B1 Intermediate US 14418 Folder Collection
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When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes cases between the years
'82 and '90, I am faced by so many which present strange and interesting features
that it is no easy matter to know which to choose and which to leave.
Some, however, have already gained publicity through the papers, and others
have not offered a field for those peculiar qualities which my friend possessed in so
high a degree, and which it is the object of these papers to illustrate.
Some, too, have baffled his analytical skill, and would be, as narratives,
beginnings without an ending, while others have been but partially cleared up, and
have their explanations founded rather upon
conjecture and surmise than on that absolute logical proof which was so dear to
There is, however, one of these last which was so remarkable in its details and so
startling in its results that I am tempted to give some account of it in spite of the
fact that there are points in connection
with it which never have been, and probably never will be, entirely cleared up.
The year '87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or less
interest, of which I retain the records.
Among my headings under this one twelve months I find an account of the adventure
of the Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a luxurious
club in the lower vault of a furniture
warehouse, of the facts connected with the loss of the British barque "Sophy
Anderson", of the singular adventures of the Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa,
and finally of the Camberwell poisoning case.
In the latter, as may be remembered, Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the
dead man's watch, to prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and that
therefore the deceased had gone to bed
within that time--a deduction which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the
All these I may sketch out at some future date, but none of them present such
singular features as the strange train of circumstances which I have now taken up my
pen to describe.
It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales had set in with
exceptional violence.
All day the wind had screamed and the rain had beaten against the windows, so that
even here in the heart of great, hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds
for the instant from the routine of life
and to recognise the presence of those great elemental forces which shriek at
mankind through the bars of his civilisation, like untamed beasts in a
As evening drew in, the storm grew higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed
like a child in the chimney.
Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the fireplace cross-indexing his records of
crime, while I at the other was deep in one of Clark Russell's fine sea-stories until
the howl of the gale from without seemed to
blend with the text, and the splash of the rain to lengthen out into the long swash of
the sea waves.
My wife was on a visit to her mother's, and for a few days I was a dweller once more in
my old quarters at Baker Street. "Why," said I, glancing up at my companion,
"that was surely the bell.
Who could come to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?"
"Except yourself I have none," he answered. "I do not encourage visitors."
"A client, then?"
"If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out on such
a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more likely to be
some crony of the landlady's."
Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there came a step
in the passage and a tapping at the door.
He stretched out his long arm to turn the lamp away from himself and towards the
vacant chair upon which a newcomer must sit.
"Come in!" said he.
The man who entered was young, some two- and-twenty at the outside, well-groomed and
trimly clad, with something of refinement and delicacy in his bearing.
The streaming umbrella which he held in his hand, and his long shining waterproof told
of the fierce weather through which he had come.
He looked about him anxiously in the glare of the lamp, and I could see that his face
was pale and his eyes heavy, like those of a man who is weighed down with some great
"I owe you an apology," he said, raising his golden pince-nez to his eyes.
"I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I have brought some traces of
the storm and rain into your snug chamber."
"Give me your coat and umbrella," said Holmes.
"They may rest here on the hook and will be dry presently.
You have come up from the south-west, I see."
"Yes, from Horsham." "That clay and chalk mixture which I see
upon your toe caps is quite distinctive."
"I have come for advice." "That is easily got."
"And help." "That is not always so easy."
"I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes.
I heard from Major Prendergast how you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal."
"Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at
"He said that you could solve anything." "He said too much."
"That you are never beaten." "I have been beaten four times--three times
by men, and once by a woman."
"But what is that compared with the number of your successes?"
"It is true that I have been generally successful."
"Then you may be so with me."
"I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour me with some details as
to your case." "It is no ordinary one."
"None of those which come to me are.
I am the last court of appeal."
"And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you have ever listened to
a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of events than those which have happened in my
own family."
"You fill me with interest," said Holmes. "Pray give us the essential facts from the
commencement, and I can afterwards question you as to those details which seem to me to
be most important."
The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out towards the blaze.
"My name," said he, "is John Openshaw, but my own affairs have, as far as I can
understand, little to do with this awful business.
It is a hereditary matter; so in order to give you an idea of the facts, I must go
back to the commencement of the affair. "You must know that my grandfather had two
sons--my uncle Elias and my father Joseph.
My father had a small factory at Coventry, which he enlarged at the time of the
invention of bicycling.
He was a patentee of the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and his business met with
such success that he was able to sell it and to retire upon a handsome competence.
"My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man and became a planter in
Florida, where he was reported to have done very well.
At the time of the war he fought in Jackson's army, and afterwards under Hood,
where he rose to be a colonel.
When Lee laid down his arms my uncle returned to his plantation, where he
remained for three or four years.
About 1869 or 1870 he came back to Europe and took a small estate in Sussex, near
He had made a very considerable fortune in the States, and his reason for leaving them
was his aversion to the negroes, and his dislike of the Republican policy in
extending the franchise to them.
He was a singular man, fierce and quick- tempered, very foul-mouthed when he was
angry, and of a most retiring disposition.
During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I doubt if ever he set foot in the
He had a garden and two or three fields round his house, and there he would take
his exercise, though very often for weeks on end he would never leave his room.
He drank a great deal of brandy and smoked very heavily, but he would see no society
and did not want any friends, not even his own brother.
"He didn't mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the time when he saw me
first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This would be in the year 1878, after he
had been eight or nine years in England.
He begged my father to let me live with him and he was very kind to me in his way.
When he was sober he used to be fond of playing backgammon and draughts with me,
and he would make me his representative both with the servants and with the
tradespeople, so that by the time that I
was sixteen I was quite master of the house.
I kept all the keys and could go where I liked and do what I liked, so long as I did
not disturb him in his privacy.
There was one singular exception, however, for he had a single room, a lumber-room up
among the attics, which was invariably locked, and which he would never permit
either me or anyone else to enter.
With a boy's curiosity I have peeped through the keyhole, but I was never able
to see more than such a collection of old trunks and bundles as would be expected in
such a room.
"One day--it was in March, 1883--a letter with a foreign stamp lay upon the table in
front of the colonel's plate.
It was not a common thing for him to receive letters, for his bills were all
paid in ready money, and he had no friends of any sort.
'From India!' said he as he took it up, 'Pondicherry postmark!
What can this be?'
Opening it hurriedly, out there jumped five little dried orange pips, which pattered
down upon his plate.
I began to laugh at this, but the laugh was struck from my lips at the sight of his
His lip had fallen, his eyes were protruding, his skin the colour of putty,
and he glared at the envelope which he still held in his trembling hand, 'K. K.
K.!' he shrieked, and then, 'My God, my God, my sins have overtaken me!'
"'What is it, uncle?' I cried.
"'Death,' said he, and rising from the table he retired to his room, leaving me
palpitating with horror.
I took up the envelope and saw scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the
gum, the letter K three times repeated. There was nothing else save the five dried
What could be the reason of his overpowering terror?
I left the breakfast-table, and as I ascended the stair I met him coming down
with an old rusty key, which must have belonged to the attic, in one hand, and a
small brass box, like a cashbox, in the other.
"'They may do what they like, but I'll checkmate them still,' said he with an
'Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my room to-day, and send down to Fordham, the
Horsham lawyer.' "I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer
arrived I was asked to step up to the room.
The fire was burning brightly, and in the grate there was a mass of black, fluffy
ashes, as of burned paper, while the brass box stood open and empty beside it.
As I glanced at the box I noticed, with a start, that upon the lid was printed the
treble K which I had read in the morning upon the envelope.
"'I wish you, John,' said my uncle, 'to witness my will.
I leave my estate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to my brother,
your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to you.
If you can enjoy it in peace, well and good!
If you find you cannot, take my advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest enemy.
I am sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I can't say what turn things are
going to take. Kindly sign the paper where Mr. Fordham
shows you.'
"I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with him.
The singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest impression upon me, and
I pondered over it and turned it every way in my mind without being able to make
anything of it.
Yet I could not shake off the vague feeling of dread which it left behind, though the
sensation grew less keen as the weeks passed and nothing happened to disturb the
usual routine of our lives.
I could see a change in my uncle, however. He drank more than ever, and he was less
inclined for any sort of society.
Most of his time he would spend in his room, with the door locked upon the inside,
but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of drunken frenzy and would burst out of the
house and tear about the garden with a
revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid of no man, and that he was not
to be cooped up, like a sheep in a pen, by man or devil.
When these hot fits were over, however, he would rush tumultuously in at the door and
lock and bar it behind him, like a man who can brazen it out no longer against the
terror which lies at the roots of his soul.
At such times I have seen his face, even on a cold day, glisten with moisture, as
though it were new raised from a basin.
"Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to abuse your patience,
there came a night when he made one of those drunken sallies from which he never
came back.
We found him, when we went to search for him, face downward in a little green-
scummed pool, which lay at the foot of the garden.
There was no sign of any violence, and the water was but two feet deep, so that the
jury, having regard to his known eccentricity, brought in a verdict of
But I, who knew how he winced from the very thought of death, had much ado to persuade
myself that he had gone out of his way to meet it.
The matter passed, however, and my father entered into possession of the estate, and
of some 14,000 pounds, which lay to his credit at the bank."
"One moment," Holmes interposed, "your statement is, I foresee, one of the most
remarkable to which I have ever listened.
Let me have the date of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and the date of
his supposed suicide." "The letter arrived on March 10, 1883.
His death was seven weeks later, upon the night of May 2nd."
"Thank you. Pray proceed."
"When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my request, made a careful
examination of the attic, which had been always locked up.
We found the brass box there, although its contents had been destroyed.
On the inside of the cover was a paper label, with the initials of K. K. K.
repeated upon it, and 'Letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register' written beneath.
These, we presume, indicated the nature of the papers which had been destroyed by
Colonel Openshaw.
For the rest, there was nothing of much importance in the attic save a great many
scattered papers and note-books bearing upon my uncle's life in America.
Some of them were of the war time and showed that he had done his duty well and
had borne the repute of a brave soldier.
Others were of a date during the reconstruction of the Southern states, and
were mostly concerned with politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in
opposing the carpet-bag politicians who had been sent down from the North.
"Well, it was the beginning of '84 when my father came to live at Horsham, and all
went as well as possible with us until the January of '85.
On the fourth day after the new year I heard my father give a sharp cry of
surprise as we sat together at the breakfast-table.
There he was, sitting with a newly opened envelope in one hand and five dried orange
pips in the outstretched palm of the other one.
He had always laughed at what he called my cock-and-bull story about the colonel, but
he looked very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come upon himself.
"'Why, what on earth does this mean, John?' he stammered.
"My heart had turned to lead. 'It is K. K. K.,' said I.
"He looked inside the envelope.
'So it is,' he cried. 'Here are the very letters.
But what is this written above them?' "'Put the papers on the sundial,' I read,
peeping over his shoulder.
"'What papers? What sundial?' he asked.
"'The sundial in the garden. There is no other,' said I; 'but the papers
must be those that are destroyed.'
"'Pooh!' said he, gripping hard at his courage.
'We are in a civilised land here, and we can't have tomfoolery of this kind.
Where does the thing come from?'
"'From Dundee,' I answered, glancing at the postmark.
"'Some preposterous practical joke,' said he.
'What have I to do with sundials and papers?
I shall take no notice of such nonsense.' "'I should certainly speak to the police,'
I said.
"'And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.'
"'Then let me do so?' "'No, I forbid you.
I won't have a fuss made about such nonsense.'
"It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate man.
I went about, however, with a heart which was full of forebodings.
"On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went from home to visit an
old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is in command of one of the forts upon
Portsdown Hill.
I was glad that he should go, for it seemed to me that he was farther from danger when
he was away from home. In that, however, I was in error.
Upon the second day of his absence I received a telegram from the major,
imploring me to come at once.
My father had fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound in the
neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull.
I hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered his
He had, as it appears, been returning from Fareham in the twilight, and as the country
was unknown to him, and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in
bringing in a verdict of 'death from accidental causes.'
Carefully as I examined every fact connected with his death, I was unable to
find anything which could suggest the idea of murder.
There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no robbery, no record of
strangers having been seen upon the roads.
And yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I was well-
nigh certain that some foul plot had been woven round him.
"In this sinister way I came into my inheritance.
You will ask me why I did not dispose of it?
I answer, because I was well convinced that our troubles were in some way dependent
upon an incident in my uncle's life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one
house as in another.
"It was in January, '85, that my poor father met his end, and two years and eight
months have elapsed since then.
During that time I have lived happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this
curse had passed away from the family, and that it had ended with the last generation.
I had begun to take comfort too soon, however; yesterday morning the blow fell in
the very shape in which it had come upon my father."
The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and turning to the table
he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips.
"This is the envelope," he continued.
"The postmark is London--eastern division. Within are the very words which were upon
my father's last message: 'K. K. K.'; and then 'Put the papers on the sundial.'"
"What have you done?" asked Holmes.
"Nothing." "Nothing?"
"To tell the truth"--he sank his face into his thin, white hands--"I have felt
I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when the snake is writhing towards it.
I seem to be in the grasp of some resistless, inexorable evil, which no
foresight and no precautions can guard against."
"Tut! tut!" cried Sherlock Holmes.
"You must act, man, or you are lost. Nothing but energy can save you.
This is no time for despair." "I have seen the police."
"But they listened to my story with a smile.
I am convinced that the inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all
practical jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really accidents, as the
jury stated, and were not to be connected with the warnings."
Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. "Incredible imbecility!" he cried.
"They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in the house with
me." "Has he come with you to-night?"
"No. His orders were to stay in the house."
Again Holmes raved in the air. "Why did you come to me," he cried, "and,
above all, why did you not come at once?" "I did not know.
It was only to-day that I spoke to Major Prendergast about my troubles and was
advised by him to come to you." "It is really two days since you had the
We should have acted before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose,
than that which you have placed before us-- no suggestive detail which might help us?"
"There is one thing," said John Openshaw.
He rummaged in his coat pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-
tinted paper, he laid it out upon the table.
"I have some remembrance," said he, "that on the day when my uncle burned the papers
I observed that the small, unburned margins which lay amid the ashes were of this
particular colour.
I found this single sheet upon the floor of his room, and I am inclined to think that
it may be one of the papers which has, perhaps, fluttered out from among the
others, and in that way has escaped destruction.
Beyond the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us much.
I think myself that it is a page from some private diary.
The writing is undoubtedly my uncle's."
Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper, which showed by
its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a book.
It was headed, "March, 1869," and beneath were the following enigmatical notices:
"4th. Hudson came.
Same old platform.
"7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and
John Swain, of St. Augustine. "9th.
McCauley cleared.
"10th. John Swain cleared.
"12th. Visited Paramore.
All well."
"Thank you!" said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it to our visitor.
"And now you must on no account lose another instant.
We cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told me.
You must get home instantly and act." "What shall I do?"
"There is but one thing to do.
It must be done at once. You must put this piece of paper which you
have shown us into the brass box which you have described.
You must also put in a note to say that all the other papers were burned by your uncle,
and that this is the only one which remains.
You must assert that in such words as will carry conviction with them.
Having done this, you must at once put the box out upon the sundial, as directed.
Do you understand?"
"Entirely." "Do not think of revenge, or anything of
the sort, at present.
I think that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our web to weave,
while theirs is already woven. The first consideration is to remove the
pressing danger which threatens you.
The second is to clear up the mystery and to punish the guilty parties."
"I thank you," said the young man, rising and pulling on his overcoat.
"You have given me fresh life and hope.
I shall certainly do as you advise." "Do not lose an instant.
And, above all, take care of yourself in the meanwhile, for I do not think that
there can be a doubt that you are threatened by a very real and imminent
How do you go back?" "By train from Waterloo."
"It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust
that you may be in safety.
And yet you cannot guard yourself too closely."
"I am armed." "That is well.
To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case."
"I shall see you at Horsham, then?" "No, your secret lies in London.
It is there that I shall seek it."
"Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with news as to the box and the
papers. I shall take your advice in every
He shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside the wind still screamed and the
rain splashed and pattered against the windows.
This strange, wild story seemed to have come to us from amid the mad elements--
blown in upon us like a sheet of sea-weed in a gale--and now to have been reabsorbed
by them once more.
Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk forward and his
eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire.
Then he lit his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue smoke-rings
as they chased each other up to the ceiling.
"I think, Watson," he remarked at last, "that of all our cases we have had none
more fantastic than this." "Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four."
"Well, yes.
Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw seems to me to
be walking amid even greater perils than did the Sholtos."
"But have you," I asked, "formed any definite conception as to what these perils
are?" "There can be no question as to their
nature," he answered.
"Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he
pursue this unhappy family?"
Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the arms of his chair, with
his finger-tips together.
"The ideal reasoner," he remarked, "would, when he had once been shown a single fact
in all its bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which led up
to it but also all the results which would follow from it.
As Cuvier could correctly describe a whole animal by the contemplation of a single
bone, so the observer who has thoroughly understood one link in a series of
incidents should be able to accurately
state all the other ones, both before and after.
We have not yet grasped the results which the reason alone can attain to.
Problems may be solved in the study which have baffled all those who have sought a
solution by the aid of their senses.
To carry the art, however, to its highest pitch, it is necessary that the reasoner
should be able to utilise all the facts which have come to his knowledge; and this
in itself implies, as you will readily see,
a possession of all knowledge, which, even in these days of free education and
encyclopaedias, is a somewhat rare accomplishment.
It is not so impossible, however, that a man should possess all knowledge which is
likely to be useful to him in his work, and this I have endeavoured in my case to do.
If I remember rightly, you on one occasion, in the early days of our friendship,
defined my limits in a very precise fashion."
"Yes," I answered, laughing.
"It was a singular document. Philosophy, astronomy, and politics were
marked at zero, I remember.
Botany variable, geology profound as regards the mud-stains from any region
within fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy unsystematic,
sensational literature and crime records
unique, violin-player, boxer, swordsman, lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine and
tobacco. Those, I think, were the main points of my
Holmes grinned at the last item.
"Well," he said, "I say now, as I said then, that a man should keep his little
brain-attic stocked with all the furniture that he is likely to use, and the rest he
can put away in the lumber-room of his
library, where he can get it if he wants it.
Now, for such a case as the one which has been submitted to us to-night, we need
certainly to muster all our resources.
Kindly hand me down the letter K of the 'American Encyclopaedia' which stands upon
the shelf beside you. Thank you.
Now let us consider the situation and see what may be deduced from it.
In the first place, we may start with a strong presumption that Colonel Openshaw
had some very strong reason for leaving America.
Men at his time of life do not change all their habits and exchange willingly the
charming climate of Florida for the lonely life of an English provincial town.
His extreme love of solitude in England suggests the idea that he was in fear of
someone or something, so we may assume as a working hypothesis that it was fear of
someone or something which drove him from America.
As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by considering the formidable
letters which were received by himself and his successors.
Did you remark the postmarks of those letters?"
"The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the third from London."
"From East London.
What do you deduce from that?" "They are all seaports.
That the writer was on board of a ship." "Excellent.
We have already a clue.
There can be no doubt that the probability- -the strong probability--is that the writer
was on board of a ship. And now let us consider another point.
In the case of Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its
fulfilment, in Dundee it was only some three or four days.
Does that suggest anything?"
"A greater distance to travel." "But the letter had also a greater distance
to come." "Then I do not see the point."
"There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man or men are is a
It looks as if they always send their singular warning or token before them when
starting upon their mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the
sign when it came from Dundee.
If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer they would have arrived almost as
soon as their letter. But, as a matter of fact, seven weeks
I think that those seven weeks represented the difference between the mail-boat which
brought the letter and the sailing vessel which brought the writer."
"It is possible."
"More than that. It is probable.
And now you see the deadly urgency of this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to
The blow has always fallen at the end of the time which it would take the senders to
travel the distance. But this one comes from London, and
therefore we cannot count upon delay."
"Good God!" I cried.
"What can it mean, this relentless persecution?"
"The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance to the person
or persons in the sailing-ship. I think that it is quite clear that there
must be more than one of them.
A single man could not have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a
coroner's jury.
There must have been several in it, and they must have been men of resource and
determination. Their papers they mean to have, be the
holder of them who it may.
In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be the initials of an individual and becomes
the badge of a society." "But of what society?"
"Have you never--" said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking his voice--
"have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?" "I never have."
Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee.
"Here it is," said he presently: "'Ku Klux Klan.
A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to the sound produced by
cocking a rifle.
This terrible secret society was formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the
Southern states after the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local branches in different
parts of the country, notably in Tennessee,
Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida.
Its power was used for political purposes, principally for the terrorising of the
negro voters and the murdering and driving from the country of those who were opposed
to its views.
Its outrages were usually preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some
fantastic but generally recognised shape--a sprig of oak-leaves in some parts, melon
seeds or orange pips in others.
On receiving this the victim might either openly abjure his former ways, or might fly
from the country.
If he braved the matter out, death would unfailingly come upon him, and usually in
some strange and unforeseen manner.
So perfect was the organisation of the society, and so systematic its methods,
that there is hardly a case upon record where any man succeeded in braving it with
impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to the perpetrators.
For some years the organisation flourished in spite of the efforts of the United
States government and of the better classes of the community in the South.
Eventually, in the year 1869, the movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there
have been sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date.'
"You will observe," said Holmes, laying down the volume, "that the sudden breaking
up of the society was coincident with the disappearance of Openshaw from America with
their papers.
It may well have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his family have
some of the more implacable spirits upon their track.
You can understand that this register and diary may implicate some of the first men
in the South, and that there may be many who will not sleep easy at night until it
is recovered."
"Then the page we have seen--" "Is such as we might expect.
It ran, if I remember right, 'sent the pips to A, B, and C'--that is, sent the
society's warning to them.
Then there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or left the country, and
finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a sinister result for C.
Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let some light into this dark place, and I believe
that the only chance young Openshaw has in the meantime is to do what I have told him.
There is nothing more to be said or to be done to-night, so hand me over my violin
and let us try to forget for half an hour the miserable weather and the still more
miserable ways of our fellow-men."
It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued brightness
through the dim veil which hangs over the great city.
Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down.
"You will excuse me for not waiting for you," said he; "I have, I foresee, a very
busy day before me in looking into this case of young Openshaw's."
"What steps will you take?"
I asked. "It will very much depend upon the results
of my first inquiries. I may have to go down to Horsham, after
"You will not go there first?" "No, I shall commence with the City.
Just ring the bell and the maid will bring up your coffee."
As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and glanced my eye
over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill
to my heart.
"Holmes," I cried, "you are too late." "Ah!" said he, laying down his cup, "I
feared as much. How was it done?"
He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.
"My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading 'Tragedy Near Waterloo Bridge.'
Here is the account:
"Between nine and ten last night Police- Constable Cook, of the H Division, on duty
near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and a splash in the water.
The night, however, was extremely dark and stormy, so that, in spite of the help of
several passers-by, it was quite impossible to effect a rescue.
The alarm, however, was given, and, by the aid of the water-police, the body was
eventually recovered.
It proved to be that of a young gentleman whose name, as it appears from an envelope
which was found in his pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose residence is near
It is conjectured that he may have been hurrying down to catch the last train from
Waterloo Station, and that in his haste and the extreme darkness he missed his path and
walked over the edge of one of the small landing-places for river steamboats.
The body exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt that the deceased
had been the victim of an unfortunate accident, which should have the effect of
calling the attention of the authorities to
the condition of the riverside landing- stages."
We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and shaken than I had ever
seen him.
"That hurts my pride, Watson," he said at last.
"It is a petty feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride.
It becomes a personal matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my
hand upon this gang.
That he should come to me for help, and that I should send him away to his death--
He sprang from his chair and paced about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with
a flush upon his sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and unclasping of his long
thin hands.
"They must be cunning devils," he exclaimed at last.
"How could they have decoyed him down there?
The Embankment is not on the direct line to the station.
The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a night, for their purpose.
Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in the long run.
I am going out now!" "To the police?"
"No; I shall be my own police.
When I have spun the web they may take the flies, but not before."
All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the evening before
I returned to Baker Street.
Sherlock Holmes had not come back yet. It was nearly ten o'clock before he
entered, looking pale and worn.
He walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece from the loaf he devoured it
voraciously, washing it down with a long draught of water.
"You are hungry," I remarked.
"Starving. It had escaped my memory.
I have had nothing since breakfast." "Nothing?"
"Not a bite.
I had no time to think of it." "And how have you succeeded?"
"Well." "You have a clue?"
"I have them in the hollow of my hand.
Young Openshaw shall not long remain unavenged.
Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish trade-mark upon them.
It is well thought of!"
"What do you mean?" He took an orange from the cupboard, and
tearing it to pieces he squeezed out the pips upon the table.
Of these he took five and thrust them into an envelope.
On the inside of the flap he wrote "S. H. for J. O."
Then he sealed it and addressed it to "Captain James Calhoun, Barque 'Lone Star,'
Savannah, Georgia." "That will await him when he enters port,"
said he, chuckling.
"It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor of his
fate as Openshaw did before him." "And who is this Captain Calhoun?"
"The leader of the gang.
I shall have the others, but he first." "How did you trace it, then?"
He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with dates and names.
"I have spent the whole day," said he, "over Lloyd's registers and files of the
old papers, following the future career of every vessel which touched at Pondicherry
in January and February in '83.
There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there during those
Of these, one, the 'Lone Star,' instantly attracted my attention, since, although it
was reported as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to one of
the states of the Union."
"Texas, I think." "I was not and am not sure which; but I
knew that the ship must have an American origin."
"What then?"
"I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque 'Lone Star' was there
in January, '85, my suspicion became a certainty.
I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of London."
"Yes?" "The 'Lone Star' had arrived here last
I went down to the Albert Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by
the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah.
I wired to Gravesend and learned that she had passed some time ago, and as the wind
is easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins and not very far from the
Isle of Wight."
"What will you do, then?" "Oh, I have my hand upon him.
He and the two mates, are as I learn, the only native-born Americans in the ship.
The others are Finns and Germans.
I know, also, that they were all three away from the ship last night.
I had it from the stevedore who has been loading their cargo.
By the time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried
this letter, and the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these
three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a charge of murder."
There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and the murderers of
John Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips which would show them that
another, as cunning and as resolute as themselves, was upon their track.
Very long and very severe were the equinoctial gales that year.
We waited long for news of the "Lone Star" of Savannah, but none ever reached us.
We did at last hear that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of a
boat was seen swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters "L. S." carved upon
it, and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate of the "Lone Star."
Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the Theological
College of St. George's, was much addicted to opium.
The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he was at
college; for having read De Quincey's description of his dreams and sensations,
he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the same effects.
He found, as so many more have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to
get rid of, and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of
mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives.
I can see him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all
huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.
One night--it was in June, '89--there came a ring to my bell, about the hour when a
man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock.
I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap and made a
little face of disappointment. "A patient!" said she.
"You'll have to go out."
I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.
We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the
Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some dark-coloured stuff, with a black
veil, entered the room.
"You will excuse my calling so late," she began, and then, suddenly losing her self-
control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my wife's neck, and sobbed upon her
"Oh, I'm in such trouble!" she cried; "I do so want a little help."
"Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whitney.
How you startled me, Kate!
I had not an idea who you were when you came in."
"I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you."
That was always the way.
Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a light-house.
"It was very sweet of you to come.
Now, you must have some wine and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about
it. Or should you rather that I sent James off
to bed?"
"Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too.
It's about Isa. He has not been home for two days.
I am so frightened about him!"
It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband's trouble, to
me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school companion.
We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find.
Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we could bring him
back to her?
It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late
he had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the farthest east of the
Hitherto his orgies had always been confined to one day, and he had come back,
twitching and shattered, in the evening.
But now the spell had been upon him eight- and-forty hours, and he lay there,
doubtless among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the
There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam
Lane. But what was she to do?
How could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place and pluck
her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?
There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it.
Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought, why should
she come at all?
I was Isa Whitney's medical adviser, and as such I had influence over him.
I could manage it better if I were alone.
I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab within two hours if he
were indeed at the address which she had given me.
And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me,
and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a strange errand, as it seemed to me at the
time, though the future only could show how strange it was to be.
But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure.
Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which line the
north side of the river to the east of London Bridge.
Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of steps
leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was
in search.
Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the
ceaseless tread of drunken feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the
door I found the latch and made my way into
a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden
berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship.
Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in strange
fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back, and chins
pointing upward, with here and there a
dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer.
Out of the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright,
now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes.
The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked together in a
strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then
suddenly tailing off into silence, each
mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour.
At the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on a three-
legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two
fists, and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.
As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me and a supply
of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.
"Thank you.
I have not come to stay," said I. "There is a friend of mine here, Mr. Isa
Whitney, and I wish to speak with him."
There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering through the
gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring out at me.
"My God!
It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction,
with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what o'clock is it?"
"Nearly eleven."
"Of what day?" "Of Friday, June 19th."
"Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday.
It is Wednesday.
What d'you want to frighten a chap for?" He sank his face onto his arms and began to
sob in a high treble key. "I tell you that it is Friday, man.
Your wife has been waiting this two days for you.
You should be ashamed of yourself!" "So I am.
But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few hours, three pipes,
four pipes--I forget how many. But I'll go home with you.
I wouldn't frighten Kate--poor little Kate.
Give me your hand! Have you a cab?"
"Yes, I have one waiting." "Then I shall go in it.
But I must owe something.
Find what I owe, Watson. I am all off colour.
I can do nothing for myself."
I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers, holding my
breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug, and looking about for
the manager.
As I passed the tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt,
and a low voice whispered, "Walk past me, and then look back at me."
The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear.
I glanced down.
They could only have come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed
as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from
between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from his fingers.
I took two steps forward and looked back.
It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of
astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could
see him but I.
His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained their
fire, and there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other
than Sherlock Holmes.
He made a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face
half round to the company once more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped
"Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing
in this den?" "As low as you can," he answered; "I have
excellent ears.
If you would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I
should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you."
"I have a cab outside."
"Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he appears to
be too limp to get into any mischief.
I should recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you
have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be with
you in five minutes."
It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes' requests, for they were always so
exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet air of mastery.
I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in the cab my mission was
practically accomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be
associated with my friend in one of those
singular adventures which were the normal condition of his existence.
In a few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney's bill, led him out to the
cab, and seen him driven through the darkness.
In a very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den, and I was
walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes.
For two streets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot.
Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and burst into a
hearty fit of laughter.
"I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have added opium-smoking to
cocaine injections, and all the other little weaknesses on which you have
favoured me with your medical views."
"I was certainly surprised to find you there."
"But not more so than I to find you." "I came to find a friend."
"And I to find an enemy."
"An enemy?" "Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall
I say, my natural prey.
Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have hoped
to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now.
Had I been recognised in that den my life would not have been worth an hour's
purchase; for I have used it before now for my own purposes, and the rascally Lascar
who runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon me.
There is a trap-door at the back of that building, near the corner of Paul's Wharf,
which could tell some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless
"What! You do not mean bodies?"
"Ay, bodies, Watson.
We should be rich men if we had 1000 pounds for every poor devil who has been done to
death in that den.
It is the vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St.
Clair has entered it never to leave it more.
But our trap should be here."
He put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly--a signal which
was answered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle of
wheels and the clink of horses' hoofs.
"Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog- cart dashed up through the gloom, throwing
out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side lanterns.
"You'll come with me, won't you?"
"If I can be of use." "Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and
a chronicler still more so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded
"The Cedars?" "Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair's house.
I am staying there while I conduct the inquiry."
"Where is it, then?"
"Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us."
"But I am all in the dark." "Of course you are.
You'll know all about it presently.
Jump up here. All right, John; we shall not need you.
Here's half a crown. Look out for me to-morrow, about eleven.
Give her her head.
So long, then!"
He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the endless succession
of sombre and deserted streets, which widened gradually, until we were flying
across a broad balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us.
Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only
by the heavy, regular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some
belated party of revellers.
A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here
and there through the rifts of the clouds.
Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his breast, and the air of a man who
is lost in thought, while I sat beside him, curious to learn what this new quest might
be which seemed to tax his powers so
sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of his thoughts.
We had driven several miles, and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt
of suburban villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up his pipe
with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he is acting for the best.
"You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," said he.
"It makes you quite invaluable as a companion.
'Pon my word, it is a great thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own
thoughts are not over-pleasant.
I was wondering what I should say to this dear little woman to-night when she meets
me at the door." "You forget that I know nothing about it."
"I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get to Lee.
It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can get nothing to go upon.
There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can't get the end of it into my hand.
Now, I'll state the case clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can
see a spark where all is dark to me."
"Proceed, then." "Some years ago--to be definite, in May,
1884--there came to Lee a gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to
have plenty of money.
He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and lived generally in good
By degrees he made friends in the neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the
daughter of a local brewer, by whom he now has two children.
He had no occupation, but was interested in several companies and went into town as a
rule in the morning, returning by the 5:14 from Cannon Street every night.
Mr. St. Clair is now thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a good
husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know him.
I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as far as we have been able
to ascertain, amount to 88 pounds 10s., while he has 220 pounds standing to his
credit in the Capital and Counties Bank.
There is no reason, therefore, to think that money troubles have been weighing upon
his mind.
"Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier than usual,
remarking before he started that he had two important commissions to perform, and that
he would bring his little boy home a box of bricks.
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-
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
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
"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
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
"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
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."
"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
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-
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
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
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
"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,
"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."
"Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries."
"So I heard. You have him here?"
"In the cells."
"Is he quiet?" "Oh, he gives no trouble.
But he is a dirty scoundrel." "Dirty?"
"Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is as black as a
Well, when once his case has been settled, he will have a regular prison bath; and I
think, if you saw him, you would agree with me that he needed it."
"I should like to see him very much."
"Would you? That is easily done.
Come this way. You can leave your bag."
"No, I think that I'll take it."
"Very good. Come this way, if you please."
He led us down a passage, opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and
brought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side.
"The third on the right is his," said the inspector.
"Here it is!" He quietly shot back a panel in the upper
part of the door and glanced through.
"He is asleep," said he. "You can see him very well."
We both put our eyes to the grating.
The prisoner lay with his face towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and
He was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his calling, with a coloured shirt
protruding through the rent in his tattered coat.
He was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which
covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness.
A broad wheal from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and by its
contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed
in a perpetual snarl.
A shock of very bright red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.
"He's a beauty, isn't he?" said the inspector.
"He certainly needs a wash," remarked Holmes.
"I had an idea that he might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me."
He opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my astonishment, a very
large bath-sponge. "He! he!
You are a funny one," chuckled the inspector.
"Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very quietly, we will
soon make him cut a much more respectable figure."
"Well, I don't know why not," said the inspector.
"He doesn't look a credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?"
He slipped his key into the lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell.
The sleeper half turned, and then settled down once more into a deep slumber.
Holmes stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it twice
vigorously across and down the prisoner's face.
"Let me introduce you," he shouted, "to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee, in the county of
Kent." Never in my life have I seen such a sight.
The man's face peeled off under the sponge like the bark from a tree.
Gone was the coarse brown tint!
Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it across, and the twisted lip which
had given the repulsive sneer to the face!
A twitch brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in his bed, was a
pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned, rubbing
his eyes and staring about him with sleepy bewilderment.
Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a scream and threw himself down
with his face to the pillow.
"Great heavens!" cried the inspector, "it is, indeed, the missing man.
I know him from the photograph."
The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons himself to his
destiny. "Be it so," said he.
"And pray what am I charged with?"
"With making away with Mr. Neville St.-- Oh, come, you can't be charged with that
unless they make a case of attempted suicide of it," said the inspector with a
"Well, I have been twenty-seven years in the force, but this really takes the cake."
"If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has been committed,
and that, therefore, I am illegally detained."
"No crime, but a very great error has been committed," said Holmes.
"You would have done better to have trusted your wife."
"It was not the wife; it was the children," groaned the prisoner.
"God help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father.
My God!
What an exposure! What can I do?"
Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him kindly on the
"If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up," said he, "of course you can
hardly avoid publicity.
On the other hand, if you convince the police authorities that there is no
possible case against you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details
should find their way into the papers.
Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which you might tell us
and submit it to the proper authorities. The case would then never go into court at
"God bless you!" cried the prisoner passionately.
"I would have endured imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left my
miserable secret as a family blot to my children.
"You are the first who have ever heard my story.
My father was a schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent
I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and finally became a reporter on an evening
paper in London.
One day my editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis,
and I volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which all my
adventures started.
It was only by trying begging as an amateur that I could get the facts upon which to
base my articles.
When an actor I had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had been
famous in the green-room for my skill. I took advantage now of my attainments.
I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as possible I made a good scar and
fixed one side of my lip in a twist by the aid of a small slip of flesh-coloured
Then with a red head of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the
business part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a beggar.
For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home in the evening I found to
my surprise that I had received no less than 26s.
"I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until, some time later,
I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served upon me for 25 pounds.
I was at my wit's end where to get the money, but a sudden idea came to me.
I begged a fortnight's grace from the creditor, asked for a holiday from my
employers, and spent the time in begging in the City under my disguise.
In ten days I had the money and had paid the debt.
"Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work at 2 pounds a
week when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by smearing my face with a little
paint, laying my cap on the ground, and sitting still.
It was a long fight between my pride and the money, but the dollars won at last, and
I threw up reporting and sat day after day in the corner which I had first chosen,
inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my pockets with coppers.
Only one man knew my secret.
He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to lodge in Swandam Lane, where I
could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the evenings transform myself
into a well-dressed man about town.
This fellow, a Lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew that my
secret was safe in his possession. "Well, very soon I found that I was saving
considerable sums of money.
I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could earn 700 pounds a
year--which is less than my average takings--but I had exceptional advantages
in my power of making up, and also in a
facility of repartee, which improved by practice and made me quite a recognised
character in the City.
All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver, poured in upon me, and it was a
very bad day in which I failed to take 2 pounds.
"As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country, and eventually
married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my real occupation.
My dear wife knew that I had business in the City.
She little knew what.
"Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room above the opium den
when I looked out of my window and saw, to my horror and astonishment, that my wife
was standing in the street, with her eyes fixed full upon me.
I gave a cry of surprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to my
confidant, the Lascar, entreated him to prevent anyone from coming up to me.
I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend.
Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments
and wig.
Even a wife's eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise.
But then it occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and that the
clothes might betray me.
I threw open the window, reopening by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted
upon myself in the bedroom that morning.
Then I seized my coat, which was weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred
to it from the leather bag in which I carried my takings.
I hurled it out of the window, and it disappeared into the Thames.
The other clothes would have followed, but at that moment there was a rush of
constables up the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my
relief, that instead of being identified as
Mr. Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his murderer.
"I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain.
I was determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my preference
for a dirty face.
Knowing that my wife would be terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided
it to the Lascar at a moment when no constable was watching me, together with a
hurried scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear."
"That note only reached her yesterday," said Holmes.
"Good God!
What a week she must have spent!" "The police have watched this Lascar," said
Inspector Bradstreet, "and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult
to post a letter unobserved.
Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his, who forgot all about it
for some days." "That was it," said Holmes, nodding
approvingly; "I have no doubt of it.
But have you never been prosecuted for begging?"
"Many times; but what was a fine to me?" "It must stop here, however," said
"If the police are to hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone."
"I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take."
"In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may be taken.
But if you are found again, then all must come out.
I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having cleared the
matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results."
"I reached this one," said my friend, "by sitting upon five pillows and consuming an
ounce of shag.
I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker Street we shall just be in time for
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Part 3 - The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Audiobook by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Adventures 05-06)

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