean, December 6, 1891
“Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the steps—
for the house was none other than the opium den in which you found me to-night
—and, running through the front room she attempted to ascend the stairs which
led to the first floor. At the foot of the stairs, however, she met this Lascar
scoundrel of whom I have spoken, who thrust her back, and, aided by a Dane,
who acts as assistant there, pushed her out into the street. Filled with the most
maddening doubts and fears, she rushed down the lane and, by rare 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.
“At the foot of the stairs she met this Lascar scoundrel.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“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 window sill, 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.23
“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
few seconds of her husband’s appearance at the window, he could hardly have
been more than an accessory to the crime. His defence was one of absolute
ignorance, and he protested that he had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh
Boone, his lodger, and that he could not account in any way for the presence of
the missing gentleman’s clothes.
“So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who lives upon
the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly the last human being
whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his
hideous face is one which is familiar to every man who goes much to the City.
He is a professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police regulations he
pretends to a small trade in wax vestas.24 Some little distance down
Threadneedle Street25 upon the left hand side there is, as you may have
remarked, a small angle in the wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily
seat, cross-legged, with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a
piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the greasy leather cap
which lies upon the pavement before him. I have watched this 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.”
“He is a professional beggar.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“But a cripple!” said I. “What could he have done single-handed against a
man in the prime of life?”
“He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but, in other respects,
he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man. Surely your medical
experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one limb is often
compensated for by exceptional strength in the others.”
“Pray continue your narrative.”
“Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window, and she
was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her presence could be of no help to
them in their investigations. Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made
a very careful examination of the premises, but without finding anything which
threw any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made in not arresting
Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutes during which he might
have communicated with his friend the Lascar, but this fault was soon remedied,
and he was seized and searched, without anything being found which could
incriminate him. There were, it is true, some blood stains upon his right shirtsleeve, 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.
Threadneedle St. (Bank of England).
The Queen’s London (1897)
“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 will guess. Every pocket stuffed with pennies and
halfpennies—four hundred and twenty-one pennies and two hundred seventy
halfpennies.26 It was no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide. But
a human body is a different matter. There is a fierce eddy between the wharf and
the house. It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained when the
stripped body had been sucked away into the river.”
“But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room. Would the
body be dressed in a coat alone?”
“No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose that this man
Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the window, there is no human eye
which could have seen the deed. What would he do then? It would of course
instantly strike him that he must get rid of the tell-tale garments. He would seize
the coat then, and be in the act of throwing it out when it would occur to him that
it would swim and not sink. He has little time, for he has heard the scuffle
downstairs when the wife tried to force her way up, and perhaps he has already
heard from his Lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street.
There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret hoard, where he has
accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and he stuffs all the coins upon which he
can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure of the coat’s sinking. He throws
it out, and would have done the same with the other garments had not he heard
the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the window when the
police appeared.”
“It certainly sounds feasible.”
“Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better. Boone, as I
have told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but it could not be shown
that there had ever before been anything against him. He had for years been
known as a professional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very quiet
and innocent one. There the matter stands at present, and the questions which
have to be solved, what Neville St. Clair was doing in the opium den, what
happened to him when there, where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do
with his disappearance, are all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I
cannot recall any case within my experience which looked at the first glance so
simple, and yet which presented such difficulties.”
“Stuffs all the coins into the pockets.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
Whilst 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.27 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.28 Mrs. St.
Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and you may rest assured
that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend and colleague. I hate to
meet her, Watson, when I have no news of her husband. Here we are. Whoa,
there, whoa!”
We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its own grounds.
A stable-boy had run out to the horse’s head and springing down I followed
Holmes up the small, winding gravel drive which led to the house. As we
approached, the door flew open, and a little blonde woman stood in the opening,
clad in some sort of light mousseline de soie,29 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.30
“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 which 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 diningroom, 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.31
I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion.”
“Upon what point?”
“In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?”
Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question. “Frankly now!”
she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at him as he leaned
back in a basket chair.
“Frankly, then, madam, I do not.”
“You think that he is dead?”
“I do.”
“Murdered?”
“I don’t say that. Perhaps.”
“ ‘Frankly, now,’ she repeated.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“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 this letter from him to-day.”
Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanized.
“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 post-mark 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,32 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.”
“He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?”
“Yes.”
“A call for help, you thought?”
“Yes. He waved his hands.”
“But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the unexpected
sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands.”
“It is possible.”
“And you thought he was pulled back?”
“He disappeared so suddenly.”
“He might have leaped back. You did not see any one else in the room?”
“No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there. And the Lascar
was at the foot of the stairs.”
“Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary clothes
on?”
“But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat.”
“Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?”
“Never.”
“Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?”
“Never.”
“Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about which I
wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little supper and then retire,
for we may have a very busy day to-morrow.”
A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our disposal,
and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after my night of
adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who when he had an unsolved
problem upon his mind would go for days, and even for a week, without rest,
turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of view, until
he had either fathomed it, or convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It
was soon evident to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He
took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown,33 and then
wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed, and cushions from the
sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort of Eastern divan, upon
which he perched himself cross-legged, with an ounce of shag tobacco and a box
of matches laid out in front of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting
there, an old briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner
of the 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.”
“The pipe was still between his lips.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy sleeps,
and we shall soon have the trap out.” He chuckled to himself as he spoke, his
eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the sombre thinker of the
previous night.
As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was stirring.
It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished when Holmes
returned with the news that the boy was putting in the horse.
“I want to test a little theory of mine,” said he, pulling on his boots. “I think,
Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of one of the most absolute
fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from here to Charing Cross.34 But I think
I have the key of the affair now.”
“And where is it?” I asked, smiling.
“In the bath-room,” 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.35 Come on, my boy, and we shall see
whether it will not fit the lock.”
We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible; and out into the bright
morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with the half-clad stable-
boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and away we dashed down the
London Road. A few country carts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the
metropolis, but the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as
some city in a dream.
“It has been in some points a singular case,” said Holmes, flicking the horse
on into a gallop. “I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better to
learn wisdom late, than never to learn it at all.”
In town, the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from their
windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side.36 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.37
Sherlock Holmes was well known to the Force, and the two constables at the
door saluted him. One of them held the horse’s head while the other led us in.
“Who is on duty?” asked Holmes.
“Inspector Bradstreet,38 sir.”
“Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?” A tall, stout official had come down the stoneflagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. “I wish to have a 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
telephone39 projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”
“I called about that beggarman, Boone—the one who was charged with being
concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee.”
“Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries.”
“So I heard. You have him here?”
“In the cells.”
“Is he quiet?”
“Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel.”
“Dirty?”
Bow St. Police Court.
The Queen’s London (1897)
“Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is as black
as a tinker’s. Well, when once his case has been settled, he will have a regular
prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you would agree with me that he needed
it.”
“I should like to see him very much.”
“Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your bag.”
“No, I think that I’ll take it.”
“Very good. Come this way, if you please.” He led us down a passage, opened
a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to a white-washed
corridor with a line of doors on each side.
“The third on the right is his,” said the inspector. “Here it is!” He quietly shot
back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced through.
“He is asleep,” said he. “You can see him very well.”
We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his face towards us,
in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was a 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.
“He’s a beauty, isn’t he?” said the inspector.
“He certainly needs a wash,” remarked Holmes. “I had an idea that he might,
and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me.” He opened the Gladstone
bag as he spoke, and took out, to my astonishment, a very large bath sponge.
“He! he! You are a funny one,” chuckled the inspector.
“Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very quietly, we
will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure.”
“He took out a very large bath sponge.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“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.
“He broke into a scream.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1891
“Let me introduce you,” he shouted. “to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee, in the
county of Kent.”40
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!41 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 realizing the exposure, he broke into a
scream, and threw himself down with his face to the pillow.
“Great heavens!” cried the inspector, “it is, indeed, the missing man. I know
him from the photograph.”
“And what am I charged with?”
Artist unknown, Chicago Inter-Ocean, December 6, 1891
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?”
“With making away with Mr. Neville St.—Oh, come, you can’t be charged
with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of it,” said the inspector,
with a grin. “Well, I have been twenty-seven years in the Force, but this really
takes the cake.”
“If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has been
committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained.”
“No crime, but a very great error has been committed,” said Holmes. “You
would have done better to have trusted your wife.”
“It was not the wife, it was the children,” groaned the prisoner. “God help me,
I would not have them ashamed of their father. My God! What an exposure!
What can I do?”
Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch, and patted him kindly on
the shoulder.
“If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up,” said he, “of course
you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you convince the police
authorities that there is no possible case against you, I do not know that there is
any reason that the details should find their way into the papers. Inspector
Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which you might tell us
and submit it to the proper authorities. The case would then never go into court
at all.”
“God bless you!” cried the prisoner passionately. “I would have endured
imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left my miserable secret as a
family blot to my children.
“You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a
schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent education. I traveled
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,42 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 red head of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the busiest 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.43
“I wrote my articles, and thought little more of the matter until, some time
later, I backed a bill44 for a friend, and had a writ served upon me for £25. I was
at my wits’ end where to get the money, but a sudden idea came to me. I begged
a fortnight’s grace from the creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers,
and spent the time in begging in the City under my disguise. In ten days I had the
money and had paid the debt.
“Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work at two
pounds 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,45 and I
threw up reporting, and sat day after day in the corner which I had first chosen,
inspiring pity by my ghastly face, and filling my pockets with coppers. Only one
man knew my secret. He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to lodge in
Swandam Lane, where I could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar, and in
the evenings transform myself into a well-dressed man about town. This fellow,
a Lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew that my secret was
safe in his possession.
“Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of money. I do
not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could earn seven hundred
pounds 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 recognized character in the City. All
day a stream of pennies, varied by silver, poured in upon me, and it was a very
bad day upon which I failed to take two pounds.
“As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country, and
eventually married, without any one 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 above the opium
den, when I looked out of my window and saw, to my horror and astonishment,
that my wife was standing in the street, with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave
a cry of surprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and rushing to my
confidant, the Lascar, entreated him to prevent any one 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, re-opening by my violence a small cut which I
had inflicted upon myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat,
which was weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from the
leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the window, and it
disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed, but at that
moment there was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few minutes after I
found, rather, I confess, to my relief, that instead of being identified as Mr.
Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his murderer.
“I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was determined
to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my preference for a dirty
face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring, and
confided it to the Lascar at a moment when no constable was watching me,
together with a hurried scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear.”
“That note only reached her yesterday,” said Holmes.
“Good God! What a week she must have spent!”
“The police have watched this Lascar,” said Inspector Bradstreet, “and I can
quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter unobserved.
Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his, who forgot all about it for
some days.”
“That was it,” said Holmes, nodding approvingly, “I have no doubt of it. But
have you never been prosecuted for begging?”
“Many times; but what was a fine to me?”
“It must stop here, however,” said Bradstreet. “If the police are to hush this
thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone.”
“I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take.”46
“In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may be taken.47
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.”48
“A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME . . .”
THE NARRATOR of “The Man with the Twisted Lip,” who purports to be John H.
Watson, M.D., is at home with his wife when Kate Whitney unexpectedly arrives.
Watson’s wife invites Kate: “[S]it here comfortably and tell us all about [your
problem]. Or should you rather than I sent James off to bed?”
The identity of “James” has plagued students of the Canon for more than sixty
years, with the proposed solutions ranging from the mundane to the grotesque.
Among the more benign proposals is Dorothy L. Sayers’s famous suggestion, in
her essay “Dr. Watson’s Christian Name,” that “James” is an affectionate
reference to Watson’s middle name of “Hamish,” the Scots for “James.” In
another version of the “pet name” theory, Ebbe Curtis Hoff proposes that
“James” was a playful reference to Watson’s role as Holmes’s Boswell—James
Boswell.
An ingenious innocent explanation is proffered by Donald A. Yates, in “An
Illumination of the ‘John/James’ Question,” who proposes that this “slip” was a
familial codeword employed by Watson’s wife (to whom troubled friends came
“like birds to a lighthouse”) meaning “John, leave us alone to talk privately.”
However, H. W. Bell, in Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson: The Chronology
of Their Adventures, dismisses “James” as a mere typographical error; similarly
John Ball Jr., in “Early Days in Baker Street,” asserts that Watson’s scribbled
“John” could have been misread as “James” by the typographer. Dorothy Sayers
rejects the “typographical error” theory on the basis that Watson must have
reread the story in various book editions and never corrected it. Unlike other
errors, one would expect Watson to remember his own name!
Casting the blame on Mrs. Watson, Christopher Morley (“Was Sherlock
Holmes An American?”) ascribes the “James” to forgetfulness on the part of
Mrs. Watson, even going so far as to suggest that this slip may have led to the
Watsons’ eventual separation.
Others pin the “James” discrepancy on Dr. Watson, claiming that the “James”
reference was deliberate. For example, in “John and James,” Giles Playfair
argues that Watson intentionally falsified the records by having his wife refer to
him as “James” (to avoid a possible libel action by Isa Whitney or Neville St.
Clair), but later threw in the cabby’s name, “John,” as a clue to the true author of
“The Man with the Twisted Lip.” The possibility that Watson’s name was really
“James,” while he chose for some unspecified reason to use “John H.” as his pen
name, is advanced by J. S. Coltart. Thomas I. Francis suggests that Watson
deliberately left or placed the name “James” in the manuscript to show other
women that his wife did not even know his name. “The use of ‘James’ provides
a clue as to why this marriage did not last,” Francis writes.
Some scholars see the “James” reference as an indication of a “second hand”
in the narrative. For example, T. S. Blakeney writes, “Composite authorship may
generally be attributed to historical writings, irrespective of whether the original
record was the work of the putative author or of another person of the same
name; and the suggestion arises that the ‘James’ Watson spoke of in The Man
with the Twisted Lip may be one of these editors.”
There are numerous suggestions that “James” refers to some person other than
the narrator. Least disruptive to the traditional view of the Watson household is
Ralph A. Ashton’s thought that “James” was the name of Watson’s bull pup.
More radical are ideas that “James was Watson’s stepson, by the doctor’s
marriage to Mrs Forrester rather than to Mary Watson” (A. Carson Simpson, in
“It Must Have Been Two Other Fellows”) or that “[t]here must have been a
former husband—James by name . . .” (Arthur K. Akers). Ruth Berman, in
“James Watson,” hypothesises that “James” is not an error or a pet name for Dr.
Watson but a reference to an adopted son—a child young enough to be described
as being sent to bed, and whose death was the “sad bereavement” to which
Watson referred in “The Empty House.” Corroborative evidence, the author
argues, is the extra room in the Watson’s flat mentioned in “The Crooked Man.”
A similar notion, that “James” was John and Mary’s newly born son who failed
to survive infancy, is proposed by C. Alan Bradley and William A. S. Sarjeant.
Even more fantastic is Bliss Austin’s speculation, entitled “What Son Was
Watson? A Case of Identity,” that there were two Watsons, John and James; that
John died prematurely (shortly after the adventure of “The Reigate Squires”);
and that James, seizing a good opportunity, thereupon masqueraded as his elder
brother. Equally outré is Ian Neil Abrams’s suggestion that there were identical
twins named John and James Watson. Abrams proposes that during that fateful
day in Afghanistan, John was wounded in the shoulder and James in the leg. It
was John who met Holmes in Bart’s and who originally shared rooms with him
in the Baker Street flat. But later, as his practice developed, it was James who
would actually occupy the room. It was James who shared the adventure of The
Sign of Four and subsequently married Mary Morstan; it was James who
attended John’s practice during the frequent intervals when “the game was
afoot.” Holmes may or may not have known the truth, suggests Abrams.
The “deutero-Watson” theories actually find support in a letter from Arthur
Conan Doyle to the editor of the Strand Magazine on March 4, 1908: “I don’t
suppose so far as I see that I should write [sic] a new ‘Sherlock Holmes’ series
but I see no reason why I should not do an occasional scattered story under some
such heading as ‘Reminiscences of Mr. Sherlock Holmes (Extracted from the
diaries of his friend, Dr. James Watson).’”
But for sheer audacity, no proposed solution can match that expounded by
Robert S. Katz and David N. Haugen. Haugen explains their idea: “Mary’s
‘James’ in The Twisted Lip was not the result of a mistake, typographical error,
forgetfulness, or any other previously cited reason. On that quiet evening she had
been silently reliving those days of love with her most ardent suitor. During the
ensuing turmoil, it was his name, ‘James,’ she spoke, not that of her new
husband.” That man: James Moriarty!
1 “The Man with the Twisted Lip” was published in the Strand Magazine in December 1891. It appeared in
the Philadelphia Inquirer a month before its appearance in the New York Strand Magazine (January 1892)
as “The Strange Tale of a Beggar.” See “A Scandal in Bohemia,” note 1.
2 No such college exists—perhaps Watson here conceals the Roman Catholic Missionary College of St.
Joseph.
3 Opium, obtained by processing the juice from unripe poppy-seed pods, has as its principal ingredient the
alkaloid morphine, a narcotic that may be processed further to create heroin. Cultivated as long ago as 3400
B.C. by the Sumerians, who called it “Hul Gil,” or “the joy plant,” opium spread throughout the East and
eventually made its way to England and America, where it was used for both medicinal and recreational
purposes. With the conquest of India, England actively fostered the cultivation and trade of the drug
through the British East India Company, which had a government-controlled monopoly on its Indian trade.
So important did opium become to the British economy that efforts by China (which had outlawed the drug
in 1799) to halt its import led the British to instigate and claim victory in two “Opium Wars,” in 1839–1842
(which also resulted in the cession of Hong Kong to England) and 1856–1860, and British importation of
opium from India to China increased annually.
The British government took steps to curb opium use in the late 1800s and early 1900s, but by then the
genie was well out of the bottle. Although opium was commonly viewed as a symbol of Eastern
licentiousness and corruption, the lure of its calming, euphoric properties claimed some famous literary
addicts, including poets Charles Baudelaire, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Samuel Coleridge (whose “Kubla
Khan” was inspired by an opium-induced dream), and John Keats and novelist Wilkie Collins (The
Moonstone, The Woman in White). Critics have speculated that Lewis Carroll’s fantastic Alice’s Adventures
in Wonderland (1865) was written as a result of (or at least referred to) opium use.
The drug’s addictive properties were not well understood. The 1888 Encylopœdia Britannica scoffed at
any notion that smoking opium might be considered dangerous, comparing the smoking of opium—which
enabled smokers “to undergo great fatigue and to go for a considerable time with little or no food”—to
moderate alcohol or tobacco consumption. Ultimately, “[w]hen carried to excess it becomes an inveterate
habit; but this happens chiefly in individuals of weak will-power, who would just as easily become the
victims of intoxicating drinks, and who are practically moral imbeciles, also addicted to other forms of
depravity.”
This view—that use of drugs such as opium, cocaine, and morphine could be beneficial—sounds much
like Holmes’s defence of his use of cocaine: “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” (The Sign of Four). Watson did not share this view (“Count the cost! Your brain may, as
you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid process, which involves increased tissuechange and may at least 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?” [The Sign of Four]) and exerted continuous
efforts over the length of his partnership with Holmes to wean him from drug usage, knowing full well that
his task could never be completed.
4 Thomas De Quincey (1785–1859), English essayist and critic. His best-known work was Confessions of
an English Opium-Eater, first published in the London Magazine in 1821. Although the work’s avowed
purpose was to warn the reader of the dangers of opium, it combined a journalistic exposé of the subject
with a contradictory picture of the subjective pleasures of drug addiction: “Thou has the keys of Paradise,
oh just, subtle, and mighty opium!” Not surprisingly, De Quincey remained an opium addict until his death.
5 An alcoholic preparation of opium in liquid form, commonly administered as a pain reliever in Victorian
times.
6 There is no indication in The Sign of Four—or any other tale in which she is mentioned, for that matter—
that Mary Morstan has this character, and John D. Beirle points this out in “The Curious Incident of the
Drive Through Middlesex and Surrey.” Ian McQueen argues that Watson’s use of the past tense—“came”
instead of “come”—signifies that in 1891, when “The Man with the Twisted Lip” was published, Mary
Morstan was dead.
7 Explanations of the reference to a person named “James”—of course Watson’s first name is John—range
from the ingenious to the outlandish and are collected in “ ‘A Rose by Any Other Name . . .’ ” on page 194.
8 This was a disguised name. J. C. Parkinson, in his Places and people, being studies from life (1869),
reports visiting an opium den, which he refers to as Yahee’s (the proprietor’s name). Charles Dickens (Jr.)’s
Dickens’s Dictionary of London (1879) notes Johnstone’s garret, off the Ratcliff Highway (mentioned in
The Mystery of Edwin Drood, 1870—see note 12) and Johnny Chang’s den in the London and St. Katharine
Coffee-house, in the Ratcliff Highway, as popular opium smoking dens. J. Hall Richardson’s “Ratcliff
Highway and the Opium Dens of To-Day,” which appeared in Cassell’s Saturday Journal of January 17,
1891, described a “Mahogany Bar” among other dockside haunts of “wily Lascars.” In Wilkie Collins’s The
Moonstone (1868), the opium den was named The Wheel of Fortune.
9 There is, or was, no “Upper Swandam Lane” in London, and the commentators have been unable to agree
on an identification.
10 Until the middle of the eighteenth century, London Bridge was the only bridge over the Thames in
London. The first London Bridge was built by the Romans circa 43 A.D., but as it was made of wood, it
proved susceptible to fire, flood, and attack and had to be rebuilt several times. (One such rebuilding was
necessitated after Anglo Saxons and Vikings sailed up the Thames to attack London and were showered
with spears by Danes defending the bridge; the attackers covered their heads with the roofs of nearby
houses, getting close enough to the bridge to pull it down with ropes. The incident is popularly thought to
be the basis for the nursery rhyme “London Bridge is Falling Down.”)
The first London Bridge to be made of stone was completed in 1209; the bridge referred to here was
opened in 1831 and stood slightly north of the old bridge (which was by then dismantled). The 1831
structure stood for over a century, until it was transported to Lake Havasu, Arizona, in 1968. Baedeker
noted in 1896: “It is estimated that, in spite of the relief afforded by the Tower Bridge, 22,000 vehicles and
about 110,000 pedestrians cross London Bridge daily.”
11 A store where ready-made, cheap, or inferior garments are sold. The term is derived from the meaning
of “slop” as a loose covering garment for workmen, such as a surplice, smock, or overalls, and can be traced
to Chaucer (1386).
12 Watson’s description may be compared with that in “A Night in an Opium Den,” by the anonymous
author of “A Dead Man’s Diary,” which appeared in the June 1891 issue of the Strand Magazine. (The
article is generally regarded now as wholly fictional.) Other authors of the time who attempted to depict the
squalour of the opium den include Oscar Wilde, whose The Picture of Dorian Gray (1891) spoke of “opium
dens where one could buy oblivion, dens of horror where the memory of old sins could be destroyed by the
madness of sins that were new” and where Dorian Gray, himself craving the drug, is fascinated by “the
twisted limbs, the gaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes” he sees in one such place. In Dickens’s The
Mystery of Edwin Drood, the protagonist, John Jasper, awakens “in the meanest and closest of small
rooms,” sharing a bed with “a Chinaman, a Lascar, and a haggard woman. The first two are in a sleep or
stupor; the last is blowing at a kind of pipe, to kindle it. . . . ‘Another?’ says this woman, in a querulous,
rattling whisper. ‘Have another?’” Charles Dickens, Jr., identified the room as an accurate depiction of
“Johnstone’s garret” (see note 8).
13 Watson is in error about the day, the month, or the year: June 19, 1889, was a Wednesday.
14 An opium pipe consists of a long stem and metal bowl. Although opium use was subjected to various
legal restrictions, as late as 1907, the British continued to sell opium to China and other countries, and the
normally staid Encyclopœdia Britannica, in its 1910 edition, continued to carry instructions for its use.
15 Watson’s confidence in the honesty of the cabman, and his cavalier attitude toward Kate Whitney, who
was anxiously awaiting the delivery of her husband—and Watson’s own wife, presumably by now in a
similar state over her own husband—are astonishing at the least. In the view of Clifton R. Andrew (“What
Happened to Watson’s Married Life After June 14, 1889?”), Watson failed to refer to Mrs. Watson in
stories after “Man with the Twisted Lip” because their marriage ended in divorce, as a result of conduct
such as Holmes suggests and Watson adopts here.
16 This is an Anglo-Persian term, which formerly meant a noncombatant but later came to mean any extra
personnel on shipboard and especially “native” (that is, non-white) sailors who supplemented the crews of
European vessels in Eastern waters. The large steamship companies especially favoured them, reportedly on
account of their greater docility, temperance, and obedience to orders.
17 A “dog-cart” was an open one-horse vehicle with two transverse seats back-to-back, possibly with the
rearmost seat made to close to form a box for dogs.
18 David L. Hammer identifies the building now used as the Convent of the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and
Mary, in Belmont Hill, as The Cedars, Lee.
19 D. Martin Dakin wonders at the identity of this mysterious “John,” pointing out that he could not be St.
Clair’s coachman, or he would not have remained in London while Holmes rode away. Dakin suggests,
“John . . . must have been one of those casual employés whom Holmes had at his beck and call all over
London. . . . It is to be hoped that he did not wait too long next morning for the appointment that Holmes
never kept.”
20 Watson means “rack,” clouds, or a mass of cloud, driven before the wind in the upper air.
21 This was Holmes’s own bank (“The Priory School”) as well as that of Arthur Conan Doyle and Arthur
Cadogan West (“The Bruce-Partington Plans”).
22 A box of wooden blocks for a child to build with.
23 Indeed, the high tide for Monday, June 17, 1889, at London Bridge occurred at about 4:30 P.M.
24 Short matches, with shanks of thin wax tapers. In Roman mythology, Vesta was the goddess of the
hearth; she was assisted by the Vestal Virgins in assuring that the sacred fire never went out.
25 Threadneedle Street is best known as the southern boundary of The Bank of England building, an
irregular and isolated building of one storey devoid of windows. Alexander Holder, of Holder & Stevenson
(“The Beryl Coronet”), also had his banking office in Threadneedle Street.
26 One scholar computes that the pennies would have weighed over twelve pounds!
27 On March 31, 1889, an Act of Parliament created a single new “Administrative County of London,”
which included the City of London and parts of the counties of Middlesex, Surrey, and Kent (including Lee,
which became a part of Lewisham). Holmes’s remark here, of “three English counties,” reflects what must
have been the residual popular usage and not a legally accurate description.
28 Because any local inquiries about St. Clair’s antecedents and habits would not have been likely to take
several days, commentators look with grave suspicion on Holmes’s sojourn at The Cedars. Three distinct
theories have evolved to explain it:
First, Roberta Pearson theorises that Holmes was enjoying an illicit liaison with Mrs. St. Clair. This
possibility is considered further in note 30.
Alternatively, Bernard Davies, in “Holmes and the Halls,” argues that Neville St. Clair and Holmes were
old friends. This preexisting friendship ultimately gave Holmes the knowledge of St. Clair’s background
that he needed to solve the case. Holmes’s “solution” of the mystery is never explained, although, if Watson
knew of their friendship, how Holmes came to the solution must have been obvious to Watson. Watson
could only have omitted mention of the friendship at Holmes’s request, reflecting Holmes’s desire to
repress publicity about his own background.
But D. Martin Dakin rejects this theory, noting that no sign of recognition is given when the two men
later meet. Dakin continues, “I think it is more likely that Mrs. St. Clair herself was an old friend of
Holmes, in no romantic sense, but possibly through his family, or in connection with some earlier case, and
she had begged him to come and help her. . . . [Holmes] was perhaps rather shy of mentioning this to
Watson, as he had made a point of being a friendless person.”
Brad Keefauver, in Sherlock and the Ladies, lends support to this third theory, which explains Holmes’s
unexpected friendliness on the basis of a preexisting friendship with Mrs. St. Clair. Keefauver points out her
outstanding qualities: (1) Courage, demonstrated by her charge into the opium den; (2) a “quick feminine
eye” (and ear), evidenced by her uncanny bond with her husband (which Keefauver explains as observation
of subtleties); and (3) a flair for the dramatic. “Such traits sound strangely familiar,” Keefauver observes,
“and you have to wonder where she got them. Whether she picked them up genetically, as a cousin or
sibling, or merely got them through close contact, as a childhood playmate, it would seem that Mrs. St.
Clair came by her familiarity with Holmes quite naturally—as an old friend.” It must be admitted that the
foregoing is more palatable than Mr. Keefauver’s other suggestion, in “Domesticity in Disguise,” that
Neville St. Clair and Mrs. Neville St. Clair were not husband and wife (à la The Hound of the Baskervilles)
but brother and sister, and that she was really the wife of Sherlock Holmes.
29 A thin silk-like material similar to muslin (mousseline being French for muslin, soie for silk).
30 “Surely as men of the world,” writes an amused Richard Asher in “Holmes and the Fair Sex,” “we can
interpret [this posture] correctly.” As evidence that Mrs. St. Clair had “designs” on Holmes, Asher points to
her insistence that Holmes stay at her house in Kent, an inconvenient seven miles from the scene of
Holmes’s investigation; her attire and attitude at the arrival of Watson and Holmes seem less that of a
bereaved wife than a “designing woman.” Another indication is her reaction to the arrival of Watson (who
had met Holmes only by chance in the opium den), for Watson goes on to note that the sight of the two men
caused her to give out “a cry which sank into a groan,” as Holmes simply shrugs. “Is it not abundantly clear
that Holmes had brought Watson with him as a chaperon?” asks Asher. “Yet, even with [Watson sleeping in
his room], Holmes does not seem to have felt quite secure, for he sat up all night on a pile of cushions
smoking shag and probably ruminating over his narrow escape.”
C. Alan Bradley and William A. S. Sarjeant, in Ms. Holmes of Baker Street: The Truth about Sherlock,
see this incident as the plainest indication that Holmes was a woman. Of course, the entire incident is easily
explicable by those who suggest a homosexual relationship between Holmes and Watson (for example,
Larry Townsend’s The Sexual Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, first published by “J. Watson” in 1971).
31 Yet “Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window . . .”
32 A printer’s term for the page size obtained by folding a printer’s sheet into eight leaves. In contrast,
“folio size” is the result of folding a printer’s sheet once to make two leaves (four pages); “quarto size” is
the product of folding a sheet twice, making four leaves (eight pages).
33 In “The Blue Carbuncle,” Holmes wears a purple dressing gown; in “The Empty House” and “The
Bruce-Partington Plans,” he sports a “mouse-coloured” gown. Whether Holmes owned three dressing
gowns or one is addressed by Christopher Morley in “Was Sherlock Holmes an American?”: “Elementary.
This particular gown was blue when new. . . . It had gone purple by the time of ‘The Blue Carbuncle.’
During the long absence 1891–1894, when Mrs. Hudson faithfully aired and sunned it in the backyard, it
faded to mouse.” S. B. Blake suggests instead that Holmes had two gowns, one blue, one purple, that were
burned in the fire set by Moriarty’s minions in April 1891 (see “The Final Problem”), and that Holmes
acquired a third gown in Italy (see “The Empty House”), which he took with him during his travels in Tibet
and elsewhere. Richard Lancelyn Green dismisses the controversy, observing that the dressing-gown was
likely borrowed from Neville St. Clair.
34 A district in central London, it is so named for the stone cross placed there in 1290 by Edward I,
marking the final stop of twelve along the route of the funeral procession for his first wife, Eleanor of
Castile. (The decaying cross was destroyed in 1643 and replaced with a copy in 1863.) “Charing” is thought
by some to be a corruption of chère reine, or French for “beloved queen”; others think it a corruption of the
village “Cheringe” which stood there in the thirteenth century. It is frequently mentioned in the Canon, and
Holmes and Watson regularly used the Charing Cross railway station and, in “The Bruce-Partington Plans,”
a trap for a foreign agent was set at the Charing Cross Hotel. Even a century earlier, Samuel Johnson had
remarked, “I think the full tide of human existence is at Charing Cross.”
Today Charing Cross, long the home of antiquarian booksellers, may be best remembered from the title
of Helene Hanff’s 1970 collection of letters 84, Charing Cross Road (and the subsequent film), inspired by
her correspondence with a bookseller located there.
35 A travelling bag or small portmanteau, opening out flat, named after W. E. Gladstone, prime minister of
England.
36 The “Surrey side” of London meant the area south of the Thames, predominantly working-class.
37 The original Bow Street court was established in 1740 by Sir Thomas de Veil. His successor, Judge
Henry Fielding, and his brother John in 1749 supplemented the court with a group of constables in an effort
to combat the city’s widespread corruption, crime, and disorganised system of policing. The office’s stable
of constables—originally known as “Robin Redbreasts” for their red waistcoats, and later known as the
“Bow Street Runners”—were an important step in police reform. In 1836, the Bow Street Horse Patrol was
subsumed by Home Secretary Sir Robert Peel’s ambitious new Metropolitan Police Force, created in 1829
(and known popularly as “Bobbies” or “Peelers”); in 1839, the Bow Street Foot Patrol came under the
control of the Metropolitan force. The fame of the Bow Street Runners was helped in no small part by
publication of Richmond; or, Scenes in the life of a Bow Street Officer (1827), probably written by Thomas
Skinner Surr, which became a cornerstone of detective writing along with Vidoq’s memoirs (see
Foreword).
Bow Street also gained fame as a magistrates’ court, where many of London’s high-profile criminal
cases were tried. The building visited by Holmes and Watson, known as the “New Bow Street Police
Court,” was constructed in 1878–1881 to better house both police station and court functions. The building
was also marked by its distinctive outside lights, which were white rather than the traditional blue. These
lights were used at the request of Queen Victoria, who frequently attended the nearby Opera House and
disliked being reminded of the blue room in which her beloved Prince Albert had died.
38 Bradstreet also appears in “The Blue Carbuncle” and “The Engineer’s Thumb.” Bradstreet’s postings
changed over time. Here, he is posted to the E Division of Scotland Yard. In “The Blue Carbuncle,” he was
serving in B Division, according to the newspapers, and arrested John Horner. In “The Engineer’s Thumb,”
he accompanied Holmes to Eyford, revealing himself to be assigned most likely to the central headquarters
staff.
39 Alexander Graham Bell first demonstrated the telephone in 1876 with his famous statement “Watson—
come here—I want you” (no known relation to the chronicler of these stories), and in 1889 Almon Strowger
patented the direct-dial telephone. London’s communications were mainly handled by the National
Telephone Co., which maintained numerous call-rooms throughout London and its districts that were open
to the public at the rate of 3d. for each three minutes’ conversation.
40 Nathan Bengis observes, “[H]ad [Holmes] been as adept in seeing through the disguises of others as he
was in fooling others with his own, [he] would have solved this case practically at the start. . . . at no time
during these close contacts did it occur to him that the ‘shock of orange hair’ and the ‘pale face disfigured
by a horrible scar’ were—or even might be—a disguise.”
41 “[W]hatever [Holmes] knew about putting on make-up, he seems to have known very little about
getting the stuff off, if he thought it could be done with two rubs with a sponge moistened in water,” writes
D. Martin Dakin. “As everyone knows who has ever taken part in theatricals, a very careful application of
cold cream is necessary; any attempt to remove it with soap and water would have disastrous results.”
Dakin concludes that Watson must have been exaggerating when describing St. Clair’s quick and dramatic
transformation: “[I]n fact St. Clair must have presented a decidedly piebald appearance as he told his story.”
42 Before the invention of electrical footlights, theatres were lit by limelight and gaslight, which required
exaggerated face paint to achieve a “natural” look. These paints were often composed of toxic dyes and
were crude and dangerous. Grease-paint sticks replaced powder-based make-up after their invention in the
1860s by Ludwig Leichner, a Wagnerian opera singer.
43 As early as 1838, there were more than 8,000 professional beggars in London, and the public rewarded
them with donations estimated at over £350,000 per year. Neville’s claimed earnings, therefore, while
above average, are credible.
44 That is, served as a guarantor or surety.
45 “Dollar” was British slang for the crown, or 5-shilling piece.
46 “The Man with the Twisted Lip” was published in December 1891 in the Strand Magazine, reporting
events of June 1889. In Tit-Bits of January 17, 1891, an article entitled “A Day as a Professional Beggar”
appeared. The author records that he had the idea of becoming a beggar for a day. He engaged a small room
in a back street and, applying a change of clothes and some make-up, stationed himself in the street. The
anonymous author recounts how he received a severe fright when he saw his closest friend with a lady of
his acquaintance approaching him. He reports that he earned three shillings and sixpence for his day’s
“work.” Did Neville St. Clair break his “most solemn oaths” and return to begging?
47 “Imagine . . . a superintendent of police being complaisant enough to overlook a systematic robbery of
the public by a fraudulent beggar, and undertaking without demur not to prosecute,” J. B. Mackenzie writes
in “Sherlock Holmes’ Plots and Strategy,” in 1902.
48 John D. Beirle makes much of two points in the story, the previously unknown character of Mary
Morstan Watson as a “lighthouse” (see note 6) and her reference to her husband as “James” (see Appendix).
“Viewed objectively,” he concludes, “The Man with the Twisted Lip gives evidence of hasty and even
careless composition by someone not familiar with Dr. Watson’s family life.” He infers that the story was
not written by Watson but rather by Arthur Conan Doyle. Beirle’s view is not a popular one.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE1
Esteemed Holmes scholar and writer
Christopher Morley referred to “The Blue
Carbuncle” as “a Christmas story without
slush,” and some readers favour the story—the
only tale in the Canon set in the holiday
season—over such traditional fare as
Dickens’s “A Christmas Carol.” Like Frank
Capra’s brilliant film “It’s a Wonderful Life,”
the tale of the stolen gem commemorates the
triumph of compassion over justice. There are
gems within the story, to be sure: Holmes’s
tour-de-force deductions from hapless Henry
Baker’s hat, Holmes’s deception of
Breckinridge, the sporting seller of geese, and
the clever but ultimately foolish plan of the
criminal to smuggle the countess’s carbuncle
to his “fence” in Kilburn. What draws us back
each year, however, is the evident warmth of
the friendship between Holmes and Watson, as
Watson travels from his married household to
visit his bachelor friend and wish him
“compliments of the season.” Sherlock
Holmes, too, appears more human, less the
“perfect reasoner,” again taking the law into
his own hands. After all, he concludes
magnanimously, “It is the season of
forgiveness.”
I HAD CALLED UPON my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after
Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season.2 He
was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his
reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly
studied, near at hand. Beside the couch was a wooden chair, and on the angle of
the back hung a very seedy and disreputable hard felt hat, much the worse for
wear, and cracked in several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of
the chair suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the
purpose of examination.
“You are engaged,” said I; “perhaps I interrupt you.”
“Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my results.
The matter is a perfectly trivial one” (he jerked his thumb in the direction of the
old hat) “but there are points in connection with it which are not entirely devoid
of interest, and even of instruction.”
“A very seedy hard felt hat.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his crackling
fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were thick with the ice
crystals. “I suppose,” I remarked, “that, homely as it looks, this thing has some
deadly story linked on to it—that it is the clue which will guide you in the
solution of some mystery, and the punishment of some crime.”
“No, no. No crime,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “Only one of those
whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four million human
beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square miles. Amid the
action and reaction of so dense a swarm of humanity, every possible
combination of events may be expected to take place, and many a little problem
will be presented which may be striking and bizarre without being criminal. We
have already had experience of such.”
“So much so,” I remarked, “that of the last six cases which I have added to my
notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime.”3
“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.4 Well, I have no doubt that this small matter will fall into the same
innocent category. You know Peterson, the commissionaire?”5
“Yes.”
“It is to him that this trophy belongs.”
“It is his hat.”
“No, no; he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look upon it,
not as a battered billycock6 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 out7 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.”8
“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.’9 are legible upon the lining of this hat; but, as there
are some thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers10 in this city
of ours, it is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them.”
“What, then, did Peterson do?”
“The roughs had fled at the appearance of Peterson.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“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.”
“Did he not advertise?”
“No.”
“Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?”
“Only as much as we can deduce.”
“From his hat?”
“Precisely.”
“But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered felt?”
“Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself as to
the individuality of the man who has worn this article?”
I took the tattered object in my hands, and turned it over rather ruefully. It was
a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape, hard, and much the worse for
wear. The lining had been of red silk, but was a good deal discoloured. There
was no maker’s name; but, as Holmes had remarked, the initials “H. B.” were
scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the
elastic was missing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted
in several places, although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the
discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.
“I can see nothing,” said I, handing it back to my friend.
“On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to
reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your inferences.”
“Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?”
He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion which was
characteristic of him. “It is perhaps less suggestive than it might have been,” he
remarked, “and yet there are a few inferences which are very distinct, and a few
others which represent at least a strong balance of probability. That the man was
highly intellectual is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was
fairly well-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.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect,” 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 cut within the last few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream.11 These
are the more patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way,
that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his house.”
“You are certainly joking, Holmes.”
“Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you these results,
you are unable to see how they are attained?”
“I have no doubt that I am very stupid; but I must confess that I am unable to
follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man was intellectual?”
For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over the
forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. “It is a question of cubic
capacity,” said he; “a man with so large a brain must have something in it.”12
“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.”13
“Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight and the
moral retrogression?”
Sherlock Holmes laughed. “Here is the foresight,” said he, putting his finger
upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer. “They are never sold upon hats.
If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he
went out of his way to take this precaution against the wind. But since we see
that he has broken the elastic, and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that
he has less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a weakening
nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some of these stains
upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign that he has not entirely
lost his self-respect.”
“Your reasoning is certainly plausible.”
“The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is grizzled, that it has
been recently cut, and that he uses lime-cream, are all to be gathered from a
close examination of the lower part of the lining. The lens discloses a large
number of hair ends, clean cut by the scissors of the barber. They all appear to be
adhesive, and there is a distinct odour of lime-cream. This dust, you will
observe, is not the gritty, grey dust of the street, but the fluffy brown dust of the
house, showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the time; while the
marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive that the wearer perspired
very freely, and could therefore, hardly be in the best of training.”14
“But his wife—you said that she had ceased to love him.”
“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.”
“But he might be a bachelor.”
“Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife.
Remember the card upon the bird’s leg.”
“You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce that the
gas is not laid on in the 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.15 Anyhow, he never got
tallow stains from a gas jet. Are you satisfied?”
“Well, it is very ingenious,” said I, laughing; “but since, as you said just now,
there has been no crime committed, and no harm done save the loss of a goose,
all this seems to be rather a waste of energy.”
Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew open,
and Peterson the commissionaire rushed into the apartment with flushed cheeks
and the face of a man who is dazed with astonishment.
“The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!” he gasped.
“Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life, and flapped off through the
kitchen window?” Holmes twisted himself round upon the sofa to get a fairer
view of the man’s excited face.
“See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!”16 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?”
“A diamond, sir! A precious stone! It cuts into glass as though it were
putty.”17
“It’s more than a precious stone. It’s the precious stone.”
“Not the Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle!”18 I ejaculated.
“See what my wife found in its crop!”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have read the
advertisement about it in The Times19 every day lately. It is absolutely unique,
and its value can only be conjectured, but the reward offered of a thousand
pounds is certainly not within a twentieth part of the market price.”20
“A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!” The commissionaire plumped
down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.
“That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are sentimental
considerations in the background which would induce the Countess to part with
half of her fortune if she could but recover the gem.”
“It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan,”21 I remarked.
“Precisely so, on the twenty-second of December, just five days ago. John
Horner, a plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady’s jewel
case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has been referred to
the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here, I believe.” He rummaged
amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates, until at last he smoothed one out,
doubled it over, and read the following paragraph:
Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was
brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd inst. abstracted from
the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the valuable gem known as the
blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel, gave his
evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the dressing-room of
the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery, in order that he might
solder the second bar of the grate, which was loose. He had remained with
Horner some little time, but had finally been called away. On returning, he
found that Horner had disappeared, that the bureau had been forced open,
and that the small morocco casket in which, as it afterwards transpired, the
Countess was accustomed to keep her jewel was lying empty upon the
dressing-table. Ryder instantly gave the alarm, and Horner was arrested the
same evening; but the stone could not be found either upon his person or in
his rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to the Countess, deposed to having
heard Ryder’s cry of dismay on discovering the robbery, and to having
rushed into the room, where she found matters as described by the last
witness. Inspector Bradstreet, B division,22 gave evidence as to the arrest of
Horner, who struggled frantically, and protested his innocence in the
strongest terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having been
given against the prisoner, the magistrate refused to deal summarily with
the offence, but referred it to the Assizes. Horner, who had shown signs of
intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion, and
was carried out of court.
“Hum! So much for the police-court,” said Holmes, thoughtfully, tossing
aside the paper. “The question for us now to solve is the sequence of events
leading from a rifled jewel case at one end to the crop of a goose in Tottenham
Court Road at the other. You see, Watson, our little deductions have suddenly
assumed a much more important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the
stone came from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the
gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with which I have
bored you. So now we must set ourselves very seriously to finding this
gentleman, and ascertaining what part he has played in this little mystery. To do
this, we must try the simplest means first, and these lie undoubtedly in an
advertisement in all the evening papers. If this fail, I shall have recourse to other
methods.”
“What will you say?”
“Give me a pencil, and that slip of paper. Now, then:
Found at the corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr.
Henry Baker can have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening at 221B,
Baker Street.
That is clear and concise.”
“Very. But will he see it?”
“Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor man, the loss
was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance in breaking the
window, and by the approach of Peterson, that he thought of nothing but flight;
but since then he must have bitterly regretted the impulse which caused him to
drop his bird. Then, again, the introduction of his name will cause him to see it,
for every one 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.”23
“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 China24 and
is remarkable in having every characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue
in shade, instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has already a sinister
history. There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several
robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain weight25 of crystallized
charcoal.26 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 considerable
more value than if it were made of solid gold. That, however, I shall determine
by a very simple test, if we have an answer to our advertisement.”
“And you can do nothing until then?”
“Nothing.”
“In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall come back in
the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I should like to see the solution
of so tangled a business.”
“Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I believe. By the
way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought to ask Mrs. Hudson to
examine its crop.”27
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,28 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’s room.
“Mr. Henry Baker, I believe,” said he, rising from his armchair, and greeting
his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could so readily assume. “Pray
take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a cold night, and I observe that your
circulation is more adapted for summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have
just come at the right time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?”
“Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat.”
He was a large man, with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a broad,
intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled brown. A touch of
red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of his extended hand, recalled
Holmes’s 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 sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion,
choosing his words with care, and gave the impression generally of a man of
learning and letters who had had ill-usage at the hands of fortune.
“We have retained these things for some days,” said Holmes, “because we
expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I am at a loss to
know now why you did not advertise.”
Our visitor gave a rather shame-faced laugh. “Shillings have not been so
plentiful with me as they once were,” he remarked. “I had no doubt that the gang
of roughs who assaulted me had carried off both my hat and the bird. I did not
care to spend more money in a hopeless attempt at recovering them.”
“Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat it.”
“To eat it!” Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement.
“Yes, it would have been of no use to any one had we not done so. But I
presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about the same
weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally well?”
“Oh, certainly, certainly,” answered Mr. Baker, with a sigh of relief.
“Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your own bird,
so if you wish—”
The man burst into a hearty laugh. “They might be useful to me as relics of
my adventure,” said he, “but beyond that I can hardly see what use the disjecta
membra29 of my late acquaintance are going to be to me. No, sir, I think that,
with your permission, I will confine my attentions to the excellent bird which I
perceive upon the sideboard.”
Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of his
shoulders.
“There is your hat, then, and there your bird,” said he. “By the way, would it
bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am somewhat of a fowl
fancier, and I have seldom seen a better-grown goose.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly-gained
property under his arm. “There are a few of us who frequent the Alpha Inn, near
the Museum—we are to be found in the Museum itself during the day, you
understand.30 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.
The British Museum: The Reading Room.
“So much for Mr. Henry Baker,” said Holmes, when he
had closed the door behind him.
“It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever about the matter. Are you
hungry, Watson?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper, and follow up this clue
while it is still hot.”
“By all means.”
It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats about our
throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a cloudless sky, and the breath
of the passers-by blew out into smoke like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls
rang out crisply and loudly as we swung through the Doctors’ quarter, Wimpole
Street,31 Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street32 into Oxford Street. In a
quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury33 at the “Alpha Inn,”34 which is a
small public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs down into
Holborn.35 Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar, and ordered two
glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.
The Queen’s London (1897)
“He bowed solemnly to both of us.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“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.”36
“Indeed! I know some of them. Which was it?”
“Breckinridge is his name.”
Our footfalls rang out crisply.
Staff artists “Cargs” and E. S. Morris,
Seattle Post-Intelligencer, November 19, 1911
“Ah! I don’t know him. Well, here’s your good health, landlord, and
prosperity to your house. Good-night.
Holborn.
Victorian and Edwardian London
“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,37 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 horsy-looking38 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.
Covent Garden Market.
The Queen’s London (1897)
“Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning.”
“That’s no good.”
“Well, there are some on the stall with the gas flare.”
“Ah, but I was recommended to you.”
“Who by?”
“The landlord of the ‘Alpha.’ ”
“Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen.”
Leadenhall Market.
“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
sovereign39 on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate.”
The salesman chuckled grimly. “Bring me the books, Bill,” said he.
“The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great greasy-backed
one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp.
“Now then, Mr. Cocksure,” said the salesman, “I thought that I was out of
geese, but before I finish you’ll find that there is still one left in my shop. You
see this little book?”
“Well?”
The Queen’s London (1897)
“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.40
“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 22. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.’ ”
“Quite so. There you are. And underneath?”
“ ‘Sold to Mr. Windigate of the ‘Alpha,’ at 12s.’ ”
“What have you to say now?”
Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his
pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of a man
whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped under a lamppost, and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which was peculiar to him.
“Just read it out to me.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the ‘Pink ‘un’41
protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet,” said he. “I
daresay that if I had put a hundred pounds down in front of him that man would
not have given me such complete information as was drawn from him by the
idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we are, I fancy, nearing the
end of our quest, and the only point which remains to be determined is whether
we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott to-night, or whether we should reserve it
for to-morrow. It is clear from what that surly fellow said that there are others
besides ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should—”
His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out from
the stall which we had just left.
Turning round we saw a little rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the
circle of yellow light which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while
Breckinridge the salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists
fiercely at the cringing figure. “I’ve had enough of you and your geese,” he
shouted. “I wish you were all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any
more with your silly talk I’ll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here
and I’ll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the geese off
you?”
“No; but one of them was mine all the same,” whined the little man.
“Well then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it.”
“She told me to ask you.”
“Well, you can ask the King of Proosia,42 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 gaslight 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.”
“You are the very man.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“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 marketplace,”
said he. “But pray tell me, before we go farther, who it is that I have the pleasure
of assisting.”
The man hesitated for an instant. “My name is John Robinson,” he answered
with a sidelong glance.
“No, no; the real name,” said Holmes, sweetly. “It is always awkward doing
business with an alias.”
A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. “Well, then,” said he, “my
real name is James Ryder.”
“Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step into the
cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which you would wish to
know.”
The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with half-frightened,
half-hopeful eyes, as one 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.
“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
basketchair. I will just put on my slippers before we settle this little matter of
yours. Now, then! You want to know what became of those geese?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine, in which you
were interested—white, with a black bar across the tail.”
Ryder quivered with emotion. “Oh, sir,” he cried, “can you tell me where it
went to?”
“It came here.”
“Here?”
“Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don’t wonder that you should
take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead—the bonniest, brightest little
blue egg that ever was seen. I have it here in my museum.”
Our visitor staggered to his feet, and clutched the mantelpiece with his right
hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up the blue carbuncle, which
shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant, many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood
glaring with a drawn face, uncertain whether to claim or to disown it.
“The game’s up, Ryder,” said Holmes, quietly. “Hold up, man, or you’ll be
into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He’s not got blood
enough to go in for felony with impunity. Give him a dash of brandy. So! Now
he looks a little more human. What a shrimp it is, to be sure!”
For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy brought a
tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring with frightened eyes at his
accuser.
“I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I could
possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me. Still that little may as
well be cleared up to make the case complete. You had heard, Ryder, of this blue
stone of the Countess of Morcar’s?”
“It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it,” said he, in a crackling voice.
“I see. Her ladyship’s waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of sudden wealth so
easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for better men before you;
but you were not very scrupulous in the means you used. It seems to me, Ryder,
that there is the making of a very pretty villain in you. You knew that this man
Horner, the plumber, had been concerned in some such matter before, and that
suspicion would rest the more readily upon him. What did you do, then? You
made some small job in my lady’s room—you and your confederate Cusack—
and you managed that he should be the man sent for. Then, when he had left,
you rifled the jewel case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man arrested.
You then—”
Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug, and clutched at my
companion’s knees. “For God’s sake, have mercy!” he shrieked. “Think of my
father! of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never went wrong before! I
never will again. I swear it. I’ll swear it on a Bible. Oh, don’t bring it into court!
For Christ’s sake, don’t!”
“Get back into your chair!” said Holmes, sternly. “It is very well to cringe and
crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor Horner in the dock for a
crime of which he knew nothing.”
“ ‘Have mercy,’ he shrieked.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the charge against
him will break down.”
“Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of the next
act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the goose into the open
market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your only hope of safety.”
Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. “I will tell you just as it
happened, sir,” said he. “When Horner had been arrested, it seemed to me that it
would be best for me to get away with the stone at once, for I did not know at
what moment the police might not take it into their heads to search me and my
room. There was no place about the hotel where it would be safe. I went out, as
if on some commission, and I made for my sister’s house. She had married a
man named Oakshott, and lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls for
the market. All the way there every man I met seemed to me to be a policeman
or detective, and, for all that it was a cold night, the sweat was pouring down my
face before I came to the Brixton Road. My sister asked me what was the matter,
and why I was so pale; but I told her that I had been upset by the jewel robbery
at the hotel. Then I went into the back yard, and smoked a pipe, and wondered
what it would be best to do.
“I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has just been
serving his time in Pentonville.43 One day he had met me, and fell into talk about
the ways of thieves and how they could get rid of what they stole. I knew that he
would be true to me, for I knew one or two things about him, so I made up my
mind to go right on to Kilburn, where he lived, and take him into my confidence.
He would show me how to turn the stone into money. But how to get to him in
safety? I thought of the agonies I had gone through in coming from the hotel. I
might at any moment be seized and searched, and there would be the stone in my
waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the wall at the time, and looking at the
geese which were waddling about round my feet, and suddenly an idea came into
my head which showed me how I could beat the best detective that ever lived.
“My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick of her
geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was always as good as her
word. I would take my goose now, and in it I would carry my stone to Kilburn.44
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, prising its bill open, I thrust the
stone down its throat as far as my finger could reach. The bird gave a gulp, and I
felt the stone pass along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature
flapped and struggled, and out came my sister to know what was the matter. As I
turned to speak to her the brute broke loose, and fluttered off among the others.
“ ‘Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?’ says she.
“ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘you said you’d give me one for Christmas, and I was feeling
which was the fattest.’
“ ‘Oh,’ says she, ‘we’ve set yours aside for you. Jem’s bird, we call it. It’s the
big white one over yonder. There’s twenty-six of them, which makes one for
you, an one for us, and two dozen for the market.’
The bird gave a gulp.
Dan Smith,
Sunday Portland Oregonian, August 20, 1905
“ ‘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,’ she said, ‘and we fattened it
expressly for you.’
“ ‘Never mind. I’ll have the other, and I’ll take it now,’ said I.
“ ‘Oh, just as you like,’ said she, a little huffed. ‘Which is it you want, then?’
“ ‘That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the flock.’
“ ‘Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.’
“Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all the way to
Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man that it was easy to tell a
thing like that to. He laughed until he choked, and we got a knife and opened the
goose. My heart turned to water, for there was no sign of the stone, and 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.’
“ ‘Which dealer’s?’
“ ‘Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.’
“ ‘But was there another with a barred tail?’ I asked, ‘the same as the one I
chose?’
“ ‘Yes, Jem, there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell them
apart.’
“Well, then, of course, I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet would carry
me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at once, and not one word
would he tell me as to where they had gone. You heard him yourselves to-night.
Well, he has always answered me like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad.
Sometimes I think that I am myself. And now—and now I am myself a branded
thief, without ever having touched the wealth for which I sold my character. God
help me! God help me!” He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his face buried
in his hands.
There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing, and by the
measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes’s finger-tips upon the edge of the table.
Then my friend rose, and threw open the door.
“He burst into convulsive sobbing.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“Get out!” said he.
“What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!”
“No more words. Get out!”
And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the stairs,
the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls from the street.
“After all, Watson,” said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay pipe, “I
am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If Horner were in
danger it would be another thing, but this fellow will not appear against him, and
the case must collapse. I suppose that I am commuting a felony,45 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 gaol now, and you make him a gaol-bird for
life.46 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.47 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.”
A WINTER’S CROP
has no crop,” Miss Mildred Sammons states in a letter to the Chicago
Tribune of December 26, 1946. Dr. Jay Finley Christ, to whom her note was sent
for comment, replies: “Mildred Sammons’ announcement in the Line of Dec. 26
that ‘a goose has no crop’ produced a considerable shock among Sherlock
Holmes experts. Consultation of one ornithologist, two zoologists, and three
poultry dressers, together with ocular demonstration, made it abundantly clear
that the lady is correct. Holmes made an alimentary error, which the Baker Street
Irregulars should have noted long ago.”
S. Tupper Bigelow, in “The Blue Enigma,” seeks to defend Holmes’s
knowledge of geese. He consulted the Encylopaedia Britannica Library Research
Service: “[W]e contacted members of the Department of Ornithology at the
Natural History Museum of Chicago. I am quoting below their comments to this
office: ‘We do not know of a goose that has a crop, properly speaking. Many
geese have a gullet that distends, but it is not a dilation of the osesophagus
before its entrance into the thorax. In other words, it is not a crop.’ ”
Dr. Ernest Bloomfield Zeisler then enters the fray, taking Holmes’s side in the
matter. He quoted experts in the poultry department of the Agricultural School
of the University of New Hampshire, who state “[G]eese have crops. The crop is
simply not as visible as on a turkey, but apparently all barnyard fowl have
them.”
The Marquis of Donegall, then head of the Sherlock Holmes Society of
London and editor of the Sherlock Holmes Journal, asked two more sources, the
Minister of Agriculture and Fish, and Mr. Edward Moult, a practical farmer. The
Ministry wrote:
“A GOOSE
The view of the Ministry’s Chief Poultry Adviser, Dr. Rupert Coles, M.Sc.
(Agric.), M.Sc. (Econ.), B.A., Ph.D., D. Sc. (Agric.), D.V.Sc., is: “The
American Professor [Christ] is quite correct in stating that ‘a goose has no
crop.’ However, as a Sherlock Holmes fan I am glad to say that this fact
does not necessarily invalidate the theory in the story of ‘The Blue
Carbuncle.’ ”
Coles made his case by pointing out that chickens and turkeys have a true
crop or storage pouch at the lower end of the gullet; while geese and ducks have
no such pouch, the gullet can be dilated as much as 2-½ inches and provide
storage capacity when the gizzard is full. Assuming that the Blue Carbuncle was
three-quarters of an inch or so in diameter, Coles continued, and the goose had
been fully fed before Ryder acquired it, then the jewel could indeed have been
stored in the gullet, even if Holmes was technically in error in describing the
goose as having a crop.
Edward Moult, the farmer, replied that he believed that a goose has a crop,
albeit an elongated one (unlike the round crop of a hen). This belief, he asserted,
is supported by my veterinary surgeon, fish and game dealer, a natural
science graduate and a butcher. On the other hand my own butcher, another
vet., and Mrs. Stanton, in the village, do not think the animal is thus
endowed, or, and this is significant, they do not remember one. One should
be aware too of the complicaton caused by the use of colloquial, non
specific terms during Trans-Atlantic research.
“So I think,” concludes the Marquis, “we can take it that crop, gullet, dilation,
proventriculus, or whatever, Mr. Henry Baker’s goose—undoubtedly over-fed at
that moment—experienced no difficulty or discomfort in concealing the
Countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle for the relevant period of time. Q.E.D.”
In “The Matter Is a Perfectly Trivial One . . . ,” Peter Blau submits, however,
that “the matter of geese’s crops is really beside the point . . . if we assume that
the Blue Carbuncle was not found in the goose’s crop at all, and that the long
debate has actually centred on a printer’s error, which substituted an o for
Watson’s a.”
1 “The Blue Carbuncle” was published in the Strand Magazine in January 1892 and in the New York
Strand Magazine in February 1892. It also appeared in January 1892 in American newspapers, including the
Philadelphia Inquirer, where it ran under the title “The Christmas Goose that Swallowed a Diamond.” See
“A Scandal in Bohemia,” note 1.
2 What we think of as Christmas was actually invented, for the most part, in the Victorian era. Prior to the
1800s, Christmas, which had evolved from winter solstice festivals, had often been an occasion of raucous,
drunken celebration. The publication of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol in 1843, with its message of goodwill
and charity, helped to transform the holiday into an appreciation of family and community. The words to
many Christmas carols were penned in the 1800s, both in England and the United States, and the Christmas
tree was popularised by Prince Albert, who brought the practice over from his native Germany in the 1840s.
In addition, the tradition of exchanging Christmas cards originated during this era—the first commercial
Christmas card is said to have been printed in 1843—and, aided by the 1860 reduction of postage to a halfpenny for unsealed envelopes and formal calls such as Watson’s, attained widespread popularity by the
1870s and 1880s.
3 Fletcher Pratt computes that by 1914, when the record of Holmes’s detective activities ceases, no crimes
had taken place in one quarter of the total published cases. In nine of these cases, there was no legal crime.
In six no crime took place because Holmes intervened in time to prevent its occurrence.
4 Watson is not speaking here of crimes committed by Holmes or himself, such as throwing a smoke-bomb
into a house and creating a near-riot (“A Scandal in Bohemia”) or washing a man’s face against his will
(“The Man with the Twisted Lip”).
5 A member of the Corps of Commissionaires, an association of pensioned former soldiers, formed in
London in 1859 by a retired cavalry officer, determined to better the lot of veterans, who were often down
on their luck. Commissionaires were uniformed and acted as porters, messengers, attendants, and the like.
6 A hard low-crowned felt hat; a bowler; a derby. It is commonly thought that the first bowler hat was
designed for a Mr. William Coke (that is, “Billy Coke”) by James and George Lock and produced by their
supplier, William Bowler. Various witnesses to the Jack the Ripper murders, which occurred in 1888,
reported seeing a gentleman wearing a felt hat or billycock. The hat was very popular, and no one has yet
suggested that Henry Baker was involved in the brutal slayings.
7 If Henry Baker was proceeding northward along the west side of Tottenham Court Road and the roughs
came out of Goodge Street on the south side, or if Baker was travelling southward on the west side and the
roughs were on the north side of Goodge Street, neither party would see the other until they ran into each
other on the corner. It being “the season of forgiveness,” one likes to think that the collision was accidental.
8 Most families in the 1800s celebrated Christmas with a dinner of roast goose, although the end of the
century saw an increasing preference for turkey (a trend imported from the United States). Accompanying
the bird were often—among other treats—a plum pudding (perhaps containing coins and trinkets) and a
mincemeat pie. Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management (1861) contains several excellent recipes for
these ornaments of the holiday table.
9 S. Tupper Bigelow points out that it is just as logical to assume that Mrs. Henry Baker and Henry Baker
were mother and son or daughter-in-law and father as husband and wife. The bird might have been intended
for Mrs. Henry Baker, but “H.B.” could stand for anything. See “The Noble Bachelor” and “Black Peter”
for other coincidences of initials.
10 In fact, the London Post Office Directory of 1890 listed only seven Henry Bakers; only 139 Bakers
were listed altogether in London.
11 A popular hair cream, scented with lime.
12 The “big head, big brain; big brain, great mind” principle, a subset of the Victorian science of
phrenology, had a great many Victorian followers. It was first espoused by the Viennese physician Franz
Joseph Gall, who laid out his theory in an October 1, 1798, letter to Joseph von Retzer, explaining—his
tongue, we might assume, at least partly in cheek—“A man like you possesses more than double the
quantity of brain in a stupid bigot; and at least one-sixth more than the wisest or the most sagacious
elephant.” The thinking went that the larger the skull, the larger the brain beneath it, and the greater that
brain’s power in any number of faculties. (For a more detailed discussion of phrenology, see “The Final
Problem,” note 14.) Without weighing in on the question of intelligence, Dr. Ernest Bloomfield Zeisler
concurs that the hat wearer probably did have a good-sized brain rather than any sort of medical
abnormality. “Judging size of brain from size of hat is quite reliable,” Zeisler agrees, “for large skull
without large brain will be unusual, in such things as acromegaly and hydrocephalus; the latter could have
been excluded, and the former was practically unknown to any one before 1886, and was very rare then.”
Watson similarly remarks upon Inspector MacDonald’s “great cranium” in The Valley of Fear, and
Moriarty expresses surprise at Holmes’s lack of “frontal development” in “The Final Problem.”
13 It is a bit rash to assume, of course, that Baker could not still afford to buy an expensive hat or that it
was the only one he had. As S. Tupper Bigelow points out, Baker might well have had a battery of
expensive hats at home and chosen to wear the billycock on that particular evening.
14 “This, of course, is ‘ineffable twaddle’ and ‘unmitigated bleat’ at their best,” scoffs Bigelow. “There
cannot be a three-year-old hat in the world, now or then, whether worn by the finest Olympic athlete or a
skid-row bum, that does not have evidence of perspiration on its inside or on its inner band. Everybody
perspires in given circumstances.”
15 There are numerous improbabilities in this line of reasoning, helpfully deconstructed by J. B. Mackenzie
in 1902. First, it would seem unnecessary for this individual to bring his hat upstairs at all, let alone busy his
spare hand with it instead of simply putting it on his head. Mackenzie further remarks that grease from a
candle in one hand would hardly have an easy transfer to a hat carried in the other.
16 See “A Winter’s Crop,” page 224, for a consideration of whether a goose actually has a crop (a part of a
bird’s gullet that may be used as a pouch, for storage or digestion).
17 This is a mythical test. Diamonds, rubies, sapphires, garnets, aquamarines, beryls, and so forth are all
harder than glass and will cut it. Even tempered glass will cut glass.
18 A carbuncle is a garnet, typically cut en cabochon (with a domed top). Garnets come in many colours:
white, yellow, green, red, orange, brown, purple, and black; no “Blue Carbuncle” garnet has ever been
reported.
19 The Times had been in existence for over a century at this point, having been founded on January 1,
1785, as the Daily Universal Register (its name was changed to The Times in 1788). Its circulation in 1856
was 51,658 copies, nearly seven times that of its nearest competitor.
20 Richard Lancelyn Green remarks, “[£20,000] would be an improbable price for a stone of 12 carats
(even if it were unique). The Russian or Orloff Diamond of 194 carats in the Russian Imperial Sceptre was
valued in 1891 at £90,000, and the Hope Diamond (which had cost £18,000) was valued at £30,000. The
moonstone, in the Wilkie Collins novel of the same name (1868), was said to be worth £20,000.”
21 Probably Claridge’s, a hotel favoured by foreign royalty, nobility, and other distinguished guests
seeking a certain degree of anonymity. (Queen Victoria visited Empress Eugènie of France there in 1860).
The opulent Savoy opened in August 1889, but it is unlikely that by December 1889, the generally accepted
date of “The Blue Carbuncle,” a bedroom grate would need repair.
22 The Metropolitan Police District consisted of twenty-two divisions (now sixty-three divisions). “B”
Division at the time covered Knightsbridge, Chelsea, and Fulham, not the district in which any of the events
in “The Blue Carbuncle” occurred.
23 In 1887, there were six evening papers, excluding the purely commercial Shipping and Mercantile
Gazette. These were the Globe, dating from 1803; Evening Standard, 1827; St. James’s Gazette, 1880;
Evening News, 1881; Pall Mall Gazette, 1865; and The Echo, 1868. The Star was established in 1888.
According to Peter Calamai, in “Headlines and Deadlines: How Sherlock Holmes Used the Press,” the only
omitted general-interest afternoon daily was the Westminster Gazette. However, there were also eleven
morning papers.
24 Amoy (also known as Xiamen), a city in southern China, was captured by the British in the first Opium
War and opened up to trade as a “treaty port” as a condition of the 1842 Treaty of Nanjing. The Jiu-lung
River flows into the city of Amoy; there is no river known as the “Amoy River.”
25 Gems were customarily weighed in carats, the precise weight of which varied from country to country.
An English carat of 1889 was 3.163 troy grains, which would make the weight of the blue carbuncle 12.62
English carats. Such a gem would not be “rather smaller than a bean in size.” For comparison, the Hope
Diamond weighs 177 grains, roughly 45 carats.
26 Only diamonds are crystallised charcoal. A garnet is a combination of the elements of magnesium,
calcium, manganese or ferrous iron, together with any of the elements of aluminum, ferric iron, or
chromium. So what was the “blue carbuncle”? Doyle W. Beckmeyer suggests that it was a star sapphire;
several other scholars propose a blue diamond. D. A. Redmond, in “Some Chemical Problems in the
Canon,” makes the interesting observation that “carbonado” is one name for a massive black diamond , an
impure, dark-coloured diamond used for drilling. Thus the “blue carbonado” might be a reference to the
rare occurrence of a gem discovered in a mass of carbonado, with the gem’s extensive travel corrupting the
term to the “blue carbuncle.”
27 The gamebird known as the woodcock has no crop. See “A Winter’s Crop,” page 224.
28 A tam-o’-shanter; a soft woollen brimless hat with a flat circular crown. The fiery tropical pepper
“Scotch bonnet” is so named for the resemblance its fruit bears to this hat.
29 An adaptation of a phrase in one of Horace’s Satires (Satires I, 4, line 62): “Invenias etiam disjecti
membra poetae” (“You would still find the limbs of the dismembered poet”).
30 Although London boasted other museums in 1889 (for example, the splendid South Kensington
Museum held most of the art and artifacts gathered for the great Exhibition of 1851), the Museum was the
British Museum, founded in 1753 and located on Great Russell Street, a few blocks from where the goose
was found. Speculation as to Baker’s occupation has led D. Martin Dakin to suggest that he was a “downand-out” professor studying archaeology, or, more likely, a hack writer collecting material for another
man’s work. Dean and Shirley Dickensheet argue that Baker was a uniformed guard or attendant at the
British Museum.
31 Probably best known for its association with poets Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning, whose
passionate, clandestine correspondence—574 letters in twenty months—took place while the invalid Barrett
was living with her possessive father at 50 Wimpole Street in the early 1840s. The story of the two poets,
who married and moved to Italy in 1846, was immortalised in the 1930 play The Barretts of Wimpole Street
by Rudolf Besier, made into a movie by director Sidney Franklin in 1934 (and remade by him in 1957, in a
version including Sir John Gielgud as Mr. Barrett—Gielgud played Sherlock Holmes in BBC Light
Programme radio broadcasts in the 1950s). It has also been produced twice for television, once starring
John Neville as Robert Browning (1961)—Neville went on to play Sherlock Holmes in A Study in Terror,
1965—and once featuring Jeremy Brett in the same rôle (1982). (Brett starred as Holmes in the Granada
television series from 1984 to 1994.) The last version also included British actor Nigel Stock as a minor
character—Stock played Dr. Watson in a short-lived 1964 BBC television series.
In late 1890, Arthur Conan Doyle established a consulting room in Upper Wimpole Street.
32 Wigmore Street derives its name from Edward Harley, Earl of Oxford and Mortimer and Baron Harley
of Wigmore Castle. In The Sign of Four, Watson patronised the Wigmore Street Post Office, a visit deduced
by Holmes from the distinct mould on Watson’s instep.
33 A residential and academic district of Camden borough, Bloomsbury in the late nineteenth century was
the site of the British Museum, the College of Preceptors, University College, and the University College
Hospital. William Makepeace Thackeray’s Sedley family (Vanity Fair, 1847) lived there. Culturally, the
area is perhaps best known for the “Bloomsbury group,” a group of English intellectuals (including Lytton
Strachey, John Maynard Keynes, Virginia Woolf and Vanessa Bell, and, variously, Bertrand Russell,
Aldous Huxley, and E. M. Forster) who met frequently for drinks and conversation between 1907 and 1930
at the homes of Virginia Woolf and Vanessa Bell. Members of the group, most of them educated at
Cambridge, were renowned for casting aside the mores of Victorian society and publicly embracing
unconventionality, whether in intellectual thought, artistic expression, or sexual freedom. Beyond their
immense literary and artistic achievements, the members’ famously libertine romantic entanglements—
artist Duncan Grant’s fathering a child by Vanessa Bell, for example, whose brother, Adrian, was Grant’s
former lover; or the platonic yet devoted “marriage” of homosexual biographer Strachey and heterosexual
artist Dora Carrington—have also attracted attention in recent years.
Holmes and the Bloomsbury group were approximate contemporaries, but in outlook they were the
products of vastly different eras. While Holmes may have been characterised by Watson as “Bohemian,”
one cannot imagine Holmes, whose sexuality is virtually unmentioned in the Canon (with the extremely
limited exception of his feelings about “the woman,” mentioned in “A Scandal in Bohemia”), being
comfortable in the company of this group’s members, rushing as they were headlong toward modernism.
Indeed, notwithstanding the detective’s description of a staid Watson in “His Last Bow,” it is Holmes, not
Watson, who is truly the “one fixed point in a changing age.”
34 Christopher Morley expresses the view that “the Alpha Inn” was the Museum Tavern. The other
candidate is the “Plough” at the corner of Museum and Little Russell Streets, put forward on the tenuous
grounds that Alpha is the largest star in the constellation of the Plough. Regardless of the choice, it is
pleasant to think of Sherlock Holmes visiting these pubs in his pre-detective years. With his rooms in
Montague Street (mentioned in “The Musgrave Ritual”), the Museum Tavern was less than two blocks
away from Holmes’s first London lodgings.
David L. Hammer suggests, in For the Sake of the Game, that Watson concealed the name of the pub,
which surely would not have suffered from publicity, out of sheer habit.
British ale predates the Roman conquest of England, and British ale houses (pubs) were conducting their
businesses before the Norman conquest. A neologism of the Victorian age, the “pub” (short for “public
house”), an outgrowth of the coach-houses and taverns and inns necessitated by horse-powered travel, with
its frequent stops, flourished even after the advent of the railways. In 1869, there were 118,602 licensed
premises (almost twice as many as today).
35 High Holborn is the eastern extension of New Oxford Street. Milton once lived here, and condemned
criminals were conducted along this route to hangings at Tyburn.
36 Windigate undoubtedly refers to Covent Garden Market. But according to Baedeker, Covent Garden
Market was at the time the main vegetable, fruit, and flower market in London, and it is unlikely that geese
were sold there. The name is a corruption of “convent garden,” for produce was once grown here for the
monks of Westminster Abbey; the site also housed the Royal Opera Theatre, which first opened in 1732 (as
the Theatre Royal) and was burned to the ground twice in the 1800s. The entire market was relocated in
1974, but conservationists battled to preserve the buildings and won. They remain, adapted to other uses,
and Covent Garden is now a popular shopping and entertainment precinct.
Baedeker indicates that there were two markets specialising in poultry, the “Market for Pork, Poultry
and Provisions,” at Smithfield, and the Leadenhall Market, on Leadenhall Street, “where poultry and game
have been sold for at least 400 years.”
37 Penal servitude had three stages: (1) solitary confinement in a “close” prison, limited to nine months but
with the prisoner engaged in some industrial employment; (2) a period of labour at a “public works” prison,
and finally (3) conditional release for the unexpired portion of the sentence upon licence or ticket-of-leave
if the prisoner earned “marks” of credit for remission of up to one-quarter of his or her sentence.
38 This seems to be in the sense of having to do with horse racing, that is, characteristic of the manners,
dress, or tastes of horsemen or the habitués of racetracks (rather than a suggestion that Breckinridge
resembled a horse), as indicated by Holmes’s later observation to Watson about Breckinridge’s sideburns
and his copy of the “Pink ’un,” lending him the air of a gambling man.
39 D. Martin Dakin observes that Holmes, who had no client to cover his expenses, must have been
financially solvent enough at this time to spend a sovereign (a pound, or almost twice Watson’s daily
wound pension of 11s. 6d., mentioned in A Study in Scarlet) to get the information he wanted from Mr.
Breckinridge. Of course, he may have planned to claim the £1,000 offered by the countess for the recovery
of the stone.
40 No. 117 stood on a corner site, the side running along Blackwell Street, which used to be known as
Baker Street!
41 The popular name for the Sporting Times, a weekly paper published from 1865 to 1931. Like the
Financial Times, it was printed on pink paper.
42 Prussia was a kingdom of Europe, the largest state of the German Empire; its capital was Berlin.
William I, who assumed the Prussian throne in 1861, was proclaimed kaiser of the German Empire in 1871
after victories in the Austro-Prussian and Franco-Prussian wars (instigated by William I’s premier, Otto von
Bismarck) confirmed Prussia’s dominance. As creator of the German empire, it was Bismarck (now
chancellor, or “The Iron Chancellor”), not the empire’s sovereign, who held the reins in shaping German
domestic policy and in orchestrating international relations throughout Europe. Bismarck resigned in 1890
after a power struggle with William II, who had succeeded Frederick III as “King of Proosia” in 1888.
43 Pentonville penitentiary, which opened in London in 1842, subscribed to a rather severe disciplinary
system and served as a model for incarceration not only in England but also throughout Europe. The new
system was so lauded because London’s prisons had historically been notoriously ineffective as instruments
of punishment and notoriously corrupt. At Pentonville, a combination of solitary confinement and labour
was meant to “crush the will,” according to Robert Hughes. In addition to the twelve-hour days of cobbling
or weaving, Hughes continues, “Whenever the prisoner stepped outside his cell for muster or exercise, he
was required to don a woolen mask with eyeholes so that he could neither recognize nor be recognized by
his fellow-prisoners. The Pentonville chapel, where prisoners were assembled every day, was designed with
a separate box for each prisoner; wooden partitions and a door in each box assured that no convict could see
the man to right or left of him, only the preacher in the ‘cackle tub’ or pulpit.”
44 There was precedent for this method of conveyance. T. S. Blakeney notes in “Some Disjecta Membra”
that Sir Robert Walpole’s steward, John Wrott, used to send the rents he collected to his master inside
geese, in order to hoodwink highwaymen, who in those days (early eighteenth century) infested the roads
from Norfolk to London.
45 In “The Priory School,” Holmes accuses the Duke of Holdernesse of condoning a felony; in “The
Mazarin Stone,” Holmes agrees to compound a felony; and in “The Three Gables,” he says: “Well, well, I
suppose I shall have to compound a felony as usual.” One wonders whether commuting here is confused
with committing, condoning, or compounding. British Counsel E. J. C. concludes that no typographical
error has occurred and that Holmes meant “commuting,” in the sense of exchanging Ryder’s punishment for
one less severe. However, in England, according to E. J. C., the power to commute “is a prerogative of the
Crown and may not be delegated to a subject.” William S. Baring-Gould ponders, “Is Holmes by any
chance hinting here that he—like John Clay—had royal blood in his veins? These are deep waters, indeed . .
.”
46 Robert Keith Leavitt computes that in Holmes’s sixty cases of record there are thirty-seven definite
felonies where the criminal was known to him. In fourteen of these cases Holmes freed the guilty person.
47 This might seem to imply that Holmes, seized even further by the holiday spirit, did not accept the
countess’s reward. Although Watson fails to mention any further benevolent actions of Holmes, D. Martin
Dakin believes that Holmes shared the reward with Peterson and Henry Baker and arranged for Horner’s
immediate release.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND1
Scholars have delighted in the minutae of “The
Speckled Band,” arguing over the identity of
the “speckled band” (whose characteristics
defy those known to science), whether Holmes
again takes justice into his own hands or an
accident occurs, and the geographical sources
of cheetahs and baboons. Conan Doyle,
knowing a good story when he heard it, turned
Watson’s tale into a highly successful stage
play. Perhaps second only to “The RedHeaded League” in its popularity, “The
Speckled Band” has Gothic elements to thrill
every reader, and the confrontation between
Dr. Grimesby Roylott and Sherlock Holmes is
broadly melodramatic and highly satisfying.
IN GLANCING OVER my notes of the seventy odd cases2 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 there are widespread rumours as to the death of Dr. Grimesby
Roylott which tend to make the matter even more terrible than the truth.
It was early in April, in the year ’83, that I woke one morning to find Sherlock
Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was a late riser as a
rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece showed me that it was only a quarterpast seven, I blinked up at him in some surprise, and perhaps just a little
resentment, for I was myself regular in my habits.
“Very sorry to knock you up, Watson,” said he, “but it’s the common lot this
morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon me, and I on
you.”
“What is it, then? A fire?”
“No, a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a considerable state of
excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in the 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.”
A young lady has arrived in a considerable state of
excitement.
John Alan Maxwell, The Golden Book, December 1930
“My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything.”
I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional
investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as intuitions, and
yet always founded on a logical basis, with which he unravelled the problems
which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw on my clothes, and was ready in a
few minutes to accompany my friend down to the sitting-room. A lady dressed
in black and heavily veiled, who had been sitting in the window, rose as we
entered.
“Good morning, madam,” said Holmes cheerily. “My name is Sherlock
Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before whom you
can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see that Mrs. Hudson has
had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw up to it, and I shall order you a
cup of hot coffee, for I observe that you are shivering.”
“It is not cold which makes me shiver,” said the woman in a low voice,
changing her seat as requested.
“What, then?”
“It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror.” She raised her veil as she spoke, and we
could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of agitation, her face all drawn
and grey, with restless, frightened eyes, like those of some hunted animal. Her
features and figure were those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with
premature grey, and her expression was weary and haggard.
Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of his quick, all-comprehensive
glances.
“You must not fear,” said he, soothingly, bending forward and patting her
forearm. “We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You have come in by
train this morning, I see.”
“You know me, then?”
“No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of your left
glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good drive in a dog-cart,
along heavy roads, before you reached the station.”
“She raised her veil.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
The lady gave a violent start, and stared in bewilderment at my companion.
“There is no mystery, my dear madam,” said he, smiling. “The left arm of
your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The marks are
perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which throws up mud in that
way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand side of the driver.”
“Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,” said she. “I started
from home before six, reached Leatherhead3 at twenty past,4 and came in by the
first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this strain no longer, I shall go mad if it
continues. I have no one to turn to—none, save only one, who cares for me, and
he, poor fellow, can be of little aid. I have heard 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 two5 I shall be married, with the control of my own
income, and then at least you shall not find me ungrateful.”
Holmes turned to his desk, and unlocking it, drew out a small case-book
which he consulted.
“Farintosh,” said he. “Ah, yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with an opal
tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson.6 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 reward; but you are at liberty to defray
whatever expenses7 I may be put to, at the time which suits you best. And now I
beg that you will lay before us everything that may help us in forming an
opinion upon the matter.”
“Alas!” replied our visitor, “the very horror of my situation lies in the fact that
my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so entirely upon small points,
which might seem trivial to another, that even he to whom of all others I have a
right to look for help and advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the
fancies of a nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his
soothing answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can
see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may advise me
how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me.”
“The very horror of my situation lies in the fact that my
fears are so vague.”
John Alan Maxwell, The Golden Book, December 1930
“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,8 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 estate
extended over the borders into Berkshire9 in the north, and Hampshire10 in the
west. In the last century, however, four successive heirs were of a dissolute and
wasteful disposition, and the family ruin was eventually completed by a
gambler, in the days of the Regency.11 Nothing was left save a few acres of
ground, and the two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a
heavy mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, 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,12
where, by his professional skill and his force of character, he established a large
practice. In a fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been
perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death, and narrowly escaped
a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term of imprisonment, and
afterwards returned to England a morose and disappointed man.
“When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the
young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery.13 My sister Julia
and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the time of my mother’s remarriage. She had a considerable sum of money, not less than a thousand a year,
and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely whilst 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.14 Shortly after our return to England my mother died—she was
killed eight years ago in a railway accident15 near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then
abandoned his attempts to establish himself in practice in London,16 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.17
“But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time. Instead of
making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours, who had at first been
overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back in the old family seat, he shut
himself up in his house and seldom came out save to indulge in ferocious
quarrels with whoever might cross his path. Violence of temper approaching to
mania has been hereditary in the men of the family, and in my stepfather’s case
it had, I believe, been intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of
disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police-court, until at
last he became the terror of the village, and the folks would fly at his approach,
for he is a man of immense strength, and absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.
“Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a stream, and it
was only by paying over all the money that I could gather together that I was
able to avert another public exposure. He had no friends at all save the
wandering gipsies,18 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 cheetah19 and a
baboon,20 which wander freely over his grounds, and are feared by the villagers
almost as much as their master.
“You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had no great
pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and for a long time we did
all the work of the house. She was but thirty at the time of her death, and yet her
hair had already begun to whiten, even as mine has.”
“Your sister is dead, then?”
“She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to speak to you.
You can understand that, living the life which I have described, we were little
likely to see any one of our own age and position. We had, however, an aunt, my
mother’s maiden sister, Miss Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow,21 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-pay22 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.”
“He hurled the blacksmith over a parapet.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
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?”
“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 any one 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, amidst all the hubbub of the gale,
there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified woman. I knew that it was my
sister’s voice. I sprang from my bed, wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into
the corridor. As I opened my door I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my
sister described, and a few moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of metal
had fallen. As I ran down the passage my sister’s door was unlocked, and
revolved slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing what
was about to issue from it. By the light of the corridor lamp I saw my sister
appear at 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 recognized 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,23 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.”
“Her face blanched with terror.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“One moment,” said Holmes; “are you sure about this whistle and metallic
sound? Could you swear to it?”
“That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my strong
impression that I heard it, and yet among the crash of the gale, and the creaking
of an old house, I may possibly have been deceived.”
“Was your sister dressed?”
“No, she was in her nightdress. In her right hand was found the charred stump
of a match, and in her left a matchbox.”24
“Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the alarm
took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the coroner come to?”
“He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott’s conduct had long
been notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any satisfactory cause of
death. My evidence showed that the door had been fastened upon the inner side,
and the windows were blocked by old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars,
which were secured every night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were
shown to be quite solid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly
examined, with the same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four
large staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone when she met
her end. Besides there were no marks of any violence upon her.”
“How about poison?”
“The doctors examined her for it, but without success.”
“What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?”
“It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though what it
was that frightened her I cannot imagine.”
“Were there gipsies in the plantation at the time?”
“Yes, there are nearly always some there.”
“Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band—a speckled band?”
“Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of delirium,
sometimes that it may have referred to some band of people, perhaps to these
very gipsies in the plantation. I do not know whether the spotted handkerchiefs
which so many of them wear over their heads might have suggested the strange
adjective which she used.”
Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied.
“These are very deep waters,” said he; “pray go on with your narrative.”
“Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately lonelier
than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have known for many
years, has done me the honour to ask my hand in marriage. His name is
Armitage25—Percy Armitage—the second son of Mr. Armitage, of Crane Water,
near Reading. My stepfather has offered no opposition to the match, and we are
to be married in the course of the spring. Two days ago some repairs were
started in the west wing of the building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced,
so that I have had to move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep
in the very bed in which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror when last
night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I suddenly heard in the
silence of the night the low whistle which had been the herald of her own death.
I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was to be seen in the room. I was too
shaken to go to bed again, however, so I dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I
slipped down, got a dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and drove to
Leatherhead, from whence I have come on this morning with the one object of
seeing you and asking your advice.”
“You have done wisely,” said my friend. “But have you told me all?”
“Yes, all.”
“Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed the hand
that lay upon our visitor’s knee. Five little livid spots, the marks of four fingers
and a thumb, were printed upon the white wrist.
“You have been cruelly used,” said Holmes.
The lady coloured deeply, and covered over her injured wrist. “He is a hard
man,” she said, “and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength.”26
There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon his
hands and stared into the crackling fire.
“This is very deep business,” he said at last. “There are a thousand details
which I should desire to know before I decide upon our course of action. Yet we
have not a moment to lose. If we were to come to Stoke Moran to-day, would it
be possible for us to see over these rooms without the knowledge of your
stepfather?”
“As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some most
important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and that there
would be nothing to disturb you. We have a housekeeper now, but she is old and
foolish, and I could easily get her out of the way.”
“Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?”
“By no means.”
“Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?”
“I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in town.
But I shall return by the twelve o’clock train, so as to be there in time for your
coming.”
“And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some small
business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and breakfast?”
“No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided my
trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this afternoon.” She
dropped her thick black veil over her face, and glided from the room.
“And what do you think of it all, Watson?” asked Sherlock Holmes, leaning
back in his chair.
“It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business.”
“Dark enough, and sinister enough.”
“Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are sound, and
that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then her sister must have
been undoubtedly alone when she met her mysterious end.”
“What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the very
peculiar words of the dying woman?”
“I cannot think.”
“When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a band of
gipsies who are on intimate terms with this old Doctor, the fact that we have
every reason to believe that the Doctor has an interest in preventing his
stepdaughter’s marriage, the dying allusion to a band, and finally, the fact that
Miss Helen Stoner heard a metallic clang, which might have been caused by one
of those metal bars which secured the shutters falling back into its place, I think
that there is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along those
lines.”
“But what, then, did the gipsies do?”
“I cannot imagine.”
“I see many objections to any such theory.”
“And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to Stoke Moran
this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal, or if they may be
explained away. But what, in the name of the devil!”
The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our door
had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man framed himself in the
aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the professional and of the
agricultural, having a black top hat, a long frock coat, and a pair of high
gaiters,27 with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand. So tall was he that his hat
actually brushed the cross bar of the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it
across from side to side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned
yellow with the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to
the other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high thin fleshless
nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old bird of prey.
“Which of you is Holmes?” asked this apparition.
“My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me,” said my companion
quietly.
“I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran.”
“Indeed, Doctor,” said Holmes, blandly. “Pray take a seat.”
“Which of you is Holmes?”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“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!”28
Holmes chuckled heartily. “Your conversation is most entertaining,” said he.
“When you go out close the door, for there is a decided draught.”
“I will go when I have said my say. Don’t you dare to meddle with my affairs.
I know that Miss Stoner has been here—I traced her! I am a dangerous man to
fall foul of! See here.” He stepped swiftly forward, seized the poker, and bent it
into a curve with his huge brown hands.
“See that you keep yourself out of my grip,” he snarled, and hurling the
twisted poker into the fireplace, he strode out of the room.
“He seems a very amiable person,” said Holmes, laughing. “I am not quite so
bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my grip was not
much more feeble than his own.” As he spoke he picked up the steel poker, and,
with a sudden effort straightened it out again.
“Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official detective
force! This incident gives zest to our investigation, however, and I only trust that
our little friend will not suffer from her imprudence in allowing this brute to
trace her. And now, Watson, we shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall
walk down to Doctors’ Commons,29 where I hope to get some data which may
help us in this matter.”
It was nearly one o’clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his excursion.
He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over with notes and figures.
“I have seen the will of the deceased wife,” said he. “To determine its exact
meaning I have been obliged 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 £1,100, is now through the fall in agricultural prices30
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. 231 is an excellent
argument with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a
tooth-brush are, I think, all that we need.”
At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead, where we
hired a trap at the station inn, and drove for four or five miles through the lovely
Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in
the heavens. The trees and wayside hedges were just throwing out their first
green shoots, and the air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me
at least there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the spring and
this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My companion sat in the front
of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over his eyes, and his chin sunk
upon his breast, buried in the deepest thought. Suddenly, however, he started,
tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed over the meadows.
“Look there!” said he.
A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening into a grove
at the highest point. From amid the branches there jutted out the grey gables and
high roof-tree of a very old mansion.
“Stoke Moran?” said he.
“Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott,” remarked the driver.
“There is some building going on there,” said Holmes; “that is where we are
going.”
“There’s the village,” said the driver, pointing to a cluster of roofs some
distance to the left; but if you want to get to the house, you’ll find it shorter to
get over this stile, and so by the foot path over the fields. There it is, where the
lady is walking.”
“And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner,” observed Holmes, shading his eyes.
“Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest.”
We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to Leatherhead.
“We got off, paid our fare.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“I thought it as well,” said Holmes, as we climbed the stile, “that this fellow
should think we had come here as architects, or on some definite business. It
may stop his gossip. Good afternoon, Miss Stoner. You see that we have been as
good as our word.”
Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a face which
spoke her joy. “I have been waiting so eagerly for you,” she cried, shaking hands
with us warmly. “All has turned out splendidly. Dr. Roylott has gone to town,
and it is unlikely that he will be back before evening.”
“We have had the pleasure of making the Doctor’s acquaintance,” said
Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had occurred. Miss Stoner
turned white to the lips as she listened.
“Good Heavens!” she cried, “he has followed me, then.”
“So it appears.”
“He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What will he
say when he returns?”
“He must guard himself, for he may find that there is some one more cunning
than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from him to-night. If he
is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt’s at Harrow. Now, we must make
the best use of our time, so kindly take us at once to the rooms which we are to
examine.”
The building was of grey, lichen-blotched stone, with a high central portion,
and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab, thrown out on each side. In one
of these wings the windows were broken, and blocked with wooden boards,
while the roof was partly caved in, a picture of ruin. The central portion was in
little better repair, but the right-hand block was comparatively modern, and the
blinds in the windows, with the blue smoke curling up from the chimneys,
showed that this was where the family resided. Some scaffolding had been
erected against the end wall, and the stone-work had been broken into, but there
were no signs of any workmen at the moment of our visit. Holmes walked
slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn, and examined with deep attention the
outsides of the windows.
“This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep, the centre one
to your sister’s, and the one next to the main building to Dr. Roylott’s chamber?”
“Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one.”
“Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there does not seem to
be any very pressing need for repairs at that end wall.”
“There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me from my room.”
“Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing runs the
corridor from which these three rooms open. There are windows in it, of
course?”
“Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for any one to pass through.”
“As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were unapproachable
from that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go into your room and bar
your shutters?”
Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes after a careful examination through the open
window, endeavoured in every way to force the shutter open, but without
success. There was no slit through which a knife could be passed to raise the bar.
Then with his lens he tested the hinges, but they were of solid iron, built firmly
into the massive masonry. “Hum!” said he, scratching his chin in some
perplexity, “my theory certainly presents some difficulties. No one could pass
these shutters if they were bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws any
light upon the matter.”
A small side-door led into the whitewashed corridor from which the three
bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third chamber, so we passed
at once to the second, that in which Miss Stoner was now sleeping, and in which
her sister had met 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-counterpaned32 bed in another, and
a dressing-table on the left-hand side of the window. These articles, with two
small wickerwork chairs, made up all the furniture in the room, save for a square
of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards round and the panelling of the walls
were of brown, worm-eaten oak, so old and discoloured that it may have dated
from the original building of the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a
corner and sat silent, while his eyes travelled round and round and up and down,
taking in every detail of the apartment.
“Where does that bell communicate with?” he asked at last, pointing to a thick
bell-rope which hung 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
backwards and forwards, examining minutely the cracks between the boards.
Then he did the same with the woodwork 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.”
“You will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy
myself as to this floor.”
John Alan Maxwell, The Golden Book, December 1930
“How very absurd! I never noticed that before.”
“Very strange!” muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. “There are one or two
very singular points about this room. For example, what a fool a builder must be
to open a ventilator into another room, when, with the same trouble, he might
have communicated with the outside air!”
“That is also quite modern,” said the lady.
“Done about the same time as the bell-rope,” remarked Holmes.
“Yes, there were several little changes carried out about that time.”
“They seem to have been of a most interesting character—dummy bell-ropes,
and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your permission, Miss Stoner, we
shall now carry our researches into the inner apartment.”
Dr. Grimesby Roylott’s chamber was larger than that of his stepdaughter, 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.”33
“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.
“Well, look at this.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“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.”
One of the many Crown Inns in England.
I had never seen my friend’s face so grim, or his brow so dark, as it was when
we turned from the scene of this investigation. We had walked several times up
and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor myself liking to break in upon his
thoughts before he roused himself from his reverie.
“It is very essential, Miss Stoner,” said he, “that you should absolutely follow
my advice in every respect.”
“I shall most certainly do so.”
“The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend upon your
compliance.”
“I assure you that I am in your hands.”
“In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in your room.”
Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.
“Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the village inn over
there?”
“Yes, that is the Crown.”
“Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?”
“Certainly.”
“You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a headache, when
your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him retire for the night, you
must open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp, put your lamp there as a
signal to us, and then withdraw with everything which you are likely to want
into the room which you used to occupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the
repairs, you could manage there for one night.”
“Oh, yes, easily.”
“The rest you will leave in our hands.”
“But what will you do?”
“We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate the cause of
this noise which has disturbed you.”
“I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind,” said Miss
Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion’s sleeve.
“Perhaps I have.”
“Then for pity’s sake tell me what was the cause of my sister’s death.”
“I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak.”
“You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and if she died
from some sudden fright.”
“No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more tangible
cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you, for if Dr. Roylott returned and
saw us, our journey would be in vain. Good-bye, and be brave, for if you will do
what I have told you, you may rest assured that we shall soon drive away the
dangers that threaten you.” Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging
a bedroom and sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and
from our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and of the
inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw Dr. Grimesby
Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside the little figure of the lad
who drove him. The boy had some slight difficulty in undoing the heavy iron
gates, and we heard the hoarse roar of the Doctor’s voice and saw the fury with
which he shook his clinched fists at him. The trap drove on, and a few minutes
later we saw a sudden light spring up among the trees as the lamp was lit in one
of the sitting-rooms.
“Do you know, Watson,” said Holmes, as we sat together in the gathering
darkness, “I have really some scruples as to taking you to-night. There is a
distinct element of danger.”
“Can I be of assistance?”
“Your presence might be invaluable.”
“Then I shall certainly come.”
“It is very kind of you.”
“Good-bye, and be brave.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“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 suggests at once that there must be
a communication between the two rooms. It could only be a small one, or it
would have been remarked upon at the Coroner’s inquiry. I deduced a
ventilator.”
“But what harm can there be in that?”
“Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator is made, a
cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does not that strike you?”
“I cannot as yet see any connection.”
“Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?”
“No.”
“It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like that
before?”
“I cannot say that I have.”
“The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same relative
position to the ventilator and to the rope—or so we may call it, since it was
clearly never meant for a bell-pull.”
“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. Palmer34 and Pritchard35
were among the heads of their profession.36 This man strikes even deeper, but I
think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike deeper still. But we shall have
horrors enough before the night is over; for goodness’ sake let us have a quiet
pipe, and turn our minds for a few hours to something more cheerful.”
About nine o’clock the light among the trees was extinguished, and all was
dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours passed slowly away, and
then, suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a single bright light shone out right in
front of us.
“That is our signal,” said Holmes, springing to his feet; “it comes from the
middle window.”
As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the landlord, explaining that
we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance, and that it was possible that we
might spend the night there. A moment later we were out on the dark road, a
chill wind blowing in our faces, and one yellow light twinkling in front of us
through the gloom to guide us on our sombre errand.
There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for unrepaired breaches
gaped in the old park wall.37 Making our way among the trees, we reached the
lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the window, when out from a
clump of laurel bushes there darted what seemed to be a hideous and distorted
child, who threw itself upon the grass with writhing limbs and then ran swiftly
across the lawn into the darkness.
“My God!” I whispered; “did you see it?” Holmes was for the moment as
startled as I. His hand closed like a vise upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he
broke into a low laugh and put his lips to my ear.
“It is a nice household,” he murmured. “That is the baboon.”
I had forgotten the strange pets which the Doctor affected. There was a
cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders at any moment. I
confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after following Holmes’s 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 day-time.
Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet of his hand, he whispered into my
ear again so gently that it was all that I could do to distinguish the words—
“The least sound would be fatal to our plans.”
I nodded to show that I had heard.
“We must sit without a light. He would see it through the ventilator.”
I nodded again.
“Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your pistol ready
in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the bed, and you in that chair.”
I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table.
Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon the bed
beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and the stump of a candle. Then he
turned down the lamp, and we were left in darkness.
How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a sound, not even
the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my companion sat open-eyed, within
a few feet of me, in the same state of nervous tension in which I was myself. The
shutters cut off the least ray of light, and we waited in absolute darkness. From
outside came the occasional cry of a night bird, and once at our very window a
long drawn, cat-like whine, which told us that the cheetah was indeed at liberty.
Far away we could hear the deep tones of the parish clock, which boomed out
every quarter of an hour. How long they seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck,
and one, and two, and three, and still we sat waiting silently for whatever might
befall.
Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the direction of the
ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a strong smell of
burning oil and heated metal. Some one in the next room had lit a dark lantern. I
heard a gentle sound of movement, and then all was silent once more, though the
smell grew stronger. For half an hour I sat with straining ears. Then suddenly
another sound became audible—a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a
small jet of steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that we heard
it, Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed furiously with his
cane at the bell-pull.
“You see it, Watson?” he yelled. “You see it?”
But I saw nothing.38 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.39
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 shall 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.
“Holmes lashed furiously.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a dark lantern
with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant beam of light upon the iron safe,
the door of which was ajar. Beside this table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr.
Grimesby Roylott, clad in a long grey dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding
beneath, and his feet thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay
the short stock with the long lash which we had noticed during the day. His chin
was cocked upward, and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful rigid stare at the
corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a peculiar yellow band, with
brownish speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly round his head. As we
entered he made neither sound nor motion.
“The band! 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.40 He has died within ten seconds of being bitten.41
Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the
pit42 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.43
Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke
Moran.44 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.
“He made neither sound nor motion.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“I had,” said he, “come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which shows, my
dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from insufficient data. The
presence of the gipsies, and the use of the word ‘band,’ which was used by the
poor girl, no doubt, to explain the appearance which she had caught a hurried
glimpse of by the light of her match, were sufficient to put me upon an entirely
wrong scent. I can only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my position
when, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened an
occupant of the room could not come either from the window or the door. My
attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to you, to this
ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the bed. The discovery that
this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped to the floor, instantly gave rise
to the suspicion that the rope was there as a bridge for something passing
through the hole, and coming to the bed. The idea of a snake instantly occurred
to me, and when I coupled it with my knowledge that the Doctor was furnished
with a supply of creatures from India, I felt that I was probably on the right
track. The idea of using a form of poison which could not possibly be discovered
by any chemical test was just such a one as would occur to a clever and ruthless
man who had had an Eastern training. The rapidity with which such a poison
would take effect would also, from his point of view, be an advantage. It would
be a 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.45 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 standing on it,
which, of course, would be necessary in order that he should reach the ventilator.
The sight of the safe, the saucer of milk, and the loop of whipcord were enough
to finally dispel any doubts which may have remained. The metallic clang heard
by Miss Stoner was obviously caused by her stepfather hastily closing 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.”46
“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.”47
“IT IS A SWAMP ADDER! . . .
THE DEADLIEST SNAKE IN INDIA.”
THE IDENTITY of the breed of snake termed a “swamp adder” by Holmes—a
name by which no snake is commonly known—is debated widely, and no
candidate seems to possess all of the characteristics described. The key traits that
must be considered are (a) a fast-acting (neurotoxic) venom, rather than a slowacting (haemotoxic) venom, (b) an inclination to climb up and down a rope and
to “rear,” (c) an appearance described as a “yellow band with brownish
speckles,” a “squat, diamond-shaped” head, and a “puffed” neck, and (d) a
probable Indian origin. The following table considers the candidates:
Snake
Characteristics
Considered in:
Puff adder (a) Slow-acting venom, (b) Catalogue of the 1951
(Bitis lethargic nature, (c) physical Sherlock
Holmes
arietans)
appearance unlike “swamp Exhibition;Roger Mortimore,
adder,” (d) African in origin
“Hiss!” (proposes a cross
between the puff adder and
green mamba)
River-jack Same
Catalogue
vipers (Bitis
nasicornis,
Bitis
Gabonica)
Snake
Characteristics Considered in:
Russell’s viper (a) Slow-acting
Catalogue.
Rolfe
Boswell,
in
(Vipera Russellii venom,
(b) “Dr.Roylott’s Wily Fillip: With a Proem
or Tic polonga) lethargic nature, on Veneration of Vipers,” disputes speed
(c) appropriately of venom but admits that the snake is
shaped head but unlikely to climb down a rope. Douglas
lacks “speckled” Lawson, in “The Speckled Band—What Is
markings,
(d) It?,” contends that a Russell’s viper has
Indian in origin frequently been reported as tree-climbing
and concludes that Julia Stoner was killed
by a Russell’s viper but that Roylott died
of a heart attack just before attack by a
saw-scaled viper (Echis carinatus)
Saw-scaled viper (a) Slow-acting Catalogue
(Echis carinatus) venom,
(b)
lethargic nature,
(c) appropriately
shaped head and
speckled
markings,
(d)
Indian in origin
Temple vipers (a) Slow-acting Catalogue
(Trimeresurus. . . venom,
(b)
)
active climbers,
(c) inappropriate
colouring,
(d)
Indian in origin
Krait (Bungarus (a) Rapid-acting Catalogue; Larry Waggoner, “The Final
mangimaculatus) (neurotoxic)
Solution” (Indian banded krait)
venom, (b) no
known behaviour
matching
descriptions, (c)
appearance does
not
match
description, (d)
Indian in origin
Snake
Characteristics
Considered in:
Cobra (Naja (a) Rapid-acting
Catalogue;
Lionel
Needleman,
naja)
venom, (b) known to “Unravelling The Speckled Band”
climb and rear, (c) (yellow cobra, Naja nivea)
common
varieties
with brown speckles
on
yellow
background,
diamond-shaped
head, puffed neck,
(d) Indian in origin
Skink (a lizard Specially bred by Lawrence M. Klauber, “The Truth
of the family Roylott to obtain About the Speckled Band”
Scincidae)
rapid-acting venom
and
desired
behaviour
Gila monster Same
Warren Randall, “Leapin’ Lizards: An
(Sampoderma)
Irregular and Unnatural History of the
Speckled Band,” which refers to an
article by Charles Borgert and Rafael
Martin del Campo, “The Gila Monster
and Its Allies,” appearing in the Bulletin
of the Museum of Natural History, which
identifies this new genus based on the
work of Klauber, supra.
Constrictor or
Only
analyses “De Vergissing van Sherlock Holmes”
choke snake
characteristic
[“Sherlock Holmes’s Error”]
movement
Western (a) Very rapidly Philip Cornell, “A Fresh Bite at The
Taipan
acting venom, (b) Speckled Band”
(Oxyuranus
known to climb, (c)
Micloepitodus) creamy yellow belly,
freely
speckled,
diamond-shaped
head, puffed neck,
(d) Australian in
origin
THE GUNS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES AND JOHN H.
WATSON, M.D.
“GUNS,” “pistols,” and “revolvers” are frequently mentioned in the Canon, often
in the possession of Holmes or Watson. However, the weapons are infrequently
used by the pair and never actually fired at a “normal” target. In “The Musgrave
Ritual,” we witness Holmes target shooting. In The Sign of Four Holmes and
Watson fire upon a fleeing pygmy; in The Hound of the Baskervilles and “The
Copper Beeches,” the guns are used to defend against vicious dogs. Nonetheless,
gun enthusiasts argue over the precise weaponry of the detective and his
companion.
An Adams .450.
Stephen A. Shalet contends that both Holmes and Watson carried Webleys in
their various marks as their “major arm.” While the Webley is large as a pocket
pistol, “in those days pockets were made far more generously than today,” states
Shalet.
Contrary to the view of the editors of the Catalogue of the 1951 Sherlock
Holmes Exhibition, who contend that Watson carried a Webley No. 2, Charles A.
Meyer argues that Watson’s pistol was a Webley-Pryse revolver, also known as
the Webley No. 4. Garry James, in “Shooting the Guns of Sherlock Holmes,”
identifies Holmes’s gun as the Webley Metropolitan Police revolver, a version of
the popular RIC (Royal Irish Constabulary) revolver introduced in 1867, and, on
the basis of the “No. 2” reference, concludes that Watson’s revolver is a Mark II
Adams, which fired “No. 2” or “II” ammunition.
In “Firearms in the Canon: The Guns of Sherlock Holmes and John H.
Watson,” Dante M. Torese persuasively argues that Watson’s service revolver
was an Adams No. 3 but that his pocket pistol was a Webley Metro-Police.
William Ballew makes an excellent case for Watson owning only one gun, a
Webley of the “Bull Dog” variety.
The multi-gun approach is also espoused by Daniel P. King, who concurs with
William S. Baring-Gould’s assessment that Watson’s service revolver was an
Adams .450 calibre centre-fire Model 1872 Mark III, but by the time of “The
Speckled Band,” Watson was carrying a Webley’s Solid-Frame Civilian Pocket
Model. Later, in “Thor Bridge,” Watson had switched to a more modern
weapon, the W.P. (Webley Pocket) Hammerless Model 1898. As to Holmes,
King agrees with Gary James’s identification of the Webley Metropolitan Police
revolver.
A similar view—of a varied armoury—is expressed by Harald Curjel, in
“Some Further Thoughts on Canonical Weaponry,” who identifies either the
.450/455 Tranter Army pistol or the Adams Central Fire Breech-loading revolver
as Watson’s “service” revolver, the Webley “bulldog” as another weapon of
Watson’s, yet a third (unidentified) revolver in “Thor Bridge,” and finally a
different weapon altogether in “The Speckled Band,” for the “Eley No. 2,”
Curjel contends, would fit none of these.
1 “The Speckled Band” was published in the Strand Magazine in February 1892.
2 Frank Waters estimates (“Upon the Probable Number of Cases of Mr. Sherlock Holmes”) that by the time
of his retirement in late October 1903, Holmes had handled some 1,700 cases.
3 A small town on the river Mole, Leatherhead is one of the claimants to be “Highbury,” the “large and
populous village, almost amounting to a town” of Jane Austen’s 1816 novel Emma. In that novel,
Highbury’s drawing rooms and gardens provide a genteel setting for Emma Woodhouse’s machinations,
although she does fear “the horror of being in danger of falling in with the second-rate and third-rate of
Highbury, who were calling on them for ever . . .”
4 Roger T. Clapp, in “The Curious Problem of the Railway Timetables,” refers to a Bradshaw of the period
and the A B C Railway Guide in discovering that Holmes’s new client could not, in fact, have followed the
route described here and still reached Baker Street by seven. The earliest train from Leatherhead to
Waterloo left at 7:22, arriving at 8:11. Even the earlier train to London Bridge did not leave Leatherhead
until 7:13. In short, Watson must have altered the location of “Stoke Moran” (presumably to protect the
confidentiality of Holmes’s client) without correcting the train times. Clapp notes that there is only one
correct train time given in the entire Canon.
5 “A month or six weeks” in the Strand Magazine and American editions.
6 Because the case of Mrs. Farintosh preceded Watson’s shared residence with Holmes and therefore
Holmes’s residence at Baker Street, Howard Collins considers how Helen Stoner got the Baker Street
address. If Holmes presented his bill to Mrs. Farintosh after moving to Baker Street, however, the mystery
is solved.
7 Apparently Holmes has progressed in his career; compare his statement to Watson in A Study in Scarlet
that “I listen to [my clients’] story, they listen to my comments, and then I pocket my fee.”
8 Michael Harrison, in In the Footsteps of Sherlock Holmes, surmises that “Stoke Moran” seems an
obvious alias for the village of Stoke D’Abernon, located three miles from Leatherhead.
9 Also known as “Berks,” this county (broken up in 1998) is home to Windsor Castle and Eton College, the
famed boys’ boarding school that educated such luminaries as Prime Minister William Gladstone,
economist John Maynard Keynes, and author Aldous Huxley.
10 Hampshire county’s most notable literary residents were Jane Austen, who lived there for most of her
life and was buried there in 1817 at Winchester Cathedral, and Arthur Conan Doyle, who first established a
medical practice at Southsea, Hampshire, only to turn to writing as a sideline. Winchester also houses in its
Great Hall what has long been regarded as the legendary Round Table of King Arthur fame—although it
has now been established that the table was built in the late thirteenth or fourteenth century, in contrast to
the supposed period of Arthur’s reign in the late fifth or early sixth century. (Adding to the confusion is Sir
Thomas Malory’s identification, in his 1485 book Le Morte D’Arthur, of Winchester as the original
Camelot, an assertion since widely discounted.) 11 That is, the last nine years of the reign of George III,
1811–1820. It was during this period that the king’s insanity rendered him unfit to rule, and the Prince of
Wales (later George IV) acted as regent in his father’s stead; the conclusion of the War of 1812 and the
Napoleonic wars saw Britain plunge into a period of economic depression and social unrest.
12 Then capital of British India and a glittering manifestation of British rule, its population has exploded
from around 1 million at the beginning of the twentieth century to over 11 million today. The population is
expected to increase by another 50 percent in the next ten to fifteen years. Victorian architecture is still
notably present throughout Calcutta today. By the latter half of the nineteenth century, British India was
beginning to echo with calls for reform. Following the bloody Indian Mutiny of 1857 (see the appendix on
page 605), the East India Company—which had run India for nearly a century, since shortly after one of its
military officials, Robert Clive, recaptured Calcutta from the nawab of Bengal—was abolished and power
transferred to the Crown. Steps were made in the early 1860s toward allowing Indians to participate in
government, and the Indian National Congress, a political party, was formed to further that goal in 1885.
Yet despite such stirrings of change, India remained wholly a British subject (Queen Victoria was named
empress in 1877) until 1947. Calcutta is the site of the opulent Victoria Memorial, commissioned to honour
the queen by viceroy Lord Curzon and constructed in 1905–1921. The building now houses an extensive
museum collection showcasing the history of British India.
13 The strength of the Bengal Artillery immediately preceding the Indian Mutiny was twelve battalions,
out of twenty-four artillery battalions in the entire Indian Army. As a result of the uprising—largely
credited with being the first major manifestation of Indian nationalism and discontent—the Indian Army
went through several reforms. The proportion of Europeans to Indians in the armed forces was raised to
about one to two (60,000 Europeans to 120,000 Indians), and the artillery battalions were all transferred to
the Royal Artillery, that is, to the British Army. Major-General Stoner, no doubt a beneficiary of such
rulings, would not only have had no Indians in his battalion but also would not have known any Indians of
comparable rank: It was not until 1919 that Indians were allowed into the Royal Military Academy in
England for training as officers.
14 Compare the situation of Mary Sutherland, in “A Case of Identity,” whose inheritance from her father
was under her own control but who also had a stepfather who would lose the use of his stepdaughter’s
funds. Roylott had apparently not sought legal advice, for even after the Married Women’s Property Act of
1882, a husband had control of his wife’s money received before enactment of the Act. Roylott could
presumably have overridden his wife’s wishes about the daughters’ £250 a year each, points out F. D.
Bryan-Brown, making unnecessary the crimes that were to ensue.
15 In light of later events and the revealed character of Roylott, this saved the doctor “the trouble and
danger of killing her himself,” cynically comments Michael Harrison, in In the Footsteps of Sherlock
Holmes. Others, even more cynical, wonder whether the “accident” was in fact accidental.
16 F. D. Bryan-Brown points out that a murder charge would presumably be a grievous enough offence to
cost Dr. Roylott his licence; therefore, setting up a London practice should have been well nigh impossible.
17 D. Martin Dakin observes that this seems a somewhat optimistic—perhaps naively so—comment
considering her stepfather’s murder conviction, imprisonment, and the heritage of violent anger in his
family, which she will describe as “approaching to mania.”
18 Gypsies (or their preferred name, Roma) began migrating to Europe from northern India in the
fourteenth century, their various ethnicities and languages melding together with outside influences to form
a common language (Romany) and ethnic group. The stereotype of the gypsy was that of a free-spirited,
criminally minded wanderer—gypsies were often accused of stealing babies and even spreading disease—
and while there certainly were nomadic gypsies, such characteristics are more fiction than fact. Several
nineteenth-century novels, including Emily Brontë’s 1847 Wuthering Heights (Lockwood describes
Heathcliff as a “dark-skinned gipsy in aspect”) and George Eliot’s 1868 The Spanish Gypsy, used gypsy
characters to convey a certain unconventionality and otherness, both racial and cultural. Deborah Epstein
Nord writes in Victorian Studies, “[I]nto the midst of English reserve, decorousness, and control, the gypsy
—or suspected gypsy—could inject impetuousness, brooding, and passion.” Nomadic gypsies appear as
convenient bystanders in The Hound of the Baskervilles and “The Priory School,” and the unconventional
John Clay’s ears (“The Red-Headed League”) had been pierced by gypsies.
19 If Dr. Roylott had acquired the cheetah for purposes of guarding his estate, then it appears that he made
a poor choice, for cheetahs are by nature extremely gentle and easily domesticated. James Edward Holroyd,
in “The Egg Spoon,” refers to J. A. Hunter’s African Hunter in noting that Indian rajahs would train
cheetahs to assist them in hunting antelope, and that even an adult cheetah could be trained without trouble.
Hunter declares, “I do not believe that in the entire history of Africa there has been a single case of a
cheetah attacking a human being.” Of course, as Holroyd concedes, a cheetah transported from its native
environment to England might behave altogether differently in its new home.
20 Apart from the small black baboon of Celebes, baboons are confined to Africa and the Arabian
peninsula. Either Dr. Roylott’s “Indian correspondent” was acquiring animals abroad or Miss Stoner’s
identification of the animals is mistaken.
21 This London borough is the home of the eminent Harrow School, the alma mater of notable Britons
including poet George Gordon, Lord Byron; Sir Robert Peel, founder of the Metropolitan Police; and Prime
Minister Henry Palmerston.
22 Reduced pay, for officers not on active service. Watson was described as being on “half-pay” in The
Sign of Four.
23 Paul Scholten, M.D., states that in Victorian times, brandy was used “to restore one to normal after loss of
blood, in convalescence and after serious injury, in cases where one felt faint and in actual faintings.”
Watson makes liberal use of it in his medical care.
24 “[W]ith which hand did she unlock the door?” asks F. D. Bryan-Brown.
25 Any relationship to James Armitage of “The ‘Gloria Scott’ ” is speculative.
26 While Helen Stoner may be somewhat too advanced in age for her stepfather’s rough treatment of her to
qualify as child abuse, one wonders how long such behaviour had been going on. In Victorian England, the
plight of abused children went largely unaddressed until the late 1880s, when the Reverend Benjamin
Waugh, who had witnessed neglect and mistreatment of children firsthand while working as a minister in
the East End slums, founded a national society dedicated to the cause. The problems were certainly well
known, for the victimized child is a recurrent figure in nineteenth-century fiction, especially that of Charles
Dickens. Scholar E. D. H. Johnson notes of Dickens’s mature novels that “the all but universal neglect or
abuse of children by their parents is systematically elaborated as one of the signs of the times.”
It was the pioneering case of young Mary Ellen McCormack in New York that precipitated the
formation of societies dedicated to the welfare of children. Mary Ellen had been found tied to a bed in 1874,
having been neglected and beaten by her foster parents. She would testify, “I am never allowed to play with
any children or have any company whatever. Mamma has been in the habit of whipping and beating me
almost every day.” But while animals were protected from acts of cruelty under the law, children at the time
were not; and so the New York Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals had to come to Mary
Ellen’s defence, arguing her case successfully before the U.S. Supreme Court. After the New York Society
for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children was founded in 1875, similar organisations sprang up in England,
and the London society founded in 1884 by Waugh became England’s National Society for the Prevention
of Cruelty to Children (NSPCC) in 1889. Queen Victoria became its Royal Patron. The NSPCC’s inspectors
patrolled the streets on foot and bicycle, seeking out children who might need aid, handling 3,937 cases of
child abuse in 1889 alone. That same year, England’s first Prevention of Cruelty to Children Act was
passed, thanks largely to the lobbying efforts of Waugh and his supporters.
27 Coverings of cloth or leather for the lower leg (as contrasted with “regular” gaiters, which cover only
the ankle—called “spats,” short for “spatterdashes,” by Americans), high gaiters were favoured by farmers
and country landowners.
28 A pretentious, petty official. Jonathan Small uses the same expression in The Sign of Four.
29 The familiar name for the College of Advocates and Doctors of Law, where ecclesiastical courts were
held and wills were recorded and stored. Charles Dickens, in Chapter 8 of his Sketches by Boz (1836),
described it thus: “Now Doctors’ Commons [is] familiar by name to everybody, as the place where they
grant marriage-licenses to love-sick couples, and divorces to unfaithful ones; register the wills of people
who have any property to leave, and punish hasty gentlemen who call ladies by unpleasant names . . .”
The Will Office was transferred to the Probate Registry in Somerset House, The Strand, in 1874.
Holmes may have acquired the habit of the old name in his studies or may have visited the Will Office in
the course of some of his earliest cases.
30 From 1873 to 1894, prices for agricultural products dropped to less than half their former amounts and
ruined many English farmers. These factors were compounded by long spells of bad weather, livestock
epidemics, and rising labour costs (due principally to the enactment of compulsory education laws for
children, decreasing substantially the number of people available to work).
31 As Eley was a manufacturer of ammunition rather than actual weaponry, such a make of gun did not in
fact exist. The editors of the Catalogue of the 1951 Sherlock Holmes Exhibition suggest that Holmes
probably meant to refer to a .320-bore Webley’s No. 2, a small “pocket pistol.” Perhaps the labelling of the
box—which would have read “Eley” above “for the Webley Pistol, No. 2”—may have contributed to
Holmes’s confusion on the make of gun. The Catalogue editors described the .320 bore Webley No. 2 as
taking up little space but as being “adequate for dealing with the most determined criminal. It was the
smallest really practicable weapon of its time.” See “The Guns of Sherlock Holmes and John H. Watson,
M.D.,” page 262, for a more complete discussion.
32 A “counterpane” is a bedspread.
33 This is the third time Helen Stoner has told Holmes about the cheetah and the baboon. What strange
fixation did she have on these animals—except perhaps that they “wander freely” and she does not?
34 William Palmer (1824–1856) was an infamous British poisoner who lived in Rugeley, Staffordshire. A
member of the Royal College of Surgeons who had studied at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, he was hanged
for the poisoning of his wife, his brother, and an associate for their insurance money. He is rumoured to
have poisoned at least fifteen people.
35 Edward William Pritchard (1825–1865) was an English surgeon who purchased his M.D. in Germany and
was hanged in Glasgow for the poisoning of his wife and mother-in-law.
36 D. Martin Dakin disputes this characterisation, suggesting that Holmes was either being sarcastic or was
simply mistaken: “Palmer . . . and Pritchard . . . were only general practitioners of mediocre qualifications .
. . who got into trouble by their gallantries and extravagances, and would never have been heard of had not
their egregiously bungled crimes brought them notoriety in the courts.”
37 If Roylott’s cheetah and baboon “wandered freely,” these breaches would seem likely to have assured
their immediate departure from the premises.
38 In The Hound of the Baskervilles, Watson was able to discern a boy’s figure at a distance of “several
miles” with the naked eye. Yet that was an isolated case, and more often Watson professes an inability to
see as clearly as Holmes. Several scholars conclude that Watson suffered from various visual deficiencies:
night blindness resulting from a deficiency of Vitamin A, extreme nearsightedness, and color-blindness,
caused by the “glare of the sun” (“The Cardboard Box”).
39 Holmes’s only other comparable expression of horror is the result of a drug-induced vision, in “The
Devil’s Foot.” Perhaps Holmes shared a deep-seated phobia with Indiana Jones: “Snakes! Why did it have
to be snakes?” (Raiders of the Lost Ark, 1981).
40 An adder, synonymous with the term “viper,” is the name given to any number of poisonous snakes
found throughout Europe, Asia, and Africa. They range in length anywhere from one to six feet and are
often decorated with diamond or zigzag patterns. The common viper (vipera berus), the only poisonous
snake in Britain, is also referred to as the “adder,” but its venom is not usually fatal to humans. There is, in
fact, no known “swamp adder.” See page 259 for a discussion of the identity of the breed of the snake.
41 “Although cobra venom acts comparatively quickly, no victim could possibly die within ten seconds of
being bitten, as Holmes asserted,” D. Martin Dakin points out. Julia Stoner “slowly sank and died,”
presumably taking an hour or two to expire; it then seems likely, Dakin continues, that Dr. Roylott was still
alive upon Holmes and Watson’s entrance. Assuming that Watson has disclosed all of the events that
occurred, he was surely negligent in failing to check Roylott’s vital signs or administer any sort of
treatment.
42 “He that diggeth a pit shall fall into it; and whoso breaketh an hedge, a serpent shall bite him”
(Ecclesiastes, 10:8).
43 Commentators note that the safe had no ventilator holes (otherwise Holmes surely would have
commented upon them) and therefore must have been a most inhospitable habitat for a snake, even one so
apparently malleable as Roylott’s.
44 There are revisionist theories respecting “The Speckled Band.” Several argue that Helen Stoner
murdered Julia and Dr. Roylott, and probably her mother as well. Vivian Darkbloom, in the self-described
“somewhat revisionist” essay “Holmes Is Where the Heart Is, or Tooth-Tooth, Tootsie,” suggests that
Holmes murdered Dr. Roylott, to clear the way for an illicit liaison with Helen Stoner. Roylott’s behaviour,
the essay contends, was not that of a murderer but of a man attempting to scare off a suitor. The essay
appeared in the December 1976 issue of the Sherlockian journal Baker Street Miscellanea, and the editors
reported that “the anagramatically pseudonymous Vivian Darkbloom has not seen fit to furnish us with any
personal data, and considering the scandalously iconoclastic thrust of her principal thesis, we are not
surprised. The author appears to be California-based, also engaged in medical studies, and a student of the
works of Vladimir Nabakov as well as John H. Watson’s . . .” A character named “Vivian Darkbloom”
appeared in Stanley Kubrick’s 1961 film version of Nabokov’s Lolita, for which Nabokov wrote the
screenplay, and in “Vladimir Nabokov: In Tribute to Sherlock Holmes,” Andrew Page analyses references
and images in Nabokov’s Lolita, The Defense, Pnin, The Real Life of Sebastian Knight, Despair, and Pale
Fire that demonstrate the author’s familiarity with and affection for the Canon.
However, in “On the Sinister Affair of the Darkbloom Paper,” Wayne B. Swift refutes the conclusions
of the “alleged person named Vivian Darkbloom,” pointing the finger of guilt at Helen Stoner and
denouncing the published account as a Moriarty plot to discredit Holmes. Another scholar proposes that
Holmes murdered Julia Stoner and helped Helen murder Dr. Roylott. In Sherlock and the Ladies, Brad
Keefauver concludes that Helen Stoner schemed to create a situation in which Watson ended up killing the
hot-headed Dr. Roylott in self-defence.
45 Lionel Needleman observes in puzzlement that the whistle was heard just before Holmes “lashed
furiously with his cane at the bell-pull,” meaning that the snake was on its way down to the bed. Hence it is
incongruous that Dr. Roylott, presuming he intended to murder Helen Stoner, should summon the snake to
return before it had had time to bite her. The lighting of a match alone would not have triggered a premature
recall, Needleman muses, for Julia Stoner had similarly lit a match upon seeing the snake, but the whistle
that night had not sounded until after her screams indicated the snake’s success.
46 D. Martin Dakin criticizes Holmes’s pre-selection of the cane as a defensive weapon, unless one
assumes that he wanted to drive the snake to attack Dr. Roylott.
47 Arthur Conan Doyle evidently liked Watson’s story so much that he licensed its use for a play, The
Speckled Band, which he wrote and produced at the Adelphi Theatre in London on June 4, 1910. The plot
and characters differ considerably from those in Watson’s account.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER’S
THUMB1
“The Engineer’s Thumb” is the only case ever
brought to Holmes by Dr. Watson himself.
When a late-night call from a thumb-deprived
patient rouses Watson, he displays good sense
(if not good doctoring) in whisking his patient
over to see Holmes. Here, a strange tale of
German counterfeiters unfolds, in which we
meet the first of the many corrupt colonels who
populate the Canon. There is little actual
detection in the tale, and Holmes appears to
take scant interest in catching the crooks. The
physical evidence of the titular amputation
seems incongruous with the explanation
offered by the young Victor Hatherley, and we
may be left to wonder whether he is covering
up for his own criminal activities.
OF 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.2 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 halfcolumn of print than when the facts slowly evolve before your own eyes and the
mystery clears gradually away as each new discovery furnishes a step which
leads on to the complete truth. At the time the circumstances made a deep
impression upon me, and the lapse of two years has hardly served to weaken the
effect.
It was in the summer of ’89, not long after my marriage,3 that the events
occurred which I am now about to summarise. I had returned to civil practice,4
and had finally abandoned Holmes in his Baker Street rooms, although I
continually visited him, and occasionally even persuaded him to forego 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.5 One of these, whom I had
cured of a painful and lingering disease, was never weary of advertising my
virtues, and of endeavouring to send me on every sufferer over whom he might
have any influence.
One morning, at a little before seven o’clock, I was awakened by the maid
tapping at the door, to announce that two men had come from Paddington, and
were waiting in the consulting room. I dressed hurriedly, for I knew by
experience that railway cases were seldom trivial, and hastened downstairs. As I
descended, my old ally, the guard, came out of the room, and closed the door
tightly behind him.
“I’ve got him here,” he whispered, jerking his thumb over his shoulder; “he’s
all right.”
“What is it, then?” I asked, for his manner suggested that it was some strange
creature which he had caged up in my room.
“It’s a new patient,” he whispered. “I thought I’d bring him round myself;
then he couldn’t slip away. There he is, all safe and sound. I must go now,
Doctor; I have my dooties, just the same as you.” And off he went, this trusty
tout, without even giving me time to thank him.
I entered my consulting room and found a gentleman seated by the table. He
was quietly dressed in a suit of heather tweed, with a soft cloth cap, which he
had laid down upon my books. Round one of his hands he had a handkerchief
wrapped, which was mottled all over with bloodstains. He was young, not more
than five-and-twenty, I should say, with a strong masculine face; but he was
exceedingly pale and gave me the impression of a man who was suffering from
some strong agitation, which it took all his strength of mind to control.
“I am sorry to knock you up so early, Doctor,” said he. “But I have had a very
serious accident during the night. I came in by train this morning, and on
inquiring at Paddington as to where I might find a doctor a worthy fellow very
kindly escorted me here. I gave the maid a card, but I see that she has left it upon
the side table.”
I took it up and glanced at it. “Mr. Victor Hatherley, hydraulic engineer,6 16A,
Victoria Street (3rd floor).” That was the name, style, and abode of my morning
visitor. “I regret that I have kept you waiting,” said I, sitting down in my library
chair. “You are fresh from a night journey,7 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 carafe.
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 blushing hotly.8
“I have been making a fool of myself,” he gasped.
“Not at all. Drink this!” I dashed some brandy into the water, and the colour
began to come back to his bloodless cheeks.
“That’s better!” said he. “And now, Doctor, perhaps you would kindly attend
to my thumb,9 or rather to the place where my thumb used to be.” He unwound
the handkerchief and held out his hand. It gave even my hardened nerves a
shudder to look at it. There were four protruding fingers and a horrid red spongy
surface where the thumb should have been. It had been hacked or torn right out
from the roots.10
“Good heavens!” I cried, “this is a terrible injury. It must have bled
considerably.”
“Yes, it did. I fainted when it was done; and I think that I must have been
senseless for a long time. When I came to I found that it was still bleeding, so I
tied one end of my handkerchief very tightly round the wrist, and braced it up
with a twig.”
“Excellent! You should have been a surgeon.”
“It is a question of hydraulics, you see, and came within my own province.”
“He unwound the handkerchief, and held out his hand.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“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 carbolized bandages.11 He lay back without wincing, though
he bit his lip from time to time.
“How is that?” I asked, when I had finished.12
“Capital! Between your brandy and your bandage, I feel a new man. I was
very weak, but I have had a good deal to go through.”
“Perhaps you had better not speak of the matter. It is evidently trying to your
nerves.”
“Oh, no; not now. I shall have to tell my tale to the police; but, between
ourselves, if it were not for the convincing evidence of this wound of mine, I
should be surprised if they believed my statement; for it is a very extraordinary
one, and I have not much in the way of proof with which to back it up. And,
even if they believe me, the clues which I can give them are so vague that it is a
question whether justice will be done.”
“Ha!” cried I, “if it is anything in the nature of a problem which you desire to
see solved, I should strongly recommend you to come to my friend Mr. Sherlock
Holmes before you go to the official police.”
“Oh, I have heard of that fellow,”13 answered my visitor, “and I should be
very glad if he would take the matter up, though of course I must use the official
police as well. Would you give me an introduction to him?”
“I’ll do better. I’ll take you round to him myself.”
“I should be immensely obliged to you.”
“We’ll call a cab and go together. We shall just be in time to have a little
breakfast with him.14 Do you feel equal to it?”
“Yes, I shall not feel easy until I have told my story.”
“Then my servant will call a cab, and I shall be with you in an instant.” I
rushed upstairs, explained the matter shortly to my wife, and in five minutes was
inside a hansom, driving with my new acquaintance to Baker Street.
Sherlock Holmes was, as I expected, lounging about his sitting-room in his
dressing-gown, reading the agony column of The Times15 and smoking his
before-breakfast pipe, which was composed of all the plugs and dottles16 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
rashers17 and eggs, and joined us in a hearty meal. When it was concluded he
settled our new acquaintance upon the sofa, placed a pillow beneath his head,
and laid a glass of brandy and water within his reach.
“It is easy to see that your experience has been no common one, Mr.
Hatherley,” said he. “Pray lie down there and make yourself absolutely at home.
Tell us what you can, but stop when you are tired, and keep up your strength
with a little stimulant.”
“Thank you,” said my patient, “but I have felt another man since the doctor
bandaged me, and I think that your breakfast has completed the cure. I shall take
up as little of your valuable time as possible, so I shall start at once upon my
peculiar experiences.”
“He settled our new acquaintance on the sofa.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
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 and Matheson, the well-known firm, of Greenwich. Two
years ago, having served my time, and having also come into a fair sum of
money through my poor father’s death, I determined to start in business for
myself, and took professional chambers in Victoria Street.
“I suppose that every one 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 twenty-seven pounds
ten. 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.
“Colonel Lysander Stark.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“ ‘Mr. Hatherley?’ said he, with something of a German accent. ‘You have
been recommended to me, Mr. Hatherley, as being a man who is not only
proficient in his profession, but is also discreet and capable of preserving a
secret.’
“I bowed, feeling as flattered as any young man would at such an address.
‘May I ask who it was who gave me so good a character?’
“ ‘Well, perhaps it is better that I should not tell you that just at this moment. I
have it from the same source that you are both an orphan and a bachelor, and are
residing alone in London.’
“ ‘That is quite correct,’ I answered, ‘but you will excuse me if I say that I
cannot see how all this bears upon my professional qualifications. I understand
that it was on a professional matter that you wished to speak to me?’
“ ‘Undoubtedly so. But you will find that all I say is really to the point. I have
a professional commission for you, but absolute secrecy is quite essential
—absolute secrecy, you understand, and of course we may expect that more
from a man who is alone than from one who lives in the bosom of his family.’
“ ‘If I promise to keep a secret,’ said I, ‘you may absolutely depend upon my
doing so.’
“He looked very hard at me as I spoke, and it seemed to me that I had never
seen so suspicious and questioning an eye.
“ ‘You do 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 the clerks are sometimes
curious as to their master’s affairs. Now we can talk in safety.’ He drew up his
chair very close to mine, and began to stare at me again with the same
questioning and thoughtful look.
“A feeling of repulsion, and of something akin to fear had begun to rise within
me at the strange antics of this fleshless man. Even my dread of losing a client
could not restrain me from showing my impatience.
“ ‘I beg that you will state your business, sir,’ said I; ‘my time is of value.’
Heaven forgive me for that last sentence, but the words came to my lips.
“ ‘How would fifty guineas for a night’s work suit you?’ he asked.
“ ‘Most admirably.’
“ ‘I say a night’s work, but an hour’s would be nearer the mark. I simply want
your opinion about a hydraulic stamping machine which has got out of gear. If
you show us what is wrong we shall soon set it right ourselves. What do you
think of such a commission as that?’
“ ‘The work appears to be light and the pay munificent.’
“ ‘Precisely so. We shall want you to come to-night by the last train.’
“ ‘Where to?’
“ ‘To Eyford, in Berkshire.18 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 in there at about eleven fifteen.’
“ ‘Very good.’
“ ‘I shall come down in a carriage to meet you.’
“ ‘There is a drive, then?’
“ ‘Yes, our little place is quite out in the country. It is a good seven miles from
Eyford Station.’
“ ‘Then we can hardly get there before midnight. I suppose there would be no
chance of a train back. I should be compelled to stop the night.’
“ ‘Yes, we could easily give you a shake down.’19
“ ‘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 thought of the fifty guineas, and of how very useful they would be to me.
‘Not at all,’ said I, ‘I shall be very happy to accommodate myself to your wishes.
I should like, however, to understand a little more clearly what it is that you wish
me to do.’
“ ‘Quite so. It is very natural that the pledge of secrecy which we have exacted
from you should have aroused your curiosity. I have no wish to commit you to
anything without your having it all laid before you. I suppose that we are
absolutely safe from eavesdroppers?’
“ ‘Entirely.’
“ ‘Then the matter stands thus. You are probably aware that fuller’s earth20 is
a valuable product, and that it is only found in one or two places in England?’21
“ ‘I have heard so.’
“ ‘Some little time ago I bought a small place—a very small place—within ten
miles of Reading. I was fortunate enough to discover that there was a deposit of
fuller’s-earth in one of my fields. On examining it, however, I found that this
deposit was a comparatively small one, and that it formed a link between two
very much larger ones upon the right and left—both of them, however, in the
grounds of my neighbours. These good people were absolutely ignorant that
their land contained that which was quite as valuable as a gold mine. Naturally,
it was to my interest to buy their land before they discovered its true value; but
unfortunately, I had no capital by which I could do this. I took a few of my
friends into the secret, however, and they suggested that we should quietly and
secretly work our own little deposit, and that in this way we should earn the
money which would enable us to buy the neighbouring fields. This we have now
been doing for some time, and in order to help us in our operations we erected a
hydraulic press.22 This press, as I have already explained, has got out of order,
and we wish your advice upon the subject. We guard our secret very jealously,
however, and if it once became known that we had hydraulic engineers coming
to our little house, it would soon rouse inquiry, and then, if the facts came out, it
would be good-bye to any chance of getting these fields and carrying out our
plans. That is why I have made you promise me that you will not tell a human
being that you are going to Eyford to-night. I hope that I make it all plain?’
“ ‘I quite follow you,’ said I. ‘The only point which I could not quite
understand, was what use you could make of a hydraulic press in excavating
fuller’s earth, which, as I understand, is dug out like gravel from a pit.’
“ ‘Ah!’ said he, carelessly, ‘we have our own process. We compress the earth
into bricks, so as to remove them without revealing what they are. But that is a
mere detail. I have taken you fully into my confidence now, Mr. Hatherley, and I
have shown you how I trust you.’ He rose as he spoke. ‘I shall expect you, then,
at Eyford at 11.15.’
“ ‘I shall certainly be there.’
“ ‘And not a word to a soul.’ He looked at me with a last, long, questioning
gaze, and then, pressing my hand in a cold, dank grasp, he hurried from the
room.
“Well, when I came to think it all over in cool blood I was very much
astonished, as you may both think, at this sudden commission which had been
intrusted to me. On the one hand, of course, I was glad, for the fee was at least
tenfold what I should have asked had I set a price upon my own services, and it
was possible that this order might lead to other ones. On the other hand, the face
and manner of my patron had made an unpleasant impression upon me, and I
could not think that his explanation of the fuller’s earth was sufficient to explain
the necessity for my coming at midnight, and his extreme anxiety lest I should
tell any one of my errand. However, I threw all my 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.
“ ‘Not a word to a soul!’ ”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“At Reading I had to change not only my carriage but my station. However, I
was in time for the last train to Eyford, and I reached the little dim-lit station
after eleven o’clock. I was the only passenger who got out there, and there was
no one upon the platform save a single sleepy porter with a lantern. As I passed
out through the wicket gate, however, I found my acquaintance of the morning
waiting in the shadow upon the other side. Without a word he grasped my arm
and hurried me into a carriage, the door of which was standing open. He drew up
the windows on either side, tapped on the woodwork, and away we went as hard
as the horse could go.”
“One horse?” interjected Holmes.
“Yes, only one.”
“Did you observe the colour?”
“Yes, I saw it by the sidelights 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 blur of a passing light. Now and then I hazarded
some remark to break the monotony of the journey, but the Colonel answered
only in monosyllables, and the conversation soon flagged. At last, however, the
bumping of the road was exchanged for the crisp smoothness of a gravel drive,
and the carriage came to a stand. Colonel Lysander Stark sprang out, and, as I
followed after him, pulled me swiftly into a porch which gaped in front of us.
We stepped, as it were, right out of the carriage and into the hall, so that I failed
to catch the most fleeting glance of the front of the house. The instant that I had
crossed the threshold the door slammed heavily behind us, and I heard faintly the
rattle of the wheels as the carriage drove away.
“It was pitch dark inside the house, and the Colonel fumbled about looking for
matches and muttering under his breath. Suddenly a door opened at the other end
of the passage, and a long, golden bar of light shot out in our direction. It grew
broader, and a woman appeared with a lamp in her hand, which she held above
her head, pushing her face forward and peering at us. I could see that she was
pretty, and from the gloss with which the light shone upon her dark dress I knew
that it was a rich material. She spoke a few words in a foreign tongue in a tone as
though asking a question, and when my companion answered in a gruff
monosyllable she gave such a start that the lamp nearly fell from her hand.
Colonel Stark went up to her, whispered something in her ear, and then, pushing
her back into the room from whence she had come, he walked towards me again
with the lamp in his hand.
“ ‘Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in this room for a few minutes,’
said he, throwing open another door. It was a quiet little, plainly furnished room,
with a round table in the centre, on which several German books were scattered.
Colonel Stark laid down the lamp on the top of a harmonium23 beside the door.
‘I shall not keep you waiting an instant,’ said he, and vanished into the darkness.
“I glanced at the books upon the table, and in spite of my ignorance of
German I could see that two of them were treatises on science, the others being
volumes of poetry. Then I walked across to the window, hoping that I might
catch some glimpse of the country side, but an oak shutter, heavily barred, was
folded across it. It was a wonderfully silent house. There was an old clock
ticking loudly somewhere in the passage, but otherwise everything was deadly
still. A vague feeling of uneasiness began to steal over me. Who were these
German people, and what were they doing living in this strange, out-of-the-way
place? And where was the place? I was ten miles or so from Eyford, that was all
I knew, but whether north, south, east, or west I had no idea. For that matter
Reading, and possibly other large towns, were within that radius, so the place
might not be so secluded after all. Yet it was quite certain, from the absolute
stillness, that we were in the country. I paced up and down the room, humming a
tune under my breath to keep up my spirits, and feeling that I was thoroughly
earning my fifty-guinea fee.
“Suddenly, without any preliminary sound in the midst of the utter stillness,
the door of my room swung slowly open. The woman was standing in the
aperture, the darkness of the hall behind her, the yellow light from my lamp
beating upon her eager and beautiful face. I could see at a glance that she was
sick with fear, and the sight sent a chill to my own heart. She held up one
shaking finger to warn me to be silent, and she shot a few whispered words of
broken English at me, her eyes glancing back, like those of a frightened horse,
into the gloom behind her.
“ ‘I would go,’ said she, trying hard, as it seemed to me, to speak calmly; ‘I
would go. I should not stay here. There is no good for you to do.’
“ ‘But, madam,’ said I, ‘I have not yet done what I came for. I cannot possibly
leave until I have seen the machine.’
“ ‘It is not worth your while to wait,’ she went on. ‘You can pass through the
door; no one hinders.’ And then, seeing that I smiled and shook my head, she
suddenly threw aside her constraint, and made a step forward, with her hands
wrung together. ‘For the love of Heaven!’ she whispered, ‘get away from here
before it is too late!’
“But I am somewhat headstrong by nature, and the more ready to engage in an
affair when there is some obstacle in the way. I thought of my fifty-guinea fee,
of my wearisome journey, and of the unpleasant night which seemed to be
before me. Was it all to go for nothing? Why should I slink away without having
carried out my commission, and without the payment which was my due? This
woman might, for all I knew, be a monomaniac.24 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 stair. She listened for an instant, threw up
her hands with a despairing gesture, and vanished as suddenly and as noiselessly
as she had come.
“ ‘Get away from here before it is too late!’ ”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“The new-comers were Colonel Lysander Stark, and a short thick man with a
chinchilla beard25 growing out of the creases of his double chin, who was
introduced to me as Mr. Ferguson.
“ ‘This is my secretary and manager,’ said the Colonel. ‘By the way, I was
under the impression that I left this door shut just now. I fear that you have felt
the draught.’
“ ‘On the contrary,’ said I, ‘I opened the door myself, because I felt the room
to be a little close.’
“He shot one of his suspicious glances 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, do you dig fuller’s earth in the house?’
“ ‘No, no. This is only where we compress it. But never mind that! All we
wish you to do is to examine the machine, and to let us know what is wrong with
it.’
“We went upstairs together, the Colonel first with the lamp, the fat manager
and I behind him. It was a labyrinth of an old house, with corridors, passages,
narrow winding staircases, and little low doors, the thresholds of which were
hollowed out by the generations who had crossed them. There were no carpets
and no signs of any furniture above the ground floor, while the plaster was
peeling off the walls, and 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.26
“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.27 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 any one were to turn it on. The ceiling of
this small chamber is really the end of the descending piston, and it comes down
with the force of many tons upon this metal floor. There are small lateral
columns of water outside which receive the force, and which transmit and
multiply it in the manner which is familiar to you. The machine goes readily
enough, but there is some stiffness in the working of it, and it has lost a little of
its force. Perhaps you will have the goodness to look it over, and to show us how
we can set it right.’
“I took the lamp from him, and I examined the machine very thoroughly. It
was indeed a gigantic one,28 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 indiarubber29 bands which was round the
head of a driving rod had shrunk so as not quite to fill the socket along which it
worked. This was clearly the cause of the loss of power, and I pointed it out to
my companions, who followed my remarks very carefully, and asked several
practical questions as to how they should proceed to set it right. When I had
made it clear to them, I returned to the main chamber of the machine, and took a
good look at it to satisfy my own curiosity. It was obvious at a glance that the
story of the fuller’s earth was the merest fabrication, for it would be absurd to
suppose that so powerful an engine could be designed for so inadequate a
purpose. The walls were of wood, but the floor consisted of a large iron trough,
and when I came to examine it I could see a crust of metallic deposit all over it. I
had stooped and was scraping at this to see exactly what it was, when I heard a
muttered exclamation in German, and saw the cadaverous face of the Colonel
looking down at me.
“ ‘What are you doing there?’ he asked.
“I felt angry at having been tricked by so elaborate a story as that which he
had told me. ‘I was admiring your fuller’s-earth,’ said I; ‘I think that I should be
better able to advise you as to your machine if I knew what the exact purpose
was for which it was used.’
“The instant that I uttered the words I regretted the rashness of my speech. His
face set hard, and a baleful light sprang up in his grey eyes.
“ ‘Very well,’ said he, ‘you shall know all about the machine.’ He took a step
backward, slammed the little door, and turned the key in the lock. I rushed
towards it and pulled at the handle, but it was quite secure, and did not give in
the least to my kicks and shoves. ‘Hullo!’ I yelled. ‘Hullo! Colonel! Let me out!’
“And then suddenly in the silence I heard a sound which sent my heart into
my mouth. It was the clank of the levers, and the swish of the leaking cylinder.
He had set the engine at work. The lamp still stood upon the floor where I had
placed it when examining the trough. By its light I saw that the black ceiling was
coming down upon me, slowly, jerkily, but, as none knew better than myself,
with a force which must within a minute grind me to a shapeless pulp. I threw
myself, screaming, against the door, and dragged with my nails at the lock. I
implored the Colonel to let me out, but the remorseless clanking of the levers
drowned my cries. The ceiling was only a foot or two above my head, and with
my hand upraised I could feel its hard, rough surface. Then it flashed through my
mind that the pain of my death would depend very much upon the position in
which I met it. If I lay on my face the weight would come upon my spine, and I
shuddered to think of that dreadful snap. Easier the other way, perhaps, and yet
had I the nerve to lie and look up at that deadly black shadow wavering down
upon me? Already I was unable to stand erect, when my eye caught something
which brought a gush of hope back to my heart.
“I rushed to the door.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“I have said that though 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 backwards.30 For an instant I could hardly believe that here was indeed a
door which led away from death. The next I threw myself through, and lay halffainting upon the other side. The panel had closed again behind me, but the crash
of the lamp, and a few moments afterwards the clang of the two slabs of metal,
told me how narrow had been my escape.
“I was recalled to myself by a frantic plucking at my wrist, and I found myself
lying upon the stone floor of a narrow corridor, while a woman bent over me and
tugged at me with her left hand, while she held a candle in her right. It was the
same good friend whose warning I had so foolishly rejected.
“ ‘Come! come!’ she cried, breathlessly. ‘They will be here in a moment.
They will see that you are not there. Oh, do not waste the so precious time, but
come!’
A woman bent over me . . . a candle in her right hand.
Dan Smith, Sunday Portland Oregonian, August 27, 1905
“This time, at least, I did not scorn her advice. I staggered to my feet, and ran
with her along the corridor and down a winding stair. The latter led to another
broad passage, and, just as we reached it, we heard the sound of running feet,
and the shouting of two voices—one answering the other—from the floor on
which we were and from the one beneath. My guide stopped, and looked about
her like one who is at her wit’s end. Then she threw open a door which led into a
bedroom, through the window of which the moon was shining brightly.
“ ‘It is your only chance,’ said she. ‘It is high, but it may be that you can jump
it.’
“As she spoke a light sprang into view at the further end of the passage, and I
saw the lean figure of Colonel Lysander Stark rushing forward with a lantern in
one hand, and a weapon like a butcher’s cleaver in the other. I rushed across the
bedroom, flung open the window, and looked out. How quiet and sweet and
wholesome the garden looked in the moonlight, and it could not be more than
thirty feet down. I clambered out upon the sill, but I hesitated to jump, until I
should have heard what passed between my saviour and the ruffian who pursued
me. If she were ill-used, then at any risks I was determined to go back to her
assistance. The thought had hardly flashed through my mind before he was at the
door, pushing his way past her; but she threw her arms round him, and tried to
hold him back.
“ ‘Fritz! Fritz!’31 she cried in English, ‘remember your promise after the last
time. You said it should not be again. He will be silent! Oh, he will be silent!’
“ ‘You are mad, Elise!’ he shouted, struggling to break away from her. ‘You
will be the ruin of us. He has seen too much. Let me pass, I say!’ He dashed her
to one side, and, rushing to the window, cut at me with his heavy weapon. I had
let myself go, and was hanging with my fingers in the window slot and my hands
across the sill,32 when his blow fell. I was conscious of a dull pain, my grip
loosened, and I fell into the garden below.
“I was shaken, but not hurt by the fall; so I picked myself up, and rushed off
among the bushes as hard as I could run, for I understood that I was far from
being out of danger yet. Suddenly, however, as I ran, a deadly dizziness and
sickness came over me. I glanced down at my hand, which was throbbing
painfully, and then, for the first time, saw that my thumb had been cut off, and
that the blood was pouring from my wound. I endeavoured to tie my
handkerchief round it, but there came a sudden buzzing in my ears, and next
moment I fell in a dead faint among the rose-bushes.
“He cut at me.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“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.33 The smarting of it recalled in
an instant all the particulars of my night’s adventure, and I sprang to my feet
with the feeling that I might hardly yet be safe from my pursuers. But, to my
astonishment, when I came to look round me, neither house nor garden were to
be seen. I had been lying in an angle of the hedge close by the highroad, and just
a little lower down was a long building, which proved, upon my approaching it,
to be the very station at which I had arrived upon the previous night. Were it not
for the ugly wound upon my hand, all that had passed during those dreadful
hours might have been an evil dream.
“Half dazed, I went into the station, and asked about the morning train. There
would be one to Reading in less than an hour. The same porter was on duty, I
found, as had been there when I arrived. I inquired of him whether he had ever
heard of Colonel Lysander Stark. The name was strange to him. Had he
observed a carriage the night before waiting for me? No, he had not. Was there a
police-station anywhere near? There was one about three miles off.
“It was too far for me to go, weak and ill as I was. I determined to wait until I
got back to town before telling my story to the police. It was a little past six
when I arrived, so I went first to have my wound dressed, and then the doctor
was kind enough to bring me along here. I put the case into your hands, and shall
do exactly what you advise.”
We both sat in silence for some little time after listening to this extraordinary
narrative. Then Sherlock Holmes pulled down from the shelf one of the
ponderous commonplace books in which he placed his cuttings.
“Here is an advertisement which will interest you,” said he. “It appeared in all
the papers about a year ago. Listen to this:—
Lost, on the 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged 26, a hydraulic engineer.
Left his lodgings at ten o’clock at night, and has not been heard of since.
Was dressed in, &c., &c.
“Ha! That represents the last time that the Colonel needed to have his machine
overhauled, I fancy.”
“Good heavens!” cried my patient. “then that explains what the girl said.”
“Undoubtedly. It is quite clear that the Colonel was a cool and desperate man,
who was absolutely determined that nothing should stand in the way of his little
game, like those out-and-out pirates who will leave no survivor from a captured
ship. Well, every moment now is precious, so, if you feel equal to it, we shall go
down to Scotland Yard at once as a preliminary to starting for Eyford.”
Some three hours or so afterwards we were all in the train together, bound
from Reading to the little Berkshire village. There were Sherlock Holmes, the
hydraulic engineer, Inspector Bradstreet of Scotland Yard, a plain-clothes man,
and myself. Bradstreet had spread an ordnance map34 of the county out upon the
seat, and was busy with his compasses drawing a circle with Eyford for its
centre.
“There you are,” said he. “That circle is drawn at a radius of ten miles from
the village. The place we want must be somewhere near that line. You said ten
miles, I think, sir.”
“It was an hour’s good drive.”
“And you think that they brought you back all that way when you were
unconscious?”
“They must have done so. I have a confused memory, too, of having been
lifted and conveyed somewhere.”
“What I cannot understand,” said I, “is why they should have spared you
when they found you lying fainting in the garden. Perhaps the villain was
softened by the woman’s entreaties.”
“I hardly think that likely. I never saw a more inexorable face in my life.”
“Oh, we shall soon clear up all that,” said Bradstreet. “Well, I have drawn my
circle, and I only wish I knew at what point upon it the folk that we are in search
of are to be found.”
“I think I could lay my finger on it,” said Holmes, quietly.
“Really, now!” cried the Inspector, “you have formed your opinion! Come
now, we shall see who agrees with you. I say it is south, for the country is more
deserted there.”
“And I say east,” said my patient.
“I am for west,” remarked the plain-clothes man. “There are several quiet little
villages up there.”
“And I am for north,” said I; “because there are no hills there, and our friend
says that he did not notice the carriage go up any.”
“Come,” cried the Inspector, laughing; “it’s a very pretty diversity of opinion.
We have boxed the compass35 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 coiners36 on a large scale, and have
used the machine to form the amalgam37 which has taken the place of silver.”
“We have known for some time that a clever gang was at work,” said the
inspector.
“They have been turning out half-crowns by the thousand. We even traced
them as far as Reading, but could get no farther; for they had covered their traces
in a way that showed that they were very old hands. But now, thanks to this
lucky chance, I think that we have got them right enough.”
But the Inspector was mistaken, for those criminals were not destined to fall
into the hands of justice. As we rolled into Eyford Station we saw a gigantic
column of smoke which streamed up from behind a small clump of trees in the
neighbourhood, and hung like an immense ostrich feather over the landscape.
“A house on fire?” asked Bradstreet, as the train steamed off again on its way.
“Yes, sir!” said the station-master.
“When did it break out?”
“I hear that it was during the night, sir, but it has got worse, and the whole
place is in a blaze.”
“Whose house is it?”
“Dr. Becher’s.”
“Tell me,” broke in the engineer, “is Dr. Becher a German, very thin, with a
long sharp nose?”
The station-master laughed heartily. “No, sir, Dr. Becher is an Englishman,
and there isn’t a man in the parish who has a better-lined waistcoat. But he has a
gentleman staying with him, a patient, as I understand, who is a foreigner, and he
looks as if a little good Berkshire beef would do him no harm.”
The station-master had not finished his speech before we were all hastening in
the direction of the fire. The road topped a low hill, and there was a great
widespread white-washed 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.
“A house on fire?”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“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’s fear came to be realised, for from that day to this no word has
ever been heard either of the beautiful woman, the sinister German, or the
morose Englishman. Early that morning a peasant had met a cart, containing
several people and some very bulky boxes driving rapidly in the direction of
Reading, but there all traces of the fugitives disappeared, and even Holmes’s
ingenuity failed ever to discover the least clue 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,38 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 conveyed from the garden to the spot
where he recovered his senses39 might have remained for ever 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.
Fire brigade, ca. 1890.
Past Positive
“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.40 “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.”
1 “The Engineer’s Thumb” was published in the Strand Magazine in March 1892.
2 Arthur Conan Doyle received his M.D. in 1885 at the University of Edinburgh together with one Colonel
William Pleace Warburton. Although there is no record of William Pleace Warburton suffering any mental
disturbance, it is possible that he is the subject of the matter brought to Holmes’s attention and was
introduced through Conan Doyle’s relationship with Watson.
3 “The Blanched Soldier,” note 5, for the implications of this statement.
4 This statement implies that Watson engaged in the private practice of medicine (a “civil practice,” as
contrasted with his service as an army surgeon, his “military practice”) before 1889. It may have been a
practice based at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital (Bart’s), where Watson was a resident; in A Study in Scarlet,
Watson records no interval between his residency and his course of study at Netley. Arthur Conan Doyle’s
unproduced play Angels of Darkness, probably written in 1885, shares many character names and elements
with Watson’s A Study in Scarlet (1887), leading to suspicions of collaboration. While the play identifies
Dr. John Watson as a San Francisco practitioner, the absence of Sherlock Holmes from the cast of
characters makes it suspect as an historical document.
5 Watson refers here to the station-master, porters, ticket-takers, and other station workers.
6 Hydraulic engineering was then a subset of mechanical engineering, which encompassed the design and
building of machinery, mills, steam engines (including, of course, trains), iron ships, and agricultural
implements. The Institution of Mechanical Engineers was founded by George Stephenson, builder (with his
son Robert) of the famed Rocket locomotive (see “The Boscombe Valley Mystery,” note 9), at Birmingham,
England, in 1847 and registered under the Companies Act in 1878. Together with the Society of Engineers,
founded in 1854, Stephenson’s Institution brought a standard of professionalism to a loosely organised field
of study. Hydraulic engineers concerned themselves with machines utilising hydraulic engines as well as
the general manipulation of the flow of water and other fluids. Seven hydraulic engineering firms were
listed in the 1885 directory of the London-based United Telephone System; at least one of those firms also
billed itself as a specialist in gas and hot water, and five were also listed under “mechanical engineers.”
7 Hatherley’s statement contradicts this conclusion several times.
8 The editors of the Doubleday (American) edition of the Canon substitute the phrase “pale-looking” in
place of “blushing hotly.” This seems to fit better with the description of Hatherley’s “bloodless cheeks.”
9 Left or right? Bliss Austin argues for the left thumb, on the basis that if Hatherley were right handed
(which is statistically probable) and had injured his right thumb, “he could hardly have been so dextrous in
tying tourniquets or eating hearty breakfasts.”
10 Philip Weller notes that this wound is not consistent with an attack by a heavy, sharp instrument that
Watson later surmises and Hatherley describes. Instead, such an instrument would produce a clean cut, not a
“spongy” surface.
11 Bandages impregnated with carbolic acid or phenol. The compound’s use as an anti-septic was
popularised by Joseph Lister (1827–1912), a physician who revolutionised medicine by applying Pasteur’s
theories (that infection was caused by bacteria) to the practise of surgery. Prior to Lister’s innovation,
surgeons in England generally used ether as an anaesthetic, which made surgery tolerable for the patient but
did nothing to prevent the potentially fatal onset of gangrene. In 1865, Lister set a patient’s leg fracture and
successfully treated the wound with carbolic acid. By 1880, according to Oxford University Press’s A
Dictionary of Scientists, the Listerian method had become standard surgical procedure, drastically reducing
postoperative fatalities and other complications. Lister—who taught at Edinburgh from 1869 to 1876, a
decade before Arthur Conan Doyle studied there—became the first physician to be raised to the peerage
when he was made a baron in 1897.
12 There is much criticism of Watson’s medical treatment, with some suggesting that Watson should have
stitched up the wound and then should have prescribed a narcotic to deaden the pain and a hypnotic to help
his patient sleep.
13 “The Engineer’s Thumb” likely occurred in 1889 (see Chronological Table). The only published
account of Holmes’s activities at that time was A Study in Scarlet. In light of the limited circulation of A
Study in Scarlet, Hatherley probably heard about Holmes from some other source.
14 The breakfast habits of Holmes (and Watson) are mysterious. In A Study in Scarlet, Watson refers to his
own “late habits” and confesses that “I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours”; Holmes generally had breakfast
and left his apartment before Watson rose. This was presumably before Watson went into “harness” in
Paddington. In “The Speckled Band,” however, Watson describes himself as “regular in my habits” and
Holmes as a “late riser as a rule.” Here, Watson expects to discover Holmes taking his breakfast shortly
after seven o’clock.
15 The department of personal advertisements in newspapers, first made famous in The Times of London.
Christopher Morley comments: “All such columns exhibit a weird or comic mixture of human perplexities,
hence the appropriate nickname.”
16 Pieces of tobacco pressed into a hard section (plugs) and unburnt or semi-burnt pieces (dottles) retrieved
from a half-smoked pipe.
17 A thin slice of bacon or ham, broiled or fried.
18 There is no Eyford in Berkshire or anywhere else in England, for that matter. Joseph H. Gillies
identifies the town as “Twyford,” near the borders of Oxfordshire.
19 An improvised bed (as one made up on the floor).
20 A sandy clay then used for industrial and medical purposes. The earthy, hydrous aluminium silicate, of
which it is composed, was used for the absorption of grease by “fullers,” persons who worked with cloth.
21 The Encyclopædia Britannica (9th Ed.) lists Surrey and Yorkshire in England and Morayshire in
Scotland.
22 The hydraulic press, invented in 1796 by Yorkshireman Joseph Bramah—a machinist and prolific
inventor—exerts pressure on a small piston, which compresses fluid against a larger piston. By transmitting
the force to a larger surface area, the force is “multiplied” by the ratio of the surface areas. For example,
exerting 100 pounds of force on a piston of 2-inch diameter, which compresses liquid against a 6-inchdiameter piston, results in multiplying the force to 900 pounds. In other words, the compression of a column
of water can be used to exert tremendous pressure on a target (for example, to shape or stamp metals, as in
coining).
23 A portable reed-organ, equipped with a keyboard and sounded by air propelled by foot-pedal–operated
bellows past reeds rather than pipes. The harmonium, patented by Alexandre Debain in 1848, was used in
chapels, small churches, and homes.
24 An obsession of the mind by one idea or interest (from the French: monomanie). Monomania was
recognised as early as 1838, in Jean Étienne Dominique Esquirol’s Des Maladies Mentales (Paris, 1838); in
W. A. Guy’s Principles of Forensic Medicine (New York: Harper & Bros., 1845), it is called “partial moral
mania.” However, this was merely a classification, and Victorian medicine offered no definite idea as to the
pathological character or cause of the disease.
25 A beard gathered into tufts, resembling the fur of the animal. While the origin of the phrase is unknown,
this limerick has achieved popularity:
When they catch a chinchilla in Chile,
They cut off its beard, willy-nilly,
With a small razor blade,
Just to say that they’ve made
A Chilean chinchilla’s chin chilly.
26 Between 1860 and 1900, writes Karl Beckson, in London in the 1890s: A Cultural History, Londoners
generally regarded Germany as both a potentially malevolent power and a formidable economic competitor
in empire building. When William II (Kaiser Wilhelm) took the throne of Germany in 1888, strong antiBritish feelings were widespread in Berlin, and it was supposed that the party from which it proceeded had
the patronage of the emperor. However, the kaiser visited England annually, commencing in 1889, as the
guest of the queen, and there was hope of an entente cordiale. The incident of the Jameson Raid in 1895,
four years after publication of “The Engineer’s Thumb,” an abortive English-led invasion of the Transvaal,
sparked a sympathetic telegram by the kaiser to the president of the Transvaal and caused a long alienation
from England.
27 Based on his own experiments, W. T. Rabe concludes that the room was probably no larger than twoand-a-half feet square. Without explaining these experiments, Rabe further concludes that Hatherley was
3.5 feet tall, calling into question Rabe’s original researches.
28 While Hatherley’s nighttime journey successfully eluded detection, the presence of a “gigantic”
hydraulic press in this secretive location is somewhat harder to explain. Benjamin Clark asks, “[H]ow in the
world, without alerting the entire neighbourhood, do you surreptitiously install a gigantic hydraulic press
into the second storey of an old country house?”
29 Natural rubber.
30 The curious existence of a sliding panel that leads out of the hydraulic press and into a passage is
addressed by D. Martin Dakin, who considers, “It could not be the same door that Hatherley entered by, as .
. . the colonel must have been still outside that door, waiting to remove the remains.” He surmises that the
room containing the hydraulic press, which would of necessity have had to be quite large, was fashioned
from two or three of the house’s original rooms, one underneath the other. Fortunately for Hatherley, one of
those rooms conveniently contained a secret panel (many houses at the time had one), which Colonel Stark
either did not know about or failed to consider. Secret rooms, panels, or passages appear in other Canonical
houses, notably, Hurlstone Manor, a manor house (“The Musgrave Ritual”), Yoxley Old Place, a “country
house” (“The Golden Pince-Nez”), where Holmes describes the hidden recess as “common in old libraries,”
and the “ancient Manor House of Birlstone” (The Valley of Fear).
31 Was Elise also of German descent? And what was her relationship to the colonel? She called him
“Fritz,” but was she his wife, his mistress, his sister? Or just another crook?
32 The text here follows the English edition of the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. In the Strand Magazine,
the text appears as “was hanging by the hands to the sill.” This latter text also appears in American editions.
Using that version as a basis, Jay Finley Christ argues, in “Thumbs Up Thumbs Down,” that a man hanging
as Hatherley describes would actually have had his thumbs positioned “some two or three inches below the
edge on the outside of the sill” [emphasis added]. Thus Colonel Stark’s cleaver would probably not have
even touched Hatherley’s thumb, let alone cut it off, unless Stark had reached out well past the sill’s edge
with his blow. Even then, Christ adds, severing a thumb would have been well nigh impossible, with
nothing underneath to serve as a chopping block.
Stanley MacKenzie, in “The Engineer’s Thumb,” points out that this criticism is based on the Strand
Magazine or American text. Referring to the English book text, MacKenzie writes, “Iwith whom the police
have imagine the ‘slot’ to have been a recess, flush with the sill into which the bottom of the window
dropped. If the sill was, say, 5” or more wide, and one’s fingers were in the slot, the palm of the hand and
thumb would be flat on top of the sill. The thumb would, quite naturally, stick out sideways and be in a
convenient position for amputation.”
Yet another conclusion is drawn by Bill Rabe, who envisions Hatherley clinging to a very broad sill, his
torso “hanging outside the house, the forearms across the top of the sill, fingers curled around the inner sill,
and the thumbs spread-eagled, as it were, on the chopping block of the sill.”
33 Despite Hatherley’s bedraggled appearance here, he miraculously managed to turn up at Watson’s
office “quietly dressed in a suit of heather tweed.”
34 The Board of Ordnance—Britain’s defence ministry—began surveying southern Britain in 1791, in part
to prepare for impending war with France. Its first map, a one-inch-to-one-mile map of Kent, was published
in 1801. By the Victorian era, the Ordnance Survey was producing detailed maps of varying scales for
Ireland as well as the whole of Great Britain.
35 To name the 32 points of the compass, originally a nautical term.
36 Coining (or the manufacture of forged coins) was a large criminal industry in Victorian England. “The
up-to-date counterfeit-money coiner is one of the most difficult individuals with whom the police have to
deal,” writes the Strand Magazine in “Crimes and Criminals: No. III—Coiners and Coining,” appearing in
the April 1894 issue, two years after “The Engineer’s Thumb.” The article discusses at some length the use
of melted pewter—usually derived from pewter-pots obtained from the local pub!—and the process of
electroplating with silver but makes no mention of hydraulic presses. Apparently, the colonel was even
more “up-to-date” than the author of the Strand article!
37 Any alloy of mercury and some other metal.
38 If the fire started when Hatherley dropped his lamp, that marks the genesis at sometime around 1:30 or
2:00 A.M. Hatherley arrived at the Eyford station after 11:00 P.M. and drove with the colonel for “at least an
hour.” This places Hatherley at the house no earlier than 12:15 A.M. Allowing at least an hour for his wait in
the darkened house, his “very thorough” examination of the press, and his confrontation with the colonel,
the hour of Hatherley’s departure must have been around 1:30 or 2:00 A.M. When Hatherley came to himself
he found that “the moon had sunk and a bright morning was breaking,” which would be no earlier than 4:00
A.M. in that latitude in summer. This is confirmed by Hatherley’s arrival at Paddington Station a little after
6:00 A.M. By the time Holmes and his crew arrived at midday, the fire was fully ablaze. Yet despite the
efforts of firemen and three fire engines, the house continued to burn until around 8:00 P.M. (sunset)—in
other words, a full twenty hours, incredibly, after the fire had begun.
39 Given that Hatherley awoke very near the house perhaps two and a half hours after he dropped the lamp,
it is surprising that he smelled no smoke or saw any other evidence of a fire.
40 Jay Finley Christ suggests that Hatherley was in reality Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, the engineer who had
disappeared a year earlier. He caught his hand in the press while operating it for the coiners. Hayling seized
upon the fire (started in a manner unknown) as his best chance to escape. After attaining his freedom, he
concocted the tale about the cleaver to avoid potentially embarrassing questions about his participation in
the criminal enterprise.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR1
In “The Noble Bachelor,” Holmes meets
society in the form of Lord Robert St. Simon.
St. Simon is something of a fop, and middleclass British readers must have delighted in
Holmes’s “putdown” of the young lord.
English women complained of an American
“invasion” of young (rich) women in search of
husbands from among the poorer members of
England’s upper crust. Here, Holmes is asked
to trace a vanishing American bride. Correctly
reading the signs, he finds her—and another
man! Although some scholars insist that the
beautiful heroine was a criminal, Holmes is
forgiving; but his diplomacy fails when he tries
to bring together the Old and New Worlds
over breakfast. Holmes’s cheery, democratic
attitude and his expression of faith in the
future of the English-speaking peoples was
copied in the utterly non-Canonical “Sherlock
Holmes” films of Universal Pictures starring
Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce.
THE 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
limbs2 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 fishmonger and a tide waiter.”3
“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?”
“He broke the seal and glanced over the contents.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“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. Simon4 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 cooperation, and that he even thinks that it might be
5
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,
Robert St. Simon.
6
“It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions,7 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 volume8 from a
line of books of reference beside the mantelpiece. “Here he is,” said he, sitting
down and flattening it out upon his knee. “ ‘Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere
St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral—Hum! Arms: Azure, three
caltrops9 in chief over a fess sable.10 Born in 1846.’ He’s forty-one years of age,
which is mature for marriage. Was Under-Secretary for the Colonies in a late
Administration. The Duke, his father, was at one time Secretary for Foreign
Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet11 blood by direct descent, and Tudor12 on the
distaff side. Ha! Well there is nothing very instructive in all this. I think that I
must turn to you, Watson, for something more solid.”
“I have very little difficulty in finding what I want,” said I, “for the facts are
quite recent, and the matter struck me as remarkable. I feared to refer them to
you, however, as I knew that you had an inquiry on hand and that you disliked
the intrusion of other matters.”
“Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square13 furniture van.
That is quite cleared up now—though, indeed, it was obvious from the first. Pray
give me the results of your newspaper selections.”
“Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal column of The
Morning Post,14 and dates, as you see, some weeks back.
A marriage has been arranged [it says] and will, if rumour is correct, very
shortly take place, between Lord Robert St. Simon, second son of the Duke
of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty Doran, the only daughter of Aloysius Doran,
Esq., of San Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.
That is all.”
“Terse and to the point,” remarked Holmes, stretching his long, thin legs
towards the fire.
“There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society papers of the
same week. Ah, here it is.”
There will soon be a call for protection in the marriage market, for the
present free-trade principle appears to tell heavily against our home
product. One by one the management of the noble houses of Great Britain is
passing into the hands of our fair cousins from across the Atlantic. An
important addition has been made during the last week to the list of the
prizes which have been borne away by these charming invaders. Lord St.
Simon, who has shown himself for over twenty years proof against the little
god’s arrows, has now definitely announced his approaching marriage with
Miss Hatty Doran, the fascinating daughter of a California millionaire. Miss
Doran, whose graceful figure and striking face attracted much attention at
the Westbury House15 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 title.16
“Anything else?” asked Holmes, yawning.
“Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in The Morning Post to say that
the marriage would be an absolutely quiet one, that it would be at St. George’s,
Hanover Square,17 that only half a dozen intimate friends would be invited, and
that the party would return to the furnished house at Lancaster Gate18 which has
been taken by Mr. Aloysius Doran. Two days later—that is, on Wednesday last
—there is a curt announcement that the wedding had taken place, and that the
honeymoon would be passed at Lord Backwater’s place, near Petersfield. Those
are all the notices which appeared before the disappearance of the bride.”
“Before the what?” asked Holmes, with a start.
“The vanishing of the lady.”
“When did she vanish, then?”
“At the wedding breakfast.”19
“Indeed. This is more interesting than it promised to be; quite dramatic, in
fact.”
“Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the common.”
“They often vanish before the ceremony, and occasionally during the
honeymoon; but I cannot call to mind anything quite so prompt as this. Pray let
me have the details.”
“I warn you that they are very incomplete.”
“Perhaps we may make them less so.”
“Such as they are, they are set forth in a single article of a morning paper of
yesterday, which I will read to you. It is headed, ‘Singular Occurrence at a
Fashionable Wedding’:
The family of Lord Robert St. Simon has been
thrown into the greatest consternation by the
strange and painful episodes which have taken
place in connection with his wedding. The
ceremony, as shortly announced in the papers of
yesterday, occurred on the previous morning; but
it is only now that it has been possible to confirm
the strange rumours which have been so
persistently floating about. In spite of the attempts
of the friends to hush the matter up, so much
public attention has now been drawn to it that no
good purpose can be served by affecting to
disregard what is a common subject for
conversation.
The ceremony, which was performed at St.
George’s, Hanover Square, was a very quiet one,
no one being present save the father of the bride,
Mr. Aloysius Doran, the Duchess of Balmoral,
Lord Backwater, Lord Eustace and Lady Clara St.
Simon (the younger brother and sister of the
bridegroom), and Lady Alicia Whittington. The
whole party proceeded afterwards to the house of
Mr. Aloysius Doran, at Lancaster Gate, where
breakfast had been prepared. It appears that some
little trouble was caused by a woman, whose name
has not been ascertained, who endeavoured to
force her way into the house after the bridal party,
alleging that she had some claim upon Lord St.
Simon. It was only after a painful and prolonged
scene that she was ejected by the butler and the
footman. The bride, who had fortunately entered
the house before this unpleasant interruption, had
sat down to breakfast with the rest, when she
complained of a sudden indisposition, and retired
to her room. Her prolonged absence having caused
some comment, her father followed her; but
learned from her maid that she had only come up
to her chamber for an instant, caught up an ulster
and bonnet, and hurried down to the passage. One
of the footmen declared that he had seen a lady
leave the house thus apparelled; but had refused to
credit that it was his mistress, believing her to be
20
21
with the company. On ascertaining that his
daughter had disappeared, Mr. Aloysius Doran, in
conjunction with the bridegroom, instantly put
themselves into communication with the police,
and very energetic inquiries are being made,
which will probably result in a speedy clearing up
of this very singular business. Up to a late hour
last night, however, nothing had transpired as to
the whereabouts of the missing lady. There are
rumours of foul play in the matter, and it is said
that the police have caused the arrest of the
woman who had caused the original disturbance,
in the belief that, from jealousy or some other
motive, she may have been concerned in the
strange disappearance of the bride.
22
“She was ejected by the butler and the footman.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“And is that all?”
“Only one little item in another of the morning papers, but it is a suggestive
one.”
“And it is?”
“That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused the disturbance, has actually
been arrested. It appears that she was formerly a danseuse at the Allegro,23 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.”24
“Lord Robert St. Simon,” announced our page boy, throwing open the door. A
gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured face, high-nosed and pale, with
something perhaps of petulance about the mouth, and with the steady, wellopened 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.
“Lord Robert St. Simon.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“Good-day, Lord St. Simon,” said Holmes, rising and bowing.25 “Pray take
the basket chair.26 This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. Draw up a little
to the fire, and we will talk this matter over.”
“A most painful matter to me, as you can most readily imagine, Mr. Holmes. I
have been cut to the quick. I understand that you have already managed several
delicate cases of this sort, sir, though I presume that they were hardly from the
same class of society.”
“No, I am descending.”
“I beg pardon?”
“My last client of the sort was a king.”
“Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king?”
“The King of Scandinavia.”
“What! Had he lost his wife?”27
“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 Robert St. Simon.
J. C. Drake, Chicago Inter-Ocean, March 13, 1892
Lord St. Simon glanced over it. “Yes, it is correct, as far as it goes.”
“But it needs a great deal of supplementing before any one could offer an
opinion. I think that I may arrive at my facts most directly by questioning you.”
“Pray do so.”
“When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?”
“In San Francisco, a year ago.”
“You were travelling in the States?”
“Yes.”
“Did you become engaged then?”
“No.”
“But you were on a friendly footing?”
“I was amused by her society, and she could see that I was amused.”
“Her father is very rich?”
“He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific slope.”
“And how did he make his money?”
“In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then he struck gold, invested it,
and came up by leaps and bounds.”
“Now, what is your own impression as to the young lady’s—your wife’s
character?”
The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and stared down into the fire.
“You see, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “my wife was twenty before her father became
a rich man. During that time she ran free in a mining camp, and wandered
through woods or mountains, so that her education has come from Nature rather
than from the schoolmaster. She is what we call in England a tomboy, with a
strong nature, wild and free, unfettered by any sort of traditions. She is
impetuous—volcanic, I was about to say. She is swift in making up her mind,
and fearless in carrying out her resolutions. On the other hand, I would not have
given her the name which I have the honour 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.28 I met her
several times, became engaged to her, and have now married her.”
“She brought, I understand, a considerable dowry?”
“A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my family.”
“And this, of course, remains to you, since the marriage is a fait accompli?”
“I really have made no inquiries on the subject.”
“Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran on the day before the wedding?”
“Yes.”
“Was she in good spirits?”
“Never better. She kept talking of what we should do in our future lives.”
“Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the morning of the wedding?”
“She was as bright as possible—at least, until after the ceremony.”
“And did you observe any change in her then?”
“Well, to tell the truth, I saw then the first signs that I had ever seen that her
temper was just a little sharp. The incident, however, was too trivial to relate and
can have no possible bearing upon the case.”
“Pray let us have it, for all that.”
“Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet as we went towards the vestry.
She was passing the front pew at the time, and it fell over into the pew. There
was a moment’s delay, but the gentleman in the pew handed it up to her again
and it did not appear to be the worse for the fall. Yet, when I spoke to her of the
matter, she answered me abruptly; and in the carriage, on our way home, she
seemed absurdly agitated over this trifling cause.”
“Indeed. You say that there was a gentleman in the pew. Some of the general
public were present, then?”
“The gentleman in the pew handed it up to her.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“Oh yes. It is impossible to exclude them when the church is open.”
“This gentleman was not one of your wife’s friends?”
“No, no; I call him a gentleman by courtesy, but he was quite a commonlooking 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 reentering her father’s house?”
“I saw her in conversation with her maid.”
“And who is her maid?”
“Alice is her name. She is an American and came from California with her.”
“A confidential servant?”
“A little too much so. It seemed to me that her mistress allowed her to take
great liberties. Still, of course, in America they look upon these things in a
different way.”
“How long did she speak to this Alice?”
“Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to think of.”
“You did not overhear what they said?”
“Lady St. Simon said something about ‘jumping a claim.’ She was
accustomed to use slang of the kind. I have no idea what she meant.”
“American slang is very expressive sometimes. And what did your wife do
when she finished speaking to her maid?”
“She walked into the breakfast-room.”
“On your arm?”
“No, alone. She was very independent in little matters like that. Then, after we
had sat down for ten minutes or so, she rose hurriedly, muttered some words of
apology, and left the room. She never came back.”
“But this maid, Alice, as I understand, deposes that she went to her room,
covered her bride’s dress with a long ulster, put on a bonnet, and went out.”
“Quite so. And she was afterwards seen walking into Hyde Park in company
with Flora Millar, a woman who is now in custody, and who had already made a
disturbance at Mr. Doran’s house that morning.”
“Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars as to this young lady, and your
relations to her.”
Lord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. “We have
been on a friendly footing for some years—I may say on a very friendly footing.
She used to be at the Allegro. I have not treated her ungenerously, and she has
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.29 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 given
instructions to the servants,30 who soon pushed her out again. She was quiet
when she saw that there was no good in making a row.”
“Did your wife hear all this?”
“No, thank goodness, she did not.”
“And she was seen walking with this very woman afterwards?”
“Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, looks upon as so serious.
It is thought that Flora decoyed my wife out, and laid some terrible trap for her.”
“Well, it is a possible supposition.”
“You think so, too?”
“I did not say a probable one. But you do not yourself look upon this as
likely?”
“I do not think Flora would hurt a fly.”
“Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of characters. Pray what is your own
theory as to what took place?”
“Well, really, I came to seek a theory, not to propound one. I have given you
all the facts. Since you ask me, however, I may say that it has occurred to me as
possible that the excitement of this affair, the consciousness that she had made
so immense a social stride, had the effect of causing some little nervous
disturbance in my wife.”
“In short, that she had become suddenly deranged?”
“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 detain you longer. I shall
communicate with you.”
“Should you be fortunate enough to solve this problem,” said our client,
rising.
“I have solved it.”
“Eh? What was that?”
“I say that I have solved it.”
“Where, then, is my wife?”
“That is a detail which I shall speedily supply.”
Lord St. Simon shook his head. “I am afraid that it will take wiser heads than
yours or mine,” he remarked, and bowing in a stately, old-fashioned manner, he
departed.
“It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honour my head by putting it on a level
with his own,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “I think that I shall have a
whisky and soda and a cigar after all this cross-questioning. I had formed my
conclusion 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,31 to quote Thoreau’s
example.”32
“But I have heard all that you have heard.”
“Without, however, the knowledge of pre-existing cases which serves me so
well. There was a parallel instance in Aberdeen some years back, and something
on very much the same lines at Munich the year after the Franco-Prussian War.33
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.”34
“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.
The Serpentine.
“Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar Square
fountain?”35 he asked.
“Why? What do you mean?”
“Because you have just as good a chance of finding this lady in the one as in
the other.”
Lestrade shot an angry glance at my companion. “I suppose you know all
about it,” he snarled.
“Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my mind is made up.”
“Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpentine plays no part in the matter?”
“I think it very unlikely.”
“Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we found this in it?” He
opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto the floor a wedding dress of
watered silk, a pair of white satin shoes, and a bride’s wreath and veil, all
discoloured and soaked in water. “There,” said he, putting a new wedding-ring
upon the top of the pile. “There is a little nut for you to crack, Master Holmes.”
“Oh, indeed,” said my friend, blowing blue rings into the air. “You dragged
them from the Serpentine?”
“No. They were found floating near the margin by a park-keeper. They have
been identified as her clothes, and it seemed to me that if the clothes were there
the body would not be far off.”
“By the same brilliant reasoning, every man’s body is to be found in the
neighbourhood of his wardrobe. And pray what did you hope to arrive at through
this?”
“At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the disappearance.”
“I am afraid that you will find it difficult.”
“Are you, indeed, now?” cried Lestrade with some bitterness. “I am afraid,
Holmes, that you are not very practical with your deductions and your
inferences. You have made two blunders in as many minutes. This dress does
The Queen’s London (1897)
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.”
You will see me when all is ready. Come at once.
F.H.M.
Trafalgar Square.
“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.”
The Queen’s London (1897)
“ ‘There,’ said he.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“Very good, Lestrade,” said Holmes, laughing. “You really are very fine
indeed. Let me see it.” He took up the paper in a listless way, but his attention
instantly became riveted, and he gave a little cry of satisfaction. “This is indeed
important,” said he.
“Ha, you find it so?”
“Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly.”
Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head to look. “Why,” he shrieked,
“you’re looking at the wrong side!”
“On the contrary, this is the right side.”
“The right side? You’re mad! Here is the note written in pencil over here.”
“And over here is what appears to be the fragment of a hotel bill, which
interests me deeply.”
“There’s nothing in it. I looked at it before,” said Lestrade. “ ‘Oct 4th, rooms
8s., breakfast 2s. 6d., cocktail 1s., lunch 2s. 6d., glass sherry, 8d.’ I see nothing
in that.”
“Very likely not. It is most important, all the same. As to the note, it is
important also, or at least the initials are, so I congratulate you again.”
“I’ve wasted time enough,” said Lestrade, rising. “I believe in hard work, and
not in sitting by the fire spinning fine theories. Good-day, Mr. Holmes, and we
shall see which gets to the bottom of the matter first.” He gathered up the
garments, thrust them into the bag, and made for the door.
“Just one hint to you, Lestrade,” drawled Holmes, before his rival vanished; “I
will tell you the true solution of the matter. Lady St. Simon is a myth. There is
not, and there never has been, any such person.”
Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then he turned to me, tapped his
forehead three times, shook his head solemnly, and hurried away.
He had hardly shut the door behind him when Holmes rose and put on his
overcoat. “There is something in what the fellow says about outdoor work,” he
remarked, “so I think, Watson, that I must leave you to your papers for a little.”
It was after five o’clock when Sherlock Holmes left me, but I had no time to
be lonely, for within an hour there arrived a confectioner’s man with a very large
flat box. This he unpacked with the help of a youth whom he had brought with
him, and presently, to my very great astonishment, a quite epicurean little cold
supper began to be laid out upon our humble lodging-house mahogany. There
were a couple of brace of cold woodcock, a pheasant, a pâté de foie gras pie,36
with a group of ancient and cobwebby bottles.37 Having laid out all these
luxuries, my two visitors vanished away, like the genii of the Arabian Nights,38
with no explanation save that the things had been paid for and were ordered to
this address. Just before nine o’clock Sherlock Holmes stepped briskly into the
room. His features were gravely set, but there was a light in his eye which made
me think that he had not been disappointed in his conclusions.
“They have laid the supper, then,” he said, rubbing his hands.
“You seem to expect company. They have laid for five.”
“Yes, I fancy we may have some company dropping in,” said he. “I am
surprised that Lord St. Simon has not already arrived. Ha! I fancy that I hear his
step now upon the stairs.”
It was indeed our visitor of the afternoon39 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 a 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 any one 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 finger
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 new-comers 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 that I didn’t fall down and do a faint right there before the altar.”
“A picture of offended dignity.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“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,40 with a sharp face and alert manner.
“Then I’ll tell our story right away,” said the lady. “Frank here and I met in
’81,41 in McQuire’s camp, near the Rockies,42 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.43 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 any one 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.
“You’re angry, Robert!”
J. C. Drake, Chicago Inter-Ocean, March 13, 1892
“The next I heard of Frank was that he was in Montana, and then he went
prospecting into 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.44 I fainted
dead away, and I was very sick for months after. Pa thought I had a decline, and
took me to half the doctors in ’Frisco. Not a word of news came for a year and
more, so that I never doubted that Frank was really dead. Then Lord St. Simon
came to ’Frisco, and we came to London, and a marriage was arranged, and Pa
was very pleased, but I felt all the time that no man on this earth would ever take
the place in my heart that had been given to my poor Frank.
“Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course I’d have done my duty by
him. We can’t command our love, but we can our actions. I went to the altar
with him with the intention that I would 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 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?45 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 now was to him, and I determined to do just whatever he might
direct.
“When I got back I told my maid, who had known him in California, and had
always been his friend. I ordered her to say nothing, but to get a few things
packed and my ulster ready. I know I ought to have spoken to Lord St. Simon,
but it was dreadful hard before his mother and all those great people. I just made
up my mind to run away, and explain afterwards. I hadn’t been at the table ten
minutes before I saw Frank out of the window at the other side of the road. He
beckoned to me, and then began walking into the Park. I slipped out, put on my
things, and followed him. Some woman came talking something or other about
Lord St. Simon to me—seemed to me from the little I heard as if he had a little
secret of his own before marriage also—but I managed to get away from her and
soon overtook Frank. We got into a cab together, and away we drove to some
lodgings he had taken in Gordon Square, and that was my true wedding after all
those years of waiting. Frank had been a prisoner among the Apaches, had
escaped, came on to ’Frisco, found that I had given him up for dead and had
gone to England, followed me there, and had come upon me at last on the very
morning of my second wedding.”
“Some woman came talking about Lord St. Simon.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“I saw it in a paper,” explained the American. “It gave the name and the
church, but not where the lady lived.”
“Then we had a talk as to what we should do, and Frank was all for openness,
but I was so ashamed of it all that I felt as if I should like to vanish away and
never see any of them again, just sending a line to Pa, perhaps, to show him that
I was alive. It was awful to me to think of all those lords and ladies sitting round
that breakfast table and waiting for me to come back. So Frank took my wedding
clothes and things, and made a bundle of them, so that I should not be traced,
and dropped them away somewhere where no one could find them. It is likely
that we should have gone on to Paris to-morrow, only that this good gentleman,
Mr. Holmes, came round to us this evening, though how he found us is more
than I can think, and he showed us very clearly and kindly that I was wrong and
that Frank was right, and that we should put ourselves in the wrong if we were
so secret. Then he offered to give us a chance of talking to Lord St. Simon alone,
and so we came right away round to his rooms at once. Now, Robert, you have
heard it all, and I am very sorry if I have given you pain, and I hope that you do
not think very meanly of me.”
Lord St. Simon had by no means relaxed his rigid attitude, but had listened
with a frowning brow and a compressed lip to this long narrative.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but it is not my custom to discuss my most intimate
personal affairs in this public manner.”
“Then you won’t forgive me? You won’t shake hands before I go?”
“Oh, certainly, if it would give you any pleasure.” He put out his hand and
coldly grasped that which she extended to him.
“I will wish you all a very good night.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“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.
“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 monarch46 and the blundering of
a Minister47 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 any one when she was out, for
she had been in the company of the bridegroom. Had she seen some one, then? If
she had, it must be some one from America because she had spent so short a
time in this country that she could hardly have allowed any one 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 of 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.48 There are not many in
London which charge at that rate. In the second one which I visited in
Northumberland Avenue,49 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.”50
1 “The Noble Bachelor” was published in the Strand Magazine in April 1892.
2 In A Study in Scarlet, Chapter 1, Watson states that he was “struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet,
which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery.” Later in that volume Holmes describes Watson
as a man “[whose] left arm has been injured,” who holds the limb “in a stiff and unnatural manner.” Is this
reconcilable with Watson’s description here? Note that he refers to a bullet “in one of [his] limbs.”
Although his legs are propped on a chair, he does not state that the wound is in a leg. Yet the implication is
hard to avoid. Elsewhere, in The Sign of Four, Chapter 1, Watson clearly states that he nursed his “wounded
leg,” which had been struck by a Jezail bullet; in Chapter 7 of that book, Holmes questions the condition of
Watson’s leg and specifically refers to his wounded “tendo achillis.” The only other reference to Watson’s
wound or wounds is in “The Cardboard Box” (and “The Resident Patient” in some editions of the Canon),
where Holmes observes that Watson’s hand “stole toward your old wound.” However, there is no indication
there of the location of the wound.
3 A customs officer who awaited the arrival of ships (formerly coming in with the tide) and boarded them
to prevent the avoidance of customs-house regulations.
4 As he is the second son of the Duke of Balmoral, the name should be “Lord Robert St. Simon,” not “Lord
St. Simon.” His bride would not have been called Lady St. Simon, but rather Lady Robert St. Simon.
Watson’s solecism was perhaps first noted by Andrew Lang, in “The Novels of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,” in
the Quarterly Review of July 1904.
5 We hear of Lord Backwater again in “Silver Blaze”—his horse, Desborough, runs against Silver Blaze in
the Wessex Cup (or Plate). “Silver Blaze,” for which Watson offers no date, appeared in the Strand
Magazine in December 1892, eight months after publication of this story.
6 In the Strand Magazine and American editions, this signature is the erroneous “St. Simon.”
7 Michael Harrison writes, in In the Footsteps of Sherlock Holmes, “Victoria Streets, the seven-storied
block of flats at the corner of Palace Street and Victoria Street, was begun in 1858, and flats therein were let
at rentals of £300 per annum. The building was completely filled as soon as finished, so popular were the
new flats . . .” One of Grosvenor Mansions’ residents was Arthur Sullivan, of Gilbert & Sullivan fame. For
the impoverished Lord Robert St. Simon, then, a flat would have been a means of keeping up appearances.
The name “Grosvenor Mansions” appears to have been a deliberate attempt on the part of the developers to
call to mind the Duke of Westminster’s “Grosvenor House,” his mansion near Hyde Park on Upper
Grosvenor Street.
8 What book is this? Suggestions include Debrett’s Peerage: The Official Baronage of England, by James
E. Doyle (London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1886), the Red Book: or Court and Fashionable Register, and
Thomas Robson’s The British Herald, or Cabinet of Armorial Bearings (Sunderland: Printed for the author,
1830). None contain the quotation.
9 A “caltrop” is an iron ball armed with four spikes, so arranged that three are embedded in the ground and
one always stands upright. The device was used to impede cavalry troops and horses in particular.
10 A “fess” is a horizontal band over the middle of a shield, usually taking up one-third of the shield’s
surface. “Sable” means black. Therefore, according to Holmes, the coat of arms (or shield) consisted of a
black horizontal band across the middle, with three caltrops in the top third of the shield.
11 A surname commonly applied to the royal house of England between Henry II’s ascension in 1154 and
Richard III’s death in 1485. Members of the Plantagenet dynasty were descendants of Queen Matilda,
daughter of Henry I, and Geoffrey, Count of Anjou. The name Plantagenet is said to derive from the sprig
of broom-plant, or planta genista, that the Count of Anjou used to wear in his hat. The fifteenth century saw
the Plantagenet line split into two factions, with the waging of the so-called Wars of the Roses between the
House of York (whose emblem was a white rose) and the House of Lancaster (red rose), each of which had
its own claim on the throne. Actual use of the Plantagenet name itself died with Yorkist Richard III; his
successor, Henry VII—who was both a Lancastrian and a Tudor (see note 12, below)—united the duelling
houses by marrying Richard’s niece, Elizabeth of York.
12 The Welsh family that from 1485 to 1603 gave five sovereigns to England, namely, Henry VII, Henry
VIII, Edward VI, Mary I, and Elizabeth I. They were descended from Owen Tudor, who married Katherine
of Valois, widow of Henry V. After Elizabeth’s death in 1603, the throne passed to the House of Stuart.
13 Grosvenor Square, close to the Baker Street Station of the Metropolitan Line, comprised many
aristocratic residences. It is now the site of the American Embassy.
14 Founded in 1772, it was the paper of record for the fashionable set for nearly a century. As such, it
became popular among the servant classes of Victorian England as a means of following the doings of
royalty. In 1881, it became a voice for the Conservative party. It merged with the Daily Telegraph in 1937.
15 There is a Westbury Hotel in London, but the Westbury House is not identified in Baedeker.
16 In the Strand Magazine and American editions, Miss Doran is reported instead to be making the
transition to a British “peeress,” or the wife of a peer. This is inaccurate. Peeress titles are, in descending
order of rank, duchess, marchioness, countess, viscountess, and baroness. However, because Lord Robert
was the younger son of a duke, he was not a peer but bore only a courtesy title. The eldest son is considered
a peer and is addressed as if he held legally the second title of his father, typically that of a marquis or earl.
That is, unless Lord Robert’s father and elder brother died, Lord Robert would not be a “peer.” His wife
would also have only a courtesy title and would have been known as Lady Robert.
17 Designed and built by John James in 1721–1724, its interior restored by Sir Arthur Blomfield in 1894,
the Anglican St. George’s was “the most famous church in London for fashionable weddings,” according to
Baedeker. Nineteenth-century weddings held here included those of Percy Bysshe Shelley (1814), Benjamin
Disraeli (1839), George Meredith (1844), George Eliot (1880), and Theodore Roosevelt (1886).
18 Then a range of balconied buildings, completed in 1866, in a well-to-do residential quarter north of
Hyde Park.
19 The “wedding breakfast” arose as the time of celebration because pre-1887 English law required that
weddings be performed before noon. Even after the legislative change, the tradition continued.
20 The Reverend Otis R. Rice observes how astonishing it is that the solemnisation of such a high-profile
marriage was left to the vicar or even one of his curates and not an archbishop or at least the Bishop of
London. He suggests that perhaps neither Hatty nor her father found time to have her baptised. Rice also
considers it unusual that the “clergyman” (as Hatty Doran refers to the officiant) did not have his name
mentioned in the press notice; nor was he invited to the wedding breakfast.
21 Note that the Duke of Balmoral and his eldest son, Lord Robert’s older brother, are conspicuously
missing. Carol Whitlam proposes that the duke disapproved of his son’s marriage to an uncultured
American, and that his eldest son, keen not to offend his father in any way, followed his example and also
boycotted the wedding.
22 How is it that Aloysius Doran failed to mention to the police that Francis Hay Moulton appeared at the
wedding? Could this involve Lord Backwater’s horse Desborough and the running of the Wessex Cup
(Plate) in “Silver Blaze”?
23 There was no Allegro in London; however, the Alhambra was a large, popular music-hall/theatre in
Leicester Square that featured ballet and spectacle. It burned virtually to the ground in 1882, and although it
reopened in December 1883, Miss Millar may have seized that opportunity to take up other sources of
income.
24 The reference to Watson’s presumed departure suggests that this case occurred early in Holmes and
Watson’s relationship.
25 Holmes’s undue deference to Lord Robert and his misuse of aristocratic titles have been cited by several
scholars as “evidence” that Holmes may have lied about his country squire forbears (mentioned in “The
Greek Interpreter”) and demonstrate at the minimum that Holmes was no “gentleman.” His subsequent
subtle belittling of Lord Robert is characteristic of Holmes’s reverse snobbery about wealth and position.
26 A wicker armchair. The basket chair is also mentioned in “The Blue Carbuncle” and “The Man with the
Twisted Lip.”
27 There are several reasons the King of Scandinavia (at this time Oscar II) might have needed Holmes’s
help. In “A Scandal in Bohemia,” the king of Bohemia advises Holmes of his impending marriage to the
second daughter of the King of Scandinavia, Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen. Perhaps Holmes was
asked to arrange this delicate business. Holmes’s ties to the Royal Family of Scandinavia are also
mentioned in “The Final Problem.” As Norway did not sever her connection with Sweden until 1905, it is
possible that Holmes’s visit to Norway in “Black Peter” was also connected with a mission for Oscar II.
Despite these clues, however, Christopher Redmond discounts the entire reference as “bombast.” “If the
case had been genuine,” he writes, in In Bed with Sherlock Holmes, “Holmes’s concern for ‘secrecy’ in ‘the
affairs of my other clients’ would lead him to keep the client’s name confidential, even if he revealed some
of the events, rather than vice-versa.”
28 According to Baedeker, the “London Season” consisted of the months of May, June, and July, “when
Parliament is sitting, the aristocracy are at their town residences, the greatest artistes in the world are
performing at the Opera, and the Picture Exhibitions open.”
29 Neither Holmes nor Watson seems to have thought to censure Lord Robert for his abominable treatment
of poor Flora Millar, whom he discarded after allowing her to become “devotedly attached” to him. Of
course, Holmes himself is no slave to chivalry, as evidenced by his similarly casual use and subsequent
dropping of the maid Agatha in “Charles Augustus Milverton.”
30 In the Strand Magazine and American editions, the phrase “given instructions to the servants” does not
appear, and instead Lord Robert states that he had “two police fellows there in private clothes.” The
newspaper article quoted by Watson had reported that the butler and footman escorted Flora Millar out, and
he apparently made this correction when the first book edition of “The Noble Bachelor” appeared.
31 This may be a reference to a farmer’s practice of adding water to his milk, to increase his earnings.
32 Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862), American naturalist and essayist. Thoreau’s Excursions (Boston,
1863) included a biographical sketch by Emerson that incorporated sentences from Thoreau’s unpublished
writings, including the remark that “Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you find a trout
in the milk” (Journal, 1850).
33 The war ended on January 28, 1871, when Paris fell to a German siege. At that time, Munich was the
capital of the German state of Bavaria, which in the Victorian era had the misfortune to be ruled by two
kings who were mentally ill. Louis II, king during the Franco-Prussian War (and patron of composer
Richard Wagner) was confined to a chateau at Lake Starnberger in 1886; he drowned himself there that
year. His successor, his brother Otto I, was also insane but ruled Bavaria under the regency of an uncle and
a cousin until 1916.
34 The Serpentine, an artificial lake in Hyde Park used for boating and swimming, was created as part of
Queen Caroline’s efforts to improve the park in the 1730s. It was originally fed by the Westbourne, a small
stream whose source was in Bayswater, but is now supplied from the Thames.
35 Trafalgar Square in Westminster is dedicated to Lord Nelson, commemorating his death at the battle of
Trafalgar on October 22, 1805. Toward the north side of the square are two fountains, described in
Dickens’s Dictionary of London (London, 1891–1892) as having a “ridiculous insufficiency of . . . jets of
water”; between the fountains is a statue of General Gordon, Watson’s hero (1833–1885), erected in 1888.
The statue has since been moved to the Embankment. The fountains are proximate to each other and so may
be referred to casually as a single fountain.
36 Frederic H. Sonnenschmidt, culinary dean of the Culinary Institute of America, and Julia Carlson
Rosenblatt take gentle issue with the name of this dish, writing in Dining with Sherlock Holmes: “Much as
we would like to vouch for Watson’s accuracy in this matter, the painful truth is that in culinary terms, one
does not speak of pâté de foie gras ‘pie.’ ” They go on to explain that a pâté, according to its original
French definition, consists of meat, fish, vegetables, or fruit encased in pastry—that is, a pie. It is only
recently that pâté has come to mean the meat or fish variety alone. It is likely, Sonnenschmidt and
Rosenblatt surmise, that the diligent Watson added the word “pie” to clarify a term that was starting to
become ambiguous. The authors further note that they found two American cookbooks of the Victorian era
that listed pâté de foie gras as a pie filling, leading them to conclude that Watson was familiar with
American cookbooks and had spent time in the United States.
37 That Holmes enjoyed good wine is indisputable. The Canon records Holmes drinking claret (“The
Cardboard Box” and “The Dying Detective”), port (“The ‘Gloria Scott’,” The Sign of Four, and “The
Creeping Man”), Imperial Tokay (“His Last Bow”), wine (“Shoscombe Old Place”), “something a little
choice in white wines” (The Sign of Four), and Montrachet (“The Veiled Lodger”). Sherlockians who
appreciate wine have nominated many bottles for this meal, and Patricia Guy, in her Bacchus at Baker
Street: Observations on the Bibulous Preferences of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his Contemporaries,
considers the issue in some detail and identifies the “group of . . . bottles” as an 1878 Corton (a red
Burgundy and a fine match for the partridge), an 1811 Chateau Haut Brion (red Bordeaux to complement
the woodcock), a 1790 Imperial Tokay (coupled with the pâté de foie gras pie), an 1874 Perrier-Jouet
Champagne, with which to toast the occasion, and, after the cloth was removed, a 1789 Bual Madeira.
38 That is, the Thousand and One Nights, of which Sir Richard Francis Burton published a sixteen-volume
unabridged translation from 1885 to 1888. Other English translations of the period include E. W. Lane’s
abridged version (1840) and John Payne’s nine-volume effort (1882–1884).
39 The Strand Magazine and American texts say “morning,” which is plainly wrong.
40 Mysteriously, the Strand Magazine and American editions add the description “clean shaven.”
41 The Strand Magazine and American editions report the meeting as occurring in ’84.
42 “Near the Rockies” is a loose description covering numerous places. Silver, gold, lead, and zinc mines
occur in Colorado, Idaho, Nevada, Utah, New Mexico, Montana, and Arizona. The latter three states may
be ruled out because Hattie specifically mentions that Frank has travelled to those states. Although there is
little evidence with which to locate “McQuire’s camp,” there was a large discovery of gold in 1881 in
Spring Valley, Nevada, and Doran’s claim may have been there. Another possibility, suggested by John
Girand, is McGuire’s camp, which was situated two and a half miles east of Strong, in Huerfanos County,
Colorado, one of the richest gold-producing areas in the Colorado Rockies, although there is no record of a
large discovery there in 1881 (or 1884, for that matter).
43 “’Frisco,” a name guaranteed to boil the blood of any current resident of the City, is a common
nickname for San Francisco and appeared in contemporary literature as recently as Jack Kerouac’s On the
Road (1957).
44 The late nineteenth century was indeed a time of great conflict between Apaches and settlers in the
south-western United States. American settlers flocked to New Mexico and surrounding areas in the mid-to
late-1800s, whether lured by the prospect of gold in the West, encouraged by the designation of New
Mexico as an official territory in 1850 (the U.S. acquired the land in the Mexican War), or drawn to cattle
ranching after the arrival of the railroad in the 1880s. The nomadic Apache had engaged in raids on Pueblo
and Spanish settlements since the late 1600s; now pressured by regional governments to colonise and
relocate to centralised reservations, they frequently struck back with violence. Vendettas against whites
were pursued throughout the South-west by Apache chiefs such as Mangas Coloradas in south-western New
Mexico, who was humiliated by his flogging at the hands of miners in 1851; Cochise, his son-in-law, whose
friendly relations with American settlers ended when several of his relatives were hanged by soldiers on
false robbery and kidnapping charges in Arizona in 1861; Victorio, a former Mangas Coloradas lieutenant;
Geronimo, who took over leadership of the Chiricahua Apache after Cochise’s death in 1874, instigating
raids on Arizona and Mexico until his surrender in 1886; and Nachis, even more feared than Geronimo
because of the cruel and unusual tortures his victims received.
Richard E. Sloan’s History of Arizona (Phoenix: Record Publishing Co., 1930) records that in February
1884, Geronimo started “the bloodiest in all the Indian Wars,” and in April, he attacked the military outpost
at Camp Goodwin, Arizona, routing the troopers stationed there and killing a few prospectors who had
sought refuge. The murder of the prospectors was widely reported in western newspapers, and such a report
was the probable source of Hatty Doran’s belief that Frank Moulton had perished.
45 Richard Lancelyn Green writes, “[L]egal opinion suggests that she should have done so, as she
otherwise laid herself open to a charge of bigamy (under the Offences against the Person Act, 1861) by
marrying another man while aware that her husband was alive.”
46 Holmes means George III (1738–1820), during whose reign the American colonies achieved their
independence.
47 Holmes presumably means Lord North, who became prime minister in 1770 and pushed the king’s anticolonial policies through Parliament. When the Continental Army defeated Cornwallis at Yorktown in
1782, Lord North at once resigned office.
48 In American funds of the era, the room cost $2.00 (about $48.00 in today’s purchasing power), the
breakfast and lunch some 62 ½ cents each, the cocktail 25 cents, the sherry, 16 cents.
49 There were three large hotels on Northumberland Avenue at the time: the Grand, facing Trafalgar
Square; the Victoria or Northumberland Avenue Hotel; and the Metropole.
50 It is perhaps telling that the two men, despite their intimate acquaintance, felt little need to discuss
Watson’s impending marriage and necessary departure from 221B Baker Street. June Thomson, in her
splendid biography Holmes and Watson, notes that Holmes and Watson shared “an essentially male
friendship” in which personal matters were not generally shared (if such conversation did take place, she
concedes, it was never recorded). Thomson continues, “Both men must have realized it [Watson’s leaving]
was inevitable but preferred not to speak of it, let alone openly express their feelings about such a parting or
the immense changes it would bring to both their lives.”
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL CORONET1
In a tale reminiscent of Wilkie Collins’s highly
successful mystery The Moonstone, which
involves a priceless gem kept in an unlocked
cupboard, Holmes must recover a valuable
national treasure put at risk by an unnamed
peer (likely understood by the readers to be
the Prince of Wales, the highly popular but
slightly disreputable Albert Edward, oldest son
of Queen Victoria). Set in a suburb of London,
“The Beryl Coronet” features another onelegged man from Watson’s casebook (the first
appeared in The Sign of Four); meanwhile,
Holmes reveals both his knowledge of the
criminal underworld of London and his bank
account balance.
HOLMES,” SAID I as I stood one morning in our bow window2 looking down the
street, “here is a madman coming along. It seems rather sad that his relatives
should allow him to come out alone.”
My friend rose lazily from his armchair, and stood with his hands in the
pockets of his dressing-gown, looking over my shoulder. It was a bright, crisp
February morning, and the snow of the day before still lay deep upon the ground,
shimmering brightly in the wintry sun. Down the centre of Baker Street it had
been ploughed into a brown crumbly band by the traffic, but at either side and on
the heaped-up edges of the footpaths 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 passengers3 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
recognize the symptoms. Ha! did I not tell you?” As he spoke, the man, puffing
and blowing, rushed at our door, and pulled at our bell until the whole house
resounded with the clanging.
A few moments later he was in our room, still puffing, still gesticulating, but
with so fixed a look of grief and despair in his eyes that our smiles were turned
in an instant to horror and pity. For a while he could not get his words out but
swayed his body and plucked at his hair like one who has been driven to the
extreme limits of his reason. Then, suddenly springing to his feet, he beat his
head against the wall with such force that we both rushed upon him, and tore
him away to the centre of the room.4 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.
“With a look of grief and despair.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“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 us5 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.6 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 upon our being able to find remunerative investments for our
funds, as upon our increasing our connection and the number of our depositors.
One of our most lucrative means of laying out money is in the shape of loans,
where the security is unimpeachable. We have done a good deal in this direction
during the last few years, and there are many noble families to whom we have
advanced large sums upon the security of their pictures, libraries, or plate.
“Yesterday morning I was seated in my office at the bank when a card was
brought in to me by one of the clerks. I started when I saw the name, for it was
that of none other than—well, perhaps even to you I had better say no more than
that it was a name which is a household word all over the earth—one of the
highest, noblest, most exalted names in England.7 I was overwhelmed by the
honour and attempted, when he entered, to say so, but he plunged at once into
business with the air of a man who wishes to hurry quickly through a
disagreeable task.
“ ‘Mr. Holder,’ said he, ‘I have been informed that you are in the habit of
advancing money.’
“‘The firm do so when the security is good,’ I answered.
“‘It is absolutely essential to me,’ said he, ‘that I should have fifty thousand
pounds8 at once. I could, of course, borrow so trifling a sum ten times over from
my friends, but I much prefer to make it a matter of business, and to carry out
that business myself. In my position you can readily understand that it is unwise
to place one’s self under obligations.’
“ ‘For how long may I ask, do you want this sum?’ I asked.
“ ‘Next Monday I have a large sum due to me, and I shall then most certainly
repay what you advance, with whatever interest you think it right to charge. But
it is very essential to me that the money should be paid at once.’
“ ‘I should be happy to advance it without further parley from my own private
purse,’ said I, ‘were it not that the strain would be rather more than it could bear.
If, on the other hand, I am to do it in the name of the firm, then in justice to my
partner I must insist that, even in your case, every business-like precaution
should be taken.’
“ ‘I should much prefer to have it so,’ said he, raising up a square, black
morocco9 case which he had laid beside his chair. ‘You have doubtless heard of
the Beryl Coronet?’10
“ ‘One of the most precious public possessions of the empire,’ said I.
“ ‘Precisely.’ He opened the case and there, imbedded in soft, flesh-coloured
velvet, lay the magnificent piece of jewellery which he had named. ‘There are
thirty-nine enormous beryls,’11 said he, ‘and the price of the gold chasing12 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.
“I took the precious case.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“ ‘You doubt its value?’ he asked.
“ ‘Not at all. I only doubt—’
“ ‘The propriety of my leaving it. You may set your mind at rest about that. I
should not dream of doing so were it not absolutely certain that I should be able
in four days to reclaim it. It is a pure matter of form. Is the security sufficient?’
“ ‘Ample.’
“ ‘You understand, Mr. Holder, that I am giving you a strong proof of the
confidence which I have in you, founded upon all that I have heard of you. I rely
upon you not only to be discreet and to refrain from all gossip upon the matter
but, above all, to preserve this coronet with every possible precaution, because I
need not say that a great public scandal would be caused if any harm were to
befall it. Any injury to it would be almost as serious as its complete loss, for
there are no beryls in the world to match these, and it would be impossible to
replace them. I leave it with you, however, with every confidence, and I shall
call for it in person on Monday morning.’
“Seeing that my client was anxious to leave, I said no more; but, calling for
my cashier, I ordered him to pay over fifty thousand-pound 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 misgiving of the immense responsibility
which it entailed upon me. There could be no doubt that, as it was a national
possession, a horrible scandal would ensue if any misfortune should occur to it. I
already regretted having ever consented to take charge of it. However, it was too
late to alter the matter now, so I locked it up in my private safe, and turned once
more to my work.
“When evening came I felt that it would be an imprudence to leave so
precious a thing in the office behind me. Bankers’ safes had been forced before
now, and why should not mine be? If so, how terrible would be the position in
which I should find myself! I determined, therefore, that for the next few days I
would always carry the case backward and forward with me, so that it might
never be really out of my reach. With this intention, I called a cab and drove out
to my house at Streatham,13 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.14 I think that if any one 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—for ever too late!
“Now, Mr. Holmes, you know the people who live under my roof, and I shall
continue with my miserable story.
“When we were taking coffee in the drawing room that night after dinner, I
told Arthur and Mary my experience, and of the precious treasure which we had
under our roof, suppressing only the name of my client. Lucy Parr, who had
brought in the coffee, had, I am sure, left the room; but I cannot swear that the
door was closed. Mary and Arthur were much interested and wished to see the
famous coronet, but I thought it better not to disturb it.
“ ‘Where have you put it?’ asked Arthur.
“ ‘In my own bureau.’
“ ‘Well, I hope to goodness the house won’t be burgled during the night,’ said
he.
“ ‘It is locked up,’ I answered.
“ ‘Oh, any old key will fit that bureau.15 When I was a youngster I have
opened it myself with the key of the box-room cupboard.’
“He often had a wild way of talking, so that I thought little of what he said. He
followed me to my room, however, that night with a very grave face.
“ ‘Look here, dad,’ said he with his eyes cast down, ‘can you let me have two
hundred pounds?’
“ ‘No, I cannot!’ I answered sharply. ‘I have been far too generous with you in
money matters.’
“Oh, any old key will fit that bureau.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“ ‘You have been very kind,’ said he; ‘but I must have this money, or else I
can never show my face inside the club again.’
“ ‘And a very good thing, too!’ I cried.
“ ‘Yes, but you would not have me leave it a dishonoured man,’ said he. ‘I
could not bear the disgrace. I must raise the money in some way, and if you will
not let me have it, then I must try other means.’
“I was very angry, for this was the third demand during the month. ‘You shall
not have a farthing16 from me,’ I cried, on which he bowed and left the room
without another word.
“When he was gone I unlocked my bureau, made sure that my treasure was
safe, and locked it again. Then I started to go round the house to see that all was
secure—a duty which I usually leave to Mary, but which I thought it well to
perform myself that night. As I came down the stairs I saw Mary herself at the
side window of the hall, which she closed and fastened as I approached.
“ ‘Tell me, dad,’ said she, looking, I thought, a little disturbed, ‘did you give
Lucy, the maid, leave to go out to-night?’
“ ‘Certainly not.’
“ ‘She came in just now by the back door. I have no doubt that she has only
been to the side gate to see some one, but I think that it is hardly safe, and should
be stopped.’
“ ‘You must speak to her in the morning, or I will if you prefer it. Are you
sure that everything is fastened?’
“ ‘Quite sure, dad.’
“ ‘Then, good-night.’ I kissed her, and went up to my bedroom again, where I
was soon asleep.
“I am endeavouring to tell you everything Mr. Holmes, which may have any
bearing upon the case, but I beg that you will question me upon any point which
I do not make clear.”
“On the contrary, your statement is singularly lucid.”
“I come to a part of my story now in which I should wish to be particularly so.
I am not a very heavy sleeper, and the anxiety in my mind tended, no doubt, to
make me even less so than usual. About two in the morning, then, I was
awakened by some sound in the house. It had ceased ere I was wide awake, but it
had left an impression behind it as though a window had gently closed
somewhere. I lay listening with all my ears. Suddenly, to my horror, there was a
distinct sound of footsteps moving softly in the next room. I slipped out of bed,
all palpitating with fear, and peeped round the corner of my dressing-room door.
“ ‘Arthur!’ I screamed, ‘you villain! you thief! How dare you touch that
coronet?’
“The gas was half up, as I had left it, and my unhappy boy, dressed only in his
shirt and trousers, was standing beside the light, holding the coronet in his hands.
He appeared to be wrenching at it, or bending it with all his strength. At my cry
he dropped it from his grasp, and turned as pale as death. I snatched it up and
examined it. One of the gold corners, with three of the beryls in it, was missing.
“ ‘You blackguard!’ I shouted, beside myself with rage. ‘You have destroyed
it! You have dishonoured me for ever! Where are the jewels which you have
stolen?’
“ ‘Stolen!’ he cried.
“ ‘Yes, thief!’ I roared, shaking him by the shoulder.
“ ‘There are none missing. There cannot be any missing,’ said he.
“ ‘There are three missing. And you know where they are. Must I call you a
liar as well as a thief? Did I not see you trying to tear off another piece?’
“ ‘You have called me names enough,’ said he, ‘I will not stand it any longer.
I shall not say another word about this business, since you have chosen to insult
me. I will leave your house in the morning, and make my own way in the world.’
“You thief!”
J. C . Drake, Chicago Inter-Ocean, April 17, 1892
“ ‘You shall leave it in the hands of the police!’ I cried, half mad with grief
and rage. ‘I shall have this matter probed to the bottom.’
“ ‘You shall learn nothing from me,’ said he with a passion such as I should
not have thought was in his nature. ‘If you choose to call the police, let the
police find what they can.’
“By this time the whole house was astir, for I had raised my voice in my
anger. Mary was the first to rush into my room, and, at the sight of the coronet
and of Arthur’s face, she read the whole story, and, with a scream, fell down
senseless on the ground. I sent the house-maid for the police and put the
investigation into their hands at once. When the inspector and a constable
entered the house, Arthur, who had stood sullenly with his arms folded, asked
me whether it was my intention to charge him with theft. I answered that it had
ceased to be a private matter, but had become a public one, since the ruined
coronet was national property. I was determined that the law should have its way
in everything.
“At my cry he dropped it.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“ ‘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 realizing the dreadful position in which I was placed, I
implored him to remember that not only my honour, but that of one who was far
greater than I was at stake; and that he threatened to raise a scandal which would
convulse the nation. He might avert it all if he would but tell me what he had
done with the three missing stones.
“ ‘You may as well face the matter,’ said I; ‘you have been caught in the act,
and no confession could make your guilt more heinous. If you but make such
reparation as is in your power, by telling us where the beryls are, all shall be
forgiven and forgotten.’
“ ‘Keep your forgiveness for those who ask for it,’ he answered, turning away
from me with a sneer. I saw that he was too hardened for any words of mine to
influence him. There was but one way for it. I called in the inspector and gave
him into custody. A search was made at once not only of his person, but of his
room, and of every portion of the house where he could possibly have concealed
the gems; but no trace of them could be found, nor would the wretched boy open
his mouth for all our persuasions and our threats. This morning he was removed
to a cell, and I, after going through all the police formalities, have hurried round
to you, to implore you to use your skill in unravelling the matter. The police
have openly confessed that they can at present make nothing of it. You may go
to any expense which you think necessary. I have already offered a reward of
£1000. My God, what shall I do! I have lost my honour, my gems, and my son in
one night. Oh, what shall I do!”
He put a hand on either side of his head and rocked himself to and fro,
droning to himself like a child whose grief has got beyond words.
Sherlock Holmes sat silent for some few minutes, with his brows knitted and
his eyes fixed upon the fire.
“Do you receive much company?” he asked.
“None, save my partner with his family, and an occasional friend of Arthur’s.
Sir George Burnwell has been several times lately. No one else, I think.”
“Do you go out much in society?”
“Arthur does. Mary and I stay at home. We neither of us care for it.”
“That is unusual in a young girl.”
“She is of a quiet nature. Besides, she is not so very young. She is four-andtwenty.”
“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 he 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 dressingroom, opened your bureau, took out your coronet, broke off by main force a
small portion of it, went off to some other place, concealed three gems out of the
thirty-nine, with such skill that nobody can find them, and then returned with the
other thirty-six into the room in which he exposed himself to the greatest danger
of being discovered. I ask you now, is such a theory tenable?”
“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.”
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’s 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.
Fairbank was a good-sized square house of white stone, standing back a little
from the road. A double carriage sweep,17 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 thicket18 which led into a narrow path between two neat
hedges stretching from the road to the kitchen door, and forming the tradesmen’s
entrance. On the left ran a lane which led to the stables, and was not itself within
the grounds at all, being a public, though little used, thoroughfare. Holmes left
us standing at the door and walked slowly all round the house, across the front,
down the tradesmen’s path, and so round by the garden behind into the stable
lane. So long was he that Mr. Holder and I went into the dining-room, and
waited by the fire until he should return. We were sitting there in silence when
the door opened, and a young lady came in. She was rather above the middle
height, slim, with dark hair and eyes, which seemed the darker against the
absolute pallor of her skin. I do not think that I have ever seen such a 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.
“She went straight to her uncle.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“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.”
“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 prison!”
“I shall never let it drop until the gems are found—never, Mary! Your
affection for Arthur blinds you as to the awful consequences to me. Far from
hushing the thing up, I have brought a gentleman down from London to inquire
more deeply into it.”
“This gentleman?” she asked, facing round to me.
“No, his friend. He wished us to leave him alone. He is round in the stable
lane now.”
“The stable lane?” she raised her dark eyebrows. “What can he hope to find
there? Ah! this, I suppose, is he. I trust, sir, that you will succeed in proving,
what I feel sure is the truth, that my cousin Arthur is innocent of this crime.”
“I fully share your opinion, and, I trust, with you, that we may prove it,”
returned Holmes, going back to the mat to knock the snow from his shoes. “I
believe I have the honour of addressing Miss Mary Holder. Might I ask you a
question or two?”
“Pray do, sir, if it may help to clear this horrible affair up.”
“You heard nothing yourself last night?”
“Nothing, until my uncle here began to speak loudly. I heard that, and I came
down.”
“You shut up the windows and doors the night before. Did you fasten all the
windows?”
She placed her hand over his head.
J. C. Drake, Chicago Inter-Ocean, April 17, 1892
“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 greengrocer who brings our vegetables round. His name is
Francis Prosper.”
“He stood,” said Holmes, “to the left of the door—that is to say, further 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’s thin, eager face.
“I should be very glad now to go upstairs,” said he. “I shall probably wish to
go over the outside of the house again. Perhaps I had better take a look at the
lower windows before I go up.”
He walked swiftly round from one to the other, pausing only at the large one
which looked from the hall onto the stable lane. This he opened, and made a
very careful examination of the sill with his powerful magnifying lens. “Now we
shall go upstairs,” said he, at last.
The banker’s dressing-room was a plainly furnished little chamber, with a
grey carpet, a large bureau, and a long mirror. Holmes went to the bureau first,
and looked hard at the lock.
“Something like fear sprang up in the young lady’s eyes.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“Which key was used to open it?” he asked.
“That which my son himself indicated—that of the cupboard of the lumberroom.”
“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 crooked 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,19 it would take me all my time to break it. An ordinary man could not do
it. Now, what do you think would happen if I did break it, Mr. Holder? There
would be a noise like a pistol shot. Do you tell me that all this happened within a
few yards of your bed, and that you heard nothing of it?”
“I do not know what to think. It is all dark to me.”
“But perhaps it may grow lighter as we go. What do you think, Miss Holder?”
“I confess that I still share my uncle’s perplexity.”
“Your son had no shoes or slippers on when you saw him?”
“He had nothing on save only his trousers and shirt.”
“Thank you. We have certainly been favoured with extraordinary luck during
this inquiry, and it will be entirely our own fault if we do not succeed in clearing
the matter up. With your permission, Mr. Holder, I shall now continue my
investigations outside.”
He went alone, at his own request, for he explained that any unnecessary
footmarks might make his task more difficult. For an hour or more he was at
work, returning at last with his feet heavy with snow and his features as
inscrutable as ever.
“I think that I have seen now all that there is to see, Mr. Holder,” said he; “I
can serve you best by returning to my rooms.”
“But the gems, Mr. Holmes. Where are they?”
“I cannot tell.”
The banker wrung his hands. “I shall never see them again!” he cried. “And
my son? You give me hopes?”
“My opinion is in no way altered.”
“Then for God’s sake what was this dark business which was acted in my
house last night?”
“Now, what do you think would happen if I did it, Mr.
Holder?”
J. C. Drake, Chicago Inter-Ocean, April 24, 1892
“If you can call upon me at my Baker Street rooms tomorrow morning
between nine and ten I shall be happy to do what I can to make it clearer. I
understand that you give me carte blanche to act for you, provided only that I
get back the gems, and that you place no limit on the sum I may draw.”
“I would give my fortune to have them back.”
“Very good. I shall look into the matter between this and then. Good-bye; it is
just possible that I may have to come over here again before evening.”
It was obvious to me that my companion’s mind was now made up about the
case, although what his conclusions were was more than I could even dimly
imagine. Several times during our homeward journey I endeavoured to sound
him upon the point, but he always glided away to some other topic, until at last I
gave it over in despair. It was not yet three when we found ourselves in our room
once more. He hurried to his chamber, and was down again in a few minutes
dressed as a common loafer. With his collar turned up, his shiny, seedy coat, his
red cravat, and his worn boots, he was a perfect sample of the class.
“I think that this should do,” said he, glancing into the glass above the
fireplace. “I only wish that you could come with me, Watson, but I fear that it
won’t do. I may be on the trail in this matter, or I may be following a will-o’-thewisp, 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.
“Dressed as a common loafer.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
I had just finished my tea when he returned, evidently in excellent spirits,
swinging an old 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.”
“Where to?”
“Oh, to the other side of the West End. It may be some time before I get back.
Don’t wait up for me in case I should be late.”
“How are you getting on?”
“Oh, so so. Nothing to complain of. I have been out to Streatham since I saw
you last, but I did not call at the house. It is a very sweet little problem, and I
would not have missed it for a good deal. However, I must not sit gossiping here,
but must get these disreputable clothes off and return to my highly respectable
self.”
I could see by his manner that he had stronger reasons for satisfaction than his
words alone would imply. His eyes twinkled, and there was even a touch of
colour upon his sallow cheeks. He hastened upstairs, and a few minutes later I
heard the slam of the hall door, which told me that he was off once more upon
his congenial hunt.
I waited until midnight, but there was no sign of his return, so I retired to my
room. It was no uncommon thing for him to be away for days and nights on end
when he was hot upon a scent, so that his lateness caused me no surprise. I do
not know at what hour he came in, but when I came down20 to breakfast in the
morning, there he was with a cup of coffee in one hand and the paper in the
other, as fresh and trim as possible.
“You will excuse my beginning without you, Watson,” said he; “but you
remember that our client has rather an early appointment this morning.”
“Why, it is after nine now,” I answered. “I should not be surprised if that were
he. I thought I heard a ring.”
It was, indeed, our friend the financier. I was shocked by the change which
had come over him, for his face which was naturally of a broad and massive
mould, was now pinched and fallen in, while his hair seemed to me at least a
shade whiter. He entered with a weariness and lethargy which was even more
painful than his violence of the morning before, and he dropped heavily into the
armchair which I pushed forward for him.
“I do not know what I have done to be so severely tried,” said he. “Only two
days ago I was a happy and prosperous man, without a care in the world. Now I
am left to a lonely and dishonoured age. One sorrow comes close upon the heels
of another. My niece Mary has deserted me.”
“Deserted you?”
“Yes. Her bed this morning had not been slept in, her room was empty, and a
note for me lay upon the hall table. I had said to her last night, in sorrow and not
in anger, that if she had married my boy all might have been well with him.
Perhaps it was thoughtless of me to say so. It is to that remark that she refers in
this note:
My dearest Uncle,—
I feel that I have brought trouble upon you, and
that if I had acted differently this terrible
misfortune might never have occurred. I cannot,
with this thought in my mind, ever again be happy
under your roof, and I feel that I must leave you
for ever. 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 a thousand 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 cheque-book? Here is a pen. Better
make it out for four thousand pounds.”
With a dazed face the banker made out the required cheque. Holmes walked
over to his desk, took out a little triangular piece of gold with three gems in it,
and threw it down upon the table.
With a shriek of joy our client clutched it up.
“You have it!” he gasped. “I am saved! I am saved!”
The reaction of joy was as passionate as his grief had been, and he hugged his
recovered gems to his bosom.
“There is one other thing you owe, Mr. Holder,” said Sherlock Holmes rather
sternly.
“Owe!” He caught up a pen. “Name the sum, and I will pay it.”
“No, the debt is not to me. You owe a very humble apology to that noble lad,
your son, who has carried himself in this matter as I should be proud to see my
own son do,21 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.22 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 last she became his tool, and was in
the habit of seeing him nearly every evening.”
“I cannot, and I will not, believe it!” cried the banker, with an ashen face.
“I will tell you, then, what occurred in your house last night. Your niece, when
you had, as she thought, gone to your room, slipped down and talked to her lover
through the window which leads into the stable lane. His footmarks had pressed
right through the snow, so long had he stood there. She told him of the coronet.
His wicked lust for gold kindled at the news, and he bent her to his will. I have
no doubt that she loved you, but there are women in whom the love of a lover
extinguishes all other loves, and I think that she must have been one.23 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.
“Your boy, Arthur, went to bed after his interview with you, but he slept badly
on account of his uneasiness about his club debts. In the middle of the night he
heard a soft tread pass his door, so he rose, and looking out was surprised to see
his cousin walking very stealthily along the passage until she disappeared into
your dressing-room. Petrified with astonishment the lad slipped on some clothes
and waited there in the dark to see what would come of this strange affair.
Presently she emerged from the room again, and in the light of the passage lamp
your son saw that she carried the precious coronet in her hands. She passed
down the stairs, and he, thrilling with horror, ran along and slipped behind the
curtain near your door, whence he could see what passed in the hall beneath. He
saw her stealthily open the window, hand out the coronet to someone in the
gloom, and then closing it once more hurry back to her room, passing quite close
to where he stood hid behind the curtain.
“As long as she was on the scene he could not take any action without a
horrible exposure of the woman whom he loved. But the instant that she was
gone he realised how crushing a misfortune this would be for you, and how all-
important it was to set it right. He rushed down, just as he was, in his bare feet,
opened the window, sprang out into the snow, and ran down the lane, where he
could see a dark figure in the moonlight. Sir George Burnwell tried to get away,
but Arthur caught him, and there was a struggle between them, your lad tugging
at one side of the coronet, and his opponent at the other.24 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.”
“Arthur caught him.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“Is it possible?” gasped the banker.
“You then roused his anger by calling him names at a moment when he felt
that he had deserved your warmest thanks. He could not explain the true state of
affairs without betraying one who certainly deserved little enough consideration
at his hands. He took the more chivalrous view, however, and preserved her
secret.”
“And that was why she shrieked and fainted when she saw the coronet,” cried
Mr. Holder. “Oh, my God! what a blind fool I have been. And his asking to be
allowed to go out for five minutes! The dear fellow 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 Woodenleg had waited a little, and then had gone away. I thought at the time that this
might be the maid and her sweetheart, of whom you had already spoken to me,
and inquiry showed it was so. I passed round the garden without seeing anything
more than random tracks, which I took to be the police; but when I got into the
stable lane a very long and complex story was written in the snow in front of me.
“There was a double line of tracks of a booted man, and a second double line
which I saw with delight belonged to a man with naked feet. I was at once
convinced from what you had told me that the latter was your son. The first had
walked both ways but the other had run swiftly, and, as his tread was marked in
places over the depression of the boot, it was obvious that he had passed after the
other. I followed them up and found they led to the hall window, where Boots
had worn all the snow away while waiting. Then I walked to the other end,
which was a hundred yards or more down the lane. I saw where Boots had faced
round, where the snow was cut up as though there had been a struggle, and,
finally, where a few drops of blood had fallen, to show me that I was not
mistaken. Boots had then run down the lane, and another little smudge of blood
showed that it was he who had been hurt. When he came to the highroad at the
other end, I found that the pavement had been cleared, so there was an end to
that clue.
“On entering the house, however, I examined, as you remember, the sill and
framework of the hall window with my lens, and I could at once see that some
one 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, some
one 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 castoff shoes.25 With these I journeyed down to Streatham, and saw that they exactly
fitted the tracks.”
“I saw an ill-dressed vagabond in the lane yesterday evening,” said Mr.
Holder.
“Precisely. It was I. I found that I had my man, so I came home and changed
my clothes. It was a delicate part which I had to play then, for I saw that a
prosecution must be avoided to avert scandal, and I knew that so astute a villain
would see that our hands were tied in the matter. I went and saw him. At first, of
course, he denied everything. But when I gave him every particular that had
occurred, he tried to bluster, and took down a life-preserver from the wall. I
knew my man, however, and I clapped a pistol to his head26 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—a thousand pounds 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
receiver27 who had them, on promising him that there would be no prosecution.
Off I set to him, and after much chaffering28 I got our stones at a thousand
apiece.29 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.”
“I clapped a pistol to his head.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“A day which has saved England30 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 apologize 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,31 they
will soon receive a more than sufficient punishment.”
1 “The Beryl Coronet” was published in the Strand Magazine in May 1892.
2 The “bow window” (or curved bay window) is also mentioned in “The Mazarin Stone,” but no bow
windows of the late Victorian era are now visible in Baker Street.
3 This would mean passengers arriving at the Baker Street Station of the Metropolitan Railway, popularly
known as the “Underground.” Passengers has also been used to mean “pedestrians.”
4 The gentleman is subsequently revealed to be a banker of considerable renown, but such a reputation
seems wildly at odds with his frenetic behaviour. Dr. Edward J. Van Liere muses that worry over his
investments must have caused his “sensitive nervous system” and further speculates that the beleaguered
financier “eventually developed hypertension or suffered from gastric ulcers.”
5 While Holder & Stevenson is a fictional firm, it is not difficult to ascertain who Holder may have actually
been. Julian Wolff conjectures (in his Practical Handbook of Sherlockian Heraldry) that he was one of the
esteemed Glyns of Glyn, Mills & Co. (established 1753). The family was renowned both in banking and in
the social world; founder Richard Glyn became Lord Mayor of London in 1758, and the bank itself not only
acquired several other banking establishments but also was instrumental in preventing the collapse of the
venerable Baring Brothers in 1890. The sensitivity and highly classified nature of the matter at hand
required a discretion and authority that Glyn, Mills & Co. would certainly have been trusted to supply.
6 Some have seized on this comment as indicating that 221 Baker Street must have been near the southern
end of Baker Street, which was far enough from the Underground station to justify employing a cab. It is
just as possible, however, that Holder meant that because of the weather, he did not travel from Streatham
by cab but instead took the Underground and walked to Holmes’s lodging. The location of 221 Baker Street
is discussed in depth in “The Empty House.”
7 Edgar W. Smith and A. Carson Simpson both conclude that the “exalted name” is His Royal Highness,
Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, who, as the holder of the title of Duke of Rothesay (of Scotland), would
have been the legitimate wearer of a duke’s coronet but who nonetheless had no right to put up a “public
possession” as collateral for a personal loan.
8 That is, $250,000 in Victorian U.S. dollars, an immense sum in the late nineteenth century, the equivalent
of over $6 million in current purchasing power.
9 A thin leather made from goatskin and tanned with sumac.
10 A coronet was a type of head attire, similar in appearance to a wreath, often consisting of a string of
jewels tied at the back with a ribbon or set in a band of gold. Of lesser significance than a crown, the
coronet was worn by British peers (see “The Noble Bachelor,” note 16), typically at the coronation of a
sovereign. Varying designs indicated the rank of peer. William D. Jenkins suggests that the coronet
involved in the case was one made for George Villiers, created Duke of Buckingham by James I in 1623
and assassinated in 1628. Upon the death of Buckingham’s son in 1678, the coronet escheated to the Crown
and was subsequently held in the national treasury (from which the Prince of Wales could have “borrowed”
it).
11 A beryl is actually a mineral, a silicate of beryllium and aluminum whose crystals are hexagonal. Its
coloured form is considered a gemstone; emerald, the green variety of beryl, is the most valued, followed
by aquamarine, which is blue-green. There is no evidence of the colour of the beryls in the Beryl Coronet.
12 A design engraved on the surface.
13 Streatham, seven miles south of St. Paul’s Cathedral, was home to numerous handsome villas and
country seats of wealthy families and merchants engaged in business in the City.
14 Despite the contemporary American taboo against marriage between first cousins (a taboo vigorously
opposed by numerous advocacy groups), such unions were not uncommon in Victorian England. In fact,
Queen Victoria and Prince Albert were first cousins, as were Charles Darwin and his wife Emma
Wedgwood.
15 T. S. Blakeney questions whether this laxity reflected the security at the offices of Holder & Stevenson
as well. “John Clay [of “The Red-Headed League”] missed the chance of a lifetime when he went
burrowing into the vaults of the City & Suburban Bank,” Blakeney remarks, “when he could, apparently,
have just walked into Holder & Stevenson and helped himself.” The secreting of a precious jewel in an
insecure bureau cabinet was not without precedent, however. In The Moonstone, a young woman named
Rachel Verrinder receives a birthday present of a large yellow diamond that had been stolen from an Indian
shrine. The young woman—unaware that the Moonstone was willed to her by her vengeful uncle to bring
her bad luck—is depicted as displaying remarkably poor sense in thinking first that she will keep her
valuable gem on her dressing table; then in an “Indian cabinet, for the purpose of permitting two beautiful
native productions to admire each other.” After her mother expresses concern that the cabinet has no lock,
Rachel indignantly replies, “Good Heavens, mamma! . . . is this an hotel?” Like Alexander Holder, Rachel
comes to regret her carelessness almost immediately.
16 Originally a “fourthing,” a quarter-penny.
17 A curved driveway.
18 This should probably read “wicket” (in the sense of a gate) but is not corrected in the English book
edition.
19 This is demonstrated by the “poker-straightening” reported by Watson in “The Speckled Band.”
20 These descriptions indicate that Holmes’s and Watson’s bedrooms were upstairs from the sitting room
and apparently had direct access downward to the street.
21 Holmes was almost certainly speaking hypothetically here of his “own son,” but many speculate as to
children Holmes may have fathered illegitimately. In fact, the purported offspring of Holmes are so
numerous (and of such diverse maternity), including, for example, such luminaries as detective Nero Wolfe
and boxer Larry Holmes, that one must be amazed that he actually found time to handle cases.
22 If the coronet was indeed “one of the most precious public possessions of the Empire,” Burnwell must
have anticipated difficulty in disposing of it. Robert Pattrick suggests that he had made an arrangement to
do so with Professor Moriarty (see “The Final Problem”).
23 The wisdom of this observation belies Holmes’s view that “the fair sex is [Watson’s] department”
(expressed in “The Second Stain”) and speaks of considerable experience on Holmes’s part.
24 Why did Burnwell leave the case behind?
25 Earlier, Watson recounts Holmes’s having returned from his investigation “swinging an old elasticsided boot in his hand,” which he tosses in a corner—but there is no mention of its mate. Perhaps, finding
both cumbersome, he discarded one along the way, keeping the other for evidence.
26 Robert Keith Leavitt observes, “Whenever [Holmes] had occasion to pull a gun on a really desperate
character, he got as near as possible to his man before showing his weapon.” Aware of his own poor
marksmanship, Leavitt argues, Holmes made it a practice to clap his pistol against his captive’s head. See
“The Dancing Men” and “The Mazarin Stone” for other examples of this behaviour.
27 A receiver was a person who received stolen goods—a “fence,” in modern parlance—which, if done
knowingly, constituted a felony under Victorian law.
28 Bargaining or haggling about terms or price.
29 Ian McQueen finds it remarkable that within a few short years of settling down in Baker Street, in
rooms which he had to share for reasons of expense, Holmes was able to produce £3,000 of his own money
($15,000 in U.S. dollars, more than thirty times the annual income of Mary Sutherland, noted in “A Case of
Identity”) to buy back the gems from the receiver.
The reader will recall that Holmes asked Holder for a check for four thousand pounds. Did he intend to
pocket the extra £1,000 as a reward for keeping silent about the true facts of the matter? Richard Oldberg
cynically suggests that Holder’s client selected Holder as his banker precisely because he expected Holder
to be lax about security and discretion and conspired with Sir George Burnwell to steal the coronet and then
blackmail Holder. To avoid a public scandal, which would ruin Holder’s reputation as a banker as well as
besmirch the “exalted name,” Holmes went along with Holder’s explanation—for a price.
30 A. Carson Simpson ponders this denouement: “We are told that ‘any injury to [the coronet] would be
almost as serious as its complete loss.’ But it was in fact injured, being twisted out of shape and having a
piece broken off. How did Alexander Holder expect to get it made as good as new between Saturday
morning, when he got back the missing piece, and the following Monday, when the borrower would return
to reclaim it?” Holder must have realised this, for he made no move to seek out a goldsmith and instead
rushed off to make amends with Arthur. Simpson concludes that Holder must have expected to apply a little
“genteel blackmail” to the “exalted name” who used a national treasure as personal collateral.
31 John Hall believes that Sir George had no motive to steal the coronet and could not possibly have
arranged the theft as Holmes suggests in the time allotted. Instead, he reasons, Mary must have
masterminded the theft, and he interprets this remark of Holmes as indicating that Holmes, too, did not
think that Sir George was exclusively guilty.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES1
Women in distress, especially governesses,
constituted a large portion of Holmes’s
clientele. One of Conan Doyle’s sisters was a
governess, and it was a respectable
employment for the emerging class of working
women. Although Holmes scoffs that his
practice is turning into “an agency for
recovering lost lead pencils, and giving advice
to young ladies from boarding-schools,” he
admits that the case of Miss Violet Hunter (the
first of four Violets to cross his path) is an
exceptional one. In “The Copper Beeches,”
the last tale of the series collected as the
Adventures, the freckle-faced Miss Hunter
calls upon Holmes for “backup” as she
accepts a job that pays too much. Watson feels
Hunter quite capable of taking care of herself,
but Holmes uncharacteristically worries,
muttering about “no sister of his” taking a
situation such as Miss Hunter’s. Scholars have
(with little success) tried to make these
remarks into background material about
Holmes’s family. Others speculate that “Violet
the Hunter” may have set her cap for Holmes,
perhaps with encouragement from Dr. Watson.
As the story concludes, Holmes dismisses
Violet Hunter as merely one more “pretty
problem,” and Watson duly records her
marriage to another, although a note of
sadness—perhaps over Holmes’s indifference
to the charms of Miss Hunter—is evident in the
Doctor’s voice.
TO THE MAN who loves art for its own sake,” remarked Sherlock Holmes,
tossing aside the advertisement sheet of The Daily Telegraph,2 “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 cases3 which you have been good
enough to draw up, and, I am bound to say, occasionally to embellish, you have
given prominence not so much to the many causes célèbres and sensational trials
in which I have figured, but rather to those incidents which may have been
trivial in themselves, but which have given room for those faculties of deduction
and of logical synthesis which I have made my special province.”
“And yet,” said I, smiling, “I cannot quite hold myself absolved from the
charge of sensationalism which has been urged against my records.”
“You have erred, perhaps,” he observed, taking up a glowing cinder with the
tongs, and lighting with it the long cherrywood 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.”4
“Taking up a glowing cinder with the tongs.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
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 in Baker Street. A thick fog rolled down
between the lines of dun-coloured houses, and the opposing windows loomed
like dark, shapeless blurs through the heavy yellow wreaths. Our gas was lit, and
shone on the white cloth and glimmer of china and metal, for the table had not
been cleared yet. Sherlock Holmes had been silent all the morning, dipping
continuously into the advertisement columns of a succession of papers, until at
last, having apparently given up his search, he had emerged in no very sweet
temper to lecture me upon my literary shortcomings.
“At the same time,” he remarked after a pause, during which he had sat
puffing at his long pipe and gazing down into the fire, “you can hardly be open
to a charge of sensationalism, for out of these cases which you have been so kind
as to interest yourself in, a fair proportion do not treat of crime, in its legal sense,
at all. The small matter in which I endeavoured to help the King of Bohemia, the
singular experience of Miss Mary Sutherland, the problem connected with the
man with the twisted lip, and the incident of the noble bachelor, were all matters
which are outside the pale of the law. But in avoiding the sensational, I fear that
you may have bordered on the trivial.”
“The end may have been so,” I answered, “but the methods I hold to have
been novel and of interest.”
“Pshaw, my dear fellow, what do the public, the great unobservant public,
who could hardly tell a weaver by his tooth5 or a compositor by his left thumb,6
care about the finer shades of analysis and deduction! But, indeed, if you are
trivial, I cannot blame you, for the days of the great cases are past. Man, or at
least criminal man, has lost all enterprise and originality. As to my own little
practice, it seems to be degenerating into an agency for recovering lost lead
pencils, and giving advice to young ladies from boarding-schools. I think that I
have touched bottom at last, however. This note I had this morning marks my
zero-point, I fancy. Read it!” He tossed a crumpled letter across to me. It was
dated from Montague Place upon the preceding evening, and ran thus:—
Dear Mr. Holmes,—
I am very anxious to consult you as to whether I
should or should not accept a situation which has
been offered to me as governess. I shall call at
half-past ten to-morrow, if I do not inconvenience
you—
Yours faithfully,
Violet Hunter.
7
“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,
developed into a serious investigation. It may be so in this case also.”
“Well, let us hope so! But our doubts will very soon be solved, for here,
unless I am much mistaken, is the person in question.”
As he spoke the door opened, and a young lady entered the room. She was
plainly but neatly dressed, with a bright, quick face, freckled like a plover’s egg,
and with the brisk manner of a woman who has had her own way to make in the
world.
“You will excuse my troubling you, I am sure,” said she, as my companion
rose to greet her, “but I have had a very strange experience, and as I have no
parents or relations of any sort from whom I could ask advice, I thought that
perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me what I should do.”
“Pray take a seat, Miss Hunter. I shall be happy to do anything that I can to
serve you.”
I could see that Holmes was favourably impressed by the manner and speech
of his new client. He looked her over in his searching fashion, and then
composed himself, with his lids drooping and his finger-tips together to listen to
her story.
“I have been a governess for five years,” said she, “in the family of Colonel
Spence Munro, but two months ago the Colonel received an appointment at
Halifax, in Nova Scotia,8 and took his children over to America with him, so that
I found myself without a situation.9 I advertised, and I answered advertisements,
but without success. At last the little money which I had saved began to run
short, and I was at my wit’s end as to what I should do.
“There is a well-known agency for governesses in the West End called
Westaway’s, and there I used to call about once a week in order to see whether
anything had turned up which might suit me. Westaway was the name of the
founder of the business, but it is really managed by Miss Stoper. She sits in her
own little office, and the ladies who are seeking employment wait in an anteroom, and are then shown in one by one, when she consults her ledgers, and sees
whether she has anything which would suit them.
“Well, when I called last week I was shown into the little office as usual, but I
found that Miss Stoper was not alone. A prodigiously stout man with a very
smiling face and a great heavy chin which rolled down in fold upon fold over his
throat sat at her elbow with a pair of glasses on his nose, looking very earnestly
at the ladies who entered. As I came in he gave quite a jump in his chair, and
turned quickly to Miss Stoper.
“ ‘That will do,’ said he; ‘I could not ask for anything better. Capital! capital!’
He seemed quite enthusiastic, and rubbed his hands together in the most genial
fashion. He was such a comfortable-looking man that it was quite a pleasure to
look at him.
“ ‘You are looking for a situation, miss?’ he asked.
“ ‘Yes, sir.’
“ ‘As governess?’
“ ‘Yes, sir.’
“ ‘And what salary do you ask?’
“Capital.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“ ‘I had four pounds 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 any one 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—’10
“ ‘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 a
hundred pounds 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.’
Opened a pocket-book and took out a note.
Artist unknown, Chicago Inter-Ocean, June 12, 1892
“It seemed to me that I had never met so fascinating and so thoughtful a man.
As I was already in debt to my tradesmen the advance was a great convenience,
and yet there was something unnatural about the whole transaction which made
me wish to know a little more before I quite committed myself.
“ ‘May I ask where you live, sir?’ said I.
“ ‘Hampshire. Charming rural place. The Copper Beeches, five miles on the
far side of Winchester. It is the most lovely country, my dear young lady, and the
dearest old country house.’
“ ‘And my duties, sir? I should be glad to know what they would be.’
“ ‘One child—one dear little romper just six years old. Oh, if you could see
him killing cockroaches with a slipper! Smack! smack! smack! Three gone
before you could wink!’ He leaned back in his chair and laughed his eyes into
his head again.
“I was a little startled at the nature of the child’s amusement, but the father’s
laughter made me think that perhaps he was joking.
“ ‘My sole duties, then,’ I asked, ‘are to take charge of a single child?’
“ ‘No, no, not the sole, not the sole, my dear young lady,’ he cried. ‘Your duty
would be, as I am sure your good sense would suggest, to obey any little
commands which my wife might give, provided always that they were such
commands as a lady might with propriety obey. You see no difficulty, heh?’
“ ‘I should be happy to make myself useful.’
“ ‘Quite so. In dress now, for example! We are faddy people, you know—
faddy but kind-hearted. If you were asked to wear any dress which we might
give you, you would not object to our little whim. Heh?’
“ ‘No,’ said I, considerably astonished at his words.
“ ‘Or to sit here, or sit there, that would not be offensive to you?’11
“ ‘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.12 I could not dream of sacrificing it in this off-hand fashion.
“ ‘I am afraid that that is quite impossible,’ said I. He had been watching me
eagerly out of his small eyes, and I could see a shadow pass over his face as I
spoke.
“ ‘I am afraid that it is quite essential,’ said he. ‘It is a little fancy of my
wife’s, and ladies’ fancies, you know, madam, ladies’ fancies must be consulted.
And so you won’t cut your hair?’
“ ‘No, sir, I really could not,’ I answered firmly.
“ ‘Ah, very well; then that quite settles the matter. It is a pity, because in other
respects you would really have done very nicely. In that case, Miss Stoper, I had
best inspect a few more of your young ladies.’
“The manageress had sat all this while busy with her papers without a word to
either of us, but she glanced at me now with so much annoyance upon her face
that I could not help suspecting that she had lost a handsome commission
through my refusal.
“ ‘Do you desire your name to be kept upon the books?’ she asked.
“ ‘If you please, Miss Stoper.’
“ ‘Well, really, it seems rather useless, since you refuse the most excellent
offers in this fashion,’ said she sharply. ‘You can hardly expect us to exert
ourselves to find another such opening for you. Good-day to you, Miss Hunter.’
She struck a gong upon the table, and I was shown out by the page.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, when I got back to my lodgings and found little enough in
the cupboard, and two or three bills upon the table, I began to ask myself
whether I had not done a very foolish thing. After all, if these people had strange
fads, and expected obedience on the most extraordinary matters, they were at
least ready to pay for their eccentricity. Very few governesses in England are
getting a hundred 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.13
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:
A contemporary hairstyle, known as “Titus.”
Strand Magazine (December 1892)
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 thirty pounds a quarter, or £120
a year, so as to recompense you for any little
inconvenience which our fads may cause you.
They are not very exacting after all. My wife is
fond of a particular shade of electric blue, and
would like you to wear such a dress indoors in the
morning. You need not, however, go to the
expense of purchasing one, as we have one
belonging to my dear daughter Alice (now in
Philadelphia) which would, I should think, fit you
very well. Then, as to sitting here or there, or
amusing yourself in any manner indicated, that
need cause you no inconvenience. As regards your
hair, it is no doubt a pity, especially as I could not
help remarking its beauty during our short
interview, but I am afraid that I must remain firm
upon this point, and I only hope that the increased
salary may recompense you for the loss. Your
duties, as far as the child is concerned, are very
light. Now do try to come, and I shall meet you
with the dog-cart at Winchester. Let me know
your train—
Yours faithfully,
Jephro Rucastle.
“That is the letter which I have just received, Mr. Holmes, and my mind is
made up that I will accept it.14 I thought, however, that before taking the final
step, I should like to submit the whole matter to your consideration.”
“Well, Miss Hunter, if your mind is made up, that settles the question,” said
Holmes, smiling.
“But you would not advise me to refuse?”
“I confess that it is not the situation which I should like to see a sister of mine
apply for.”15
“What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?”
“Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have yourself formed some
opinion?”
“Well, there seems to me to be only one possible solution. Mr. Rucastle
seemed to be a very kind, good-natured man. Is it not possible that his wife is a
lunatic, that he desires to keep the matter quiet for fear she should be taken to an
asylum, and that he humours her fancies in every way in order to prevent an
outbreak?”
“That is a possible solution—in fact, as matters stand, it is the most probable
one. But in any case it does not seem to be a nice household for a young lady.”
“But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!”
“Well, yes, of course the pay is good—too good. That is what makes me
uneasy. Why should they give you £120 a year, when they could have their pick
for £40? There must be some strong reason behind.”
“I thought that if I told you the circumstances you would understand
afterwards if I wanted your help. I should feel so much stronger if I felt that you
were at the back of me.”
“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-night16 and bustled off upon her way.
“At least,” said I, as we heard her quick, firm steps descending the stairs, “she
seems to be a young lady who is very well able to take care of herself.”
“And she would need to be,” said Holmes gravely. “I am much mistaken if we
do not hear from her before many days are past.”
“Holmes shook his head gravely.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
It was not very long before my friend’s prediction was fulfilled. A fortnight
went by, during which I frequently found my thoughts turning in her direction,
and wondering what strange side-alley of human experience this lonely woman
had strayed into. The unusual salary, the curious conditions, the light duties, all
pointed to something abnormal, though whether a fad or a plot, or whether the
man were a philanthropist or a villain, it was quite beyond my powers to
determine. As to Holmes, I observed that he sat frequently for half an hour on
end, with knitted brows and an abstracted air, but he swept the matter away with
a wave of his hand when I mentioned it. “Data! data! data!” he cried impatiently.
“I can’t make bricks without clay.” And yet he would always wind up by
muttering that no sister of his should ever have accepted such a situation.
The telegram which we eventually received came late one night, just as I was
thinking of turning in, and Holmes was settling down to one of those all-night
chemical researches which he frequently indulged in, when I would leave him
stooping over a retort and a test-tube at night, and find him in the same position
when I came down to breakfast in the morning. He opened the yellow envelope,
and then, glancing at the message, threw it across to me.
“Just look up the trains in Bradshaw,17 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. 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,18 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.19 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,20 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.21
But Holmes shook his head gravely.
“Do you know, Watson,” said he, “that it is one of the curses of a mind with a
turn like mine that I must look at everything with reference to my own special
subject. You look at these scattered houses, and you are impressed by their
beauty. I look at them, and the only thought which comes to me is a feeling of
their isolation, and of the impunity with which crime may be committed there.”
“Good Heavens!” I cried. “Who would associate crime with these dear old
homesteads?”
“They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watson, founded
upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a
more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.”
“You horrify me!”
“But the reason is very obvious. The pressure of public opinion can do in the
town what the law cannot accomplish. There is no lane so vile that the scream of
a tortured child, or the thud of a drunkard’s blow, does not beget sympathy and
indignation among the neighbours, and then the whole machinery of justice is
ever so close that a word of complaint can set it going, and there is but a step
between the crime and the dock. But look at these lonely houses, each in its own
fields, filled for the most part with poor ignorant folk who know little of the law.
Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on,
year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser.22 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.23 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 repute24 in the High Street, at no distance from
the station, and there we found the young lady waiting for us. She had engaged a
sitting-room, and our lunch awaited us upon the table.
“I am so delighted that you have come,” she said, earnestly. “It is so very kind
of you both; but indeed I do not know what I should do. Your advice will be
altogether invaluable to me.”
“Pray tell us what has happened to you.”
“I will do so, and I must be quick, for I have promised Mr. Rucastle to be back
before three. I got his leave to come into town this morning, though he little
knew for what purpose.”
“Let us have everything in its due order.” Holmes thrust his long thin legs out
towards the fire, and composed himself to listen.
“I am so delighted that you have come.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“In the first place, I may say that I have met, on the whole, with no actual illtreatment 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.”
Mr. Rucastle drove me in his dog-cart to the Copper
Beeches.
Artist unknown, Chicago Inter-Ocean, June 12, 1892
“What can you not understand?”
“Their reasons for their conduct. But you shall have it all just as it occurred.
When I came down Mr. Rucastle met me here, and drove me in his dog-cart to
the Copper Beeches. It is, as he said, beautifully situated, but it is not beautiful in
itself, for it is a large square block of a house, whitewashed, but all stained and
streaked with damp and bad weather. There are grounds round it, woods on three
sides, and on the fourth a field which slopes down to the Southampton highroad,
which curves past about a hundred yards from the front door. This ground in
front belongs to the house, but the woods all round are part of Lord Southerton’s
preserves. A clump of copper beeches immediately in front of the hall door has
given its name to the place.
“I was driven over by my employer, who was as amiable as ever, and was
introduced by him that evening to his wife and the child. There was no truth, Mr.
Holmes, in the conjecture which seemed to us to be probable in your rooms at
Baker Street. Mrs. Rucastle is not mad. I found her to be a silent, pale-faced
woman, much younger than her husband, not more than thirty, I should think,
while he can hardly be less than forty-five. From their conversation I have
gathered that they have been married about seven years, that he was a widower,
and that his only child by the first wife was the daughter who has gone to
Philadelphia. Mr. Rucastle told me in private that the reason why she had left
them was that she had an unreasoning aversion to her stepmother. As the
daughter could not have been less than twenty, I can quite imagine that her
position must have been uncomfortable with her father’s young wife.
“Mrs. Rucastle seemed to me to be colourless in mind as well as in feature.
She impressed me neither favourably nor the reverse. She was a nonentity. It
was easy to see that she was passionately devoted both to her husband and to her
little son. Her light grey eyes wandered continually from one to the other, noting
every little want and forestalling it if possible. He was kind to her also in his
bluff boisterous fashion, and on the whole they seemed to be a happy couple.
And yet she had some secret sorrow, this woman. She would often be lost in
deep thought, with the saddest look upon her face. More than once I have
surprised her in tears. I have thought sometimes that it was the disposition of her
child which weighed upon her mind, for I have never met so utterly spoilt 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’s 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,25 but it bore unmistakable signs of
having been worn before. It could not have been a better fit if I had been
measured for it. Both Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle expressed a delight at the look of it
which seemed quite exaggerated in its vehemence. They were waiting for me in
the drawing-room, which is a very large room, stretching along the entire front
of the house, with three long windows reaching down to the floor. A chair had
been placed close to the central window, with its back turned towards it. In this I
was asked to sit, and then Mr. Rucastle, walking up and down on the other side
of the room, began to tell me a series of the funniest stories26 that I have ever
listened to. You cannot imagine how comical he was, and I laughed until I was
quite weary. Mrs. Rucastle, however, who has evidently no sense of humour,
never so much as smiled, but sat with her hands in her lap, and a sad, anxious
look upon her face. After an hour or so, Mr. Rucastle suddenly remarked that it
was time to commence the duties of the day, and that I might change my dress,
and go to little Edward in the nursery.
“Two days later this same performance was gone through under exactly
similar circumstances. Again I changed my dress, again I sat in the window, and
again I laughed very heartily at the funny stories of which my employer had an
immense répertoire, and which he told inimitably. Then he handed me a yellow-
backed novel, and, moving my chair a little sideways, that my own shadow
might not fall upon the page, he begged me to read aloud to him. I read for about
ten minutes, beginning in the heart of a chapter, and then suddenly, in the middle
of a sentence, he ordered me to cease and to change my dress.
“You can easily imagine, Mr. Holmes, how curious I became as to what the
meaning of this extraordinary performance could possibly be. They were always
very careful, I observed, to turn my face away from the window, so that I
became consumed with the desire to see what was going on behind my back. At
first it seemed to be impossible, but I soon devised a means. My hand mirror had
been broken, so a happy thought seized me, and I concealed a piece of the glass
in my handkerchief. On the next occasion, in the midst of my laughter, I put my
handkerchief up to my eyes, and was able with a little management to see all that
there was behind me. I confess that I was disappointed. There was nothing. At
least that was my first impression. At the second glance, however, I perceived
that there was a man standing in the Southampton Road, a small bearded man in
a grey suit, who seemed to be looking in my direction. The road is an important
highway, and there are usually people there. This man, however, was leaning
against the railings which bordered our field, and was looking earnestly up. I
lowered my handkerchief, and glanced at Mrs. Rucastle to find her eyes fixed
upon me with a most searching gaze. She said nothing, but I am convinced that
she had divined that I had a mirror in my hand, and had seen what was behind
me. She rose at once.
“I read for about ten minutes.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“ ‘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,27 my mastiff.28 I call him mine, but really old Toller, my
groom, is the only man who can do anything with him. We feed him once a day,
and not too much then, so that he is always as keen as mustard. Toller lets him
loose every night, and God help the trespasser whom he lays his fangs upon. For
goodness’ sake don’t you ever on any pretext set your foot over the threshold at
night, for it’s as much as your life is worth.’
“The warning was no idle one, for two nights later I happened to look out of
my bedroom window about two o’clock in the morning. It was a beautiful
moonlight night, and the lawn in front of the house was silvered over and almost
as bright as day. I was standing, rapt in the peaceful beauty of the scene, when I
was aware that something was moving under the shadow of the copper beeches.
As it emerged into the moonshine I saw what it was. It was a giant dog, as large
as a calf, tawny tinted, with hanging jowl, black muzzle, and huge projecting
bones. It walked slowly across the lawn and vanished into the shadow upon the
other side. That dreadful silent sentinel sent a chill to my heart which I do not
think that any burglar could have done.
“And now I have a very strange experience to tell you. I had, as you know, cut
off my hair in London, and I had placed it in a great coil at the bottom of my
trunk. One evening, after the child was in bed, I began to amuse myself by
examining the furniture of my room, and by rearranging my own little things.
There was an old chest of drawers in the room, the two upper ones empty and
open, the lower one locked. I had filled the first two with my linen, and, as I had
still much to pack away, I was naturally annoyed at not having the use of the
third drawer. It struck me that it might have been fastened by a mere oversight,
so I took out my bunch of keys and tried to open it. The very first key fitted to
perfection, and I drew the drawer open. There was only one thing in it, but I am
sure that you would never guess what it was. It was my coil of hair.
“I took it up and examined it. It was of the same peculiar tint, and the same
thickness. But then the impossibility of the thing obtruded itself upon me. How
could my hair have been locked in the drawer? With trembling hands I undid my
trunk, turned out the contents, and drew from the bottom my own hair. I laid the
two tresses together, and I assure you that they were identical. Was it not
extraordinary? Puzzle as I would, I could make nothing at all of what it meant. I
returned the strange hair to the drawer, and I said nothing of the matter to the
Rucastles, as I felt that I had put myself in the wrong by opening a drawer which
they had locked.
“I am naturally observant,29 as you may have remarked, Mr. Holmes, and I
soon had a pretty good plan of the whole house in my head. There was one wing,
however, which appeared not to be inhabited at all. A door which faced that
which led into the quarters of the Tollers opened into this suite, but it was
invariably locked. One day, however, as I ascended the stair, I met Mr. Rucastle
coming out through this door, his keys in his hand, and a look on his face which
made him a very different person to the round jovial man to whom I was
accustomed. His cheeks were red, his brow was all crinkled with anger, and the
veins stood out at his temples with passion. He locked the door, and hurried past
me without a word or a look.
“It was a coil of my hair.”
Dan Smith, Sunday Portland Oregonian, September 17, 1905
“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.
“I took it up and examined it.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“ ‘Ah!’ said he, ‘you must not think me rude if I passed you without a word,
my dear young lady. I was pre-occupied with business matters.’
“I assured him that I was not offended. ‘By the way,’ said I, ‘you seem to
have quite a suite of spare rooms up there, and one of them has the shutters up.’
“He looked surprised and, as it seemed to me, a little startled at my remark.
“ ‘Photography is one of my hobbies,’ said he. ‘I have made my dark room up
there. But, dear me! what an observant young lady we have come upon. Who
would have believed it? Who would have ever believed it?’ He spoke in a jesting
tone, but there was no jest in his eyes as he looked at me. I read suspicion there
and annoyance, but no jest.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, from the moment that I understood that there was
something about that suite of rooms which I was not to know, I was all on fire to
go over them. It was not mere curiosity, though I have my share of that. It was
more a feeling of duty—a feeling that some good might come from my
penetrating to this place. They talk of woman’s instinct; perhaps it was woman’s
instinct which gave me that feeling. At any rate, it was there; and I was keenly
on the look-out for any chance to pass the forbidden door.
“It was only yesterday that the chance came. I may tell you that, besides Mr.
Rucastle, both Toller and his wife find something to do in these deserted rooms,
and I once saw him carrying a large black linen bag with him through the door.
Recently he has been drinking hard, and yesterday evening he was very drunk;
and when I came upstairs, there was the key in the door. I have no doubt at all
that he had left it there. Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle were both downstairs, and the
child was with them, so that I had an admirable opportunity. I turned the key
gently in the lock, opened the door, and slipped through.
“There was a little passage in front of me, unpapered and uncarpeted, which
turned at a right angle at the further 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 backwards and forwards against the little slit of dim light which
shone out from under the door. A mad, unreasoning terror rose up in me at the
sight, Mr. Holmes. My overstrung nerves failed me suddenly, and I turned and
ran—ran as though some dreadful hand were behind me, clutching at the skirt of
my dress. I rushed down the passage, through the door, and straight into the arms
of Mr. Rucastle, who was waiting outside.
“ ‘So,’ said he, smiling, ‘it was you, then. I thought that it must be when I saw
the door open.’
“ ‘Oh, I am so frightened!’ I panted.
“ ‘My dear young lady! my dear young lady!’—you cannot think how
caressing and soothing his manner was—‘and what has frightened you, my dear
young lady?’
“But his voice was just a little too coaxing. He overdid it. I was keenly on my
guard against him.
“‘I was foolish enough to go into the empty wing,’ I answered. ‘But it is so
lonely and eerie in this dim light that I was frightened and ran out again. Oh, it is
so dreadfully still in there!’
“ ‘Only that?’ said he, looking at me keenly.
“ ‘Why, what do you think?’ I asked.
“ ‘Why do you think that I lock this door?’
“ ‘I am sure that I do not know.’
“ ‘It is to keep people out who have no business there. Do you see?’ He was
still smiling in the most amiable manner.
“ ‘I am sure if I had known—’
“ ‘Well, then, you know now. And if you ever put your foot over that
threshold again’—here in an instant the smile hardened into a grin of rage, and
he glared down at me with the face of a demon—‘I’ll throw you to the mastiff.’
“ ‘Oh! I am so frightened!’ I panted.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“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.30 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.”
“I’ll throw you to the mastiff.”
Artist unknown, Chicago Inter-Ocean, June 12, 1892
Holmes and I had listened spellbound to this extraordinary story. My friend
rose now, and paced up and down the room, his hands in his pockets, and an
expression of the most profound gravity upon his face.
“Is Toller still drunk?” he asked.
“Yes. I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that she could do nothing with him.”
“That is well. And the Rucastles go out to-night?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a cellar with a good strong lock?”
“Yes, the wine-cellar.”
“You seem to me to have acted all through this matter like a brave and
sensible girl, Miss Hunter. Do you think that you could perform one more feat? I
should not ask it of you if I did not think you a quite exceptional woman.”
“I will try. What is it?”
“We shall be at the Copper Beeches by seven o’clock, my friend and I. The
Rucastles will be gone by that time, and Toller will, we hope, be incapable.
There only remains Mrs. Toller, who might give the alarm. If you could send her
into the cellar on some errand, and then turn the key upon her, you would
facilitate matters immensely.”
“I will do it.”
“Excellent! We shall then look thoroughly into the affair. Of course there is
only one feasible explanation. You have been brought there to personate some
one, 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 publichouse. 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 doorstep.
“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’s face clouded over.
“I trust that we are not too late,” said he. “I think, Miss Hunter, that we had
better go in without you. Now, Watson, put your shoulder to it, and we shall see
whether we cannot make our way in.”
It was an old rickety door and gave at once before our united strength.
Together we rushed into the room. It was empty. There was no furniture save a
little pallet bed, a small table, and a basketful of linen. The skylight above was
open, and the prisoner gone.
“There has been some villainy here,” said Holmes; “this beauty has guessed
Miss Hunter’s intentions, and has carried his victim off.”
“But how?”
“Through the skylight. We shall soon see how he managed it.” He swung
himself up onto the roof. “Ah, yes,” he cried, “Here’s the end of a long light
ladder against the eaves. That is how he did it.”
“But it is impossible,” said Miss Hunter, “the ladder was not there when the
Rucastles went away.”
“He has come back and done it. I tell you that he is a clever and dangerous
man. I should not be very much surprised if this were he whose step I hear now
upon the stair. I think, Watson, that it would be as well for you to have your
pistol ready.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth before a man appeared at the door of
the room, a very fat and burly man, with a heavy stick in his hand. Miss Hunter
screamed and shrunk against the wall at the sight of him, but Sherlock Holmes
sprang forward and confronted him.
“You villain!” said he, “where’s your daughter?”
The fat man cast his eyes round, and then up at the open skylight.
“It is for me to ask you that,” he shrieked, “you thieves! Spies and thieves! I
have caught you, have I? You are in my power. I’ll serve you!” He turned and
clattered down the stairs as hard as he could go.
“He’s gone for the dog!” cried Miss Hunter.
“I have my revolver,” said I.
“Better close the front door,” cried Holmes, and we all rushed down the stairs
together. We had hardly reached the hall when we heard the baying of a
hound,31 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. “Some one 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.32 With much labour we separated them, and carried
him, living but horribly mangled, into the house. We laid him upon the drawingroom sofa, and having despatched 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.
“ ‘You villain!’ said he. ‘Where’s your daughter?’ ”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“Mrs. Toller!” cried Miss Hunter.
“Yes, miss. Mr. Rucastle let me out when he came back before he went up to
you. Ah, miss, it is a pity you didn’t let me know what you were planning, for I
would have told you that your pains were wasted.”
“Ha!” said Holmes, looking keenly at her. “It is clear that Mrs. Toller knows
more about this matter than any one else.”
“Yes, sir, I do, and I am ready enough to tell what I know.”
“Then, pray sit down, and let us hear it, for there are several points on which I
must confess that I am still in the dark.”
“I will soon make it clear to you,” said she; “and I’d have done so before now
if I could ha’ got out from the cellar. If there’s police-court business over this,
you’ll remember that I was the one that stood your friend, and that I was Miss
Alice’s friend too.
“She was never happy at home, Miss Alice wasn’t, from the time that her
father married again. She was slighted like, and had no say in anything; but it
never really became bad for her until after she met Mr. Fowler at a friend’s
house. As well as I could learn, Miss Alice had rights of her own by will, but she
was so quiet and patient, she was, that she never said a word about them, but just
left everything in Mr. Rucastle’s hands. He knew he was safe with her; but when
there was a chance of a husband coming forward, who would ask for all that the
law would give him, then her father thought it time to put a stop on it. He wanted
her to sign a paper, so that whether she married or not, he could use her money.
When she wouldn’t do it, he kept on worrying her until she got brain-fever,33
and for six weeks was at death’s door. Then she got better at last, all worn to a
shadow, and with her beautiful hair cut off; but that didn’t make no change in
her young man, and he stuck to her as true as man could be.
“Ah,” said Holmes, “I think that what you have been good enough to tell us
makes the matter fairly clear, and that I can deduce all that remains. Mr.
Rucastle then, I presume, took to this system of imprisonment?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And brought Miss Hunter down from London in order to get rid of the
disagreeable persistence of Mr. Fowler.”
“You thieves. Spies and thieves.”
Artist unknown, Chicago Inter-Ocean, June 12, 1892
“That was it, sir.”
“Running up, I blew its brains out.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“But Mr. Fowler being a persevering man, as a good seaman34 should be,
blockaded the house, and, having met you, succeeded by certain arguments,
metallic or otherwise, in convincing you that your interests were the same as
his.”
“Mr. Fowler was a very kind-spoken, free-handed gentleman,” said Mrs.
Toller, serenely.
“And in this way he managed that your good man should have no want of
drink, and that a ladder should be ready at the moment when your master had
gone out.”35
“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 standi36 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.37 As to Miss
Violet Hunter, my friend Holmes, rather to my disappointment, manifested no
further interest in her38 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.39
1 “The Copper Beeches” was published in the Strand Magazine in June 1892 and was the last of the first
series of twelve “Adventures” published in that magazine.
2 The Daily Telegraph was originally founded by Colonel Sleigh on June 29, 1855, and printed for him by
Joseph Moses Levy, owner of the Sunday Times (which was deliberately named after The Times but not
connected to it otherwise). When Sleigh proved unable to pay his bills, Levy took over, lowering the price
—the Daily Telegraph became the first “penny newspaper” in London—and appointing his son, Edward
Levy-Lawson and Thornton Leigh Hunt to serve as editors. The paper was relaunched on September 17,
1855. The reading public early embraced the Daily Telegraph’s colourful style, and within less than a year,
Levy’s newspaper was outselling not only The Times but also every other newspaper in England.
3 The case occurred between 1885 and 1890 (see Chronological Table), and the reference to “little records
of cases” (as contrasted with the “big records of cases” of A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of Four) must be
to Watson’s manuscripts, for the stories themselves had not yet been published. This remark belies the
theory that Watson did not start to write the Adventures until after Holmes’s disappearance at the
Reichenbach Falls in 1891.
4 Holmes’s superior attitude changed when he had to write his own account of “The Blanched Soldier”:
“[H]aving taken my pen in my hand, I do begin to realize that the matter must be presented in such a way as
may interest the reader.”
5 The characteristic to which Holmes refers concerns the mark left when one uses his or her teeth to cut
thread. Remsen Ten Eyck Schenck examines this practice in “The Effect of Trades Upon the Body,”
quoting Lester Burket’s Oral Medicine in discovering, “Tailors and seamstresses who are in the habit of
cutting their thread with their teeth may show a characteristic tooth defect which consists of sharp V-shaped
notches in the middle of the incisal [cutting] edge of the incisors.”
6 Schenck’s research also turns up the explanation behind this reference; he notes that the tip of a
compositor’s left thumb often sported a callus, with an abrasion displayed further down on the “ball” of the
thumb. Such markings came about because the composing stick was held in the left hand, and letters of type
were placed into it with the right. The left thumb would be used to slide each piece of type into position and
hold it snugly against the last piece added.
7 Holmes’s hobby of collecting Violets (there are four in the Canon) is noted by many commentators, who
often suppose that women so named had some special importance to the detective. Esther Longfellow,
writing in 1946, found the supposition “absurd when we face the probability that every tenth woman in
England was, and still is, called Violet.”
8 Canada achieved independent federation status in 1867, with Nova Scotia as one of its four original
confederate members. Yet Halifax, the capital of Nova Scotia, remained an important British Army and
Navy base—one of the most heavily fortified outside Europe—until its dockyard and defences were taken
over by the Canadian government in 1906. In addition, Halifax was the North American port of the first
transatlantic steamship service, which started in 1840.
9 Until late in the nineteenth century, the position of governess was one of the few career options available
to single women of the middle class or to women of the upper class whose families’ fortunes had fallen. A
governess’s pay was meagre (note Miss Hunter’s previous pay of £4 per month), and the experience could
be demeaning: as teacher and nanny to the children of an upper-class household, a governess was expected
to act like a lady but was treated like a servant. Yet the servants often despised the governess, because “they
give themselves the hairs and hupstarts of ladies and their wages is no better than you nor me,” says Mrs.
Blenkinsop in Thackeray’s Vanity Fair (1847). The Quarterly Review, a magazine from that period,
described a governess as a person “who is our equal in birth, manners and education but our inferior in
worldly wealth.” Some attempt to mitigate the economic drawbacks of the profession was made with the
1841 foundation of the Governesses’ Benevolent Association, which established a system of compensation
for governesses too old to work.
The figure of the governess was a popular one in Victorian literature, particularly in novels written by
women. In fact, Charlotte Brontë, whose father was a clergyman, worked for some years as a governess, an
experience reflected in her fiction. Jane Eyre (1847) features one of literature’s most famed governesses:
the homely, orphaned Jane, whose intellect and candor earned the love of the master of the house. While
Mr. Rochester treats her with respect, the opposing viewpoint is presented by a group of visiting ladies and
gentlemen, who speak scornfully of the profession even though Jane is clearly in the room. “You should
hear mama on the chapter of governesses,” the frivolous Blanche Ingram declares. “Mary and I have had, I
should think a dozen at least in our day; half of them detestable and the rest ridiculous, and all incubi—were
they not, mama?” Her mother obligingly replies, “My dearest, don’t mention governesses; the word makes
me nervous. I have suffered a martyrdom from their incompetency and caprice. I thank Heaven I have now
done with them!”
The governess also faced possible harassment by her male employer. “Thor Bridge” and “The Solitary
Cyclist” both deal with governesses in positions with employers making inappropriate advances. However,
for some, the household with an eligible young man was a possible escape route; the visiting Hippolyte
Taine wrote in his Notes on England (1872) that a good many well-off men in London kept governesses as
their mistresses, and, at least in fiction (Becky Sharp, in Vanity Fair, David Copperfield’s mother, and,
indeed, Jane Eyre), the governess often married into the household.
10 Those who believe that Violet Hunter held romantic intentions have scrutinised her behaviour in the
story, and some see this listing of attributes as a calculated ploy to put herself in a favourable light. “We
may be sure [that Violet Hunter] knew of [Holmes’s] French ancestry, of his knowledge of German, of his
love for music, and that art was in his blood,” Isaac S. George writes in “Violet the Hunter.” “She simply
parades for Holmes’s benefit the talents she feels he would appreciate in a woman as a companion. . . .”
Both Lee Shackleford and H. W. Bell take another tack, arguing that Watson was her target, not Holmes.
Yet Dorothy Sayers refutes this suggestion in detail. First, she explains, this argument makes the “heartless
and abominable suggestion that, at the very moment when his wife lay stricken with a mortal illness,
Watson was endeavouring to get up an intrigue with another woman . . .” She goes on to contrast Watson’s
description of Hunter with his description of Mary Morstan, finding little positive comment in the former.
11 Why did Rucastle dwell upon his “fads” with Miss Hunter? Surely the wearing of distinctive clothing (a
uniform) is not an unusual job condition. Had he not mentioned the dress or the “sitting here or there,” her
suspicions would have been lessened and Holmes’s involvement avoided.
12 Miss Hunter refers, of course, to the Venetian painter Titian (Tiziano Vecellio, 1477–1570), whose
preference for golden auburn colours gave rise to the adjective “titian” and was much admired, according to
Richard Lancelyn Green, by the purist Pre-Raphaelite painters of the Victorian era, which included Dante
Gabriel Rossetti (1828–1882) and Sir John Everett Millais (1829–1896). Some Sherlockians point to this
comment as another of Miss Hunter’s strategies to gain Holmes’s affections; Richard Asher, in “Holmes
and the Fair Sex,” makes note of her “brazen” bit of self-praise, observing acidly, “No doubt she wished to
draw Holmes’s attention to her best feature and keep his eyes off her face which Watson records was
‘freckled like a plover’s egg.’ ”
13 In the Victorian era, women generally wore their hair long, usually atop the head. Yet short hair was not
uncommon, as in the “titus” hairstyle in which hair was cut close around the face and worn in curls. And as
long hair could be used to make wigs and hairpieces, middle-class women sometimes even cut off their
locks and sold them, as Jo March did in Little Women (1868–1869).
14 “It is just here that the lady gives herself away completely,” writes Isaac George, further asserting that
Violet Hunter’s purpose was not to employ Holmes but to woo him. Why else, he wonders, would she
consult a private detective but then state definitively that she had already made a decision—without even
waiting for Holmes to offer advice of any kind?
15 Some commentators take this statement to mean that Holmes had a sister or sisters (as with his remark
regarding sons in “The Beryl Coronet”).
16 Robert C. Burr points out, in “The Long Consultation,” that Violet Hunter arrives at Baker Street at
10:30 A.M. but bids Holmes and Watson “good-night” upon her departure. What has been going on for seven
or eight hours?
17 Once the most complete of the numerous British railway guides. Bradshaw’s Monthly Railway Guide
(originally Bradshaw’s Railway Time-Tables, first published in 1839) ceased publication in 1961. Its first
publisher was George Bradshaw, a Quaker engraver and printer.
18 Acetones are an apparently useless byproduct of fat metabolism, often found in the blood, breath, or
urine. Donald A. Redmond suggests (“Some Chemical Problems in the Canon”) that Holmes was
“investigating the acetone bodies in blood—we know his intense interest in blood.”
19 Winchester became the capital of the Saxon kingdom of Wessex in 519 and the capital of England
(under Alfred the Great) in 827, serving as the seat of government for Alfred, Canute the Dane, and William
the Conqueror; even after the Norman Conquest and the political ascendancy of London, Winchester
remained an important commercial centre but eventually lost its preeminence, especially after a serious fire
ravaged the city in 1141.
20 Aldershot, to be visited by Holmes and Watson in the adventure of “The Crooked Man,” once housed
Britain’s largest military training centre, which was established in 1854.
21 Ian McQueen sees this remark as evidence of Watson’s eagerness to see Violet Hunter and of his
estrangement from his wife.
22 “Holmes’s reaction was decidedly un-English,” Clarke Olney comments bemusedly of this atypically
dark soliloquy. “French, perhaps, even, one is tempted to say, Russian.” Conversely, Gordon Speck, in
“Sherlock Holmes: An Augustan in a Romantic World,” describes Holmes’s seemingly dire attitude as
“neo-classicism” instead; the detective in his logic sees only those things that pertain to his investigative
work. (Watson is then Holmes’s “Romantic foil,” whose more emotional nature provides a necessary
complement.) Such single-mindedness seems the only explanation for Holmes’s characterisation of the
countryside, Speck goes on, for “How else could Holmes describe rural England as the scene of ‘a more
dreadful record of sin’ than ‘the lowest and vilest alleys of London’ with Jack the Ripper busy in London
carving his niche in history?”
23 Note that in “The Missing Three-Quarter,” Holmes remarks to Watson: “I had seven different schemes
for getting a glimpse of that telegram”; in “The Naval Treaty,” he tells Percy Phelps that he has furnished
him with seven different clues.
24 Curiously, Watson did not disguise the name of this hotel, for Baedeker’s Great Britain lists it as a hotel
in Winchester.
25 A woollen fabric, undyed. Mary Morstan (The Sign of Four) shared this fashion with Violet Hunter.
26 Victorian “funny stories” proliferated in Tit-Bits, a magazine published by George Newnes, publisher of
the Strand Magazine. The magazine mixed longer humourous pieces with one-paragraph jokes. A sample
from the February 7, 1885, issue: “Two tradesmen met recently. Said one to the other, ‘How is business?’
‘Poor,’ was the reply. ‘I met with a little accident. Night before last burglars broke into my shop, but left
without taking anything. Everything was marked so low they came around next morning and made
purchases.’ ”
27 The spaniel in “The Sussex Vampire” was also named Carlo.
28 The mastiff breed dates back more than 2,000 years, when the powerful canine was developed in
England as a fighting dog and guard dog. Julius Caesar’s account of the Roman invasion of Britain in 55 B.C.
cites the courage and fighting ability of the mastiff, and in fact mastiffs were later sent to Rome to fight in
arenas. In England, the dogs were used in competitions such as bear-baiting and dogfights until the banning
of such blood sports in 1835. Yet as a guardian of homes, the mastiff has been bred to be calm, affectionate,
and gentle with children. The purest breed of mastiff, the Old English Mastiff (which Carlo presumably
was), became largely extinct after World War II, but various descendant breeds exist around the world
today.
29 Feeling that she has exhausted her efforts to attract Holmes as a man, suggests Isaac George, Violet
Hunter now must tell Holmes of those qualities “that will appeal to him as a great detective.” She
emphasizes her sleuthing prowess and her resourcefulness in investigating the house. However, her first
impression of Rucastle as “fascinating” and “thoughtful” undercuts this effort.
30 These two sentences—“I found myself lying on my bed trembling . . . I thought of you”—are highly
suggestive when read in the light of the “long consultation.” See note 16.
31 As a mastiff, Eleanor S. Cole points out, in “Holmes, Watson and the K-9’s,” Carlo could not have
“bayed,” but instead would have roared or growled. In addition, of course, hounds are completely different
dogs from mastiffs. Cole names the Irish wolfhound and the Scottish deerhound, “which both exceed the
mastiff in height, but not in substance.”
32 Ray Betzner, in “Whatever Happened to Baby Rucastle?,” suggests that Edward Rucastle (he of the
abnormally large head) and Carlo (he of the projecting bones) were the same person, a boy werewolf. In
fact, after the shooting of Carlo, it is as if Edward had vanished . . .
33 Seven patients in the Canon are mentioned as having the disease “brain fever,” which, Alvin E. Rodin
and Jack D. Key write in Medical Casebook of Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle, “we can characterize . . . as one
which follows quickly on a severe emotional shock, which exhibits weight loss, weakness, pallor, and high
fever, and which has a protracted course. Most patients recover, but insanity or death is possible. . . .”
Watson seems to have frequently reported a vague affliction, to be sure, but one that was recorded by other
nineteenth-century writers as well: Rodin and Key single out Catherine Linton in Emily Brontë’s Wuthering
Heights (1847), Emma Bovary in Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary (1857), and Lucy Feverel in George
Meredith’s The Ordeal of Richard Feverel (1859). Such preponderance of brain fever in the literature of the
day would seem to validate it as a medical diagnosis; Rodin and Key further cite an 1892 medical textbook
that lists “fever” as a manifestation of an hysterical reaction, as well as a modern dictionary that equates
brain fever with meningitis.
34 On what basis did Holmes identify Fowler as a sailor?
35 Note that Holmes’s earlier deduction about the ladder is wrong and makes no sense in any event. Why
would Rucastle have needed to remove her through the skylight? Holmes often makes incorrect deductions
(see, for example, “The Second Stain,” in which he vehemently argues against coincidence) but seems to
follow a policy of not admitting error unless someone calls attention to his mistake. “The Yellow Face,” in
which Holmes’s theory of the case is proven completely wrong, records the most famous instance of
Holmes’s admission of error.
36 A legal term, meaning the right to be heard by a court, now expressed as “legal standing.”
37 A British colony since 1810, Mauritius was an important way station on the route to India. The many
sugar plantations on the island were worked by African slaves until Britain abolished slavery in 1835 and
imported labourers from India (whose descendants make up much of the population today). The colony
gained its independence in 1968.
38 Christopher Morley elaborates on Watson’s disappointment (and his hopes for Holmes) in “Dr.
Watson’s Secret”: “. . . how delightful, the Doctor thought naively, if he and Holmes should both marry
governesses—and alumnae of the same agency, for undoubtedly Mary, too, had been a client of
Westaway’s.”
39 For a woman of such talents, perhaps there is more to Miss Hunter’s future than meets the eye. Lord
Donegall is of the view that Violet Hunter, upon Holmes’s recommendation, became a special agent, with
her position as “head of a private school” serving as a mere cover provided by an operative such as
Holmes’s brother Mycroft. “It would also explain,” Lord Donegall posits, “why we hear no more of this
gifted young lady’s remarkable skills; not forgetting her French and German.”
SILVER BLAZE1
“Silver Blaze,” the first case of the Memoirs
stories (a series that commenced five months
after conclusion of the Adventures), is one of
the most famous sporting mysteries ever
penned. Watson presents the case, set in
racing circles, as another “fair-play” murder
mystery, with the villain concealed in plain
view. Holmes’s well-known remark about “the
curious incident of the dog in the nighttime”
has been widely repeated in many contexts and
has become a catch-phrase for a “negative
inference.” Although many question the
accuracy of Watson’s reporting of the sporting
details of the adventure, few would dispute
that Holmes’s powers are here at their peak.
His computation of the speed of the train has
been amply demonstrated to be accurate, and
his careful observation of sheep leads to the
capture of an unlikely killer. The only blemish
on the tale is the evidence that Holmes placed
an unethical bet on the race.
I AM AFRAID, Watson, that I shall have to go,” said Holmes, as we sat down
together to our breakfast one morning.
“Go! Where to?”
“To Dartmoor2—to King’s Pyland.”
I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was that he had not already been
mixed up in this extraordinary case, which was the one topic of conversation
through the length and breadth of England. For a whole day my companion had
rambled about the room with his chin upon his chest and his brows knitted,
charging and re-charging 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
favourite for the Wessex Cup and the tragic murder of its trainer. When,
therefore, he suddenly announced his intention of setting out for the scene of the
drama, it was only what I had both expected and hoped for.
“I should be most happy to go down with you if I should not be in the way,”
said I.
“My dear Watson, you would confer a great favour upon me by coming. And I
think that your time will not be mis-spent, for there are points about the case
which promise to make it an absolutely unique one. We have, I think, just time
to catch our train at Paddington, and I will go further into the matter upon our
journey. You would oblige me by bringing with you your very excellent fieldglass.”
And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself in the corner of a
first-class carriage, flying along, en route for Exeter, while Sherlock Holmes,
with his sharp, eager face framed in his ear-flapped traveling cap,3 dipped
rapidly into the bundle of fresh papers which he had procured at Paddington. We
had left Reading far behind us before he thrust the last of them under the seat,
and offered me his cigar-case.
“We are going well,” said he, looking out of the window, and glancing at his
watch. “Our rate at present is fifty-three and a half miles an hour.”4
“I have not observed the quarter-mile posts,” said I.
“Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this line are sixty yards apart, and
the calculation is a simple one.5 I presume that you have already looked into this
matter of the murder of John Straker and the disappearance of Silver Blaze?”
“I have seen what the Telegraph and the Chronicle have to say.”
“It is one of those cases where the art of the reasoner should be used rather for
the sifting of details than for the acquiring of fresh evidence. The tragedy has
been so uncommon, so complete, and of such personal importance to so many
people, that we are suffering from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and
hypothesis. The difficulty is to detach the framework of fact—of absolute,
undeniable fact—from the embellishments of theorists and reporters. Then,
having established ourselves upon this sound basis, it is our duty to see what
inferences may be drawn, and what are the special points upon which the whole
mystery turns. On Tuesday evening I received telegrams from both Colonel
Ross, the owner of the horse, and from Inspector Gregory, who is looking after
the case, inviting my co-operation.”
“Tuesday evening!” I exclaimed. “And this is Thursday morning. Why did
you not go down yesterday?”
“Because I made a blunder, my dear Watson—which is, I am afraid, a more
common occurrence than anyone would think who only knew me through your
memoirs. The fact is, that I could not believe it possible that the most remarkable
horse in England could long remain concealed, especially in so sparsely
inhabited a place as the north of Dartmoor. From hour to hour yesterday I
expected to hear that he had been found, and that his abductor was the murderer
of John Straker. When, however, another morning had come and I found that,
beyond the arrest of young Fitzroy Simpson, nothing had been done, I felt that it
was time for me to take action. Yet in some ways I feel that yesterday has not
been wasted.”
“You have formed a theory then?”
“At least I have got a grip of the essential facts of the case. I shall enumerate
them to you, for nothing clears up a case so much as stating it to another person,
and I can hardly expect your co-operation if I do not show you the position from
which we start.”
I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar, while Holmes, leaning
forward with his long, thin forefinger checking off the points upon the palm of
his left hand, gave me a sketch of the events which had led to our journey.
“Silver Blaze,” said he, “is from the Isonomy6 stock and holds as brilliant a
record as his famous ancestor. He is now in his fifth year, and has brought in
turn each of the prizes of the turf to Colonel Ross, his fortunate owner. Up to the
time of the catastrophe he was the first favourite for the Wessex Cup, the betting
being three to one on. He has always, however, been a prime favourite with the
racing public, and has never yet disappointed them, so that even at those odds
enormous sums of money have been laid upon him. It is obvious, therefore, that
there were many people who had the strongest interest in preventing Silver Blaze
from being there at the fall of the flag, next Tuesday.
“The fact was, of course, appreciated at King’s Pyland, where the Colonel’s
training stable is situated. Every precaution was taken to guard the favourite. The
trainer, John Straker, is a retired jockey, who rode in Colonel Ross’s colours
before he became too heavy for the weighing chair. He has served the Colonel
for five years as jockey and for seven as trainer, and has always shown himself
to be a zealous and honest servant. Under him were three lads, for the
establishment was a small one, containing only four horses in all. One of these
lads sat up each night in the stable, while the others slept in the loft. All three
bore excellent characters. John Straker, who is a married man, lived in a small
villa about two hundred yards from the stables. He has no children, keeps one
maid-servant, and is comfortably off. The country round is very lonely, but
about half a mile to the north there is a small cluster of villas which have been
built by a Tavistock contractor for the use of invalids and others who may wish
to enjoy the pure Dartmoor air. Tavistock itself lies two miles to the west, while
across the moor, also about two miles distant, is the larger training establishment
of Capleton,7 which belongs to Lord Backwater8 and is managed by Silas
Brown. In every other direction the moor is a complete wilderness, inhabited
only by a few roaming gipsies. Such was the general situation last Monday night
when the catastrophe occurred.
“Holmes gave me a sketch of the events.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“On that evening the horses had been exercised and watered as usual, and the
stables were locked up at nine o’clock. Two of the lads walked up to the trainer’s
house, where they had supper in the kitchen, while the third, Ned Hunter,
remained on guard. At a few minutes after nine the maid, Edith Baxter, carried
down to the stables his supper, which consisted of a dish of curried mutton. She
took no liquid, as there was a water-tap in the stables, and it was the rule that the
lad on duty should drink nothing else. The maid carried a lantern with her, as it
was very dark, and the path ran across the open moor.
“Edith Baxter was within thirty yards of the stables when a man appeared out
of the darkness and called to her to stop. As he stepped into the circle of yellow
light thrown by the lantern she saw that he was a person of gentlemanly bearing,
dressed in a gray suit of tweeds, with a cloth cap. He wore gaiters, and carried a
heavy stick with a knob to it. She was most impressed, however, by the extreme
pallor of his face and by the nervousness of his manner. His age, she thought,
would be rather over thirty than under it.
The maid carried his supper to the stables.”
W. W. Hyde, Harper’s Weekly, 1893
“ ‘Can you tell me where I am?’ he asked. ‘I had almost made up my mind to
sleep on the moor when I saw the light of your lantern.’
“A man appeared out of the darkness.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“ ‘You are close to the King’s Pyland training stables,’ said she.
“ ‘Oh, indeed! What a stroke of luck!’ he cried. ‘I understand that a stable boy
sleeps there alone every night. Perhaps that is his supper which you are carrying
to him. Now I am sure that you would not be too proud to earn the price of a new
dress, would you?’ He took a piece of white paper folded up out of his waistcoat
pocket. ‘See that the boy has this to-night, and you shall have the prettiest frock
that money can buy.’
“She was frightened by the earnestness of his manner, and ran past him to the
window through which she was accustomed to hand the meals. It was already
opened, and Hunter was seated at the small table inside. She had begun to tell
him of what had happened when the stranger came up again.
“ ‘Good evening,’ said he, looking through the window. ‘I wanted to have a
word with you.’ The girl has sworn that as he spoke she noticed the corner of the
little paper packet protruding from his closed hand.
“ ‘What business have you here?’ asked the lad.
“ ‘It’s business that may put something into your pocket,’ said the other.
‘You’ve two horses in for the Wessex Cup—Silver Blaze and Bayard. Let me
have the straight tip, and you won’t be a loser. Is it a fact that at the weights
Bayard could give the other a hundred yards in five furlongs, and that the stable
have put their money on him?’
“ ‘So you’re one of those damned touts!’9 cried the lad. ‘I’ll show you how we
serve them in King’s Pyland.’ He sprang up and rushed across the stable to
unloose the dog. The girl fled away to the house, but as she ran she looked back,
and saw that the stranger was leaning through the window. A minute later,
however, when Hunter rushed out with the hound he was gone, and though the
lad ran all round the buildings he failed to find any trace of him.”
“One moment!” I asked. “Did the stable boy, when he ran out with the dog,
leave the door unlocked behind him?”
“Excellent, Watson; excellent!” murmured my companion. “The importance
of the point struck me so forcibly, that I sent a special wire to Dartmoor
yesterday to clear the matter up. The boy locked the door before he left it. The
window, I may add, was not large enough for a man to get through.
“Hunter waited until his fellow grooms had returned, when he sent a message
to the trainer and told him what had occurred. Straker was excited at hearing the
account, although he does not seem to have quite realized its true significance. It
left him, however, vaguely uneasy, and Mrs. Straker, waking at one in the
morning, found that he was dressing. In reply to her inquiries, he said that he
could not sleep on account of his anxiety about the horses, and that he intended
to walk down to the stables to see that all was well. She begged him to remain at
home, as she could hear the rain pattering against the windows, but in spite of
her entreaties he pulled on his large macintosh and left the house.
Contemporary advertisement for Macintoshes.
Victorian Advertisements
“Mrs. Straker awoke at seven in the morning, to find that her husband had not
yet returned. She dressed herself hastily, called the maid, and set off for the
stables. The door was open; inside, huddled together upon a chair, Hunter was
sunk in a state of absolute stupor, the favourite’s stall was empty, and there were
no signs of his trainer.
“The two lads who slept in the chaff-cutting loft above the harness-room were
quickly aroused. They had heard nothing during the night, for they are both
sound sleepers. Hunter was obviously under the influence of some powerful
drug; and as no sense could be got out of him, he was left to sleep it off while the
two lads and the two women ran out in search of the absentees. They still had
hopes that the trainer had for some reason taken out the horse for early exercise,
but on ascending the knoll near the house, from which all the neighbouring
moors were visible, they not only could see no signs of the favourite, but they
perceived something which warned them that they were in the presence of a
tragedy.
“They found the dead body of the unfortunate trainer.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“About a quarter of a mile from the stables, John Straker’s overcoat was
flapping from a furze bush. Immediately beyond there was a bowl-shaped
depression in the moor, and at the bottom of this was found the dead body of the
unfortunate trainer. His head had been shattered by a savage blow from some
heavy weapon, and he was wounded in the thigh, where there was a long, clean
cut, inflicted evidently by some very sharp instrument. It was clear, however,
that Straker had defended himself vigorously against his assailants, for in his
right hand he held a small knife, which was clotted with blood up to the handle,
while in his left he clasped a red and black silk cravat, which was recognised by
the maid as having been worn on the preceding evening by the stranger who had
visited the stables. Hunter, on recovering from his stupor, was also quite positive
as to the ownership of the cravat. He was equally certain that the same stranger
had, while standing at the window, drugged his curried mutton, and so deprived
the stables of their watchman. As to the missing horse, there were abundant
proofs in the mud which lay at the bottom of the fatal hollow, that he had been
there at the time of the struggle. But from that morning he has disappeared; and,
although a large reward has been offered, and all the gipsies of Dartmoor are on
the alert, no news has come of him. Finally, an analysis has shown that the
remains of his supper, left by the stable lad, contained an appreciable quantity of
powdered opium, while the people at the house partook of the same dish on the
same night without any ill effect.
His head had been shattered by a savage blow.
W. W. Hyde, Harper’s Weekly, 1893
“Those are the main facts of the case, stripped of all surmise and stated as
baldly as possible. I shall now recapitulate what the police have done in the
matter.
“Inspector Gregory, to whom the case has been committed, is an extremely
competent officer. Were he but gifted with imagination he might rise to great
heights in his profession. On his arrival he promptly found and arrested the man
upon whom suspicion naturally rested. There was little difficulty in finding him,
for he was thoroughly well-known in the neighbourhood.10 His name, it appears,
was Fitzroy Simpson. He was a man of excellent birth and education, who had
squandered a fortune upon the turf, and who lived now by doing a little quiet and
genteel book-making in the sporting clubs of London. An examination of his
betting-book shows that bets to the amount of five thousand pounds had been
registered by him against the favourite. On being arrested, he volunteered the
statement that he had come down to Dartmoor in the hope of getting some
information about the King’s Pyland horses, and also about Desborough, the
second favourite, which was in charge of Silas Brown, at the Capleton stables.
He did not attempt to deny that he had acted as described upon the evening
before, but declared that he had no sinister designs, and had simply wished to
obtain first-hand information. When confronted with the cravat he turned very
pale, and was utterly unable to account for its presence in the hand of the
murdered man. His wet clothing showed that he had been out in the storm of the
night before, and his stick, which was a Penang lawyer11 weighted with lead,
was just such a weapon as might, by repeated blows, have inflicted the terrible
injuries to which the trainer had succumbed. On the other hand, there was no
wound upon his person, while the state of Straker’s knife would show that one,
at least, of his assailants must bear his mark upon him. There you have it all in a
nutshell, Watson, and if you can give me any light I shall be infinitely obliged to
you.”
I had listened with the greatest interest to the statement which Holmes, with
characteristic clearness, had laid before me. Though most of the facts were
familiar to me, I had not sufficiently appreciated their relative importance, nor
their connection with each other.
“Is it not possible,” I suggested, “that the incised wound upon Straker may
have been caused by his own knife in the convulsive struggles which follow any
brain injury?”
“It is more than possible; it is probable,” said Holmes. “In that case one of the
main points in favour of the accused disappears.”
“And yet,” said I, “even now I fail to understand what the theory of the police
can be.”
“I am afraid that whatever theory we state has very grave objections to it,”
returned my companion. “The police imagine, I take it, that this Fitzroy
Simpson, having drugged the lad, and having in some way obtained a duplicate
key, opened the stable door and took out the horse, with the intention apparently
of kidnapping him altogether. His bridle is missing, so that Simpson must have
put this on. Then, having left the door open behind him, he was leading the horse
away over the moor, when he was either met or overtaken by the trainer. A row
naturally ensued, Simpson beat out the trainer’s brains with his heavy stick
without receiving any injury from the small knife which Straker used in selfdefence, and then the thief either led the horse on to some secret hiding-place, or
else it may have bolted during the struggle, and be now wandering out on the
moors. That is the case as it appears to the police, and improbable as it is, all
other explanations are more improbable still. However, I shall very quickly test
the matter when I am once upon the spot, and until then I cannot really see how
we can get much further than our present position.”
It was evening before we reached the little town of Tavistock, which lies, like
the boss12 of a shield, in the middle of the huge circle of Dartmoor.13 Two
gentlemen were awaiting us in the station; the one a tall, fair man with lion-like
hair and beard, and curiously penetrating light-blue eyes; the other a small alert
person, very neat and dapper, in a frock-coat and gaiters, with trim little sidewhiskers and an eye-glass. The latter was Colonel Ross, the well-known
sportsman, the other, Inspector Gregory, a man who was rapidly making his
name in the English detective service.
“I am delighted that you have come down, Mr. Holmes,” said the Colonel.
“The Inspector here has done all that could possibly be suggested, but I wish to
leave no stone unturned in trying to avenge poor Straker and in recovering my
horse.”
“Have there been any fresh developments?” asked Holmes.
“I am sorry to say that we have made very little progress,” said the Inspector.
“We have an open carriage outside, and as you would no doubt like to see the
place before the light fails, we might talk it over as we drive.”
A minute later we were all seated in a comfortable landau14 and were rattling
through the quaint old Devonshire town. Inspector Gregory was full of his case,
and poured out a stream of remarks, while Holmes threw in an occasional
question or interjection. Colonel Ross leaned back with his arms folded and his
hat tilted over his eyes, while I listened with interest to the dialogue of the two
detectives. Gregory was formulating his theory, which was almost exactly what
Holmes had foretold in the train.
“I am delighted that you have come down, Mr. Holmes.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“The net is drawn pretty close round Fitzroy Simpson,” he remarked, “and I
believe myself that he is our man. At the same time, I recognise that the
evidence is purely circumstantial, and that some new development may upset it.”
“How about Straker’s knife?”
“We have quite come to the conclusion that he wounded himself in his fall.”
“My friend Dr. Watson made that suggestion to me as we came down. If so, it
would tell against this man Simpson.”
“Undoubtedly. He has neither a knife nor any sign of a wound. The evidence
against him is certainly very strong. He had a great interest in the disappearance
of the favourite. He lies under suspicion of having poisoned the stable boy; he
was undoubtedly out in the storm, he was armed with a heavy stick, and his
cravat was found in the dead man’s hand. I really think we have enough to go
before a jury.”
Holmes shook his head. “A clever counsel would tear it all to rags,” said he.
Why should he take the horse out of the stable? If he wished to injure it, why
could he not do it there? Has a duplicate key been found in his possession? What
chemist sold him the powdered opium? Above all, where could he, a stranger to
the district, hide a horse, and such a horse as this? What is his own explanation
as to the paper which he wished the maid to give to the stable boy?”
“He says that it was a ten-pound note. One was found in his purse. But your
other difficulties are not so formidable as they seem. He is not a stranger to the
district. He has twice lodged at Tavistock in the summer. The opium was
probably brought from London. The key, having served its purpose, would be
hurled away. The horse may lie at the bottom of one of the pits or old mines
upon the moor.”
“What does he say about the cravat?”
“He acknowledges that it is his, and declares that he had lost it. But a new
element has been introduced into the case which may account for his leading the
horse from the stable.”
Holmes pricked up his ears.
“We have found traces which show that a party of gipsies encamped on
Monday night within a mile of the spot where the murder took place. On
Tuesday they were gone. Now, presuming that there was some understanding
between Simpson and these gipsies, might he not have been leading the horse to
them when he was overtaken, and may they not have him now?”
“It is certainly possible.”
“The moor is being scoured for these gipsies. I have also examined every
stable and outhouse in Tavistock, and for a radius of ten miles.”
“There is another training stable quite close, I understand?”
“Yes, and that is a factor which we must certainly not neglect. As
Desborough, their horse, was second in the betting, they had an interest in the
disappearance of the favourite. Silas Brown, the trainer, is known to have had
large bets upon the event, and he was no friend to poor Straker. We have,
however, examined the stables, and there is nothing to connect him with the
affair.”
“And nothing to connect this man Simpson with the interests of the Capleton
stables?”
“Nothing at all.”
Holmes leaned back in the carriage and the conversation ceased. A few
minutes later our driver pulled up at a neat little red-brick villa with overhanging
eaves, which stood by the road. Some distance off, across a paddock, lay a long,
gray-tiled out-building. In every other direction the low curves of the moor,
bronze-coloured from the fading ferns, stretched away to the sky-line, broken
only by the steeples of Tavistock, and by a cluster of houses away to the
westward, which marked the Capleton stables. We all sprang out with the
exception of Holmes, who continued to lean back with his eyes fixed upon the
sky in front of him, entirely absorbed in his own thoughts. It was only when I
touched his arm that he roused himself with a violent start and stepped out of the
carriage.
“Excuse me,” said he, turning to Colonel Ross, who had looked at him in
some surprise. “I was day-dreaming.” There was a gleam in his eyes and a
suppressed excitement in his manner which convinced me, used as I was to his
ways, that his hand was upon a clue, though I could not imagine where he had
found it.
“Perhaps you would prefer at once to go on to the scene of the crime, Mr.
Holmes?” said Gregory.
“I think that I should prefer to stay here a little and go into one or two
questions of detail. Straker was brought back here, I presume?”
“Yes, he lies upstairs. The inquest is to-morrow.”
“He has been in your service some years, Colonel Ross?”
“I have always found him an excellent servant.”
“I presume that you made an inventory of what he had in his pockets at the
time of his death, Inspector?”
“I have the things themselves in the sitting-room if you would care to see
them.”
“I should be very glad.” We all filed into the front room and sat round the
central table, while the Inspector unlocked a square tin box and laid a small heap
of things before us. There was a box of vestas, two inches of tallow candle, an
A.D.P. brier-root pipe,15 a pouch of sealskin with half an ounce of long-cut
Cavendish,16 a silver watch with a gold chain, five sovereigns in gold, an
aluminium pencil-case, a few papers, and an ivory-handled knife with a very
delicate inflexible blade marked Weiss & Co., London.17
“This is a very singular knife,” said Holmes, lifting it up and examining it
minutely. “I presume, as I see bloodstains upon it, that it is the one which was
found in the dead man’s grasp. Watson, this knife is surely in your line.”
“It is what we call a cataract knife,” said I.
“I thought so. A very delicate blade devised for very delicate work. A strange
thing for a man to carry with him upon a rough expedition, especially as it would
not shut in his pocket.”
“The tip was guarded by a disc of cork which we found beside his body” said
the inspector. “His wife tells us that the knife had lain for some days18 upon the
dressing-table, and that he had picked it up as he left the room. It was a poor
weapon, but perhaps the best that he could lay his hands on at the moment.”
“Very possibly. How about these papers?”
“Three of them are receipted hay-dealers’ accounts. One of them is a letter of
instructions from Colonel Ross. The other is a milliner’s account for thirty-seven
pounds fifteen made out by Madame Lesurier, of Bond Street19 to William
Derbyshire. Mrs. Straker tells us that Derbyshire was a friend of her husband’s,
and that occasionally his letters were addressed here.”
“Madame Derbyshire had somewhat expensive tastes,” remarked Holmes,
glancing down the account. “Twenty-two guineas is rather heavy for a single
costume. However, there appears to be nothing more to learn, and we may now
go down to the scene of the crime.”
As we emerged from the sitting-room a woman, who had been waiting in the
passage, took a step forward and laid her hand upon the inspector’s sleeve. Her
face was haggard, and thin, and eager; stamped with the print of a recent horror.
“Have you got them? Have you found them?” she panted.
“No, Mrs. Straker; but Mr. Holmes, here, has come from London to help us,
and we shall do all that is possible.”
“Surely I met you in Plymouth, at a garden-party, some little time ago, Mrs.
Straker?” said Holmes.
“No, sir, you are mistaken.”
“Dear me, why, I could have sworn to it. You wore a costume of dovecoloured silk, with ostrich feather trimming.”
“I never had such a dress, sir,” answered the lady.
“Ah; that quite settles it,” said Holmes; and with an apology he followed the
inspector outside. A short walk across the moor took us to the hollow in which
the body had been found. At the brink of it was the furze bush upon which the
coat had been hung.
“Have you found them?” she panted.
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“There was no wind that night, I understand,” said Holmes.
“None; but very heavy rain.”
“In that case the overcoat was not blown against the furze bush, but placed
there.”
“Yes, it was laid across the bush.”
“You fill me with interest. I perceive that the ground has been trampled up a
good deal. No doubt many feet have been here since Monday night.”
“A piece of matting has been laid here at the side, and we have all stood upon
that.”
“Excellent.”
“In this bag I have one of the boots which Straker wore, one of Fitzroy
Simpson’s shoes, and a cast horseshoe of Silver Blaze.”
“My dear Inspector, you surpass yourself!” Holmes took the bag, and
descending into the hollow he pushed the matting into a more central position.
Then stretching himself upon his face and leaning his chin upon his hands, he
made a careful study of the trampled mud in front of him. “Halloa!” said he,
suddenly, “what’s this?”
Wax vestas.
It was a wax vesta, half burned, which was so coated with mud that it looked
at first like a little chip of wood.
“I cannot think how I came to overlook it,” said the Inspector, with an
expression of annoyance.
“It was invisible, buried in the mud. I only saw it because I was looking for
it.”
“What! you expected to find it?”
“I thought it not unlikely.”
He took the boots from the bag and compared the impressions of each of them
with marks upon the ground. Then he clambered up to the rim of the hollow and
crawled about among the ferns and bushes.
“I am afraid that there are no more tracks,” said the Inspector, “I have
examined the ground very carefully for a hundred yards in each direction.”
“Indeed!” said Holmes, rising. “I should not have the impertinence to do it
again after what you say. But I should like to take a little walk over the moors
before it grows dark that I may know my ground to-morrow, and I think that I
shall put this horseshoe into my pocket for luck.”
Colonel Ross, who had shown some signs of impatience at my companion’s
quiet and systematic method of work, glanced at his watch. “I wish you would
come back with me, Inspector,” said he. “There are several points on which I
should like your advice, and especially as to whether we do not owe it to the
public to remove our horse’s name from the entries for the Cup.”
“Certainly not,” cried Holmes with decision; “I should let the name stand.”
The Colonel bowed. “I am very glad to have had your opinion, sir” said he.
“You will find us at poor Straker’s house when you have finished your walk, and
we can drive together into Tavistock.”
He turned back with the inspector, while Holmes and I walked slowly across
the moor. The sun was beginning to sink behind the stable of Capleton, and the
long, sloping plain in front of us was tinged with gold, deepening into rich,
ruddy brown where the faded ferns and brambles caught the evening light. But
the glories of the landscape were all wasted upon my companion, who was sunk
in the deepest thought.
“It’s this way, Watson,” he said at last. “We may leave the question of who
killed John Straker for the instant, and confine ourselves to finding out what has
become of the horse. Now supposing that he broke away during or after the
tragedy, where could he have gone to? The horse is a very gregarious creature. If
left to himself his instincts would have been either to return to King’s Pyland, or
go over to Capleton. Why should he run wild upon the moor? He would surely
have been seen by now. And why should gipsies kidnap him? These people
always clear out when they hear of trouble, for they do not wish to be pestered
by the police. They could not hope to sell such a horse. They would run a great
risk and gain nothing by taking him. Surely that is clear.”
“Where is he, then?”
“I have already said that he must have gone to King’s Pyland or to Capleton.
He is not at King’s Pyland, therefore he is at Capleton. Let us take that as a
working hypothesis and see what it leads us to. This part of the moor, as the
inspector remarked, is very hard and dry. But it falls away towards Capleton, and
you can see from here that there is a long hollow over yonder, which must have
been very wet on Monday night. If our supposition is correct, then the horse
must have crossed that, and there is the point where we should look for his
tracks.”
We had been walking briskly during this conversation, and a few more
minutes brought us to the hollow in question. At Holmes’s request I walked
down the bank to the right, and he to the left, but I had not taken fifty paces
before I heard him give a shout, and saw him waving his hand to me. The track
of a horse was plainly outlined in the soft earth in front of him, and the shoe
which he took from his pocket exactly fitted the impression.
“See the value of imagination,” said Holmes. “It is the one quality which
Gregory lacks. We imagined what might have happened, acted upon the
supposition, and find ourselves justified.20 Let us proceed.”
We crossed the marshy bottom and passed over a quarter of a mile of dry,
hard turf. Again the ground sloped and again we came on the tracks. Then we
lost them for half a mile, but only to pick them up once more quite close to
Capleton. It was Holmes who saw them first, and he stood pointing with a look
of triumph upon his face. A man’s track was visible beside the horse’s.
“The horse was alone before,” I cried.
“Quite so. It was alone before. Halloa, what is this?”
The double track turned sharp off and took the direction of King’s Pyland.
Holmes whistled, and we both followed along after it. His eyes were on the trail,
but I happened to look a little to one side and saw to my surprise the same tracks
coming back again in the opposite direction.
“One for you, Watson,” said Holmes, when I pointed it out. “You have saved
us a long walk which would have brought us back on our own traces. Let us
follow the return track.”
We had not to go far. It ended at the paving of asphalt which led up to the
gates of the Capleton stables. As we approached a groom ran out from them.
“We don’t want any loiterers about here,” said he.
“I only wished to ask a question,” said Holmes, with his finger and thumb in
his waistcoat pocket. “Should I be too early to see your master, Mr. Silas Brown,
if I were to call at five o’clock to-morrow morning?”
“Bless you, sir, if anyone is about he will be, for he is always the first stirring.
But here he is, sir, to answer your questions for himself. No, sir, no; it is as much
as my place is worth to let him see me touch your money. Afterwards, if you
like.”
As Sherlock Holmes replaced the half-crown which he had drawn from his
pocket, a fierce-looking elderly man strode out from the gate with a hunting-crop
swinging in his hand.
“What’s this, Dawson!” he cried. “No gossiping! Go about your business!
And you—what the devil do you want here?”
“Ten minutes’ talk with you, my good sir,” said Holmes in the sweetest of
voices.
“I’ve no time to talk to every gadabout. We want no strangers here. Be off, or
you may find a dog at your heels.”
Holmes leaned forward and whispered something in the trainer’s ear. He
started violently and flushed to the temples.
“It’s a lie!” he shouted. “An infernal lie!”
“Very good! Shall we argue about it here in public or talk it over in your
parlour?”
“Oh, come in if you wish to.”
Holmes smiled. “I shall not keep you more than a few minutes, Watson,” he
said. “Now, Mr. Brown, I am quite at your disposal.”
It was quite twenty minutes, and the reds had all faded into greys before
Holmes and the trainer reappeared. Never have I seen such a change as had been
brought about in Silas Brown in that short time. His face was ashy pale, beads of
perspiration shone upon his brow, and his hands shook until the hunting-crop
wagged like a branch in the wind. His bullying, overbearing manner was all
gone too, and he cringed along at my companion’s side like a dog with its
master.
“Ten minutes’ talk with you, sir,” said Holmes, in the
sweetest of voices.
H. R. Eddy, Sunday Boston American, February 11, 1912
“Your instructions will be done. It shall all be done,” said he.
“Be off!”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“There must be no mistake,” said Holmes, looking round at him. The other
winced as he read the menace in his eyes.
“Oh, no, there shall be no mistake. It shall be there. Should I change it first or
not?”
Holmes thought a little and then burst out laughing. “No, don’t,” said he, “I
shall write to you about it. No tricks, now, or—”
“Oh, you can trust me, you can trust me!”
“You must see to it on the day as if it were your own.”
“You can rely upon me.”21
“Yes, I think I can. Well, you shall hear from me to-morrow.” He turned upon
his heel, disregarding the trembling hand which the other held out to him, and
we set off for King’s Pyland.
“A more perfect compound of the bully, coward, and sneak than Master Silas
Brown I have seldom met with,” remarked Holmes as we trudged along together.
“He has the horse, then?”
“He tried to bluster out of it, but I described to him so exactly what his actions
had been upon that morning that he is convinced that I was watching him. Of
course, you observed the peculiarly square toes in the impressions, and that his
own boots exactly corresponded to them. Again, of course, no subordinate would
have dared to do such a thing. I described to him how, when according to his
custom he was the first down, he perceived a strange horse wandering over the
moor; how he went out to it, and his astonishment at recognizing, from the white
forehead which has given the favourite its name, that chance had put in his
power the only horse which could beat the one upon which he had put his
money. Then I described how his first impulse had been to lead him back to
King’s Pyland, and how the devil had shown him how he could hide the horse
until the race was over, and how he had led it back and concealed it at Capleton.
When I told him every detail he gave it up, and thought only of saving his own
skin.”
“But his stables had been searched?
“Oh, an old horse-faker like him has many a dodge.”
“But are you not afraid to leave the horse in his power now, since he has every
interest in injuring it?”
“My dear fellow, he will guard it as the apple of his eye. He knows that his
only hope of mercy is to produce it safe.”
“Colonel Ross did not impress me as a man who would be likely to show
much mercy in any case.”
“The matter does not rest with Colonel Ross. I follow my own methods, and
tell as much or as little as I choose. That is the advantage of being unofficial. I
don’t know whether you observed it, Watson, but the Colonel’s manner has been
just a trifle cavalier to me. I am inclined now to have a little amusement at his
expense. Say nothing to him about the horse.”
“Certainly not, without your permission.”
“And, of course, this is all quite a minor point compared to the question of
who killed John Straker.”
“And you will devote yourself to that?”
“On the contrary, we both go back to London by the night train.”
I was thunderstruck by my friend’s words. We had only been a few hours in
Devonshire, and that he should give up an investigation which he had begun so
brilliantly was quite incomprehensible to me. Not a word more could I draw
from him until we were back at the trainer’s house. The colonel and the
inspector were awaiting us in the parlour.
“My friend and I return to town by the midnight express,” said Holmes. “We
have had a charming little breath of your beautiful Dartmoor air.”
The Inspector opened his eyes, and the Colonel’s lip curled in a sneer.
“So you despair of arresting the murderer of poor Straker,” said he.
Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “There are certainly grave difficulties in the
way,” said he. “I have every hope, however, that your horse will start upon
Tuesday, and I beg that you will have your jockey in readiness. Might I ask for a
photograph of Mr. John Straker?”
The Inspector took one from an envelope and handed it to him.
“My dear Gregory, you anticipate all my wants. If I might ask you to wait
here for an instant, I have a question which I should like to put to the maid.”
“I must say that I am rather disappointed in our London consultant,” said
Colonel Ross, bluntly, as my friend left the room. “I do not see that we are any
further than when he came.”
“At least, you have his assurance that your horse will run,” said I.
“Yes, I have his assurance,” said the Colonel, with a shrug of his shoulders. “I
should prefer to have the horse.”
I was about to make some reply in defence of my friend, when he entered the
room again.
“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “I am quite ready for Tavistock.”
As we stepped into the carriage one of the stable-lads held the door open for
us. A sudden idea seemed to occur to Holmes, for he leaned forward and touched
the lad upon the sleeve.
“You have a few sheep in the paddock,” he said. “Who attends to them?”
“I do, sir.”
“Have you noticed anything amiss with them of late?”
“Well, sir, not of much account; but three of them have gone lame, sir.”
I could see that Holmes was extremely pleased, for he chuckled and rubbed
his hands together.
“A long shot, Watson, a very long shot!” said he, pinching my arm. “Gregory,
let me recommend to your attention this singular epidemic among the sheep.
Drive on, coachman!”
Colonel Ross still wore an expression which showed the poor opinion which
he had formed of my companion’s ability, but I saw by the Inspector’s face that
his attention had been keenly aroused.
“You consider that to be important?” he asked.
“Exceedingly so.”
“Is there any other point to which you would wish to draw my attention?”
“To the curious incident of the dog in the nighttime.”
“The dog did nothing in the nighttime.”
“Holmes was extremely pleased.”
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“That was the curious incident,” remarked Sherlock Holmes.22
Four days later Holmes and I were again in the train, bound for Winchester to
see the race for the Wessex Cup. Colonel Ross met us, by appointment, outside
the station, and we drove in his drag23 to the course beyond the town. His face
was grave, and his manner was cold in the extreme.
“I have seen nothing of my horse,” said he.
“I suppose that you would know him when you saw him?” asked Holmes.
The colonel was very angry. “I have been on the turf for twenty years, and
never was asked such a question as that before,” said he. “A child would know
Silver Blaze with his white forehead and his mottled off-foreleg.”24
“How is the betting?”
“Well, that is the curious part of it. You could have got fifteen to one
yesterday, but the price has become shorter and shorter, until you can hardly get
three to one now.”
“Hum!” said Holmes. “Somebody knows something, that is clear!”
As the drag drew up in the enclosure near the grandstand, I glanced at the card
to see the entries.25
Wessex Plate 50 sovs. each h ft, with 1,000 sovs.
added, for four and five-year olds. Second, £300.
Third, £200. New course (one mile and five
furlongs).
1. Mr. Heath Newton’s The Negro. (Red cap,
cinnamon jacket).
2. Colonel Wardlaw’s Pugilist. (Pink cap, blue and
black jacket).
3. Lord Backwater’s Desborough. (Yellow cap and
sleeves).
4. Colonel Ross’s Silver Blaze. (Black cap, red
jacket).
5. Duke of Balmoral’s Iris. (Yellow and black
stripes).
6. Lord Singleford’s Rasper. (Purple cap, black
sleeves).
26
27
28
29
“We scratched our other one and put all hopes on your word,” said the
Colonel. “Why, what is that? Silver Blaze favourite?”
“Five to four against Silver Blaze!” roared the ring. “Five to four against
Silver Blaze! Fifteen to five against Desborough! Five to four on the field!”
“There are the numbers up,” I cried. “They are all six there.”
“All six there! Then my horse is running,” cried the Colonel in great agitation.
“But I don’t see him. My colours have not passed.”
“Only five have passed. This must be he.”
As I spoke a powerful bay horse swept out from the weighing enclosure and
cantered past us, bearing on its back the well-known black and red of the
colonel.
“That’s not my horse,” cried the owner. “That beast has not a white hair upon
its body. What is this that you have done, Mr. Holmes?”
“Well, well, let us see how he gets on,” said my friend imperturbably. For a
few minutes he gazed through my field-glass. “Capital! An excellent start!” he
cried suddenly. “There they are, coming round the curve!”
From our drag we had a superb view as they came up the straight. The six
horses were so close together that a carpet could have covered them, but halfway
up the yellow of the Capleton stable showed to the front. Before they reached us,
however, Desborough’s bolt was shot, and the colonel’s horse, coming away
with a rush, passed the post a good six lengths before its rival, the Duke of
Balmoral’s Iris making a bad third.
“It’s my race, anyhow,” gasped the colonel, passing his hand over his eyes. “I
confess that I can make neither head nor tail of it. Don’t you think that you have
kept up your mystery long enough, Mr. Holmes?”
“Certainly, Colonel. You shall know everything. Let us all go round and have
a look at the horse together. Here he is,” he continued as we made our way into
the weighing enclosure, where only owners and their friends find admittance.
“You have only to wash his face and his leg in spirits of wine30 and you will find
that he is the same old Silver Blaze as ever.”
“You take my breath away!”
“I found him in the hands of a faker, and took the liberty of running him just
as he was sent over.”31
“My dear sir, you have done wonders. The horse looks very fit and well. It
never went better in its life. I owe you a thousand apologies for having doubted
your ability. You have done me a great service by recovering my horse. You
would do me a greater still if you could lay your hands on the murderer of John
Straker.”
“I have done so,” said Holmes quietly.
The Colonel and I stared at him in amazement. “You have got him! Where is
he, then?”
“He is here.”
“Here! Where?”
“In my company at the present moment.”
The Colonel flushed angrily. “I quite recognise that I am under obligations to
you, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “but I must regard what you have just said as either a
very bad joke or an insult.”
Sherlock Holmes laughed. “I assure you that I have not associated you with
the crime, Colonel,” said he. “The real murderer is standing immediately behind
you.” He stepped past and laid his hand upon the glossy neck of the
thoroughbred.
“The horse!” cried both the Colonel and myself.
“Yes, the horse. And it may lessen his guilt if I say that it was done in selfdefence, and that John Straker was a man who was entirely unworthy of your
confidence. But there goes the bell; and as I stand to win a little on this next
race,32 I shall defer a lengthy explanation until a more fitting time.”
He laid his hand upon the glossy neck.
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
We had the corner of a Pullman car33 to ourselves that evening as we whirled
back to London, and I fancy that the journey was a short one to Colonel Ross as
well as to myself, as we listened to our companion’s narrative of the events
which had occurred at the Dartmoor training stables upon that Monday night,
and the means by which he had unravelled them.
“I confess,” said he, “that any theories which I had formed from the
newspaper reports were entirely erroneous. And yet there were indications there,
had they not been overlaid by other details which concealed their true import. I
went to Devonshire with the conviction that Fitzroy Simpson was the true
culprit, although, of course, I saw that the evidence against him was by no means
complete. It was while I was in the carriage, just as we reached the trainer’s
house, that the immense significance of the curried mutton occurred to me. You
may remember that I was distrait, and remained sitting after you had all alighted.
I was marvelling in my own mind how I could possibly have overlooked so
obvious a clue.”
“I confess,” said the Colonel, “that even now I cannot see how it helps us.”
“It was the first link in my chain of reasoning. Powdered opium is by no
means tasteless. The flavour is not disagreeable, but it is perceptible. Were it
mixed with any ordinary dish, the eater would undoubtedly detect it and would
probably eat no more. A curry was exactly the medium which would disguise
this taste. By no possible supposition could this stranger, Fitzroy Simpson, have
caused curry to be served in the trainer’s family that night, and it is surely too
monstrous a coincidence to suppose that he happened to come along with
powdered opium upon the very night when a dish happened to be served which
would disguise the flavour. That is unthinkable. Therefore Simpson becomes
eliminated from the case, and our attention centres upon Straker and his wife, the
only two people who could have chosen curried mutton for supper that night.
The opium was added after the dish was set aside for the stable boy, for the
others had the same for supper with no ill effects. Which of them, then, had
access to that dish without the maid seeing them?
“Before deciding that question I had grasped the significance of the silence of
the dog, for one true inference invariably suggests others. The Simpson incident
had shown me that a dog was kept in the stables, and yet, though someone had
been in and had fetched out a horse, he had not barked enough to arouse the two
lads in the loft. Obviously the midnight visitor was someone whom the dog
knew well.
“I was already convinced, or almost convinced, that John Straker went down
to the stables in the dead of the night and took out Silver Blaze. For what
purpose? For a dishonest one, obviously, or why should he drug his own stable
boy? And yet I was at a loss to know why. There have been cases before now
where trainers have made sure of great sums of money by laying against their
own horses through agents and then preventing them from winning by fraud.
Sometimes it is a pulling jockey.34 Sometimes it is some surer and subtler
means. What was it here? I hoped that the contents of his pockets might help me
to form a conclusion.
Silver Blaze.
Sidney Paget, Strand Magazine, 1892
“And they did so. You cannot have forgotten the singular knife which was
found in the dead man’s hand, a knife which certainly no sane man would
choose for a weapon. It was, as Dr. Watson told us, a form of knife which is
used for the most delicate operations known in surgery. And it was to be used for
a delicate operation that night. You must know, with your wide experience of
turf matters, Colonel Ross, that it is possible to make a slight nick upon the
tendons of a horse’s ham,35 and to do it subcutaneously, so as to leave absolutely
no trace.36 A horse so treated would develop a slight lameness, which would be
put down to a strain in exercise or a touch of rheumatism, but never to foul
play.”
“Villain! Scoundrel!” cried the Colonel.
“We have here the explanation of why John Straker wished to take the horse
out on to the moor. So spirited a creature would have certainly roused the
soundest of sleepers when it felt the prick of the knife. It was absolutely
necessary to do it in the open air.”
“I have been blind!” cried the Colonel. “Of course, that was why he needed
the candle and struck the match.”
“Undoubtedly. But in examining his belongings, I was fortunate enough to
discover, not only the method of the crime, but even its motives. As a man of the
world, Colonel, you know that men do not carry other people’s bills about in
their pockets. We have most of us quite enough to do to settle our own. I at once
concluded that Straker was leading a double life, and keeping a second
establishment. The nature of the bill showed that there was a lady in the case,
and one who had expensive tastes. Liberal as you are with your servants, one can
hardly expect that they can buy twenty-guinea walking dresses for their women.
I questioned Mrs. Straker as to the dress without her knowing it, and having
satisfied myself that it had never reached her, I made a note of the milliner’s
address, and felt that by calling there with Straker’s photograph, I could easily
dispose of the mythical Derbyshire.
“From that time on all was plain. Straker had led out the horse to a hollow
where his light would be invisible. Simpson, in his flight, had dropped his
cravat, and Straker had picked it up with some idea, perhaps, that he might use it
in securing the horse’s leg. Once in the hollow, he had got behind the horse, and
had struck a light;37 but the creature, frightened at the sudden glare, and with the
strange instinct of animals feeling that some mischief was intended, had lashed
out, and the steel shoe had struck Straker full on the forehead. He had already, in
spite of the rain, taken off his overcoat in order to do his delicate task, and so, as
he fell, his knife gashed his thigh. Do I make it clear?”
“Wonderful!” cried the Colonel. “Wonderful! You might have been there.”
“My final shot was, I confess, a very long one. It struck me that so astute a
man as Straker would not undertake this delicate tendon-nicking without a little
practise. What could he practise on? My eyes fell upon the sheep, and I asked a
question which, rather to my surprise, showed that my surmise was correct.”38
“You have made it perfectly clear, Mr. Holmes.”
“When I returned to London I called upon the milliner, who had recognised
Straker as an excellent customer of the name of Derbyshire, who had a very
dashing wife with a strong partiality for expensive dresses. I have no doubt that
this woman had plunged him over head and ears in debt, and so led him into this
miserable plot.”
“You have explained all but one thing,” cried the colonel. “Where was the
horse?”
“Ah, it bolted, and was cared for by one of your neighbours. We must have an
amnesty in that direction, I think. This is Clapham Junction, if I am not
mistaken, and we shall be in Victoria39 in less than ten minutes. If you care to
smoke a cigar in our rooms, Colonel, I shall be happy to give you any other
details which might interest you.”40
“. . . AND THE CALCULATION IS A SIMPLE ONE”
SHERLOCKIAN scholars have been fascinated by Sherlock Holmes’s apparent
mathematical wizardry in calculating the speed of the train in which he and
Watson went “flying along” to Exeter.
A. S. Galbraith, in “The Real Moriarty,” finds Holmes’s assertion of the
calculation’s simplicity to be inconsistent with his precise, reasoning character,
because the nature of the calculation requires a standard of accuracy much looser
than the exact conclusion Holmes ultimately draws. Given that the speed of the
train would have varied—probably remaining constant for no more than two
minutes at a time—Holmes’s casual use of an ordinary watch to count the
seconds from the passage of one telegraph post to another would necessarily
have produced an error of at least one or two seconds. Galbraith points out that a
one-second error in a two-minute span, at the speed the train was travelling,
would account for an inaccuracy of half a mile an hour. “Then the man of
precise mind,” Galbraith deduces, “even if confident of almost superhuman
accuracy in his measurement of the time, would say ‘between fifty-three and
fifty-four miles an hour,’ and a more reasonable statement would be ‘between
fifty-two and fifty-five.’ Is Holmes trying to impress Watson, or is Watson
trying to impress his readers?”
Jay Finley Christ, in “Sherlock Pulls a Fast One,” concludes that the
calculation was not a simple one. Guy Warrack, in Sherlock Holmes and Music,
concurs, maintaining that a speed of 53½ miles per hour would have required
Holmes counting 2.2439 seconds between passing poles and then figuring out a
complex fraction in his head. “The only conclusion to be drawn,” Warrack
believes, “is that Holmes’s precise statement was sheer bluff which took Watson
in at the time and Watson’s readers ever since.”
S. C. Roberts, reviewing Warrack’s book in “The Music of Baker Street,” had
this to say in response: “Mr. Warrack, if we may so express it, is making
telegraph-poles out of fountain-pens. What happened, surely, was something like
this: About half a minute before he addressed Watson, Holmes had looked at the
second hand of his watch and then counted fifteen telegraph poles.” Using this
prior observation as well as the knowledge that the poles were sixty yards apart
(a fact not revealed to the reader), Holmes—according to Roberts—did make a
simple calculation based on the difference (more than 10 percent) between the
figures worked out for this train and for one that was travelling 60 miles per
hour.
At least four other methods have been proposed that purport to be “simple,”
but to the average reader, the problem appears to be similar to Moriarty’s work
on The Dynamics of an Asteroid, “which ascends to such rarefied heights of pure
mathematics that it is said that there was no man in the scientific press capable
of criticizing it” (The Valley of Fear).
“I STAND TO WIN A LITTLE ON THIS NEXT RACE
. . .”
DID Sherlock Holmes bet on Silver Blaze? His revelation that he bet on the race
following the Wessex Plate leads some to believe that Holmes may have
capitalized on his inside information. “There is no evidence that Holmes actually
backed Silver Blaze to win the Wessex cup, but knowing Holmes,” writes Gavin
Brend, “and knowing what Holmes knew about Silver Blaze, we should be very
surprised if he had neglected this opportunity.” Robert Keith Leavitt reaches
much the same conclusion, fingering Silas Brown and Lord Backwater (who
owned the horse Desborough and who would later do Holmes a favour by
recommending him to Lord Robert St. Simon in “The Noble Bachelor”) as
Holmes’s conspirators in framing the race. The large amount of money they
would have won would help account for Holmes’s mysterious fortune.
Charles B. Stephens outlines one potential plot: Silas Brown kept Silver Blaze
concealed while Holmes took the train to London on the night before the race,
betting the longest possible odds on the ostensibly missing horse. Brown then
instructed Desborough’s jockey to take an early lead, which the jockey did, little
knowing that the strategy would cost him the race. “[T]he evidence seems all too
clear,” Stephens deduces, “that it was Holmes, himself, who master-minded the
manipulation of the betting odds to his own advantage, in derogation of his
obligations to the man who had employed him for the investigation.”
This same unhappy view is held by sports columnist Red Smith, who, in his
essay “The Nefarious Holmes,” criticises Holmes for having an “ethical
blindspot” when it comes to sports. Smith points out that in “The Final
Problem,” which took place in 1891, Holmes stated that his earnings from recent
cases had left him free to live as he wished; yet by 1901 (“The Priory School”)
the detective confessed, “I am a poor man.” Despite the princely fees Holmes
received for his services, he was practically always broke—“obviously because
the bookies took everything he didn’t have to lay out for happy dust.” Smith then
charges Holmes with being “a horse player of degenerate principles who thought
nothing of fixing a race, and when you bear in mind his first-hand knowledge of
the use and effect of cocaine, he probably had his syringe in the veins of more
than one thoroughbred.”
Edward T. Buxton, in “He Solved the Case and Won the Race,” attempts to
argue that Holmes had somewhat more benign motives for hiding the horse.
Rather than sending an eminently competent trainer to jail and certain ruin,
Holmes elected to force Silas Brown to train Silver Blaze for the Wessex Cup.
Even though this plan benefited Colonel Ross, he likely would not have
approved of it, and thus Holmes kept the whole plan secret. Buxton’s view of
events does not, however, rule out the detective’s making a wager on the race as
well.
S. Tupper Bigelow also rises to Holmes’s defence, in “Silver Blaze: The
Master Vindicated.” He argues that Holmes was not guilty of larceny, because
Silas Brown did not intend to deprive Col. Ross of the horse permanently.
Furthermore, because the horse that ran was not a substitute for Silver Blaze but
was in fact Silver Blaze, no one was defrauded. “There is no evidence,”
concludes Judge Bigelow, “of any illegal, improper, unethical or even venial
conduct on the part of the Master in the entire story . . .”
Are we to believe, incidentally, that Dr. Watson, who by the time of
“Shoscombe Old Place” was spending half his income on turf speculation, did
not have a little something wagered on the race?
1 “Silver Blaze” was published in the Strand Magazine in December 1892 and in the Strand Magazine
(New York) in January 1893.
2 The moorland district of Dartmoor (named after the river Dart) is located in Devon county in south-west
England and is characterised by its striking tors—large blocks of granite that rise dramatically above their
surroundings—as well as by several relics from the Bronze and Iron Ages. A royal forest in Saxon times,
the district was converted to a national park in 1951 and remains home to Dartmoor Prison, a notoriously
brutal penitentiary built in 1806–1809 to house French prisoners in the Napoleonic Wars. During the War of
1812, some 1,500 French and American prisoners died in captivity there and were buried in a field outside
the prison walls. After a thirty-year period of dormancy, Dartmoor Prison was reopened to house civilian
prisoners in 1850.
Dartmoor is also known for the Dartmoor pony, a small, sturdy horse with a shaggy coat. Once near
extinction because it was not considered large enough to carry soldiers and armour, the breed made a
comeback when Edward VII (Queen Victoria’s eldest son) began training Dartmoors for his polo teams.
Karl Baedeker, in his Great Britain: Handbook for Travellers for 1894, warned: “The pedestrian will
find abundant opportunity for his prowess, but should be on his guard against bogs and mists. It is prudent
to keep pretty closely to the beaten tracks, and accompanied by a guide.”
3 This, and a reference in “The Boscombe Valley Mystery” to a “close-fitting cloth cap,” are the only
references to the “deerstalker” in which Sidney Paget depicted Holmes and which became his trademark.
The Hound of the Baskervilles also refers to a cloth cap, but Paget depicted that cap as a homburg.
4 Some have doubted that the train could be travelling at such a speed, but D. Marcus Hook, in “More on
the Railway Journeys,” points out that the speed “was not only possible, but necessary.” He cites the fact
that the Flying Dutchman and the Zulu, both of which made the run from Paddington to Swindon in 87
minutes, would have had to average 53-¼ m.p.h.; the top speed, of course, would have had to be much
faster than that. Holmes is speaking here well after he and Watson have left Reading, and thus the train
would only be hitting its top speed right around this time. His estimate of 53-½ m.p.h., then, is not only
reasonable but in fact possibly too conservative.
5 See the appendix on page 418.
6 In most American texts the name is given as “Somomy,” for reasons unclear. Jay Finley Christ delves
into the history of Silver Blaze’s bloodline, in “Silver Blaze: An Identification As of 1893 A.D.,” discovering
that Isonomy won the 1878 Cambridgeshire at the Newmarket race course as a three-year-old, capturing the
Manchester Plate the following year. He was one of only a handful of horses to win the Ascot Gold Cup
twice, finishing first in both 1874 and 1880. Taking a guess as to who the famed “Silver Blaze” might have
been, Christ suggests Isinglass, who won the British Triple Crown (the Epsom Derby, the St. Leger Stakes,
and the Two Thousand Guineas) in 1893 and broke the record at the time for most prize money won by a
British horse.
Looking at similarities in the name “Silver Blaze,” Gavin Brend observes, in “From the Horse’s Mouth,”
that horses named Silvio and St. Blaise were both Derby winners, Silvio in 1877, St. Blaise in 1883, but
neither of them was of the Isonomy stock. “If we confine our attention to Isonomy’s progeny,” Brend
concludes, “the most hopeful claimant from the standpoint of phonetics would seem to be Seabreeze, who
won the Oaks and St. Leger in 1888 but who, I regret to say, was not a colt but a filly.”
Wayne B. Swift, in “Silver Blaze—A Corrected Identification,” an exhaustively researched and widely
accepted work, identifies Silver Blaze with the horse Ormonde, the Triple Crown winner in 1886. John
Porter, the horse’s trainer, wrote in Kingsclere (London: Chatto & Windus, 1898): “He won all his
engagements. And he ran practically untried.” Ormonde, the second cousin (twice removed) of Isonomy,
was owned by the Duke of Westminister.
7 For no apparent reason, “Mapleton” in the Strand Magazine and American editions, “Capleton” in
English editions.
8 He had an estate at Petersfield and was a guest at the wedding of Lord Robert St. Simon, to whom he
recommended Holmes (“The Noble Bachelor”).
9 An agent who obtains and sells information on the condition and prospects of horses entered for an
upcoming race.
10 In the English book edition, the sen