Glancing
over the somewhat incoherent series of Memoirs with which I have endeavored to
illustrate a few of the mental peculiarities of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
I have been struck by the difficulty which I have experienced in picking out examples
which shall in every way answer my purpose. For in those cases in which Holmes
has performed some tour de force of analytical reasoning, and has demonstrated
the value of his peculiar methods of investigation, the facts themselves have
often been so slight or so commonplace that I could not feel justified in laying
them before the public.
On the other hand, it has frequently happened that
he has been concerned in some research where the facts have been of the most remarkable
and dramatic character, but where the share which he has himself taken in determining
their causes has been less pronounced than I, as his biographer, could wish.
The small matter which I have chronicled under
the heading of A Study in Scarlet, and that other later one connected with
the loss of the Gloria Scott, may serve as examples of this Scylla and Charybdis
which are forever threatening the historian. It may be that in the business of
which I am now about to write the part which my friend played is not sufficiently
accentuated; and yet the whole train of circumstances is so remarkable that I
cannot bring myself to omit it entirely from this series.
It had been a close, rainy day in October. Our
blinds were half-drawn, and Holmes lay curled upon the sofa, reading and rereading
a letter which he had received by the morning post.
For myself, my term of service in India had trained
me to stand heat better than cold, and a thermometer of 90 was no hardship. But
the paper was uninteresting. Parliament had risen. Everybody was out of town,
and I yearned for the glades of the New Forest or the shingle of Southsea. A depleted
bank account had caused me to postpone my holiday, and as to my companion, neither
the country nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him. He loved to
lie in the very center of five millions of people, with his filaments stretching
out and running through them, responsive to every little rumor or suspicion of
unsolved crime. Appreciation of Nature found no place among his many gifts, and
his only change was when he turned his mind from the evildoer of the town to track
down his brother of the country.
Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation,
I had tossed aside the barren paper, and leaning back in my chair, I fell into
a brown study. Suddenly my companion's voice broke in upon my thoughts.
"You are right, Watson," said he. "It does seem
a very preposterous way of settling a dispute."
"Most preposterous!" I exclaimed, and then, suddenly
realizing how he had echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair
and stared at him in blank amazement. "What is this, Holmes?" I cried. "This is
beyond anything which I could have imagined."
He laughed heartily at my perplexity. "You remember,"
said he, "that some little time ago, when I read you the passage in one of Poe's
sketches, in which a close reasoner follows the unspoken thought of his companion,
you were inclined to treat the matter as a mere tour de force of the author. On
my remarking that I was constantly in the habit of doing the same thing you expressed
incredulity."
"Oh, no!"
"Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson,
but certainly with your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paper and
enter upon a train of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity of reading
it off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof that I had been in rapport
with you."
But I was still far from satisfied. "In the example
which you read to me," said I, "the reasoner drew his conclusions from the actions
of the man whom he observed. If I remember right, he stumbled over a heap of stones,
looked up at the stars, and so on. But I have been seated quietly in my chair,
and what clues can I have given you?"
"You do yourself an injustice. The features are
given to man as the means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are
faithful servants."
"Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts
from my features?"
"Your features, and especially your eyes. Perhaps
you cannot yourself recall how your reverie commenced?"
"No, I cannot."
"Then I will tell you. After throwing down your
paper, which was the action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a
minute with a vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your newly-framed
picture of General Gordon, and I saw by the alteration in your face that a train
of thought had been started. But it did not lead very far. Your eyes turned across
to the unframed portrait of Henry Ward Beecher which stands upon the top of your
books. You then glanced up at the wall, and of course your meaning was obvious.
You were thinking that if the portrait were framed it would just cover that bare
space and correspond with Gordon's picture over there."
"You have followed me wonderfully!" I exclaimed.
"So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now
your thoughts went back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were
studying the character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but you
continued to look across, and your face was thoughtful. You were recalling the
incidents of Beecher's career. I was well aware that you could not do this without
thinking of the mission which he undertook on behalf of the North at the time
of the Civil War, for I remember you expressing your passionate indignation at
the way in which he was received by the more turbulent of our people. You felt
so strongly about it that I knew you could not think of Beecher without thinking
of that also.
When a moment later I saw your eyes wander away
from the picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned to the Civil War,
and when I observed that your lips set, your eyes sparkled, and your hands clinched,
I was positive that you were indeed thinking of the gallantry which was shown
by both sides in that desperate struggle. But then, again, your face grew sadder;
you shook your head. You were dwelling upon the sadness and horror and useless
waste of life. Your hand stole towards your own old wound, and a smile quivered
on your lips, which showed me that the ridiculous side of this method of settling
international questions had forced itself upon your mind. At this point I agreed
with you that it was preposterous, and was glad to find that all my deductions
had been correct."
"Absolutely!" said I. "And now that you have explained
it, I confess that I am as amazed as before."
"It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure
you. I should not have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some
incredulity the other day. But the evening has brought a breeze with it. What
do you say to a ramble through London?"
I was weary of our little sitting-room and gladly
acquiesced. For three hours we strolled about together, watching the ever-changing
kaleidoscope of life as it ebbs and flows through Fleet Street and the Strand.
His characteristic talk, with its keen observance of detail and subtle power of
inference held me amused and enthralled. It was ten o'clock before we reached
Baker Street again. A brougham was waiting at our door.
"Hum! A doctor's—general practitioner, I perceive,"
said Holmes. "Not been long in practice, but has had a good deal to do. Come to
consult us, I fancy! Lucky we came back!"
I was sufficiently conversant with Holmes's methods
to be able to follow his reasoning, and to see that the nature and state of the
various medical instruments in the wicker basket which hung in the lamplight inside
the brougham had given him the data for his swift deduction. The light in our
window above showed that this late visit was indeed intended for us.
With some curiosity as to what could have sent
a brother medico to us at such an hour, I followed Holmes into our sanctum. A
pale, taper-faced man with sandy whiskers rose up from a chair by the fire as
we entered. His age may not have been more than three or four and thirty, but
his haggard expression and unhealthy hue told of a life which has sapped his strength
and robbed him of his youth. His manner was nervous and shy, like that of a sensitive
gentleman, and the thin white hand which he laid on the mantelpiece as he rose
was that of an artist rather than of a surgeon. His dress was quiet and somber—a
black frock-coat, dark trousers, and a touch of color about his necktie.
"Good-evening, doctor," said Holmes, cheerily.
"I am glad to see that you have only been waiting a very few minutes."
"You spoke to my coachman, then?"
"No, it was the candle on the side-table that told
me. Pray resume your seat and let me know how I can serve you."
"My name is Doctor Percy Trevelyan," said our visitor,
"and I live at 403 Brook Street."
"Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure
nervous lesions?" I asked. His pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing that
his work was known to me.
"I so seldom hear of the work that I thought it
was quite dead," said he. "My publishers gave me a most discouraging account of
its sale. You are yourself, I presume, a medical man?"
"A retired army surgeon."
"My own hobby has always been nervous disease.
I should wish to make it an absolute specialty, but, of course, a man must take
what he can get at first. This, however, is beside the question, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, and I quite appreciate how valuable your time is. The fact is that a very
singular train of events has occurred recently at my house in Brook Street, and
tonight they came to such a head that I felt it was quite impossible for me to
wait another hour before asking for your advice and assistance."
Sherlock Holmes sat down and lit his pipe. "You
are very welcome to both," said he. "Pray let me have a detailed account of what
the circumstances are which have disturbed you."
"One or two of them are so trivial," said Dr. Trevelyan,
"that really I am almost ashamed to mention them. But the matter is so inexplicable,
and the recent turn which it has taken is so elaborate, that I shall lay it all
before you, and you shall judge what is essential and what is not.
"I am compelled, to begin with, to say something
of my own college career. I am a London University man, you know, and I am sure
that you will not think that I am unduly singing my own praises if I say that
my student career was considered by my professors to be a very promising one.
After I had graduated I continued to devote myself to research, occupying a minor
position in King's College Hospital, and I was fortunate enough to excite considerable
interest by my research into the pathology of catalepsy, and finally to win the
Bruce Pinkerton prize and medal by the monograph on nervous lesions to which your
friend has just alluded. I should not go too far if I were to say that there was
a general impression at that time that a distinguished career lay before me.
"But the one great stumbling-block lay in my want
of capital. As you will readily understand, a specialist who aims high is compelled
to start in one of a dozen streets in the Cavendish Square quarter, all of which
entail enormous rents and furnishing expenses. Besides this preliminary outlay,
he must be prepared to keep himself for some years, and to hire a presentable
carriage and horse. To do this was quite beyond my power, and I could only hope
that by economy I might in ten years' time save enough to enable me to put up
my plate. Suddenly, however, an unexpected incident opened up quite a new prospect
to me.
"This was a visit from a gentleman of the name
of Blessington, who was a complete stranger to me. He came up to my room one morning,
and plunged into business in an instant.
"'You are the same Percy Trevelyan who has had
so distinguished a career and won a great prize lately?' said he.
"I bowed.
"'Answer me frankly,' he continued, 'for you will
find it to your interest to do so. You have all the cleverness which makes a successful
man. Have you the tact?'
"I could not help smiling at the abruptness of
the question.
"'I trust that I have my share,' I said.
"'Any bad habits? Not drawn towards drink, eh?'
"'Really, sir!' I cried.
"'Quite right! That's all right! But I was bound
to ask. With all these qualities, why are you not in practice?'
"I shrugged my shoulders.
"'Come, come!' said he, in his bustling way. 'It's
the old story. More in your brains than in your pocket, eh? What would you say
if I were to start you in Brook Street?'
"I stared at him in astonishment.
"'Oh, it's for my sake, not for yours,' he cried.
'I'll be perfectly frank with you, and if it suits you it will suit me very well.
I have a few thousands to invest, d'ye see, and I think I'll sink them in you.'
"'But why?' I gasped.
"'Well, it's just like any other speculation, and
safer than most.'
"'What am I to do, then?'
"'I'll tell you. I'll take the house, furnish it,
pay the maids, and run the whole place. All you have to do is just to wear out
your chair in the consulting-room. I'll let you have pocket-money and everything.
Then you hand over to me three quarters of what you earn, and you keep the other
quarter for yourself.'
"This was the strange proposal, Mr. Holmes, with
which the man Blessington approached me. I won't weary you with the account of
how we bargained and negotiated. It ended in my moving into the house next Lady-day,
and starting in practice on very much the same conditions as he had suggested.
He came himself to live with me in the character of a resident patient. His heart
was weak, it appears, and he needed constant medical supervision. He turned the
two best rooms of the first floor into a sitting-room and bedroom for himself.
He was a man of singular habits, shunning company and very seldom going out. His
life was irregular, but in one respect he was regularity itself. Every evening,
at the same hour, he walked into the consulting-room, examined the books, put
down five and three-pence for every guinea that I had earned, and carried the
rest off to the strongbox in his own room.
"I may say with confidence that he never had occasion
to regret his speculation. From the first it was a success. A few good cases and
the reputation which I had won in the hospital brought me rapidly to the front,
and during the last few years I have made him a rich man.
"So much, Mr. Holmes, for my past history and my
relations with Mr. Blessington. It only remains for me now to tell you what has
occurred to bring me here tonight.
"Some weeks ago Mr. Blessington came down to me
in, as it seemed to me, a state of considerable agitation. He spoke of some burglary
which, he said, had been committed in the West End, and he appeared, I remember,
to be quite unnecessarily excited about it, declaring that a day should not pass
before we should add stronger bolts to our windows and doors. For a week he continued
to be in a peculiar state of restlessness, peering continually out of the windows,
and ceasing to take the short walk which had usually been the prelude to his dinner.
From his manner it struck me that he was in mortal dread of something or somebody,
but when I questioned him upon the point he became so offensive that I was compelled
to drop the subject. Gradually, as time passed, his fears appeared to die away,
and he had renewed his former habits, when a fresh event reduced him to the pitiable
state of prostration in which he now lies.
"What happened was this. Two days ago I received
the letter which I now read to you. Neither address nor date is attached to it.
"'A Russian nobleman who is now resident in England,'
it runs, 'would be glad to avail himself of the professional assistance of Dr.
Percy Trevelyan. He has been for some years a victim to cataleptic attacks, on
which, as is well known, Dr. Trevelyan is an authority. He proposes to call at
about quarter past six tomorrow evening, if Dr. Trevelyan will make it convenient
to be at home.'
"This letter interest me deeply, because the chief
difficulty in the study of catalepsy is the rareness of the disease. You may believe,
than, that I was in my consulting-room when, at the appointed hour, the page showed
in the patient. He was an elderly man, thin, demure, and commonplace—by no
means the conception one forms of a Russian nobleman. I was much more struck by
the appearance of his companion. This was a tall young man, surprisingly handsome,
with a dark, fierce face, and the limbs and chest of a Hercules. He had his hand
under the other's arm as they entered, and helped him to a chair with a tenderness
which one would hardly have expected from his appearance.
"'You will excuse my coming in, doctor,' said he
to me, speaking English with a slight lisp. 'This is my father, and his health
is a matter of the most overwhelming importance to me.'
"I was touched by this filial anxiety. 'You would,
perhaps, care to remain during the consultation?' said I.
"'Not for the world,' he cried with a gesture of
horror. 'It is more painful to me than I can express. If I were to see my father
in one of these dreadful seizures I am convinced that I should never survive it.
My own nervous system is an exceptionally sensitive one. With your permission,
I will remain in the waiting-room while you go into my father's case.'
"To this, of course, I assented, and the young
man withdrew. The patient and I then plunged into a discussion of his case, of
which I took exhaustive notes. He was not remarkable for intelligence, and his
answers were frequently obscure, which I attributed to his limited acquaintance
with our language. Suddenly, however, as I sat writing, he ceased to give any
answer at all to my inquiries, and on my turning towards him I was shocked to
see that he was sitting bolt upright in his chair, staring at me with a perfectly
blank and rigid face. He was again in the grip of his mysterious malady.
"My first feeling, as I have just said, was one
of pity and horror. My second, I fear, was rather one of professional satisfaction.
I made notes of my patient's pulse and temperature, tested the rigidity of his
muscles, and examined his reflexes. There was nothing markedly abnormal in any
of these conditions, which harmonized with my former experiences. I had obtained
good results in such cases by the inhalation of nitrite of amyl, and the present
seemed an admirable opportunity of testing its virtues. The bottle was downstairs
in my laboratory, so leaving my patient seated in his chair, I ran down to get
it. There was some little delay in finding it—five minutes, let us say—and
then I returned. Imagine my amazement to find the room empty and the patient gone.
"Of course, my first act was to run into the waiting-room.
The son had gone also. The hall door had been closed, but not shut. My page who
admits patients is a new boy and by no means quick. He waits downstairs, and runs
up to show patients out when I ring the consulting-room bell. He had heard nothing,
and the affair remained a complete mystery. Mr. Blessington came in from his walk
shortly afterwards, but I did not say anything to him upon the subject, for, to
tell the truth, I have got in the way of late of holding as little communication
with him as possible.
"Well, I never thought that I should see anything
more of the Russian and his son, so you can imagine my amazement when, at the
very same hour this evening, they both came marching into my consulting-room,
just as they had done before.
"'I feel that I owe you a great many apologies
for my abrupt departure yesterday, doctor,' said my patient. "'I confess that
I was very much surprised at it,' said I.
"'Well, the fact is,' he remarked, 'that when I
recover from these attacks my mind is always very clouded as to all that has gone
before. I woke up in a strange room, as it seemed to me, and made my way out into
the street in a sort of dazed way when you were absent.'
"'And I,' said the son, 'seeing my father pass
the door of the waiting-room, naturally thought that the consultation had come
to an end. It was not until we had reached home that I began to realize the true
state of affairs.'
"'Well,' said I, laughing, 'there is no harm done
except that you puzzled me terribly; so if you, sir, would kindly step into the
waiting-room I shall be happy to continue our consultation which was brought to
so abrupt an ending.'
"'For half an hour or so I discussed that old gentleman's
symptoms with him, and then, having prescribed for him, I saw him go off upon
the arm of his son.
"I have told you that Mr. Blessington generally
chose this hour of the day for his exercise. He came in shortly afterwards and
passed upstairs. An instant later I heard him running down, and he burst into
my consulting-room like a man who is mad with panic.
"'Who has been in my room?' he cried. "'No one,'
said I.
"'It's a lie! He yelled. 'Come up and look!'
"I passed over the grossness of his language, as
he seemed half out of his mind with fear. When I went upstairs with him he pointed
to several footprints upon the light carpet.
"'D'you mean to say those are mine?' he cried.
"They were certainly very much larger than any
which he could have made, and were evidently quite fresh. It rained hard this
afternoon, as you know, and my patients were the only people who called. It must
have been the case, then, that the man in the waiting-room had, for some unknown
reason, while I was busy with the other, ascended to the room of my resident patient.
Nothing has been touched or taken, but there were the footprints to prove that
the intrusion was an undoubted fact.
"Mr. Blessington seemed more excited over the matter
than I should have thought possible, though of course it was enough to disturb
anybody's peace of mind. He actually sat crying in an armchair, and I could hardly
get him to speak coherently. It was his suggestion that I should come round to
you, and of course I at once saw the propriety of it, for certainly the incident
is a very singular one, though he appears to completely overtake its importance.
If you would only come back with me in my brougham, you would at least be able
to soothe him, though I can hardly hope that you will be able to explain this
remarkable occurrence."
Sherlock Holmes had listened to this long narrative
with an intentness which showed me that his interest was keenly aroused. His face
was as impassive as ever, but his lids had drooped more heavily over his eyes,
and his smoke had curled up more thickly from his pipe to emphasize each curious
episode in the doctor's tale. As our visitor concluded, Holmes sprang up without
a word, handed me my hat, picked his own from the table, and followed Dr. Trevelyan
to the door.
Within a quarter of an hour we had been dropped
at the door of the physician's residence in Brook Street, one of those somber,
flat-faced houses which one associates with a West-End practice. A small page
admitted us, and we began at once to ascend the broad, well-carpeted stair. But
a singular interruption brought us to a standstill. The light at the top was suddenly
whisked out, and from the darkness came a reedy, quivering voice. "I have a pistol,"
it cried. "I give you my word that I'll fire if you come any nearer."
"This really grows outrageous, Mr. Blessington,"
cried Dr. Trevelyan.
"Oh, then it is you, doctor," said the voice, with
a great heave of relief.
"But those other gentlemen, are they what they
pretend to be?" We were conscious of a long scrutiny out of the darkness. "Yes,
yes, it's all right," said the voice at last. "You can come up, and I am sorry
if my precautions have annoyed you."
He relit the stair gas as he spoke, and we saw
before us a singular-looking man, whose appearance, as well as his voice, testified
to his jangled nerves. He was very fat, but had apparently at some time been much
fatter, so that the skin hung about his face in loose pouches, like the cheeks
of a bloodhound. He was of a sickly color, and his thin, sandy hair seemed to
bristle up with the intensity of his emotion. In his hand he held a pistol, but
he thrust it into his pocket as we advanced.
"Good-evening, Mr. Holmes," said he. "I am sure
I am very much obliged to you for coming round. No one ever needed your advice
more than I do. I suppose that Dr. Trevelyan has told you of this most unwarrantable
intrusion into my rooms."
"Quite so," said Holmes. "Who are these two men
Mr. Blessington, and why do they wish to molest you?"
"Well, well," said the resident patient, in a nervous
fashion, "of course it is hard to say that. You can hardly expect me to answer
that, Mr. Holmes."
"Do you mean that you don't know?"
"Come in here, if you please. Just have the kindness
to step in here." He led the way into his bedroom, which was large and comfortably
furnished. "You see that," said he, pointing to a big black box at the end of
his bed. "I have never been a very rich man, Mr. Holmes—never made but one
investment in my life, as Dr. Trevelyan would tell you. But I don't believe in
bankers. I would never trust a banker, Mr. Holmes. Between ourselves, what little
I have is in that box, so you can understand what it means to me when unknown
people force themselves into my rooms."
Holmes looked at Blessington in his questioning
way and shook his head. "I cannot possibly advise you if you try to deceive me,"
said he.
"But I have told you everything."
Holmes turned on his heel with a gesture of disgust.
"Goodnight, Dr. Trevelyan," said he.
"And no advice for me?" cried Blessington, in a
breaking voice.
"My advice to your, sir, is to speak the truth."
A minute later we were in the street and walking
for home. We had crossed Oxford Street and were half way down Harley Street before
I could get a word from my companion. "Sorry to bring you out on such a fool's
errand, Watson," he said at last. "It is an interesting case, too, at the bottom
of it."
"I can make little of it," I confessed.
"Well, it is quite evident that there are two men—more,
perhaps, but at least two—who are determined for some reason to get at this
fellow Blessington. I have no doubt in my mind that both on the first and on the
second occasion that young man penetrated to Blessington's room, while his confederate,
by an ingenious device, kept the doctor from interfering."
"And the catalepsy?"
"A fraudulent imitation, Watson, though I should
hardly dare to hint as much to our specialist. It is a very easy complaint to
imitate. I have done it myself."
"And then?"
"By the purest chance Blessington was out on each
occasion. Their reason for choosing so unusual an hour for a consultation was
obviously to insure that there should be no other patient in the waiting-room.
It just happened, however, that this hour coincided with Blessington's constitutional,
which seems to show that they were not very well acquainted with his daily routine.
Of course, if they had been merely after plunder they would at least have made
some attempt to search for it. Besides, I can read in a man's eye when it is his
own skin that he is frightened for. It is inconceivable that this fellow could
have made two such vindictive enemies as these appear to be without knowing of
it. I hold it, therefore, to be certain that he does know who these men are, and
that for reasons of his own he suppresses it. It is just possible that tomorrow
may find him in a more communicative mood."
"Is there not one alternative," I suggested, "grotesquely
improbably, no doubt, but still just conceivable? Might the whole story of the
cataleptic Russian and his son be a concoction of Dr. Trevelyan's, who has, for
his own purposes, been in Blessington's rooms?"
I saw in the gaslight that Holmes wore an amused
smile at this brilliant departure of mine. "My dear fellow," said he, "it was
one of the first solutions which occurred to me, but I was soon able to corroborate
the doctor's tale. This young man has left prints upon the stair-carpet which
made it quite superfluous for me to ask to see those which he had made in the
room. When I tell you that his shoes were square-toed instead of being pointed
like Blessington's, and were quite an inch and a third longer than the doctor's,
you will acknowledge that there can be no doubt as to his individuality. But we
may sleep on it now, for I shall be surprised if we do not hear something further
from Brook Street in the morning."
Sherlock Holmes's prophecy was soon fulfilled,
and in a dramatic fashion. At half-past seven next morning, in the first glimmer
of daylight, I found him standing by my bedside in his dressing-gown. "There's
a brougham waiting for us, Watson," said he.
"What's the matter, then?"
"The Brook Street business."
"Any fresh news?"
"Tragic, but ambiguous," said he, pulling up the
blind. "Look at this—a sheet from a notebook, with 'For God's sake come at
once—P. T.,' scrawled upon it in pencil. Our friend, the doctor, was hard
put to it when he wrote this. Come along, my dear fellow, for it's an urgent call."
In a quarter of an hour or so we were back at the
physician's house. He came running out to meet us with a face of horror. "Oh,
such a business!" he cried, with his hands to his temples.
"What then?"
"Blessington has committed suicide!"
Holmes whistled.
"Yes, he hanged himself during the night."
We had entered, and the doctor had preceded us
into what was evidently his waiting-room. "I really hardly know what I am doing,"
he cried. "The police are already upstairs. It has shaken me most dreadfully."
"When did you find it out?"
"He has a cup of tea taken in to him early every
morning. When the maid entered, about seven, there the unfortunate fellow was
hanging in the middle of the room. He had tied his cord to the hook on which the
heavy lamp used to hang, and he had jumped off from the top of the very box that
he showed us yesterday."
Holmes stood for a moment in deep thought. "With
your permission," said he at last, "I should like to go upstairs and look into
the matter."
We both ascended, followed by the doctor. It was
a dreadful sight which met us as we entered the bedroom door. I have spoken of
the impression of flabbiness which this man Blessington conveyed. As he dangled
from the hook it was exaggerated and intensified until he was scarce human in
his appearance. The neck was drawn out like a plucked chicken's, making the rest
of him seem the more obese and unnatural by the contrast. He was clad only in
his long nightdress, and his swollen ankles and ungainly feet protruded starkly
from beneath it. Beside him stood a smart-looking police-inspector, who was taking
notes in a pocketbook.
"Ah, Mr. Holmes," said he, heartily, as my friend
entered, "I am delighted to see you."
"Good-morning, Lanner," answered Holmes; "you won't
think me an intruder, I am sure. Have you heard of the events which led up to
this affair?"
"Yes, I heard something of them."
"Have you formed any opinion?"
"As far as I can see, the man has been driven out
of his senses by fright. The bed has been well slept in, you see. There's his
impression deep enough. It's about five in the morning, you know, that suicides
are most common. That would be about his time for hanging himself. It seems to
have been a very deliberate affair."
"I should say that he has been dead about three
hours, judging by the rigidity of the muscles," said I.
"Noticed anything peculiar about the room?" asked
Holmes.
"Found a screwdriver and some screws on the wash-hand
stand. Seems to have smoked heavily during the night, too. Here are four cigar-ends
that I picked out of the fireplace."
"Hum!" said Holmes, "have you got his cigar-holder?"
"No, I have seen none."
"His cigar-case, then?"
"Yes, it was in his coat-pocket." Holmes opened
it and smelled the single cigar which it contained.
"Oh, this is an Havana, and these others are cigars
of the peculiar sort which are imported by the Dutch from their East Indian colonies.
They are usually wrapped in straw, you know, and are thinner for their length
than any other brand." He picked up the four ends and examined them with his pocket-lens.
"Two of these have been smoked from a holder and two without," said he. "Two have
been cut by a not very sharp knife, and two have had the ends bitten off by a
set of excellent teeth. This is no suicide, Mr. Lanner. It is a very deeply planned
and cold-blooded murder."
"Impossible!" cried the inspector. "And why?" "Why
should any one murder a man in so clumsy a fashion as by hanging him?"
"That is what we have to find out."
"How could they get in?"
"Through the front door."
"It was barred in the morning."
"Then it was barred after them."
"How do you know?"
"I saw their traces. Excuse me a moment, and I
may be able to give you some further information about it."
He went over to the door, and turning the lock
he examined it in his methodical way. Then he took out the key, which was on the
inside, and inspected that also. The bed, the carpet, the chairs the mantelpiece,
the dead body, and the rope were each in turn examined, until at last he professed
himself satisfied, and with my aid and that of the inspector cut down the wretched
object and laid it reverently under a sheet.
"How about this rope?" he asked.
"It is cut off this," said Dr. Trevelyan, drawing
a large coil from under the bed.
"He was morbidly nervous of fire, and always kept
this beside him, so that he might escape by the window in case the stairs were
burning."
"That must have saved them trouble," said Holmes,
thoughtfully. "Yes, the actual facts are very plain, and I shall be surprised
if by the afternoon I cannot give you the reasons for them as well. I will take
this photograph of Blessington, which I see upon the mantelpiece, as it may help
me in my inquiries."
"But you have told us nothing!" cried the doctor.
"Oh, there can be no doubt as to the sequence of
events," said Holmes. "There were three of them in it: the young man, the old
man, and a third, to whose identity I have no clue. The first two, I need hardly
remark, are the same who masqueraded as the Russian count and his son, so we can
give a very full description of them. They were admitted by a confederate inside
the house. If I might offer you a word of advice, Inspector, it would be to arrest
the page, who, as I understand, has only recently come into your service, Doctor."
"The young imp cannot be found," said Dr. Trevelyan;
"the maid and the cook have just been searching for him."
Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "He has played a
not unimportant part in this drama," said he. "The three men having ascended the
stairs, which they did on tiptoe, the elder man first, the younger man second,
and the unknown man in the rear—"
"My dear Holmes!" I ejaculated.
"Oh, there could be no question as to the superimposing
of the footmarks. I had the advantage of learning which was which last night.
They ascended, then, to Mr. Blessington's room, the door of which they found to
be locked. With the help of a wire, however, they forced round the key. Even without
the lens you will perceive, by the scratches on this ward, where the pressure
was applied. "On entering the room their first proceeding must have been to gag
Mr. Blessington. He may have been asleep, or he may have been so paralyzed with
terror as to have been unable to cry out. These walls are thick, and it is conceivable
that his shriek, if he had time to utter one, was unheard.
"Having secured him, it is evident to me that a
consultation of some sort was held. Probably it was something in the nature of
a judicial proceeding. It must have lasted for some time, for it was then that
these cigars were smoked. The older man sat in that wicker chair; it was he who
used the cigar-holder. The younger man sat over yonder; he knocked his ash off
against the chest of drawers. The third fellow paced up and down. Blessington,
I think, sat upright in the bed, but of that I cannot be absolutely certain.
"Well, it ended by their taking Blessington and
hanging him. The matter was so prearranged that it is my belief that they brought
with them some sort of block or pulley which might serve as a gallows. That screwdriver
and those screws were, as I conceive, for fixing it up. Seeing the hook, however
they naturally saved themselves the trouble. Having finished their work they made
off, and the door was barred behind them by their confederate."
We had all listened with the deepest interest to
this sketch of the night's doings, which Holmes had deduced from signs so subtle
and minute that, even when he had pointed them out to us, we could scarcely follow
him in his reasoning. The inspector hurried away on the instant to make inquiries
about the page, while Holmes and I returned to Baker Street for breakfast.
"I'll be back by three," said he, when we had finished
our meal. "Both the inspector and the doctor will meet me here at that hour, and
I hope by that time to have cleared up any little obscurity which the case may
still present."
Our visitors arrived at the appointed time, but
it was a quarter to four before my friend put in an appearance. From his expression
as he entered, however, I could see that all had gone well with him.
"Any news, Inspector?"
"We have got the boy, sir."
"Excellent, and I have got the men."
"You have got them!" we cried, all three.
"Well, at least I have got their identity. This
so-called Blessington is, as I expected, well known at headquarters, and so are
his assailants. Their names are Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat."
"The Worthingdon bank gang," cried the inspector.
"Precisely," said Holmes.
"Then Blessington must have been Sutton."
"Exactly," said Holmes.
"Why, that makes it as clear as crystal," said
the inspector.
But Trevelyan and I looked at each other in bewilderment.
"You must surely remember the great Worthingdon
bank business," said Holmes.
"Five men were in it—these four and a fifth
called Cartwright. Tobin, the caretaker, was murdered, and the thieves got away
with seven thousand pounds. This was in 1875. They were all five arrested, but
the evidence against them was by no means conclusive. This Blessington or Sutton,
who was the worst of the gang, turned informer. On his evidence Cartwright was
hanged and the other three got fifteen years apiece. When they got out the other
day, which was some years before their full term, they set themselves, as you
perceive, to hunt down the traitor and to avenge the death of their comrade upon
him. Twice they tried to get at him and failed; a third time, you see, it came
off. Is there anything further which I can explain, Dr. Trevelyan?"
"I think you have made it all remarkable clear,"
said the doctor. "No doubt the day on which he was perturbed was the day when
he had seen of their release in the newspapers."
"Quite so. His talk about a burglary was the merest
blind."
"But why could he not tell you this?"
"Well, my dear sir, knowing the vindictive character
of his old associates, he was trying to hide his own identity from everybody as
long as he could. His secret was a shameful one, and he could not bring himself
to divulge it. However, wretch as he was, he was still living under the shield
of British law, and I have no doubt, Inspector, that you will see that, though
that shield may fail to guard, the sword of justice is still there to avenge."
Such were the singular circumstances in connection
with the Resident Patient and the Brook Street Doctor. From that night nothing
has been seen of the three murderers by the police, and it is surmised at Scotland
Yard that they were among the passengers of the ill-fated steamer Norah Creina,
which was lost some years ago with all hands upon the Portuguese coast, some leagues
to the north of Oporto. The proceedings against the page broke down for want of
evidence, and the Brook Street Mystery, as it was called, has never until now
been fully dealt with in any public print.