Speaker 1: 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,
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