Speaker 1: The man with the twisted lip. Isa Whitney, brother of
the late Elias Whitney, d d. Principle 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 pin
point 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 me 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 shoulder. Oh I am 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'm 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 city. Hitherto his orgies
had always been confined to one day, and he'd 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 Swandham 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 Asa 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 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 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 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 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 chin pointing 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 out
his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words
of his neighbor. 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. There is a friend of mine here, mister
Isa Whitney, and I wished 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 nineteenth? Good heavens,
I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What do
you want to frighten a chap for He sank his
face unto 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've 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, and 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 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
sawtish 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 Holmbs'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 bend 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 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 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 nights. What you do not mean bodies? Aye, bodies, Watson.
We should be rich men if we had a thousand
pounds of every poor devil who had been done to
death in that den. It is the vilest murder trap
on the whole river side. And I fear that Neville
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. Lands. 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 all
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,
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 revelers.
A dull rack 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 is 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. 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 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
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's 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 eighty
eight pounds ten shillings, while he has two hundred twenty
pounds standing to his credit in the Capital and County's bank.
There is no reason, therefore to think that money troubles
have been weighing upon his mind. Last Monday, mister Neville
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 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 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 it 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 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 quite 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 scar 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 up 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,
there was no one to be seen 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 Sinclair 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 a 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 and 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
excit 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 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 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
Lascar manager, now for this sinister cripple who lives upon
the second floor of the Opium Den, and who was
certainly the last human being whose eyes 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 veestas. Some little distance down thread
Needle Street, upon the left hand side, there is, as
you may have remarked, a small angle in the wall.
Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat,
cross legged, with his tiny stock of matches on his lap,
And as he is a piteous spectacle, a small rain
of charity descends into the greasy leather cap which lies
upon the pavement beside him. I have watched the fellow
more than once before ever I thought of making his
professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised at the harvest
which he has reaped in a short time. His appearance,
you see, is so remarkable that no one can pass
him without observing him. A shock of orange chair, a
pale face disfigured by a horrible scar which, by its
contraction has turned up the outer edges 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 learned 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
and the others. Pray continue your narrative. Missus Sinclair 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 a resting Boone instantly,
as he was allowed some few minutes during which he
might have communicated with his friend the le scar. But
this fault was soon remedied, and he was seized and
searched without anything being found which could incriminate him. Their
word 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 Neville Saint 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 Missus Saint Clair's assertion the she'd 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 half pennies four hundred twenty one pennies and
two hundred 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 was 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's boone had thrust nevill Saint Clair through the window.
There's 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's already heard from his Lascar confederate that
the police are hurrying up the street. There's 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
coat's sinking. He throws it out, and would have done
the same thing 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 Saint 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 che la Combe 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 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
blond woman stood in the opening, clad in some sort
of light musoline de sois, 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,
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 this investigation. I am delighted to
see you, said she, pressing my hand warmly. You will,
I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in
our arrangements when you consider the blow which has come
so suddenly upon us. My dear madam said I. I
am an old campaigner, and if I were not, I
can very well see that no apology is needed. If
I can be of any assistance, either to you or
to my friend here, I shall be indeed happy. Now,
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? Churlo Coombe 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. Churlo Combe sprang out of his chair, as
if he had been galvanized. What he roared? Yes to day?
She stood sling, 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's
been an enclosure here. Yes, there was a ring, his
signet ring. And you are sure that this is your
husband's hand, one of his hands, one his hand when
he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual writing,
And yet I know it well, dearest, Do not be frightened.
All will come well. There is a huge error, which
it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in patience.
Neville written in pencil upon the fly leaf of a
book of Tavo size, no water mark. Hum post it
to day in graves End by a man with a
dirty thumb. Ah, 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 graves End. Well, missus,
Saint Clair. The clouds lighten, 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, have been written on Monday and only
post it to day. That is possible, if so much
may have happened between Oh, but 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 understand, gave an inarticulate cry. Yes, he called
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 any one else in
the room. No, but this horrible man confessed to having
been there, And though a scar 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 an opium? Never?
Thank you, missus Saint 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 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,
put on a large blue 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,
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 a 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, 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'd hardly finish 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'm 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, we shall see whether
it will not fit the lock. We made our way
downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the bright
morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap,
with the half clad stable boy waiting at the head.
We both sprang in and away we dashed down the
London Road. A few country carts were stirring, bearing in
vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of villas on
either side were as silent and lifeless as some city
in a dream. It has been in some points a
singular case, said Holmes, flicking the horse on into a gallop.
I confess that I have been as blind as a mole.
But it is better to learn wisdom late than never
to learn it at all. In town, the earliest risers
were just beginning to look sleepily from their windows as
we drove through the streets of the Surrey side. Passing
down the Waterloo Bridge Road, we crossed over the river, and,
dashing up Wellington Street, wheeled sharply to the right and
found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known
to the force, and the two constables at the door
saluted him. One of them held the horse's head, while
the other led us in. Who's on duty? Asked Holmes,
Inspector Bradstreet. Sir, Ah, Brad Street, how are you? A
tall stout official had come down the stone flagged passage
in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. I wish to
have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet. Certainly, mister Holmes,
step into my room. Here. It was a small office
like rooum, 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, 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's 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 tinker's well.
And 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's
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 upper part of the door and
glanced through. He's 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 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 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 eh, you're 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 dunno,
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 in
the County of Kent. Never in my life have I
seen such a sight. The man's face pealed off under
the sponge, like the bark from a tree. Gone was
the coarse brown tint. Gone too was the horrid scar
which had seemed 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 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 am I charged with with
making away with mister Nevills. 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, groaned
the prisoner. God help me, I would not have them
ashamed of their father. My God, what an exposure. What
can I do? Chelacombe sat down beside him on the
couch and patted him kindly on the shoulder. 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 all. God
bless you, cried the prisoner Passionately, I would have endured imprisonment,
ay even execution, rather than I have left my miserable
secret as a family blot to my children. You are
the first to 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 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 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, but
really as a beggar. For seven hours I applied 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 and fourpence. 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 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 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, a Lescar, 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 When 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, though a scar 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 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
waited by the coppers, which I had just transferred to
it from the 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 confessed 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
lescar 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 to some
sailor custom of his, who forgot all about it for
some days. That was it, said Holmess, 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 Bradstreet. If
the police are to hush this thing up, there must
be no more of Hugh Boon. 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.