Mr. Sherlock Holmes, PART II. The Country of the Saints.

A Study In Scarlet

CHAPTER I.

On The Great Alkali Plain

In the central portion of the great North
American Continent there lies an arid and repulsive
desert, which for many a long year served
as a barrier against the advance of civilisation.
From the Sierra Nevada to Nebraska, and from
the Yellowstone River in the north to the Colorado
upon the south, is a region of desolation and silence.
Nor is Nature always in one mood throughout
this grim district. It comprises snow-capped
and lofty mountains, and dark and gloomy valleys.
There are swift-flowing rivers which dash
through jagged ca ˜ nons; and there are enormous
plains, which in winter are white with snow, and
in summer are grey with the saline alkali dust.
They all preserve, however, the common characteristics
of barrenness, inhospitality, and misery.
There are no inhabitants of this land of despair.
A band of Pawnees or of Blackfeet may occasionally
traverse it in order to reach other huntinggrounds,
but the hardiest of the braves are glad
to lose sight of those awesome plains, and to find
themselves once more upon their prairies. The
coyote skulks among the scrub, the buzzard flaps
heavily through the air, and the clumsy grizzly
bear lumbers through the dark ravines, and picks
up such sustenance as it can amongst the rocks.
These are the sole dwellers in the wilderness.
In the whole world there can be no more dreary
view than that from the northern slope of the
Sierra Blanco. As far as the eye can reach stretches
the great flat plain-land, all dusted over with
patches of alkali, and intersected by clumps of the
dwarfish chaparral bushes. On the extreme verge
of the horizon lie a long chain of mountain peaks,
with their rugged summits flecked with snow. In
this great stretch of country there is no sign of life,
nor of anything appertaining to life. There is no
bird in the steel-blue heaven, no movement upon
the dull, grey earth—above all, there is absolute silence.
Listen as one may, there is no shadow of a
sound in all that mighty wilderness; nothing but
silence—complete and heart-subduing silence.
It has been said there is nothing appertaining
to life upon the broad plain. That is hardly true.
Looking down from the Sierra Blanco, one sees a
pathway traced out across the desert, which winds
away and is lost in the extreme distance. It is rutted
with wheels and trodden down by the feet of
many adventurers. Here and there there are scattered
white objects which glisten in the sun, and
stand out against the dull deposit of alkali. Approach,
and examine them! They are bones: some
large and coarse, others smaller and more delicate.
The former have belonged to oxen, and the latter to
men. For fifteen hundred miles one may trace this
ghastly caravan route by these scattered remains
of those who had fallen by the wayside.
Looking down on this very scene, there stood
upon the fourth of May, eighteen hundred and
forty-seven, a solitary traveller. His appearance
was such that he might have been the very genius
or demon of the region. An observer would have
found it difficult to say whether he was nearer to
forty or to sixty. His face was lean and haggard,
and the brown parchment-like skin was drawn
tightly over the projecting bones; his long, brown
hair and beard were all flecked and dashed with
white; his eyes were sunken in his head, and
burned with an unnatural lustre; while the hand
which grasped his rifle was hardly more fleshy
than that of a skeleton. As he stood, he leaned
upon his weapon for support, and yet his tall figure
and the massive framework of his bones suggested
a wiry and vigorous constitution. His gaunt
face, however, and his clothes, which hung so baggily
over his shrivelled limbs, proclaimed what it
was that gave him that senile and decrepit appearance.
The man was dying—dying from hunger
and from thirst.
He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and
on to this little elevation, in the vain hope of seeing
some signs of water. Now the great salt plain
stretched before his eyes, and the distant belt of
savage mountains, without a sign anywhere of
plant or tree, which might indicate the presence
of moisture. In all that broad landscape there was
no gleam of hope. North, and east, and west he
looked with wild questioning eyes, and then he
realised that his wanderings had come to an end,
and that there, on that barren crag, he was about
to die. “Why not here, as well as in a feather bed,
twenty years hence,” he muttered, as he seated
himself in the shelter of a boulder.
Before sitting down, he had deposited upon the
ground his useless rifle, and also a large bundle
tied up in a grey shawl, which he had carried slung
over his right shoulder. It appeared to be somewhat
too heavy for his strength, for in lowering it,
it came down on the ground with some little violence.
Instantly there broke from the grey parcel
a little moaning cry, and from it there protruded

a small, scared face, with very bright brown eyes,
and two little speckled, dimpled fists.
“You’ve hurt me!” said a childish voice reproachfully.
“Have I though,” the man answered penitently,
“I didn’t go for to do it.” As he spoke he unwrapped
the grey shawl and extricated a pretty
little girl of about five years of age, whose dainty
shoes and smart pink frock with its little linen
apron all bespoke a mother’s care. The child
was pale and wan, but her healthy arms and legs
showed that she had suffered less than her companion.
“How is it now?” he answered anxiously, for
she was still rubbing the towsy golden curls which
covered the back of her head.
“Kiss it and make it well,” she said, with
perfect gravity, shoving the injured part up to
him. “That’s what mother used to do. Where’s
mother?”
“Mother’s gone. I guess you’ll see her before
long.”
“Gone, eh!” said the little girl. “Funny, she
didn’t say good-bye; she ’most always did if she
was just goin’ over to Auntie’s for tea, and now
she’s been away three days. Say, it’s awful dry,
ain’t it? Ain’t there no water, nor nothing to eat?”
“No, there ain’t nothing, dearie. You’ll just
need to be patient awhile, and then you’ll be all
right. Put your head up agin me like that, and
then you’ll feel bullier. It ain’t easy to talk when
your lips is like leather, but I guess I’d best let you
know how the cards lie. What’s that you’ve got?”
“Pretty things! fine things!” cried the little girl
enthusiastically, holding up two glittering fragments
of mica. “When we goes back to home I’ll
give them to brother Bob.”
“You’ll see prettier things than them soon,”
said the man confidently. “You just wait a bit.
I was going to tell you though—you remember
when we left the river?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Well, we reckoned we’d strike another river
soon, d’ye see. But there was somethin’ wrong;
compasses, or map, or somethin’, and it didn’t
turn up. Water ran out. Just except a little drop
for the likes of you and—and—”
“And you couldn’t wash yourself,” interrupted
his companion gravely, staring up at his grimy visage.
“No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the
fust to go, and then Indian Pete, and then Mrs. Mc-
Gregor, and then Johnny Hones, and then, dearie,
your mother.”
“Then mother’s a deader too,” cried the little
girl dropping her face in her pinafore and sobbing
bitterly.
“Yes, they all went except you and me. Then
I thought there was some chance of water in this
direction, so I heaved you over my shoulder and
we tramped it together. It don’t seem as though
we’ve improved matters. There’s an almighty
small chance for us now!”
“Do you mean that we are going to die too?”
asked the child, checking her sobs, and raising her
tear-stained face.
“I guess that’s about the size of it.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?” she said,
laughing gleefully. “You gave me such a fright.
Why, of course, now as long as we die we’ll be
with mother again.”
“Yes, you will, dearie.”
“And you too. I’ll tell her how awful good
you’ve been. I’ll bet she meets us at the door of
Heaven with a big pitcher of water, and a lot of
buckwheat cakes, hot, and toasted on both sides,
like Bob and me was fond of. How long will it be
first?”
“I don’t know—not very long.” The man’s eyes
were fixed upon the northern horizon. In the blue
vault of the heaven there had appeared three little
specks which increased in size every moment,
so rapidly did they approach. They speedily resolved
themselves into three large brown birds,
which circled over the heads of the two wanderers,
and then settled upon some rocks which overlooked
them. They were buzzards, the vultures of
the west, whose coming is the forerunner of death.
“Cocks and hens,” cried the little girl gleefully,
pointing at their ill-omened forms, and clapping
her hands to make them rise. “Say, did God make
this country?”
“Of course He did,” said her companion, rather
startled by this unexpected question.
“He made the country down in Illinois, and He
made the Missouri,” the little girl continued. “I
guess somebody else made the country in these
parts. It’s not nearly so well done. They forgot the
water and the trees.”
“What would ye think of offering up prayer?”
the man asked diffidently.
“It ain’t night yet,” she answered.

“It don’t matter. It ain’t quite regular, but He
won’t mind that, you bet. You say over them ones
that you used to say every night in the waggon
when we was on the Plains.”
“Why don’t you say some yourself?” the child
asked, with wondering eyes.
“I disremember them,” he answered. “I hain’t
said none since I was half the height o’ that gun. I
guess it’s never too late. You say them out, and I’ll
stand by and come in on the choruses.”
“Then you’ll need to kneel down, and me too,”
she said, laying the shawl out for that purpose.
“You’ve got to put your hands up like this. It
makes you feel kind o’ good.”
It was a strange sight had there been anything
but the buzzards to see it. Side by side on the
narrow shawl knelt the two wanderers, the little
prattling child and the reckless, hardened adventurer.
Her chubby face, and his haggard, angular
visage were both turned up to the cloudless
heaven in heartfelt entreaty to that dread being
with whom they were face to face, while the two
voices—the one thin and clear, the other deep and
harsh—united in the entreaty for mercy and forgiveness.
The prayer finished, they resumed their
seat in the shadow of the boulder until the child
fell asleep, nestling upon the broad breast of her
protector. He watched over her slumber for some
time, but Nature proved to be too strong for him.
For three days and three nights he had allowed
himself neither rest nor repose. Slowly the eyelids
drooped over the tired eyes, and the head sunk
lower and lower upon the breast, until the man’s
grizzled beard was mixed with the gold tresses of
his companion, and both slept the same deep and
dreamless slumber.
Had the wanderer remained awake for another
half hour a strange sight would have met his eyes.
Far away on the extreme verge of the alkali plain
there rose up a little spray of dust, very slight at
first, and hardly to be distinguished from the mists
of the distance, but gradually growing higher and
broader until it formed a solid, well-defined cloud.
This cloud continued to increase in size until it
became evident that it could only be raised by
a great multitude of moving creatures. In more
fertile spots the observer would have come to the
conclusion that one of those great herds of bisons
which graze upon the prairie land was approaching
him. This was obviously impossible in these
arid wilds. As the whirl of dust drew nearer to the
solitary bluff upon which the two castaways were
reposing, the canvas-covered tilts of waggons and
the figures of armed horsemen began to show up
through the haze, and the apparition revealed itself
as being a great caravan upon its journey for
the West. But what a caravan! When the head
of it had reached the base of the mountains, the
rear was not yet visible on the horizon. Right
across the enormous plain stretched the straggling
array, waggons and carts, men on horseback, and
men on foot. Innumerable women who staggered
along under burdens, and children who toddled
beside the waggons or peeped out from under the
white coverings. This was evidently no ordinary
party of immigrants, but rather some nomad people
who had been compelled from stress of circumstances
to seek themselves a new country. There
rose through the clear air a confused clattering and
rumbling from this great mass of humanity, with
the creaking of wheels and the neighing of horses.
Loud as it was, it was not sufficient to rouse the
two tired wayfarers above them.
At the head of the column there rode a score
or more of grave ironfaced men, clad in sombre
homespun garments and armed with rifles. On
reaching the base of the bluff they halted, and held
a short council among themselves.
“The wells are to the right, my brothers,” said
one, a hard-lipped, clean-shaven man with grizzly
hair.
“To the right of the Sierra Blanco—so we shall
reach the Rio Grande,” said another.
“Fear not for water,” cried a third. “He who
could draw it from the rocks will not now abandon
His own chosen people.”
“Amen! Amen!” responded the whole party.
They were about to resume their journey when
one of the youngest and keenest-eyed uttered an
exclamation and pointed up at the rugged crag
above them. From its summit there fluttered a
little wisp of pink, showing up hard and bright
against the grey rocks behind. At the sight there
was a general reining up of horses and unslinging
of guns, while fresh horsemen came galloping up
to reinforce the vanguard. The word “Redskins”
was on every lip.
“There can’t be any number of Injuns here,”
said the elderly man who appeared to be in command.
“We have passed the Pawnees, and there
are no other tribes until we cross the great mountains.”
“Shall I go forward and see, Brother Stangerson,”
asked one of the band.
“And I,” “and I,” cried a dozen voices.
“Leave your horses below and we will await
you here,” the Elder answered. In a moment

the young fellows had dismounted, fastened their
horses, and were ascending the precipitous slope
which led up to the object which had excited
their curiosity. They advanced rapidly and noiselessly,
with the confidence and dexterity of practised
scouts. The watchers from the plain below
could see them flit from rock to rock until their
figures stood out against the skyline. The young
man who had first given the alarm was leading
them. Suddenly his followers saw him throw up
his hands, as though overcome with astonishment,
and on joining him they were affected in the same
way by the sight which met their eyes.
On the little plateau which crowned the barren
hill there stood a single giant boulder, and against
this boulder there lay a tall man, long-bearded and
hard-featured, but of an excessive thinness. His
placid face and regular breathing showed that he
was fast asleep. Beside him lay a little child, with
her round white arms encircling his brown sinewy
neck, and her golden haired head resting upon
the breast of his velveteen tunic. Her rosy lips
were parted, showing the regular line of snowwhite
teeth within, and a playful smile played over
her infantile features. Her plump little white legs
terminating in white socks and neat shoes with
shining buckles, offered a strange contrast to the
long shrivelled members of her companion. On
the ledge of rock above this strange couple there
stood three solemn buzzards, who, at the sight of
the new comers uttered raucous screams of disappointment
and flapped sullenly away.
The cries of the foul birds awoke the two sleepers
who stared about them in bewilderment. The
man staggered to his feet and looked down upon
the plain which had been so desolate when sleep
had overtaken him, and which was now traversed
by this enormous body of men and of beasts. His
face assumed an expression of incredulity as he
gazed, and he passed his boney hand over his eyes.
“This is what they call delirium, I guess,” he muttered.
The child stood beside him, holding on to
the skirt of his coat, and said nothing but looked
all round her with the wondering questioning gaze
of childhood.
The rescuing party were speedily able to convince
the two castaways that their appearance was
no delusion. One of them seized the little girl, and
hoisted her upon his shoulder, while two others
supported her gaunt companion, and assisted him
towards the waggons.
“My name is John Ferrier,” the wanderer explained;
“me and that little un are all that’s left o’
twenty-one people. The rest is all dead o’ thirst
and hunger away down in the south.”
“Is she your child?” asked someone.
“I guess she is now,” the other cried, defiantly;
“she’s mine ’cause I saved her. No man will take
her from me. She’s Lucy Ferrier from this day
on. Who are you, though?” he continued, glancing
with curiosity at his stalwart, sunburned rescuers;
“there seems to be a powerful lot of ye.”
“Nigh upon ten thousand,” said one of the
young men; “we are the persecuted children of
God—the chosen of the Angel Merona.”
“I never heard tell on him,” said the wanderer.
“He appears to have chosen a fair crowd of ye.”
“Do not jest at that which is sacred,” said the
other sternly. “We are of those who believe in
those sacred writings, drawn in Egyptian letters
on plates of beaten gold, which were handed unto
the holy Joseph Smith at Palmyra. We have come
from Nauvoo, in the State of Illinois, where we
had founded our temple. We have come to seek
a refuge from the violent man and from the godless,
even though it be the heart of the desert.”
The name of Nauvoo evidently recalled recollections
to John Ferrier. “I see,” he said, “you are
the Mormons.”
“We are the Mormons,” answered his companions
with one voice.
“And where are you going?”
“We do not know. The hand of God is leading
us under the person of our Prophet. You must
come before him. He shall say what is to be done
with you.”
They had reached the base of the hill by
this time, and were surrounded by crowds of
the pilgrims—pale-faced meek-looking women,
strong laughing children, and anxious earnesteyed
men. Many were the cries of astonishment
and of commiseration which arose from them
when they perceived the youth of one of the
strangers and the destitution of the other. Their escort
did not halt, however, but pushed on, followed
by a great crowd of Mormons, until they reached a
waggon, which was conspicuous for its great size
and for the gaudiness and smartness of its appearance.
Six horses were yoked to it, whereas the
others were furnished with two, or, at most, four
a-piece. Beside the driver there sat a man who
could not have been more than thirty years of age,
but whose massive head and resolute expression
marked him as a leader. He was reading a brownbacked
volume, but as the crowd approached he
laid it aside, and listened attentively to an account

of the episode. Then he turned to the two castaways.
“If we take you with us,” he said, in solemn
words, “it can only be as believers in our own
creed. We shall have no wolves in our fold. Better
far that your bones should bleach in this wilderness
than that you should prove to be that little
speck of decay which in time corrupts the whole
fruit. Will you come with us on these terms?”
“Guess I’ll come with you on any terms,” said
Ferrier, with such emphasis that the grave Elders
could not restrain a smile. The leader alone retained
his stern, impressive expression.
“Take him, Brother Stangerson,” he said, “give
him food and drink, and the child likewise. Let it
be your task also to teach him our holy creed. We
have delayed long enough. Forward! On, on to
Zion!”
“On, on to Zion!” cried the crowd of Mormons,
and the words rippled down the long caravan,
passing from mouth to mouth until they died away
in a dull murmur in the far distance. With a cracking
of whips and a creaking of wheels the great
waggons got into motion, and soon the whole caravan
was winding along once more. The Elder to
whose care the two waifs had been committed, led
them to his waggon, where a meal was already
awaiting them.
“You shall remain here,” he said. “In a few
days you will have recovered from your fatigues.
In the meantime, remember that now and forever
you are of our religion. Brigham Young has said it,
and he has spoken with the voice of Joseph Smith,
which is the voice of God.”

Mr. Sherlock Holmes

CHAPTER VII.

Light In The Darkness

The intelligence with which Lestrade greeted
us was so momentous and so unexpected, that
we were all three fairly dumfoundered. Gregson
sprang out of his chair and upset the remainder of
his whiskey and water. I stared in silence at Sherlock
Holmes, whose lips were compressed and his
brows drawn down over his eyes.
“Stangerson too!” he muttered. “The plot
thickens.”
“It was quite thick enough before,” grumbled
Lestrade, taking a chair. “I seem to have dropped
into a sort of council of war.”
“Are you—are you sure of this piece of intelligence?”
stammered Gregson.
“I have just come from his room,” said
Lestrade. “I was the first to discover what had
occurred.”
“We have been hearing Gregson’s view of the
matter,” Holmes observed. “Would you mind letting
us know what you have seen and done?”
“I have no objection,” Lestrade answered, seating
himself. “I freely confess that I was of the opinion
that Stangerson was concerned in the death of
Drebber. This fresh development has shown me
that I was completely mistaken. Full of the one
idea, I set myself to find out what had become of
the Secretary. They had been seen together at Euston
Station about half-past eight on the evening of
the third. At two in the morning Drebber had been
found in the Brixton Road. The question which
confronted me was to find out how Stangerson had
been employed between 8.30 and the time of the
crime, and what had become of him afterwards.
I telegraphed to Liverpool, giving a description
of the man, and warning them to keep a watch
upon the American boats. I then set to work calling
upon all the hotels and lodging-houses in the
vicinity of Euston. You see, I argued that if Drebber
and his companion had become separated, the
natural course for the latter would be to put up
somewhere in the vicinity for the night, and then
to hang about the station again next morning.”
“They would be likely to agree on some
meeting-place beforehand,” remarked Holmes.
“So it proved. I spent the whole of yesterday
evening in making enquiries entirely without
avail. This morning I began very early, and at eight
o’clock I reached Halliday’s Private Hotel, in Little
George Street. On my enquiry as to whether a Mr.
Stangerson was living there, they at once answered
me in the affirmative.
“ ‘No doubt you are the gentleman whom he
was expecting,’ they said. ‘He has been waiting
for a gentleman for two days.’
“ ‘Where is he now?’ I asked.
“ ‘He is upstairs in bed. He wished to be called
at nine.’
“ ‘I will go up and see him at once,’ I said.
“It seemed to me that my sudden appearance
might shake his nerves and lead him to say something
unguarded. The Boots volunteered to show
me the room: it was on the second floor, and there
was a small corridor leading up to it. The Boots
pointed out the door to me, and was about to go
downstairs again when I saw something that made
me feel sickish, in spite of my twenty years’ experience.
From under the door there curled a little red
ribbon of blood, which had meandered across the
passage and formed a little pool along the skirting
at the other side. I gave a cry, which brought
the Boots back. He nearly fainted when he saw it.
The door was locked on the inside, but we put our
shoulders to it, and knocked it in. The window
of the room was open, and beside the window, all
huddled up, lay the body of a man in his nightdress.
He was quite dead, and had been for some
time, for his limbs were rigid and cold. When we
turned him over, the Boots recognized him at once
as being the same gentleman who had engaged the
room under the name of Joseph Stangerson. The
cause of death was a deep stab in the left side,
which must have penetrated the heart. And now
comes the strangest part of the affair. What do you
suppose was above the murdered man?”
I felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment
of coming horror, even before Sherlock Holmes answered.
“The word RACHE, written in letters of blood,”
he said.
“That was it,” said Lestrade, in an awe-struck
voice; and we were all silent for a while.
There was something so methodical and so incomprehensible
about the deeds of this unknown
assassin, that it imparted a fresh ghastliness to his
crimes. My nerves, which were steady enough on
the field of battle tingled as I thought of it.
“The man was seen,” continued Lestrade. “A
milk boy, passing on his way to the dairy, happened
to walk down the lane which leads from
30
A Study In Scarlet
the mews at the back of the hotel. He noticed
that a ladder, which usually lay there, was raised
against one of the windows of the second floor,
which was wide open. After passing, he looked
back and saw a man descend the ladder. He came
down so quietly and openly that the boy imagined
him to be some carpenter or joiner at work in the
hotel. He took no particular notice of him, beyond
thinking in his own mind that it was early for him
to be at work. He has an impression that the man
was tall, had a reddish face, and was dressed in
a long, brownish coat. He must have stayed in
the room some little time after the murder, for we
found blood-stained water in the basin, where he
had washed his hands, and marks on the sheets
where he had deliberately wiped his knife.”
I glanced at Holmes on hearing the description
of the murderer, which tallied so exactly with his
own. There was, however, no trace of exultation or
satisfaction upon his face.
“Did you find nothing in the room which could
furnish a clue to the murderer?” he asked.
“Nothing. Stangerson had Drebber’s purse in
his pocket, but it seems that this was usual, as he
did all the paying. There was eighty odd pounds
in it, but nothing had been taken. Whatever the
motives of these extraordinary crimes, robbery is
certainly not one of them. There were no papers
or memoranda in the murdered man’s pocket, except
a single telegram, dated from Cleveland about
a month ago, and containing the words, ‘J. H. is
in Europe.’ There was no name appended to this
message.”
“And there was nothing else?” Holmes asked.
“Nothing of any importance. The man’s novel,
with which he had read himself to sleep was lying
upon the bed, and his pipe was on a chair beside
him. There was a glass of water on the table, and
on the window-sill a small chip ointment box containing
a couple of pills.”
Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an
exclamation of delight.
“The last link,” he cried, exultantly. “My case
is complete.”
The two detectives stared at him in amazement.
“I have now in my hands,” my companion said,
confidently, “all the threads which have formed
such a tangle. There are, of course, details to be
filled in, but I am as certain of all the main facts,
from the time that Drebber parted from Stangerson
at the station, up to the discovery of the body
of the latter, as if I had seen them with my own
eyes. I will give you a proof of my knowledge.
Could you lay your hand upon those pills?”
“I have them,” said Lestrade, producing a small
white box; “I took them and the purse and the
telegram, intending to have them put in a place
of safety at the Police Station. It was the merest
chance my taking these pills, for I am bound to
say that I do not attach any importance to them.”
“Give them here,” said Holmes. “Now, Doctor,”
turning to me, “are those ordinary pills?”
They certainly were not. They were of a pearly
grey colour, small, round, and almost transparent
against the light. “From their lightness and transparency,
I should imagine that they are soluble in
water,” I remarked.
“Precisely so,” answered Holmes. “Now would
you mind going down and fetching that poor little
devil of a terrier which has been bad so long, and
which the landlady wanted you to put out of its
pain yesterday.”
I went downstairs and carried the dog upstair
in my arms. It’s laboured breathing and glazing
eye showed that it was not far from its end. Indeed,
its snow-white muzzle proclaimed that it
had already exceeded the usual term of canine existence.
I placed it upon a cushion on the rug.
“I will now cut one of these pills in two,” said
Holmes, and drawing his penknife he suited the
action to the word. “One half we return into the
box for future purposes. The other half I will place
in this wine glass, in which is a teaspoonful of water.
You perceive that our friend, the Doctor, is
right, and that it readily dissolves.”
“This may be very interesting,” said Lestrade,
in the injured tone of one who suspects that he is
being laughed at, “I cannot see, however, what it
has to do with the death of Mr. Joseph Stangerson.”
“Patience, my friend, patience! You will find
in time that it has everything to do with it. I shall
now add a little milk to make the mixture palatable,
and on presenting it to the dog we find that
he laps it up readily enough.”
As he spoke he turned the contents of the
wine glass into a saucer and placed it in front of
the terrier, who speedily licked it dry. Sherlock
Holmes’ earnest demeanour had so far convinced
us that we all sat in silence, watching the animal
intently, and expecting some startling effect.
None such appeared, however. The dog continued
to lie stretched upon the cushion, breathing in
a laboured way, but apparently neither the better
nor the worse for its draught.
Holmes had taken out his watch, and as minute
followed minute without result, an expression of
the utmost chagrin and disappointment appeared
upon his features. He gnawed his lip, drummed
his fingers upon the table, and showed every other
symptom of acute impatience. So great was his
emotion, that I felt sincerely sorry for him, while
the two detectives smiled derisively, by no means
displeased at this check which he had met.
“It can’t be a coincidence,” he cried, at last
springing from his chair and pacing wildly up and
down the room; “it is impossible that it should be
a mere coincidence. The very pills which I suspected
in the case of Drebber are actually found
after the death of Stangerson. And yet they are
inert. What can it mean? Surely my whole chain
of reasoning cannot have been false. It is impossible!
And yet this wretched dog is none the worse.
Ah, I have it! I have it!”With a perfect shriek of delight
he rushed to the box, cut the other pill in two,
dissolved it, added milk, and presented it to the
terrier. The unfortunate creature’s tongue seemed
hardly to have been moistened in it before it gave
a convulsive shiver in every limb, and lay as rigid
and lifeless as if it had been struck by lightning.
Sherlock Holmes drew a long breath, and
wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “I
should have more faith,” he said; “I ought to know
by this time that when a fact appears to be opposed
to a long train of deductions, it invariably
proves to be capable of bearing some other interpretation.
Of the two pills in that box one was of
the most deadly poison, and the other was entirely
harmless. I ought to have known that before ever
I saw the box at all.”
This last statement appeared to me to be so
startling, that I could hardly believe that he was
in his sober senses. There was the dead dog, however,
to prove that his conjecture had been correct.
It seemed to me that the mists in my own mind
were gradually clearing away, and I began to have
a dim, vague perception of the truth.
“All this seems strange to you,” continued
Holmes, “because you failed at the beginning of
the inquiry to grasp the importance of the single
real clue which was presented to you. I had the
good fortune to seize upon that, and everything
which has occurred since then has served to confirm
my original supposition, and, indeed, was the
logical sequence of it. Hence things which have
perplexed you and made the case more obscure,
have served to enlighten me and to strengthen
my conclusions. It is a mistake to confound
strangeness with mystery. The most commonplace
crime is often the most mysterious because
it presents no new or special features from which
deductions may be drawn. This murder would
have been infinitely more difficult to unravel had
the body of the victim been simply found lying in
the roadway without any of those outr´e and sensational
accompaniments which have rendered it remarkable.
These strange details, far from making
the case more difficult, have really had the effect
of making it less so.”
Mr. Gregson, who had listened to this address
with considerable impatience, could contain himself
no longer. “Look here, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,”
he said, “we are all ready to acknowledge that you
are a smart man, and that you have your own
methods of working. We want something more
than mere theory and preaching now, though. It
is a case of taking the man. I have made my case
out, and it seems I was wrong. Young Charpentier
could not have been engaged in this second affair.
Lestrade went after his man, Stangerson, and it appears
that he was wrong too. You have thrown
out hints here, and hints there, and seem to know
more than we do, but the time has come when we
feel that we have a right to ask you straight how
much you do know of the business. Can you name
the man who did it?”
“I cannot help feeling that Gregson is right,
sir,” remarked Lestrade. “We have both tried, and
we have both failed. You have remarked more than
once since I have been in the room that you had all
the evidence which you require. Surely you will
not withhold it any longer.”
“Any delay in arresting the assassin,” I observed,
“might give him time to perpetrate some
fresh atrocity.”
Thus pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of
irresolution. He continued to walk up and down
the room with his head sunk on his chest and his
brows drawn down, as was his habit when lost in
thought.
“There will be no more murders,” he said at
last, stopping abruptly and facing us. “You can
put that consideration out of the question. You
have asked me if I know the name of the assassin.
I do. The mere knowing of his name is a small
thing, however, compared with the power of laying
our hands upon him. This I expect very shortly to
do. I have good hopes of managing it through my
own arrangements; but it is a thing which needs
delicate handling, for we have a shrewd and desperate
man to deal with, who is supported, as I
have had occasion to prove, by another who is as

clever as himself. As long as this man has no idea
that anyone can have a clue there is some chance
of securing him; but if he had the slightest suspicion,
he would change his name, and vanish in an
instant among the four million inhabitants of this
great city. Without meaning to hurt either of your
feelings, I am bound to say that I consider these
men to be more than a match for the official force,
and that is why I have not asked your assistance.
If I fail I shall, of course, incur all the blame due
to this omission; but that I am prepared for. At
present I am ready to promise that the instant that
I can communicate with you without endangering
my own combinations, I shall do so.”
Gregson and Lestrade seemed to be far from
satisfied by this assurance, or by the depreciating
allusion to the detective police. The former had
flushed up to the roots of his flaxen hair, while the
other’s beady eyes glistened with curiosity and resentment.
Neither of them had time to speak, however,
before there was a tap at the door, and the
spokesman of the street Arabs, young Wiggins, introduced
his insignificant and unsavoury person.
“Please, sir,” he said, touching his forelock, “I
have the cab downstairs.”
“Good boy,” said Holmes, blandly. “Why don’t
you introduce this pattern at Scotland Yard?” he
continued, taking a pair of steel handcuffs from
a drawer. “See how beautifully the spring works.
They fasten in an instant.”
“The old pattern is good enough,” remarked
Lestrade, “if we can only find the man to put them
on.”
“Very good, very good,” said Holmes, smiling.
“The cabman may as well help me with my boxes.
Just ask him to step up, Wiggins.”
I was surprised to find my companion speaking
as though he were about to set out on a journey,
since he had not said anything to me about
it. There was a small portmanteau in the room,
and this he pulled out and began to strap. He was
busily engaged at it when the cabman entered the
room.
“Just give me a help with this buckle, cabman,”
he said, kneeling over his task, and never turning
his head.
The fellow came forward with a somewhat
sullen, defiant air, and put down his hands to assist.
At that instant there was a sharp click, the
jangling of metal, and Sherlock Holmes sprang to
his feet again.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, with flashing eyes, “let
me introduce you to Mr. Jefferson Hope, the murderer
of Enoch Drebber and of Joseph Stangerson.”
The whole thing occurred in a moment—so
quickly that I had no time to realize it. I have
a vivid recollection of that instant, of Holmes’
triumphant expression and the ring of his voice,
of the cabman’s dazed, savage face, as he glared
at the glittering handcuffs, which had appeared
as if by magic upon his wrists. For a second
or two we might have been a group of statues.
Then, with an inarticulate roar of fury, the prisoner
wrenched himself free from Holmes’s grasp,
and hurled himself through the window. Woodwork
and glass gave way before him; but before he
got quite through, Gregson, Lestrade, and Holmes
sprang upon him like so many staghounds. He
was dragged back into the room, and then commenced
a terrific conflict. So powerful and so
fierce was he, that the four of us were shaken off
again and again. He appeared to have the convulsive
strength of a man in an epileptic fit. His
face and hands were terribly mangled by his passage
through the glass, but loss of blood had no effect
in diminishing his resistance. It was not until
Lestrade succeeded in getting his hand inside his
neckcloth and half-strangling him that we made
him realize that his struggles were of no avail; and
even then we felt no security until we had pinioned
his feet as well as his hands. That done, we rose to
our feet breathless and panting.
“We have his cab,” said Sherlock Holmes. “It
will serve to take him to Scotland Yard. And now,
gentlemen,” he continued, with a pleasant smile,
“we have reached the end of our little mystery.
You are very welcome to put any questions that
you like to me now, and there is no danger that I

will refuse to answer them.”

Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

CHAPTER VI.

Tobias Gregson Shows What He Can Do

The papers next day were full of the “Brixton

Mystery,” as they termed it. Each had a long account
of the affair, and some had leaders upon
it in addition. There was some information in
them which was new to me. I still retain in my
scrap-book numerous clippings and extracts bearing
upon the case. Here is a condensation of a few
of them:—
The Daily Telegraph remarked that in the history
of crime there had seldom been a tragedy which
presented stranger features. The German name of
the victim, the absence of all other motive, and the
sinister inscription on the wall, all pointed to its
perpetration by political refugees and revolutionists.
The Socialists had many branches in America,
and the deceased had, no doubt, infringed their
unwritten laws, and been tracked down by them.
After alluding airily to the Vehmgericht, aqua tofana,
Carbonari, the Marchioness de Brinvilliers,
the Darwinian theory, the principles of Malthus,
and the Ratcliff Highway murders, the article concluded
by admonishing the Government and advocating
a closer watch over foreigners in England.
The Standard commented upon the fact that
lawless outrages of the sort usually occurred under
a Liberal Administration. They arose from the
unsettling of the minds of the masses, and the consequent
weakening of all authority. The deceased
was an American gentleman who had been residing
for some weeks in the Metropolis. He had
stayed at the boarding-house of Madame Charpentier,
in Torquay Terrace, Camberwell. He was
accompanied in his travels by his private secretary,
Mr. Joseph Stangerson. The two bade adieu to
their landlady upon Tuesday, the 4th inst., and departed
to Euston Station with the avowed intention
of catching the Liverpool express. They were afterwards
seen together upon the platform. Nothing
more is known of them until Mr. Drebber’s body
was, as recorded, discovered in an empty house in
the Brixton Road, many miles from Euston. How
he came there, or how he met his fate, are questions
which are still involved in mystery. Nothing
is known of the whereabouts of Stangerson. We
are glad to learn that Mr. Lestrade and Mr. Gregson,
of Scotland Yard, are both engaged upon the
case, and it is confidently anticipated that these
well-known officers will speedily throw light upon
the matter.
The Daily News observed that there was no
doubt as to the crime being a political one. The
despotism and hatred of Liberalism which animated
the Continental Governments had had the
effect of driving to our shores a number of men
who might have made excellent citizens were they
not soured by the recollection of all that they had
undergone. Among these men there was a stringent
code of honour, any infringement of which
was punished by death. Every effort should be
made to find the secretary, Stangerson, and to ascertain
some particulars of the habits of the deceased.
A great step had been gained by the discovery
of the address of the house at which he had
boarded—a result which was entirely due to the
acuteness and energy of Mr. Gregson of Scotland
Yard.
Sherlock Holmes and I read these notices over
together at breakfast, and they appeared to afford
him considerable amusement.
“I told you that, whatever happened, Lestrade
and Gregson would be sure to score.”
“That depends on how it turns out.”
“Oh, bless you, it doesn’t matter in the least. If
the man is caught, it will be on account of their exertions;
if he escapes, it will be in spite of their exertions.
It’s heads I win and tails you lose. Whatever
they do, they will have followers. ‘Un sot trouve
toujours un plus sot qui l’admire.’ ”
“What on earth is this?” I cried, for at this moment
there came the pattering of many steps in the
hall and on the stairs, accompanied by audible expressions
of disgust upon the part of our landlady.
“It’s the Baker Street division of the detective
police force,” said my companion, gravely; and as
he spoke there rushed into the room half a dozen
of the dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that
ever I clapped eyes on.
“’Tention!” cried Holmes, in a sharp tone, and
the six dirty little scoundrels stood in a line like so
many disreputable statuettes. “In future you shall
send up Wiggins alone to report, and the rest of
you must wait in the street. Have you found it,
Wiggins?”
“No, sir, we hain’t,” said one of the youths.
“I hardly expected you would. You must keep
on until you do. Here are your wages.” He handed
each of them a shilling. “Now, off you go, and
come back with a better report next time.”
He waved his hand, and they scampered away
downstairs like so many rats, and we heard their
shrill voices next moment in the street.

“There’s more work to be got out of one of
those little beggars than out of a dozen of the
force,” Holmes remarked. “The mere sight of
an official-looking person seals men’s lips. These
youngsters, however, go everywhere and hear everything.
They are as sharp as needles, too; all
they want is organisation.”
“Is it on this Brixton case that you are employing
them?” I asked.
“Yes; there is a point which I wish to ascertain.
It is merely a matter of time. Hullo! we are going
to hear some news now with a vengeance! Here
is Gregson coming down the road with beatitude
written upon every feature of his face. Bound for
us, I know. Yes, he is stopping. There he is!”
There was a violent peal at the bell, and in a
few seconds the fair-haired detective came up the
stairs, three steps at a time, and burst into our
sitting-room.
“My dear fellow,” he cried, wringing Holmes’
unresponsive hand, “congratulate me! I have
made the whole thing as clear as day.”
A shade of anxiety seemed to me to cross my
companion’s expressive face.
“Do you mean that you are on the right track?”
he asked.
“The right track! Why, sir, we have the man
under lock and key.”
“And his name is?”
“Arthur Charpentier, sub-lieutenant in Her
Majesty’s navy,” cried Gregson, pompously, rubbing
his fat hands and inflating his chest.
Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief, and relaxed
into a smile.
“Take a seat, and try one of these cigars,” he
said. “We are anxious to know how you managed
it. Will you have some whiskey and water?”
“I don’t mind if I do,” the detective answered.
“The tremendous exertions which I have gone
through during the last day or two have worn me
out. Not so much bodily exertion, you understand,
as the strain upon the mind. You will appreciate
that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for we are both brainworkers.”
“You do me too much honour,” said Holmes,
gravely. “Let us hear how you arrived at this most
gratifying result.”
The detective seated himself in the arm-chair,
and puffed complacently at his cigar. Then suddenly
he slapped his thigh in a paroxysm of
amusement.
“The fun of it is,” he cried, “that that fool
Lestrade, who thinks himself so smart, has gone
off upon the wrong track altogether. He is after
the secretary Stangerson, who had no more to do
with the crime than the babe unborn. I have no
doubt that he has caught him by this time.”
The idea tickled Gregson so much that he
laughed until he choked.
“And how did you get your clue?”
“Ah, I’ll tell you all about it. Of course, Doctor
Watson, this is strictly between ourselves. The first
difficulty which we had to contend with was the
finding of this American’s antecedents. Some people
would have waited until their advertisements
were answered, or until parties came forward and
volunteered information. That is not Tobias Gregson’s
way of going to work. You remember the hat
beside the dead man?”
“Yes,” said Holmes; “by John Underwood and
Sons, 129, Camberwell Road.”
Gregson looked quite crest-fallen.
“I had no idea that you noticed that,” he said.
“Have you been there?”
“No.”
“Ha!” cried Gregson, in a relieved voice; “you
should never neglect a chance, however small it
may seem.”
“To a great mind, nothing is little,” remarked
Holmes, sententiously.
“Well, I went to Underwood, and asked him
if he had sold a hat of that size and description.
He looked over his books, and came on it at once.
He had sent the hat to a Mr. Drebber, residing
at Charpentier’s Boarding Establishment, Torquay
Terrace. Thus I got at his address.”
“Smart—very smart!” murmured Sherlock
Holmes.
“I next called upon Madame Charpentier,” continued
the detective. “I found her very pale and
distressed. Her daughter was in the room, too—an
uncommonly fine girl she is, too; she was looking
red about the eyes and her lips trembled as
I spoke to her. That didn’t escape my notice. I
began to smell a rat. You know the feeling, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, when you come upon the right
scent—a kind of thrill in your nerves. ‘Have you
heard of the mysterious death of your late boarder
Mr. Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland?’ I asked.
“The mother nodded. She didn’t seem able to
get out a word. The daughter burst into tears. I felt
more than ever that these people knew something
of the matter.
“ ‘At what o’clock did Mr. Drebber leave your
house for the train?’ I asked.

“ ‘At eight o’clock,’ she said, gulping in her
throat to keep down her agitation. ‘His secretary,
Mr. Stangerson, said that there were two
trains—one at 9.15 and one at 11. He was to catch
the first.’
“ ‘And was that the last which you saw of him?’
“A terrible change came over the woman’s face
as I asked the question. Her features turned perfectly
livid. It was some seconds before she could
get out the single word ‘Yes’—and when it did
come it was in a husky unnatural tone.
“There was silence for a moment, and then the
daughter spoke in a calm clear voice.
“ ‘No good can ever come of falsehood,
mother,’ she said. ‘Let us be frank with this gentleman.
We did see Mr. Drebber again.’
“ ‘God forgive you!’ cried Madame Charpentier,
throwing up her hands and sinking back in
her chair. ‘You have murdered your brother.’
“ ‘Arthur would rather that we spoke the truth,’
the girl answered firmly.
“ ‘You had best tell me all about it now,’ I said.
‘Half-confidences are worse than none. Besides,
you do not know how much we know of it.’
“ ‘On your head be it, Alice!’ cried her mother;
and then, turning to me, ‘I will tell you all, sir. Do
not imagine that my agitation on behalf of my son
arises from any fear lest he should have had a hand
in this terrible affair. He is utterly innocent of it.
My dread is, however, that in your eyes and in the
eyes of others he may appear to be compromised.
That however is surely impossible. His high character,
his profession, his antecedents would all forbid
it.’
“ ‘Your best way is to make a clean breast of the
facts,’ I answered. ‘Depend upon it, if your son is
innocent he will be none the worse.’
“ ‘Perhaps, Alice, you had better leave us together,’
she said, and her daughter withdrew.
‘Now, sir,’ she continued, ‘I had no intention of
telling you all this, but since my poor daughter has
disclosed it I have no alternative. Having once decided
to speak, I will tell you all without omitting
any particular.’
“ ‘It is your wisest course,’ said I.
“ ‘Mr. Drebber has been with us nearly three
weeks. He and his secretary, Mr. Stangerson,
had been travelling on the Continent. I noticed
a “Copenhagen” label upon each of their trunks,
showing that that had been their last stopping
place. Stangerson was a quiet reserved man, but
his employer, I am sorry to say, was far otherwise.
He was coarse in his habits and brutish in
his ways. The very night of his arrival he became
very much the worse for drink, and, indeed, after
twelve o’clock in the day he could hardly ever
be said to be sober. His manners towards the
maid-servants were disgustingly free and familiar.
Worst of all, he speedily assumed the same attitude
towards my daughter, Alice, and spoke to her
more than once in a way which, fortunately, she
is too innocent to understand. On one occasion
he actually seized her in his arms and embraced
her—an outrage which caused his own secretary
to reproach him for his unmanly conduct.’
“ ‘But why did you stand all this,’ I asked. ‘I
suppose that you can get rid of your boarders
when you wish.’
“Mrs. Charpentier blushed at my pertinent
question. ‘Would to God that I had given him notice
on the very day that he came,’ she said. ‘But it
was a sore temptation. They were paying a pound
a day each—fourteen pounds a week, and this is
the slack season. I am a widow, and my boy in
the Navy has cost me much. I grudged to lose
the money. I acted for the best. This last was too
much, however, and I gave him notice to leave on
account of it. That was the reason of his going.’
“ ‘Well?’
“ ‘My heart grew light when I saw him drive
away. My son is on leave just now, but I did not tell
him anything of all this, for his temper is violent,
and he is passionately fond of his sister. When
I closed the door behind them a load seemed to
be lifted from my mind. Alas, in less than an
hour there was a ring at the bell, and I learned
that Mr. Drebber had returned. He was much excited,
and evidently the worse for drink. He forced
his way into the room, where I was sitting with
my daughter, and made some incoherent remark
about having missed his train. He then turned to
Alice, and before my very face, proposed to her
that she should fly with him. “You are of age,”
he said, “and there is no law to stop you. I have
money enough and to spare. Never mind the old
girl here, but come along with me now straight
away. You shall live like a princess.” Poor Alice
was so frightened that she shrunk away from him,
but he caught her by the wrist and endeavoured
to draw her towards the door. I screamed, and at
that moment my son Arthur came into the room.
What happened then I do not know. I heard oaths
and the confused sounds of a scuffle. I was too
terrified to raise my head. When I did look up
I saw Arthur standing in the doorway laughing,

with a stick in his hand. “I don’t think that fine
fellow will trouble us again,” he said. “I will just
go after him and see what he does with himself.”
With those words he took his hat and started off
down the street. The next morning we heard of
Mr. Drebber’s mysterious death.’
“This statement came from Mrs. Charpentier’s
lips with many gasps and pauses. At times she
spoke so low that I could hardly catch the words. I
made shorthand notes of all that she said, however,
so that there should be no possibility of a mistake.”
“It’s quite exciting,” said Sherlock Holmes,
with a yawn. “What happened next?”
“When Mrs. Charpentier paused,” the detective
continued, “I saw that the whole case hung
upon one point. Fixing her with my eye in a
way which I always found effective with women, I
asked her at what hour her son returned.
“ ‘I do not know,’ she answered.
“ ‘Not know?’
“ ‘No; he has a latch-key, and he let himself in.’
“ ‘After you went to bed?’
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘When did you go to bed?’
“ ‘About eleven.’
“ ‘So your son was gone at least two hours?’
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘Possibly four or five?’
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘What was he doing during that time?’
“ ‘I do not know,’ she answered, turning white
to her very lips.
“Of course after that there was nothing more to
be done. I found out where Lieutenant Charpentier
was, took two officers with me, and arrested
him. When I touched him on the shoulder and
warned him to come quietly with us, he answered
us as bold as brass, ‘I suppose you are arresting me
for being concerned in the death of that scoundrel
Drebber,’ he said. We had said nothing to him
about it, so that his alluding to it had a most suspicious
aspect.”
“Very,” said Holmes.
“He still carried the heavy stick which the
mother described him as having with him when
he followed Drebber. It was a stout oak cudgel.”
“What is your theory, then?”
“Well, my theory is that he followed Drebber as
far as the Brixton Road. When there, a fresh altercation
arose between them, in the course of which
Drebber received a blow from the stick, in the pit
of the stomach, perhaps, which killed him without
leaving any mark. The night was so wet that no
one was about, so Charpentier dragged the body
of his victim into the empty house. As to the candle,
and the blood, and the writing on the wall,
and the ring, they may all be so many tricks to
throw the police on to the wrong scent.”
“Well done!” said Holmes in an encouraging
voice. “Really, Gregson, you are getting along. We
shall make something of you yet.”
“I flatter myself that I have managed it rather
neatly,” the detective answered proudly. “The
young man volunteered a statement, in which he
said that after following Drebber some time, the
latter perceived him, and took a cab in order to get
away from him. On his way home he met an old
shipmate, and took a long walk with him. On being
asked where this old shipmate lived, he was
unable to give any satisfactory reply. I think the
whole case fits together uncommonly well. What
amuses me is to think of Lestrade, who had started
off upon the wrong scent. I am afraid he won’t
make much of—Why, by Jove, here’s the very man
himself!”
It was indeed Lestrade, who had ascended the
stairs while we were talking, and who now entered
the room. The assurance and jauntiness which
generally marked his demeanour and dress were,
however, wanting. His face was disturbed and
troubled, while his clothes were disarranged and
untidy. He had evidently come with the intention
of consulting with Sherlock Holmes, for on
perceiving his colleague he appeared to be embarrassed
and put out. He stood in the centre of the
room, fumbling nervously with his hat and uncertain
what to do. “This is a most extraordinary
case,” he said at last—“a most incomprehensible
affair.”
“Ah, you find it so, Mr. Lestrade!” cried Gregson,
triumphantly. “I thought you would come to
that conclusion. Have you managed to find the
Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson?”
“The Secretary, Mr. Joseph Stangerson,” said
Lestrade gravely, “was murdered at Halliday’s Private
Hotel about six o’clock this morning.”

Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

CHAPTER V.

Our Advertisement Brings A Visitor

Our morning’s exertions had been too much
for my weak health, and I was tired out in the afternoon.
After Holmes’ departure for the concert,
I lay down upon the sofa and endeavoured to get
a couple of hours’ sleep. It was a useless attempt.
My mind had been too much excited by all that
had occurred, and the strangest fancies and surmises
crowded into it. Every time that I closed
my eyes I saw before me the distorted baboonlike
countenance of the murdered man. So sinister
was the impression which that face had produced
upon me that I found it difficult to feel anything
but gratitude for him who had removed its owner
from the world. If ever human features bespoke
vice of the most malignant type, they were certainly
those of Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland. Still

I recognized that justice must be done, and that
the depravity of the victim was no condonement
in the eyes of the law.
The more I thought of it the more extraordinary
did my companion’s hypothesis, that the man had
been poisoned, appear. I remembered how he had
sniffed his lips, and had no doubt that he had detected
something which had given rise to the idea.
Then, again, if not poison, what had caused the
man’s death, since there was neither wound nor
marks of strangulation? But, on the other hand,
whose blood was that which lay so thickly upon
the floor? There were no signs of a struggle, nor
had the victim any weapon with which he might
have wounded an antagonist. As long as all these
questions were unsolved, I felt that sleep would be
no easy matter, either for Holmes or myself. His
quiet self-confident manner convinced me that he
had already formed a theory which explained all
the facts, though what it was I could not for an
instant conjecture.
He was very late in returning—so late, that I
knew that the concert could not have detained him
all the time. Dinner was on the table before he appeared.
“It was magnificent,” he said, as he took his
seat. “Do you remember what Darwin says about
music? He claims that the power of producing and
appreciating it existed among the human race long
before the power of speech was arrived at. Perhaps
that is why we are so subtly influenced by it. There
are vague memories in our souls of those misty
centuries when the world was in its childhood.”
“That’s rather a broad idea,” I remarked.
“One’s ideas must be as broad as Nature if they
are to interpret Nature,” he answered. “What’s the
matter? You’re not looking quite yourself. This
Brixton Road affair has upset you.”
“To tell the truth, it has,” I said. “I ought to be
more case-hardened after my Afghan experiences.
I saw my own comrades hacked to pieces at Maiwand
without losing my nerve.”
“I can understand. There is a mystery about
this which stimulates the imagination; where there
is no imagination there is no horror. Have you seen
the evening paper?”
“No.”
“It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It
does not mention the fact that when the man was
raised up, a woman’s wedding ring fell upon the
floor. It is just as well it does not.”
“Why?”
“Look at this advertisement,” he answered. “I
had one sent to every paper this morning immediately
after the affair.”
He threw the paper across to me and I glanced
at the place indicated. It was the first announcement
in the “Found” column. “In Brixton Road,
this morning,” it ran, “a plain gold wedding ring,
found in the roadway between the ‘White Hart’
Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr. Watson,
221b, Baker Street, between eight and nine this
evening.”
“Excuse my using your name,” he said. “If I
used my own some of these dunderheads would
recognize it, and want to meddle in the affair.”
“That is all right,” I answered. “But supposing
anyone applies, I have no ring.”
“Oh yes, you have,” said he, handing me one.
“This will do very well. It is almost a facsimile.”
“And who do you expect will answer this advertisement.”
“Why, the man in the brown coat—our florid
friend with the square toes. If he does not come
himself he will send an accomplice.”
“Would he not consider it as too dangerous?”
“Not at all. If my view of the case is correct,
and I have every reason to believe that it is, this
man would rather risk anything than lose the ring.
According to my notion he dropped it while stooping
over Drebber’s body, and did not miss it at
the time. After leaving the house he discovered
his loss and hurried back, but found the police already
in possession, owing to his own folly in leaving
the candle burning. He had to pretend to be
drunk in order to allay the suspicions which might
have been aroused by his appearance at the gate.
Now put yourself in that man’s place. On thinking
the matter over, it must have occurred to him
that it was possible that he had lost the ring in the
road after leaving the house. What would he do,
then? He would eagerly look out for the evening
papers in the hope of seeing it among the articles
found. His eye, of course, would light upon
this. He would be overjoyed. Why should he fear
a trap? There would be no reason in his eyes why
the finding of the ring should be connected with
the murder. He would come. He will come. You
shall see him within an hour.”
“And then?” I asked.
“Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then.
Have you any arms?”
“I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges.”

“You had better clean it and load it. He will
be a desperate man, and though I shall take him
unawares, it is as well to be ready for anything.”
I went to my bedroom and followed his advice.
When I returned with the pistol the table had been
cleared, and Holmes was engaged in his favourite
occupation of scraping upon his violin.
“The plot thickens,” he said, as I entered; “I
have just had an answer to my American telegram.
My view of the case is the correct one.”
“And that is?” I asked eagerly.
“My fiddle would be the better for new
strings,” he remarked. “Put your pistol in your
pocket. When the fellow comes speak to him in an
ordinary way. Leave the rest to me. Don’t frighten
him by looking at him too hard.”
“It is eight o’clock now,” I said, glancing at my
watch.
“Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes.
Open the door slightly. That will do. Now
put the key on the inside. Thank you! This is a
queer old book I picked up at a stall yesterday—De
Jure inter Gentes—published in Latin at Liege in the
Lowlands, in 1642. Charles’ head was still firm on
his shoulders when this little brown-backed volume
was struck off.”
“Who is the printer?”
“Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been.
On the fly-leaf, in very faded ink, is written ‘Ex
libris Guliolmi Whyte.’ I wonder who William
Whyte was. Some pragmatical seventeenth century
lawyer, I suppose. His writing has a legal
twist about it. Here comes our man, I think.”
As he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell.
Sherlock Holmes rose softly and moved his chair
in the direction of the door. We heard the servant
pass along the hall, and the sharp click of the latch
as she opened it.
“Does Dr. Watson live here?” asked a clear but
rather harsh voice. We could not hear the servant’s
reply, but the door closed, and some one began to
ascend the stairs. The footfall was an uncertain
and shuffling one. A look of surprise passed over
the face of my companion as he listened to it. It
came slowly along the passage, and there was a
feeble tap at the door.
“Come in,” I cried.
At my summons, instead of the man of violence
whom we expected, a very old and wrinkled
woman hobbled into the apartment. She appeared
to be dazzled by the sudden blaze of light, and
after dropping a curtsey, she stood blinking at us
with her bleared eyes and fumbling in her pocket
with nervous, shaky fingers. I glanced at my companion,
and his face had assumed such a disconsolate
expression that it was all I could do to keep
my countenance.
The old crone drew out an evening paper, and
pointed at our advertisement. “It’s this as has
brought me, good gentlemen,” she said, dropping
another curtsey; “a gold wedding ring in the Brixton
Road. It belongs to my girl Sally, as was married
only this time twelvemonth, which her husband
is steward aboard a Union boat, and what
he’d say if he comes ’ome and found her without
her ring is more than I can think, he being short
enough at the best o’ times, but more especially
when he has the drink. If it please you, she went
to the circus last night along with—”
“Is that her ring?” I asked.
“The Lord be thanked!” cried the old woman;
“Sally will be a glad woman this night. That’s the
ring.”
“And what may your address be?” I inquired,
taking up a pencil.
“13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary
way from here.”
“The Brixton Road does not lie between any
circus and Houndsditch,” said Sherlock Holmes
sharply.
The old woman faced round and looked keenly
at him from her little red-rimmed eyes. “The gentleman
asked me for my address,” she said. “Sally
lives in lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham.”
“And your name is—?”
“My name is Sawyer—her’s is Dennis, which
Tom Dennis married her—and a smart, clean
lad, too, as long as he’s at sea, and no steward
in the company more thought of; but when on
shore, what with the women and what with liquor
shops—”
“Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer,” I interrupted,
in obedience to a sign from my companion; “it
clearly belongs to your daughter, and I am glad
to be able to restore it to the rightful owner.”
With many mumbled blessings and protestations
of gratitude the old crone packed it away in
her pocket, and shuffled off down the stairs. Sherlock
Holmes sprang to his feet the moment that
she was gone and rushed into his room. He returned
in a few seconds enveloped in an ulster
and a cravat. “I’ll follow her,” he said, hurriedly;
“she must be an accomplice, and will lead me to
him. Wait up for me.” The hall door had hardly

slammed behind our visitor before Holmes had
descended the stair. Looking through the window
I could see her walking feebly along the other side,
while her pursuer dogged her some little distance
behind. “Either his whole theory is incorrect,” I
thought to myself, “or else he will be led now to
the heart of the mystery.” There was no need for
him to ask me to wait up for him, for I felt that
sleep was impossible until I heard the result of his
adventure.
It was close upon nine when he set out. I had
no idea how long he might be, but I sat stolidly
puffing at my pipe and skipping over the pages of
Henri Murger’s Vie de Boh`eme. Ten o’clock passed,
and I heard the footsteps of the maid as they pattered
off to bed. Eleven, and the more stately tread
of the landlady passed my door, bound for the
same destination. It was close upon twelve before I
heard the sharp sound of his latch-key. The instant
he entered I saw by his face that he had not been
successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to be
struggling for the mastery, until the former suddenly
carried the day, and he burst into a hearty
laugh.
“I wouldn’t have the Scotland Yarders know it
for the world,” he cried, dropping into his chair; “I
have chaffed them so much that they would never
have let me hear the end of it. I can afford to laugh,
because I know that I will be even with them in the
long run.”
“What is it then?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t mind telling a story against myself.
That creature had gone a little way when she
began to limp and show every sign of being footsore.
Presently she came to a halt, and hailed a
four-wheeler which was passing. I managed to
be close to her so as to hear the address, but I
need not have been so anxious, for she sang it out
loud enough to be heard at the other side of the
street, ‘Drive to 13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch,’
she cried. This begins to look genuine, I thought,
and having seen her safely inside, I perched myself
behind. That’s an art which every detective should
be an expert at. Well, away we rattled, and never
drew rein until we reached the street in question.
I hopped off before we came to the door, and
strolled down the street in an easy, lounging way. I
saw the cab pull up. The driver jumped down, and
I saw him open the door and stand expectantly.
Nothing came out though. When I reached him
he was groping about frantically in the empty cab,
and giving vent to the finest assorted collection of
oaths that ever I listened to. There was no sign or
trace of his passenger, and I fear it will be some
time before he gets his fare. On inquiring at Number
13 we found that the house belonged to a respectable
paperhanger, named Keswick, and that
no one of the name either of Sawyer or Dennis had
ever been heard of there.”
“You don’t mean to say,” I cried, in amazement,
“that that tottering, feeble old woman was able to
get out of the cab while it was in motion, without
either you or the driver seeing her?”
“Old woman be damned!” said Sherlock
Holmes, sharply. “We were the old women to be
so taken in. It must have been a young man, and
an active one, too, besides being an incomparable
actor. The get-up was inimitable. He saw that he
was followed, no doubt, and used this means of
giving me the slip. It shows that the man we are
after is not as lonely as I imagined he was, but has
friends who are ready to risk something for him.
Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up. Take my
advice and turn in.”
I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed
his injunction. I left Holmes seated in front of the
smouldering fire, and long into the watches of the
night I heard the low, melancholy wailings of his
violin, and knew that he was still pondering over
the strange problem which he had set himself to
unravel.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

CHAPTER IV.

What John Rance Had To Tell

It was one o’clock when we left No. 3, Lauriston
Gardens. Sherlock Holmes led me to the
nearest telegraph office, whence he dispatched a
long telegram. He then hailed a cab, and ordered
the driver to take us to the address given us by
Lestrade.
“There is nothing like first hand evidence,” he
remarked; “as a matter of fact, my mind is entirely
made up upon the case, but still we may as well
learn all that is to be learned.”
“You amaze me, Holmes,” said I. “Surely you
are not as sure as you pretend to be of all those
particulars which you gave.”
“There’s no room for a mistake,” he answered.
“The very first thing which I observed on arriving
there was that a cab had made two ruts with its
wheels close to the curb. Now, up to last night, we
have had no rain for a week, so that those wheels
which left such a deep impression must have been
there during the night. There were the marks of
the horse’s hoofs, too, the outline of one of which
was far more clearly cut than that of the other
three, showing that that was a new shoe. Since
the cab was there after the rain began, and was
not there at any time during the morning—I have
Gregson’s word for that—it follows that it must

have been there during the night, and, therefore,
that it brought those two individuals to the house.”
“That seems simple enough,” said I; “but how
about the other man’s height?”
“Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out
of ten, can be told from the length of his stride.
It is a simple calculation enough, though there is
no use my boring you with figures. I had this fellow’s
stride both on the clay outside and on the
dust within. Then I had a way of checking my calculation.
When a man writes on a wall, his instinct
leads him to write about the level of his own eyes.
Now that writing was just over six feet from the
ground. It was child’s play.”
“And his age?” I asked.
“Well, if a man can stride four and a-half feet
without the smallest effort, he can’t be quite in
the sere and yellow. That was the breadth of a
puddle on the garden walk which he had evidently
walked across. Patent-leather boots had
gone round, and Square-toes had hopped over.
There is no mystery about it at all. I am simply
applying to ordinary life a few of those precepts
of observation and deduction which I advocated
in that article. Is there anything else that puzzles
you?”
“The finger nails and the Trichinopoly,” I suggested.
“The writing on the wall was done with a
man’s forefinger dipped in blood. My glass allowed
me to observe that the plaster was slightly
scratched in doing it, which would not have been
the case if the man’s nail had been trimmed. I
gathered up some scattered ash from the floor. It
was dark in colour and flakey—such an ash as is
only made by a Trichinopoly. I have made a special
study of cigar ashes—in fact, I have written a
monograph upon the subject. I flatter myself that
I can distinguish at a glance the ash of any known
brand, either of cigar or of tobacco. It is just in
such details that the skilled detective differs from
the Gregson and Lestrade type.”
“And the florid face?” I asked.
“Ah, that was a more daring shot, though I
have no doubt that I was right. You must not ask
me that at the present state of the affair.”
I passed my hand over my brow. “My head
is in a whirl,” I remarked; “the more one thinks
of it the more mysterious it grows. How came
these two men—if there were two men—into an
empty house? What has become of the cabman
who drove them? How could one man compel another
to take poison? Where did the blood come
from? What was the object of the murderer, since
robbery had no part in it? How came the woman’s
ring there? Above all, why should the second
man write up the German word RACHE before
decamping? I confess that I cannot see any possible
way of reconciling all these facts.”
My companion smiled approvingly.
“You sum up the difficulties of the situation
succinctly and well,” he said. “There is much that
is still obscure, though I have quite made up my
mind on the main facts. As to poor Lestrade’s discovery
it was simply a blind intended to put the
police upon a wrong track, by suggesting Socialism
and secret societies. It was not done by a German.
The A, if you noticed, was printed somewhat
after the German fashion. Now, a real German invariably
prints in the Latin character, so that we
may safely say that this was not written by one, but
by a clumsy imitator who overdid his part. It was
simply a ruse to divert inquiry into a wrong channel.
I’m not going to tell you much more of the
case, Doctor. You know a conjuror gets no credit
when once he has explained his trick, and if I show
you too much of my method of working, you will
come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary
individual after all.”
“I shall never do that,” I answered; “you have
brought detection as near an exact science as it ever
will be brought in this world.”
My companion flushed up with pleasure at my
words, and the earnest way in which I uttered
them. I had already observed that he was as sensitive
to flattery on the score of his art as any girl
could be of her beauty.
“I’ll tell you one other thing,” he said. “Patentleathers
and Square-toes came in the same cab,
and they walked down the pathway together as
friendly as possible—arm-in-arm, in all probability.
When they got inside they walked up and
down the room—or rather, Patent-leathers stood
still while Square-toes walked up and down. I
could read all that in the dust; and I could read
that as he walked he grew more and more excited.
That is shown by the increased length of his
strides. He was talking all the while, and working
himself up, no doubt, into a fury. Then the tragedy
occurred. I’ve told you all I know myself now, for
the rest is mere surmise and conjecture. We have
a good working basis, however, on which to start.
We must hurry up, for I want to go to Halle’s concert
to hear Norman Neruda this afternoon.”
This conversation had occurred while our cab
had been threading its way through a long succession
of dingy streets and dreary by-ways. In

the dingiest and dreariest of them our driver suddenly
came to a stand. “That’s Audley Court in
there,” he said, pointing to a narrow slit in the line
of dead-coloured brick. “You’ll find me here when
you come back.”
Audley Court was not an attractive locality.
The narrow passage led us into a quadrangle
paved with flags and lined by sordid dwellings.
We picked our way among groups of dirty children,
and through lines of discoloured linen, until
we came to Number 46, the door of which was
decorated with a small slip of brass on which the
name Rance was engraved. On enquiry we found
that the constable was in bed, and we were shown
into a little front parlour to await his coming.
He appeared presently, looking a little irritable
at being disturbed in his slumbers. “I made my
report at the office,” he said.
Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket
and played with it pensively. “We thought that we
should like to hear it all from your own lips,” he
said.
“I shall be most happy to tell you anything I
can,” the constable answered with his eyes upon
the little golden disk.
“Just let us hear it all in your own way as it
occurred.”
Rance sat down on the horsehair sofa, and knitted
his brows as though determined not to omit
anything in his narrative.
“I’ll tell it ye from the beginning,” he said.
“My time is from ten at night to six in the morning.
At eleven there was a fight at the ‘White
Hart’; but bar that all was quiet enough on the
beat. At one o’clock it began to rain, and I met
Harry Murcher—him who has the Holland Grove
beat—and we stood together at the corner of Henrietta
Street a-talkin’. Presently—maybe about two
or a little after—I thought I would take a look
round and see that all was right down the Brixton
Road. It was precious dirty and lonely. Not a
soul did I meet all the way down, though a cab or
two went past me. I was a strollin’ down, thinkin’
between ourselves how uncommon handy a four
of gin hot would be, when suddenly the glint of
a light caught my eye in the window of that same
house. Now, I knew that them two houses in Lauriston
Gardens was empty on account of him that
owns them who won’t have the drains seed to,
though the very last tenant what lived in one of
them died o’ typhoid fever. I was knocked all in a
heap therefore at seeing a light in the window, and
I suspected as something was wrong. When I got
to the door—”
“You stopped, and then walked back to the garden
gate,” my companion interrupted. “What did
you do that for?”
Rance gave a violent jump, and stared at Sherlock
Holmes with the utmost amazement upon his
features.
“Why, that’s true, sir,” he said; “though how
you come to know it, Heaven only knows. Ye see,
when I got up to the door it was so still and so
lonesome, that I thought I’d be none the worse for
some one with me. I ain’t afeared of anything on
this side o’ the grave; but I thought that maybe it
was him that died o’ the typhoid inspecting the
drains what killed him. The thought gave me a
kind o’ turn, and I walked back to the gate to see
if I could see Murcher’s lantern, but there wasn’t
no sign of him nor of anyone else.”
“There was no one in the street?”
“Not a livin’ soul, sir, nor as much as a dog.
Then I pulled myself together and went back and
pushed the door open. All was quiet inside,
so I went into the room where the light was aburnin’.
There was a candle flickerin’ on the mantelpiece—
a red wax one—and by its light I saw—”
“Yes, I know all that you saw. You walked
round the room several times, and you knelt down
by the body, and then you walked through and
tried the kitchen door, and then—”
John Rance sprang to his feet with a frightened
face and suspicion in his eyes. “Where was you
hid to see all that?” he cried. “It seems to me that
you knows a deal more than you should.”
Holmes laughed and threw his card across the
table to the constable. “Don’t get arresting me for
the murder,” he said. “I am one of the hounds and
not the wolf; Mr. Gregson or Mr. Lestrade will answer
for that. Go on, though. What did you do
next?”
Rance resumed his seat, without however losing
his mystified expression. “I went back to
the gate and sounded my whistle. That brought
Murcher and two more to the spot.”
“Was the street empty then?”
“Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be
of any good goes.”
“What do you mean?”
The constable’s features broadened into a grin.
“I’ve seen many a drunk chap in my time,” he said,
“but never anyone so cryin’ drunk as that cove. He
was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin’ up ag’in
the railings, and a-singin’ at the pitch o’ his lungs
about Columbine’s New-fangled Banner, or some
such stuff. He couldn’t stand, far less help.”

“What sort of a man was he?” asked Sherlock
Holmes.
John Rance appeared to be somewhat irritated
at this digression. “He was an uncommon drunk
sort o’ man,” he said. “He’d ha’ found hisself in
the station if we hadn’t been so took up.”
“His face—his dress—didn’t you notice them?”
Holmes broke in impatiently.
“I should think I did notice them, seeing that
I had to prop him up—me and Murcher between
us. He was a long chap, with a red face, the lower
part muffled round—”
“That will do,” cried Holmes. “What became
of him?”
“We’d enough to do without lookin’ after him,”
the policeman said, in an aggrieved voice. “I’ll wager
he found his way home all right.”
“How was he dressed?”
“A brown overcoat.”
“Had he a whip in his hand?”
“A whip—no.”
“He must have left it behind,” muttered my
companion. “You didn’t happen to see or hear a
cab after that?”
“No.”
“There’s a half-sovereign for you,” my companion
said, standing up and taking his hat. “I am
afraid, Rance, that you will never rise in the force.
That head of yours should be for use as well as
ornament. You might have gained your sergeant’s
stripes last night. The man whom you held in your
hands is the man who holds the clue of this mystery,
and whom we are seeking. There is no use of
arguing about it now; I tell you that it is so. Come
along, Doctor.”
We started off for the cab together, leaving our
informant incredulous, but obviously uncomfortable.
“The blundering fool,” Holmes said, bitterly, as
we drove back to our lodgings. “Just to think of his
having such an incomparable bit of good luck, and
not taking advantage of it.”
“I am rather in the dark still. It is true that the
description of this man tallies with your idea of
the second party in this mystery. But why should
he come back to the house after leaving it? That is
not the way of criminals.”
“The ring, man, the ring: that was what he
came back for. If we have no other way of catching
him, we can always bait our line with the ring. I
shall have him, Doctor—I’ll lay you two to one that
I have him. I must thank you for it all. I might
not have gone but for you, and so have missed
the finest study I ever came across: a study in
scarlet, eh? Why shouldn’t we use a little art jargon.
There’s the scarlet thread of murder running
through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is
to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch
of it. And now for lunch, and then for Norman
Neruda. Her attack and her bowing are splendid.
What’s that little thing of Chopin’s she plays so
magnificently: Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay.”
Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound
carolled away like a lark while I meditated
upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.

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.