The man with the twisted lip. Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias
Whitney, d d. Principal of the Theological College of Saint 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 pinpoint pupils,
all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.
One night, it was in June eighty nine, 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 needlework 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 linoleum. Our
own door flew open, and a lady clad in some dark colored stuff with
a black veil, entered the room. You will excuse my calling so late,
she began, and then, suddenly loosing her self control, she ran
forward, threw her arms about my wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder.
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 lighthouse. 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 life, 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 city.
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 effects.
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 I a
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 he had given me. And so in ten minutes I
had left my arm chair 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 Swandham Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which lined 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 center 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 a 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 pointed upward, with here and there a
dark, lackluster 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 about his own thoughts and paying
little heed to the words of his neighbour. At the farther end was a
small brasure of burning charcoal, beside which on a three legged wooden stool,
there sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon two
fists and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire. As I
entered, a sallow melee attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me at
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, mister Isa Whitney, and I wished to speak to 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 and a twitter. I say,
Watson, what o'clock is it? Nearly eleven of what day of Friday,
June nineteenth? Good heavens, I thought it was Wednesday. It is
Wednesday. What do you want to frighten? A chap for? He sank
his face on to his arms and began to sob in a high trouble 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 color.
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 senility. 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's 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. Ha
ha ha, I suppose Watson said he that you imagine that I have added
opium smoking to cocaine injudtions, and all the other little weaknesses on which you
have favored 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 recognized 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 lascard who
runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a trap door
at the back of that bill, near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which
could tell some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights.
What you do not mean, bodies, ay bodies, Watson. We
should be rich men if we had one thousand pounds for every poor devil who
has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest murder trap
on the whole river side. And I fear that nevill Saint 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. Length entered. 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 one the Cedars. Yes, that
is mister Saint 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 about it presently. Jump up here, all right,
John, We shall not need you. Here's half a crown. Look
out for me tomorrow 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 somber and deserted streets, which widened gradually until we were flying across
a broad, balustrated 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 revelers. A dull rack was drifting slowly across the sky,
and a star or two twinkle dimly here and there through the wrists of the
clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his breast,
and the air of a man who was lost in thought, while I sat
beside him, curious to learn what his 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
was satisfied him 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. Upon my word, it is a great thing for me to have
some one 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 outstate 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 eighteen eighty four, there came to Lee a gentleman Neville,
Saint 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
style. By degrees. He made friends in the neighborhood, and in eighteen
eighty seven 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
five fourteen from Cannon Street every night. Mister Saint 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 asker, amount to eighty eight pounds ten
shillings, while he has two hundred and twenty pounds standing to his credit in
the Capitol and County's bank. There is no reason therefore to think that money
troubles have been weighing upon his mind. Last Monday, mister nevill Saint 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 the 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 Swandham Lane,
where you found me. To night, Missus Saint 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 four thirty five walking through
Swandham 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 Missus Saint Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of
seeing a cab, as she did not like the neighborhood in which she found
herself. While she was walking in this way down Swandham 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 di thinkly saw
his face, which she describes as being terribly agitated. He waved his hand
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 less scark 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 mister Saint Clair had last been seen.
There was no sign of him there, in fact, in the whole
of that floor, and 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 missus Saint 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 realize 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 window sill, 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 mister Neville Saint 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 mister Neville Saint Clair out of the window.
He must apparently have gone, for no other exit could be discovered, and
the ominous blood stains 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 the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated
in the matter. The lascar was known to be a man of the violess
antecedents, but as by Missus Saint 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 defense 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 lescar 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 Saint 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 stalk 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 harvests 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 color 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, Missus. Saint 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 Borton, 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 mister Nevilson Claire, and swore
that the presence of the clothes in his room was as much a mystery to
him as to the police. As to Missus Saint 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 Nevill Saint Clair's
coat, and not Neville Saint 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 halfpennies
four hundred and twenty one pennies and two hundred and seventy halfpennies. 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 Saint 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 Lasgar confederate that the police are hurrying
up the street. There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes
to some secret horde 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 coats sinking. He throws it out, and would
have done the same with the other garments had he not 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 Saint Clair was doing in the Opium den,
what happened to him when there? Where is he now? And what
Hugh Boon has 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 horses 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. Missus Saint 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,
Woa there, Woa. 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 blond woman stood in the opening, clad in some
sort of light mussoline des soult, 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 should took 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, doctor 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 his 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, mister 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 Holms 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, mister
Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it is that I have
received a letter from him to day. Sherlock Holm sprang out of his chair,
as if he had been galvanized 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 grayish color, 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 enclosed 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 her 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, missus Saint Clair. The clouds lightened, though I should not venture
to say that the danger is over. But he must be alive, mister
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, 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, mister 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 Swandham Lane very much so was
the window open? Yes, then he might have called to you. He
might he only, as I understood, gave an inartic it 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
leapt back. You did not see any one else in the room. No,
but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the last car
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 Swandham Lane? Never had he ever shown any signs of having taken opium?
Never? Thank you missus Saint Clair. Those are the principal points about
which I wish to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little supper
and then retire, for we may have a very busy day tomorrow. 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 and
put on a large blo dressing gown, and then wandered about the room,
collecting pillows from his bed and cushions from the sofa and arm chairs. 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, and 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 these 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 shagg 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 somber 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 a 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. Inspect bread Street,
sir Ah bred Street, how are you? A tall stout official had come
down the stun flagged passage and a peaked cap and frogged jacket. I wish
to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet. Certainly, mister Holmes,
step into my room. Here. It was a small office like room with
a huge letter upon the table and a telephone projecting from the wall. The
inspector sat down at his desk. What can I do for you, mister
Holmes? I called about that beggarman Boone, the one who was charged with
being concerned in the disappearance of mister Neville Saint 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 tanker's well. 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 let 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 upward 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 heavily. He was a
middle sized man, coarsely clad, as became his calling, with a colored
shirt protruding through the rent and 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 wheel 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 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
mister Neville, Saint Clair of Lee and 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
tent. Gone too was a horrid scar which had seemed across the twisted lip,
which had given the repulsive sneer to the face. A twitch brought away
the tangled red hair, and there, setting 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 realizing
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 I am charged with with making away with
mister Neville Saint Oh, come, you can't be charged with that unless they
make a case of attempted suicide of it, said the inspector with a grin.
Well, I have been twenty seven years in the force, but this
really takes the cake. If I am mister Neville Saint 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, grunned 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 shoulder. If you leave it
to the 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 all. God bless you, cried
the prisoner Passionately, I would have endured imprisonment, i even execution, rather
than have left my miserable secret as a family block 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 education. I traveled in my youth,
took to the stage, and finally became a reporter of 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
colored plaster. 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 pollied
my trade, and when I returned home in the evening, I found to
my surprise that I had received no less than twenty six shillings four d.
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
twenty five pounds. I was at my wits 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 employerlawyers, 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 two 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
Swandham 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
Alascar, 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 seven hundred 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 recognized 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 two pounds. As
I grew richer, I grew more ambitious took a house in the country,
and eventually married without any one 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 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 any one 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 completely
at 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 waited
by the coppers, which I had just transferred to it from the leather bag
in which I carried my take. 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 mister Neville Saint 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. The 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 becking? Many times? But what
was a fine to me? It must stop here, however, said Broadstreet.
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, mister 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 breakfast. And of the Man with a Twisted Lip by
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle