THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE 11 page

Date: 2015-10-07; view: 343.

commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy

home a box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife

received a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after his

departure, to the effect that a small parcel of considerable

value which she had been expecting was waiting for her at the

offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now, if you are well up

in your London, you will know that the office of the company is

in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, where

you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch, started for

the City, did some shopping, proceeded to the company's office,

got her packet, and found herself at exactly 4:35 walking through

Swandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed me

so far?"

"It is very clear."

"If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St.

Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab,

as she did not like the neighbourhood in which she found herself.

While she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly

heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her

husband looking down at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning

to her from a second-floor window. The window was open, and she

distinctly saw his face, which she describes as being terribly

agitated. He waved his hands frantically to her, and then

vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her that

he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind.

One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was that

although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town

in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.

"Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the

steps--for the house was none other than the opium den in which

you found me to-night--and running through the front room she

attempted to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At

the foot of the stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of

whom I have spoken, who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who

acts as assistant there, pushed her out into the street. Filled

with the most maddening doubts and fears, she rushed down the

lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in Fresno Street a number of

constables with an inspector, all on their way to their beat. The

inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of the

continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their way to

the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no

sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that floor there was

no one to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who,

it seems, made his home there. Both he and the Lascar stoutly

swore that no one else had been in the front room during the

afternoon. So determined was their denial that the inspector was

staggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had

been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box

which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell

a cascade of children's bricks. It was the toy which he had

promised to bring home.

"This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple

showed, made the inspector realise that the matter was serious.

The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an

abominable crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a

sitting-room and led into a small bedroom, which looked out upon

the back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom

window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide but is covered

at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water. The

bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below. On

examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill,

and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of

the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were

all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of

his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch--all were

there. There were no signs of violence upon any of these

garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St.

Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no

other exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon

the sill gave little promise that he could save himself by

swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment of

the tragedy.

"And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately

implicated in the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the

vilest antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was

known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very few

seconds of her husband's appearance at the window, he could

hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime. His defence

was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had no

knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he

could not account in any way for the presence of the missing

gentleman's clothes.

"So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who

lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was

certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St.

Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which

is familiar to every man who goes much to the City. He is a

professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police

regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax vestas. Some

little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand

side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the

wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat,

cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he

is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the

greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I

have watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought of

making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised

at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. His

appearance, you see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him

without observing him. A shock of orange hair, a pale face

disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has

turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a

pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular

contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him out from amid

the common crowd of mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he

is ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which may be

thrown at him by the passers-by. This is the man whom we now

learn to have been the lodger at the opium den, and to have been

the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest."

"But a cripple!" said I. "What could he have done single-handed

against a man in the prime of life?"

"He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in

other respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man.

Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson, that

weakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptional

strength in the others."

"Pray continue your narrative."

"Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the

window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her

presence could be of no help to them in their investigations.

Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very careful

examination of the premises, but without finding anything which

threw any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made in not

arresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutes

during which he might have communicated with his friend the

Lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he was seized and

searched, without anything being found which could incriminate

him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his right

shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been

cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from

there, adding that he had been to the window not long before, and

that the stains which had been observed there came doubtless from

the same source. He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr.

Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes in

his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As to

Mrs. St. Clair's assertion that she had actually seen her husband

at the window, he declared that she must have been either mad or

dreaming. He was removed, loudly protesting, to the

police-station, while the inspector remained upon the premises in

the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh clue.

"And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they

had feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair's coat, and not

Neville St. Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And

what do you think they found in the pockets?"

"I cannot imagine."

"No, I don't think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with

pennies and half-pennies--421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It

was no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide. But a

human body is a different matter. There is a fierce eddy between

the wharf and the house. It seemed likely enough that the

weighted coat had remained when the stripped body had been sucked

away into the river."

"But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the

room. Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?"

"No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose

that this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the

window, there is no human eye which could have seen the deed.

What would he do then? It would of course instantly strike him

that he must get rid of the tell-tale garments. He would seize

the coat, then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when it

would occur to him that it would swim and not sink. He has little

time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife tried

to force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard from his

Lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street.

There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret

hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and he

stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the

pockets to make sure of the coat's sinking. He throws it out, and

would have done the same with the other garments had not he heard

the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the

window when the police appeared."

"It certainly sounds feasible."

"Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a

better. Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the

station, but it could not be shown that there had ever before

been anything against him. He had for years been known as a

professional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very

quiet and innocent one. There the matter stands at present, and

the questions which have to be solved--what Neville St. Clair was

doing in the opium den, what happened to him when there, where is

he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance--are

all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I cannot

recall any case within my experience which looked at the first

glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties."

While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of

events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great

town until the last straggling houses had been left behind, and

we rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us.

Just as he finished, however, we drove through two scattered

villages, where a few lights still glimmered in the windows.

"We are on the outskirts of Lee," said my companion. "We have

touched on three English counties in our short drive, starting in

Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent.

See that light among the trees? That is The Cedars, and beside

that lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already, I have

little doubt, caught the clink of our horse's feet."

"But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?" I

asked.

"Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here.

Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and

you may rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for

my friend and colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have

no news of her husband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!"

We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its

own grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse's head, and

springing down, I followed Holmes up the small, winding

gravel-drive which led to the house. As we approached, the door

flew open, and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, clad

in some sort of light mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy

pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She stood with her figure

outlined against the flood of light, one hand upon the door, one

half-raised in her eagerness, her body slightly bent, her head

and face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing

question.

"Well?" she cried, "well?" And then, seeing that there were two

of us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she saw

that my companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

"No good news?"

"None."

"No bad?"

"No."

"Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for you have

had a long day."

"This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to

me in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it

possible for me to bring him out and associate him with this

investigation."

"I am delighted to see you," said she, pressing my hand warmly.

"You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our

arrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so

suddenly upon us."

"My dear madam," said I, "I am an old campaigner, and if I were

not I can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be of

any assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be

indeed happy."

"Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the lady as we entered a

well-lit dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had

been laid out, "I should very much like to ask you one or two

plain questions, to which I beg that you will give a plain

answer."

"Certainly, madam."

"Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor given

to fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion."

"Upon what point?"

"In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?"

Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question.

"Frankly, now!" she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking

keenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.

"Frankly, then, madam, I do not."

"You think that he is dead?"

"I do."

"Murdered?"

"I don't say that. Perhaps."

"And on what day did he meet his death?"

"On Monday."

"Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how

it is that I have received a letter from him to-day."

Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been

galvanised.

"What!" he roared.

"Yes, to-day." She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of

paper in the air.

"May I see it?"

"Certainly."

He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out

upon the table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I

had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The

envelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend

postmark and with the date of that very day, or rather of the day

before, for it was considerably after midnight.

"Coarse writing," murmured Holmes. "Surely this is not your

husband's writing, madam."

"No, but the enclosure is."

"I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go

and inquire as to the address."

"How can you tell that?"

"The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried

itself. The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that

blotting-paper has been used. If it had been written straight

off, and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This

man has written the name, and there has then been a pause before

he wrote the address, which can only mean that he was not

familiar with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but there is

nothing so important as trifles. Let us now see the letter. Ha!

there has been an enclosure here!"

"Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring."

"And you are sure that this is your husband's hand?"

"One of his hands."

"One?"

"His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual

writing, and yet I know it well."

"'Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a

huge error which it may take some little time to rectify.

Wait in patience.--NEVILLE.' Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf

of a book, octavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in

Gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been

gummed, if I am not very much in error, by a person who had been

chewing tobacco. And you have no doubt that it is your husband's

hand, madam?"

"None. Neville wrote those words."

"And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair,

the clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the

danger is over."

"But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes."

"Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent.

The ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from

him."

"No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!"

"Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only

posted to-day."

"That is possible."

"If so, much may have happened between."

"Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is

well with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I

should know if evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him

last he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room

rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty that

something had happened. Do you think that I would respond to such

a trifle and yet be ignorant of his death?"

"I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman

may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical

reasoner. And in this letter you certainly have a very strong

piece of evidence to corroborate your view. But if your husband

is alive and able to write letters, why should he remain away

from you?"

"I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable."

"And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?"

"No."

"And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?"

"Very much so."

"Was the window open?"

"Yes."

"Then he might have called to you?"

"He might."

"He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?"

"Yes."

"A call for help, you thought?"

"Yes. He waved his hands."

"But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the

unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?"

"It is possible."

"And you thought he was pulled back?"

"He disappeared so suddenly."

"He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the

room?"

"No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and

the Lascar was at the foot of the stairs."

"Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his

ordinary clothes on?"

"But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare

throat."

"Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?"

"Never."

"Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?"

"Never."

"Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about

which I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little

supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day

to-morrow."

A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our

disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary

after my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however,

who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for

days, and even for a week, without rest, turning it over,

rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of view

until he had either fathomed it or convinced himself that his

data were insufficient. It was soon evident to me that he was now

preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off his coat and

waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then wandered

about the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions from

the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort of

Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, with

an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front

of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an

old briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the

corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him,

silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set

aquiline features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he

sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found

the summer sun shining into the apartment. The pipe was still

between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the room was

full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap of

shag which I had seen upon the previous night.

"Awake, Watson?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Game for a morning drive?"

"Certainly."

"Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the

stable-boy sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out." He

chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed

a different man to the sombre thinker of the previous night.

As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one

was stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly

finished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was

putting in the horse.

"I want to test a little theory of mine," said he, pulling on his

boots. "I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the

presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve

to be kicked from here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the

key of the affair now."

"And where is it?" I asked, smiling.

"In the bathroom," he answered. "Oh, yes, I am not joking," he

continued, seeing my look of incredulity. "I have just been

there, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this

Gladstone bag. Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will

not fit the lock."

We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into

the bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and

trap, with the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both

sprang in, and away we dashed down the London Road. A few country

carts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but

the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as

some city in a dream.

"It has been in some points a singular case," said Holmes,

flicking the horse on into a gallop. "I confess that I have been

as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than

never to learn it at all."

In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily

from their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey

side. Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the

river, and dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the

right and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well

known to the force, and the two constables at the door saluted

him. One of them held the horse's head while the other led us in.

"Who is on duty?" asked Holmes.

"Inspector Bradstreet, sir."

"Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?" A tall, stout official had come

down the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged

jacket. "I wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet."

"Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here." It was a small,

office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table, and a

telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his

desk.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?"

"I called about that beggarman, Boone--the one who was charged

with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St.

Clair, of Lee."