A Study In Scarlet

CHAPTER II.

The Science Of Deduction

We met next day as he had arranged, and inspected
the rooms at No. 221b, Baker Street, of
which he had spoken at our meeting. They consisted
of a couple of comfortable bed-rooms and
a single large airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished,
and illuminated by two broad windows.
So desirable in every way were the apartments,
and so moderate did the terms seem when divided
between us, that the bargain was concluded upon
the spot, and we at once entered into possession.
That very evening I moved my things round from
the hotel, and on the following morning Sherlock
Holmes followed me with several boxes and portmanteaus.
For a day or two we were busily employed
in unpacking and laying out our property
to the best advantage. That done, we gradually began
to settle down and to accommodate ourselves
to our new surroundings.
Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live
with. He was quiet in his ways, and his habits
were regular. It was rare for him to be up after ten
at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and
gone out before I rose in the morning. Sometimes
he spent his day at the chemical laboratory, sometimes
in the dissecting-rooms, and occasionally in
long walks, which appeared to take him into the
lowest portions of the City. Nothing could exceed
his energy when the working fit was upon him;
but now and again a reaction would seize him, and
for days on end he would lie upon the sofa in the
sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or moving a
muscle from morning to night. On these occasions
I have noticed such a dreamy, vacant expression in
his eyes, that I might have suspected him of being
addicted to the use of some narcotic, had not the
temperance and cleanliness of his whole life forbidden
such a notion.
As the weeks went by, my interest in him and
my curiosity as to his aims in life, gradually deepened
and increased. His very person and appearance
were such as to strike the attention of the
most casual observer. In height he was rather over
six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to
be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and
piercing, save during those intervals of torpor to
which I have alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose
gave his whole expression an air of alertness and
decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and
squareness which mark the man of determination.
His hands were invariably blotted with ink and
A Study In Scarlet
stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinary
delicacy of touch, as I frequently had
occasion to observe when I watched him manipulating
his fragile philosophical instruments.
The reader may set me down as a hopeless
busybody, when I confess how much this man
stimulated my curiosity, and how often I endeavoured
to break through the reticence which he
showed on all that concerned himself. Before pronouncing
judgment, however, be it remembered,
how objectless was my life, and how little there
was to engage my attention. My health forbade me
from venturing out unless the weather was exceptionally
genial, and I had no friends who would
call upon me and break the monotony of my daily
existence. Under these circumstances, I eagerly
hailed the little mystery which hung around my
companion, and spent much of my time in endeavouring
to unravel it.
He was not studying medicine. He had himself,
in reply to a question, confirmed Stamford’s
opinion upon that point. Neither did he appear to
have pursued any course of reading which might
fit him for a degree in science or any other recognized
portal which would give him an entrance
into the learned world. Yet his zeal for certain
studies was remarkable, and within eccentric limits
his knowledge was so extraordinarily ample
and minute that his observations have fairly astounded
me. Surely no man would work so hard
or attain such precise information unless he had
some definite end in view. Desultory readers are
seldom remarkable for the exactness of their learning.
No man burdens his mind with small matters
unless he has some very good reason for doing so.
His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge.
Of contemporary literature, philosophy and
politics he appeared to know next to nothing.
Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired
in the naivest way who he might be and what he
had done. My surprise reached a climax, however,
when I found incidentally that he was ignorant of
the Copernican Theory and of the composition of
the Solar System. That any civilized human being
in this nineteenth century should not be aware that
the earth travelled round the sun appeared to be to
me such an extraordinary fact that I could hardly
realize it.
“You appear to be astonished,” he said, smiling
at my expression of surprise. “Now that I do
know it I shall do my best to forget it.”
“To forget it!”
“You see,” he explained, “I consider that a
man’s brain originally is like a little empty attic,
and you have to stock it with such furniture as
you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every
sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge
which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or
at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things so
that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it.
Now the skilful workman is very careful indeed as
to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will have
nothing but the tools which may help him in doing
his work, but of these he has a large assortment,
and all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to
think that that little room has elastic walls and can
distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes
a time when for every addition of knowledge you
forget something that you knew before. It is of the
highest importance, therefore, not to have useless
facts elbowing out the useful ones.”
“But the Solar System!” I protested.
“What the deuce is it to me?” he interrupted
impatiently; “you say that we go round the sun.
If we went round the moon it would not make a
pennyworth of difference to me or to my work.”
I was on the point of asking him what that
work might be, but something in his manner
showed me that the question would be an unwelcome
one. I pondered over our short conversation,
however, and endeavoured to draw my deductions
from it. He said that he would acquire
no knowledge which did not bear upon his object.
Therefore all the knowledge which he possessed
was such as would be useful to him. I enumerated
in my own mind all the various points upon which
he had shown me that he was exceptionally wellinformed.
I even took a pencil and jotted them
down. I could not help smiling at the document
when I had completed it. It ran in this way—
Sherlock Holmes—his limits.
1. Knowledge of Literature.—Nil.
2. Philosophy.—Nil.
3. Astronomy.—Nil.
4. Politics.—Feeble.
5. Botany.—Variable. Well up in belladonna,
opium, and poisons generally. Knows nothing
of practical gardening.
6. Geology.—Practical, but limited. Tells at a
glance different soils from each other. After
walks has shown me splashes upon his
trousers, and told me by their colour and
consistence in what part of London he had
received them.
7. Chemistry.—Profound.
8. Anatomy.—Accurate, but unsystematic.
11
A Study In Scarlet
9. Sensational Literature.—Immense. He appears
to know every detail of every horror
perpetrated in the century.
10. Plays the violin well.
11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and
swordsman.
12. Has a good practical knowledge of British
law.
When I had got so far in my list I threw it into
the fire in despair. “If I can only find what the
fellow is driving at by reconciling all these accomplishments,
and discovering a calling which needs
them all,” I said to myself, “I may as well give up
the attempt at once.”
I see that I have alluded above to his powers
upon the violin. These were very remarkable,
but as eccentric as all his other accomplishments.
That he could play pieces, and difficult
pieces, I knew well, because at my request he
has played me some of Mendelssohn’s Lieder, and
other favourites. When left to himself, however, he
would seldom produce any music or attempt any
recognized air. Leaning back in his arm-chair of an
evening, he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly
at the fiddle which was thrown across his
knee. Sometimes the chords were sonorous and
melancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic and
cheerful. Clearly they reflected the thoughts which
possessed him, but whether the music aided those
thoughts, or whether the playing was simply the
result of a whim or fancy was more than I could
determine. I might have rebelled against these exasperating
solos had it not been that he usually
terminated them by playing in quick succession a
whole series of my favourite airs as a slight compensation
for the trial upon my patience.
During the first week or so we had no callers,
and I had begun to think that my companion was
as friendless a man as I was myself. Presently,
however, I found that he had many acquaintances,
and those in the most different classes of society.
There was one little sallow rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow
who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade,
and who came three or four times in a single
week. One morning a young girl called, fashionably
dressed, and stayed for half an hour or more.
The same afternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy
visitor, looking like a Jew pedlar, who appeared
to me to be much excited, and who was closely
followed by a slipshod elderly woman. On another
occasion an old white-haired gentleman had
an interview with my companion; and on another
a railway porter in his velveteen uniform. When
any of these nondescript individuals put in an appearance,
Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the use
of the sitting-room, and I would retire to my bedroom.
He always apologized to me for putting me
to this inconvenience. “I have to use this room as a
place of business,” he said, “and these people are
my clients.” Again I had an opportunity of asking
him a point blank question, and again my delicacy
prevented me from forcing another man to confide
in me. I imagined at the time that he had some
strong reason for not alluding to it, but he soon
dispelled the idea by coming round to the subject
of his own accord.
It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good
reason to remember, that I rose somewhat earlier
than usual, and found that Sherlock Holmes had
not yet finished his breakfast. The landlady had
become so accustomed to my late habits that my
place had not been laid nor my coffee prepared.
With the unreasonable petulance of mankind I
rang the bell and gave a curt intimation that I was
ready. Then I picked up a magazine from the table
and attempted to while away the time with it,
while my companion munched silently at his toast.
One of the articles had a pencil mark at the heading,
and I naturally began to run my eye through
it.
Its somewhat ambitious title was “The Book of
Life,” and it attempted to show how much an observant
man might learn by an accurate and systematic
examination of all that came in his way.
It struck me as being a remarkable mixture of
shrewdness and of absurdity. The reasoning was
close and intense, but the deductions appeared to
me to be far-fetched and exaggerated. The writer
claimed by a momentary expression, a twitch of a
muscle or a glance of an eye, to fathom a man’s
inmost thoughts. Deceit, according to him, was an
impossibility in the case of one trained to observation
and analysis. His conclusions were as infallible
as so many propositions of Euclid. So startling
would his results appear to the uninitiated that until
they learned the processes by which he had arrived
at them they might well consider him as a
necromancer.
“From a drop of water,” said the writer, “a logician
could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or
a Niagara without having seen or heard of one or
the other. So all life is a great chain, the nature
of which is known whenever we are shown a single
link of it. Like all other arts, the Science of
Deduction and Analysis is one which can only be
acquired by long and patient study nor is life long
enough to allow any mortal to attain the highest
A Study In Scarlet
possible perfection in it. Before turning to those
moral and mental aspects of the matter which
present the greatest difficulties, let the enquirer begin
by mastering more elementary problems. Let
him, on meeting a fellow-mortal, learn at a glance
to distinguish the history of the man, and the trade
or profession to which he belongs. Puerile as such
an exercise may seem, it sharpens the faculties of
observation, and teaches one where to look and
what to look for. By a man’s finger nails, by his
coat-sleeve, by his boot, by his trouser knees, by
the callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his
expression, by his shirt cuffs—by each of these
things a man’s calling is plainly revealed. That
all united should fail to enlighten the competent
enquirer in any case is almost inconceivable.”
“What ineffable twaddle!” I cried, slapping the
magazine down on the table, “I never read such
rubbish in my life.”
“What is it?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
“Why, this article,” I said, pointing at it with
my egg spoon as I sat down to my breakfast. “I
see that you have read it since you have marked it.
I don’t deny that it is smartly written. It irritates
me though. It is evidently the theory of some armchair
lounger who evolves all these neat little paradoxes
in the seclusion of his own study. It is not
practical. I should like to see him clapped down
in a third class carriage on the Underground, and
asked to give the trades of all his fellow-travellers.
I would lay a thousand to one against him.”
“You would lose your money,” Sherlock
Holmes remarked calmly. “As for the article I
wrote it myself.”
“You!”
“Yes, I have a turn both for observation and for
deduction. The theories which I have expressed
there, and which appear to you to be so chimerical
are really extremely practical—so practical that I
depend upon them for my bread and cheese.”
“And how?” I asked involuntarily.
“Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose
I am the only one in the world. I’m a consulting
detective, if you can understand what that is.
Here in London we have lots of Government detectives
and lots of private ones. When these fellows
are at fault they come to me, and I manage
to put them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence
before me, and I am generally able, by the
help of my knowledge of the history of crime, to
set them straight. There is a strong family resemblance
about misdeeds, and if you have all the details
of a thousand at your finger ends, it is odd if
you can’t unravel the thousand and first. Lestrade
is a well-known detective. He got himself into a
fog recently over a forgery case, and that was what
brought him here.”
“And these other people?”
“They are mostly sent on by private inquiry
agencies. They are all people who are in trouble
about something, and want a little enlightening. I
listen to their story, they listen to my comments,
and then I pocket my fee.”
“But do you mean to say,” I said, “that without
leaving your room you can unravel some knot
which other men can make nothing of, although
they have seen every detail for themselves?”
“Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way.
Now and again a case turns up which is a little
more complex. Then I have to bustle about and see
things with my own eyes. You see I have a lot of
special knowledge which I apply to the problem,
and which facilitates matters wonderfully. Those
rules of deduction laid down in that article which
aroused your scorn, are invaluable to me in practical
work. Observation with me is second nature.
You appeared to be surprised when I told
you, on our first meeting, that you had come from
Afghanistan.”
“You were told, no doubt.”
“Nothing of the sort. I knew you came from
Afghanistan. From long habit the train of thoughts
ran so swiftly through my mind, that I arrived at
the conclusion without being conscious of intermediate
steps. There were such steps, however. The
train of reasoning ran, ‘Here is a gentleman of a
medical type, but with the air of a military man.
Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come
from the tropics, for his face is dark, and that is
not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are
fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as
his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been
injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner.
Where in the tropics could an English army
doctor have seen much hardship and got his arm
wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.’ The whole
train of thought did not occupy a second. I then remarked
that you came from Afghanistan, and you
were astonished.”
“It is simple enough as you explain it,” I said,
smiling. “You remind me of Edgar Allen Poe’s
Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals did
exist outside of stories.”
Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. “No
doubt you think that you are complimenting me
in comparing me to Dupin,” he observed. “Now,
A Study In Scarlet
in my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow.
That trick of his of breaking in on his friends’
thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of
an hour’s silence is really very showy and superficial.
He had some analytical genius, no doubt; but
he was by no means such a phenomenon as Poe
appeared to imagine.”
“Have you read Gaboriau’s works?” I asked.
“Does Lecoq come up to your idea of a detective?”
Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. “Lecoq
was a miserable bungler,” he said, in an angry
voice; “he had only one thing to recommend him,
and that was his energy. That book made me positively
ill. The question was how to identify an
unknown prisoner. I could have done it in twentyfour
hours. Lecoq took six months or so. It might
be made a text-book for detectives to teach them
what to avoid.”
I felt rather indignant at having two characters
whom I had admired treated in this cavalier style.
I walked over to the window, and stood looking
out into the busy street. “This fellow may be very
clever,” I said to myself, “but he is certainly very
conceited.”
“There are no crimes and no criminals in these
days,” he said, querulously. “What is the use of
having brains in our profession? I know well that
I have it in me to make my name famous. No
man lives or has ever lived who has brought the
same amount of study and of natural talent to
the detection of crime which I have done. And
what is the result? There is no crime to detect, or,
at most, some bungling villany with a motive so
transparent that even a Scotland Yard official can
see through it.”
I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of
conversation. I thought it best to change the topic.
“I wonder what that fellow is looking for?” I
asked, pointing to a stalwart, plainly-dressed individual
who was walking slowly down the other
side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers.
He had a large blue envelope in his hand,
and was evidently the bearer of a message.
“You mean the retired sergeant of Marines,”
said Sherlock Holmes.
“Brag and bounce!” thought I to myself. “He
knows that I cannot verify his guess.”
The thought had hardly passed through my
mind when the man whom we were watching
caught sight of the number on our door, and ran
rapidly across the roadway. We heard a loud
knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps ascending
the stair.
“For Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, stepping
into the room and handing my friend the letter.
Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit
out of him. He little thought of this when he made
that random shot. “May I ask, my lad,” I said, in
the blandest voice, “what your trade may be?”
“Commissionaire, sir,” he said, gruffly. “Uniform
away for repairs.”
“And you were?” I asked, with a slightly malicious
glance at my companion.
“A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry,
sir. No answer? Right, sir.”
He clicked his heels together, raised his hand
in a salute, and was gone.