Speaker 1: The resident patient. Glancing over the somewhat incoherent series of
memoirs with which I have endeavored to illustrate a few
of the mental peculiarities of my friend mister Sherlock Holmes,
I have been struck by the difficulty which I have
experienced in picking out examples which shall in every way
answer my purpose. For in those cases in which Holmes
has performed some toward a force of analytical reasoning and
has demonstrated the value of his peculiar methods of investigation,
the facts themselves have often been so slight or so commonplace,
that I could not feel justified in laying them before
the public. On the other hand, it has frequently happened
that he has been concerned in some research where the
facts have been of the most remarkable and dramatic character,
but where the share which he has himself taken in
determining their causes has been less pronounced than I, as
his biographer, could wish. The small matter which I have
chronicled under the heading of a study in scar and
that other later one connected with the loss of the
glorious Scott, may serve as examples of this. Scylla and charybdis,
which are forever threatening the historian. It may be that,
in the business of which I am now about to write,
the part which my friend played is not sufficiently accentuated.
And yet the whole train of circumstances is so remarkable
that I cannot bring myself to omit it entirely from
this series. It had been a close, rainy day in October.
Our blinds were half drawn, and homes lay curled upon
the sofa, reading and re reading a letter which he
had received by the morning post. For myself, my term
of service in India had trained me to stand heat
better than cold, and a thermometer of ninety was no hardship.
But the paper was uninteresting. Parliament had risen, everybody was
out of town, and I yearned for the glades of
the New Forest or the shingle of Southsea. A depleted
bank account had caused me to postpone my holiday. And
as to my companion, neither the country nor the sea
presented the slightest attraction to him. He loved to lie
in the very center of five millions of people, with
his filaments stretching out and running through them, responsive to
every little rumor or suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of
nature found no place among his many gifts, and his
only change was when he turned his mind from the
evil doer of the town to track down his brother
of the country. Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation,
I had tossed aside the barren paper, and leaning back
in my chair, I fell into a brown study. Suddenly
my companion's voice broke in upon my thoughts. You are right, Watson,
said he. It does seem a very preposterous way of
settling a dispute. Most preposterous, I exclaimed, and then, suddenly
realizing how he had echoed the inmost thought of my soul,
I sat up in my chair and stared at him
in blank amazement. What is this, Holmes, I cried, This
is beyond anything which I could have imagined. He laughed
heartily at my perplexity. You remember, said he that, some
little time ago, when I read you the passage in
one of Poe's sketches, in which a close reasoner follows
the unspoken thought of his companion, you were inclined to
treat the matter as a mere tortive force of the
author on my remarking that I was constantly in the
habit of doing the same thing. You expressed incredulity. Oh no,
perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly
with your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down
your paper and enter upon a train of thought, I
was very happy to have the opportunity of reading it off,
and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof that
I had been in rapport with you. But I was
still far from satisfied in the example which you read
to me, said I. The reasoner drew his conclusions from
the actions of the man whom he observed. If I
remember right, he stumbled over a heap of stones, looked
up at the stars, and so on. But I've been
seated quietly in my chair, And what clues can I
have given you? You do yourself an injustice. The features
are given to man as the means by which he
shall express his emotions, and yours are faithful servants. Do
you mean to say that you read my train of
thoughts from my features? Your features, and especially your eyes.
Perhaps you cannot yourself recall how your reverie commenced. No
I cannot. Then I will tell you. After throwing down
your paper, which was the act which drew my attention
to you, You sat for half a minute with a
vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your newly
framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by the
alteration in your face that a train of thought had
been started, but it did not lead very far. Your
eyes turned across to the unframed portrait of Henry Ward Beecher,
which stands upon the top of your books. You then
glanced up at the wall, and of course your meaning
was obvious. You were thinking that if the portrait were framed,
it would just cover that bare space and correspond with
Gordon's picture over there. You followed me wonderfully, I exclaimed,
so far I could hardly have gone astray. But now
your thoughts went back to Beecher, and you looked hard across,
as if you were studying the character in his features.
Then your eyes ceased pucker, but you continue to look across,
and your face was thoughtful. You were recalling the incidents
of Beecher's career. I was well aware that you could
not do this without thinking of the mission which he
undertook on behalf of the North at the time of
the Civil War. For I remember you expressing your passionate
indignation at the way in which he was received by
the more turbulent of our people. You felt so strongly
about it that I knew you could not think of
Beecher without thinking of that. Also, when a moment later
I saw your eyes wander away from the picture, I
suspected that your mind had now turned to the Civil war.
And when I observed that your lips set, your eyes sparkled,
and your hands clinched, I was positive that you were
indeed thinking of the gallantry which was shown by both
sides in that desperate struggle. But then again your face
grew sadder. You shook your head. You were dwelling upon
the sadness and horror and useless waste of life. Your
hands stole towards your own old wound, and a smile
quivered on your lips, which showed me that the ridiculous
side of this method of settling international questions had forced
itself upon your mind. At this point I agreed with
you that it was preposterous, and was glad to find
that all my deductions had been correct. Absolutely, said I,
And now that you've explained it. I confess that I
am as amazed as before. It was very superficial, My
dear Watson, I assure you I should not have intruded
it upon your attention, had you not shown some incredulity
the other day. But the evening has brought a breeze
with it. What do you say to a ramble through London?
I was weary of our little sitting room and gladly acquiesced.
For three hours we strolled about together, watching the ever
changing kaleidoscope of life as it ebbs and flows through
Fleet Street and the Strand. His characteristic talk, its keen
observance of detail, and subtle power of inference, held me
amused and enthralled. It was ten o'clock before we reached
Baker Street again. A Brupham was waiting at our door. Hum,
a doctor's general practitioner, I perceive, said Holmes not been
long in practice, but has a good deal to do.
Come to consult us. I fancy lucky we came back.
I was sufficiently conversant with Holmes's methods to be able
to follow his reasoning and to see that the nature
and state of the various medical instruments in the wicker
basket which hung in the lamp light inside the Brupham
had given him the data for his swift deduction. The
light in our window above showed that his late visit
was indeed intended for us. With some curiosity as to
what could have sent a brother Medico to us at
such an hour, I followed Holmes into our sanctum. A pale,
taper faced man with sandy whiskers rose up from a
chair by the fire as we entered. His age may
not have been more than three or four and thirty,
but his haggard expression and unhealthy hue told of a
life which has sapped his strength and robbed him of
his youth. His manner was nervous and shy, like that
of a sensitive gentleman, and the thin white hand which
he laid on the mantelpiece as he rose was that
of an artist rather than of a surgeon. His dress
was quiet and somber, a black frock coat, dark trousers,
and a touch of color about his necktie. Good evening, doctor,
said Holmes cheerily. I am glad to see that you
have only been waiting a very few minutes. You spoke
to my coachman. Then now it was the candle on
the side table that told me, pray, resume your seat
and let me know how I can serve you. My
name is doctor Percy Trevellian, said our visitor. He and
I live at four O three Brook Street. Are you
not the author of a monograph upon Obscure Nervous Lesions?
I asked, his pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing
that his work was known to me. I so seldom
hear of the work that I thought it was quite dead,
said he. My publishers gave me most discouraging account of
its sale. You are, yourself, I presume, a medical man,
a retired Army surgeon. My own hobby has always been
nervous disease. I should wish to make it an absolute specialty,
but of course a man must take what he can
get at first. This, however, is beside the question, mister
Sherlock Holmes, and I quite appreciate how valuable your time is.
The fact is that a very singular train of events
has occurred recently at my house in Brook Street, and
to night they came to such a head as I
felt it was quite impossible for me to wait another
hour before asking for your advice and assistance. Sherlock Holmes
sat down and lit his pipe. You are very welcome
to both, said he pray. Let me have a detailed
account of what the circumstances are which have disturbed you.
One or two of them are so trivial, said Doctor Trevallion.
That really I am almost ashamed to mention them. But
the matter is so inexplicable, and the recent turn which
it has taken is so elaborate, that I shall lay
it all before you, and you shall judge what is
essential and what is not. I am compelled to begin
with to say something of my own college career. I
am a London University man, you know, and I am
sure that you will not think that I am unduly
singing my own praises if I say that my student
career was considered by my professors to be a very
promising one. After I graduated, I continued to devote myself
to research, occupying a minor position in King's College Hospital,
and I was fortunate enough to excite considerable interest by
my my research into the pathology of catalepsy, and finally
to win the Bruce Pinkton Prize and meddle by the
monograph on Nervous Lesions to which your friend has just alluded.
I should not go too far if I were to
say that there was a general impression at the time
that a distinguished career lay before me. But the one
great stumbling block lay in my want of capital. As
you will readily understand, a specialist who aims high is
compelled to start in one of a dozen streets in
the Cavendish Square Quarter, all of which entail enormous rents
and furnishing expenses. Besides this preliminary outlay, he must be
prepared to keep himself for some years, and to hire
a presentable carriage and horse. To do this was quite
beyond my power, and I could only hope that by economy,
I might in ten years time save enough to enable
me to put up my plate. Suddenly, however, an unexpected
incident opened up quite a new prospect to me. This
was a visit from a gentleman of the name of Blessington,
who was a complete stranger to me. He came up
to my room one morning and plunged into business in
an instant. You are the same, Percy Trevellion, who has
had so distinguished a career and won a great prize lately,
said he. I bowed answer me frankly, he continued, for
you'll find it your interest to do so. You have
all the cleverness which makes a successful man, have you
the tact? I could not help smiling at the abruptness
of the question. I trust that I have my share,
I said, any bad habits not drawn towards drink ere? Really, sir,
I cried, quite right, that's all right. But I was
bound to ask, with all these qualities, why are you
not in practice? I shrugged my shoulders. Come, come, said
he in his bustling way. It's the old story. More
in your brains than in your pocket. Eh, What would
you say if I were to start you in brook Street?
I stared at him in astonishment. Oh it's for my sake,
not for yours, he cried. I'll be perfectly frank with you,
and if it suits you, it'll suit me very well.
I have a few thousands to invest, you see, and
I think I'll sink them in you. But why, I gasped, Well,
it's just like any other speculation, and safer than most.
What am I to do. Then I'll tell you I'll
take the house, furnish it, pay the maids, and run
the whole place. All you have to do is just
to wear out your chair in the consulting room. I'll
let you have pocket money and everything, and you hand
over to me three quarters of what you earn, and
you keep the other quarter for yourself. This was the
strange proposal, mister Holmes, with which the man Blessington approached me.
I won't weary you with the account of how we
bargained and negotiated. It ended in my moving into the
house next lady day and starting in practice on very
much the same conditions as he had suggested. He came
himself to live with me in the character of a
resident patient. His heart was weak, it appears, and he
needed constant medical supervision. He turned the two best rooms
of the first floor into a sitting room and bed
room for himself. He was a man of singular habits,
shunning company and very seldom going out. His life was irregular,
but in one respect he was regularity itself. Every evening,
at the same hour he walked into the consulting room,
examined the books, put down five and threepence for every
guinea that I had earned, and carried the rest off
to the strong box in his own room. I may
say with confidence that he never had occasion to regret
his speculation. From the first it was a success. A
few good cases, and the reputation which I had won
in the hospital brought me rapidly to the front, and
during the last few years I have made him a
rich man. So much mister Holmes, for my past history
and my relations with mister Blessington, it only remains for
me now to tell you what has occurred to bring
me here to night. Some weeks ago mister Blessington came
down to me, in as it seemed to me, a
state of considerable agitation. He spoke of some burglary which
he said had been committed in the West End, and
he appeared, I remember, to be quite unnecessarily excited about it,
declaring that a day should not pass before we should
add stronger bolts to our windows and doors. For a
week he continued to be in a peculiar state of restlessness,
peering continually out of the windows and to take the
short walk which had usually been the prelude to his dinner.
From his manner, it struck me that he was in
mortal dread of something or somebody. But when I questioned
him upon the point, he became so offensive that I
was compelled to drop the subject. Gradually, as time passed,
his fears appeared to die away, and he had renewed
his former habits, when a fresh event reduced him to
the pitiable state of prostration in which he now lies.
What happened was this. Two days ago I received the
letter which I now read to you. Neither address nor
date is attached to it. A Russian nobleman, who is
now resident in England, it runs, would be glad to
avail himself of the professional assistance of doctor Percy Trevallian.
He has been for some years a victim to cataleptic attacks,
on which, as is well known, doctor trevallion is an authority.
He proposes to call at about quarter past six to
morrow evening, if Doctor Trevallian will make it convenient to
be at home. This letter interested me deeply, because the
chief difficulty in the study of catalepsy is the rareness
of the disease. You may believe, then, that I was
in my consulting room when at the appointed hour the
page showed in the patient. He was an elderly man, thin, demure,
and commonplace, by no means the conception one forms of
a Russian nobleman. I was much more struck by the
appearance of his companion. This was a tall young man,
surprisingly handsome, with a dark, fierce face and the lips
and chest of a Hercules. He had his hand under
the other's arm as they entered, and helped him to
a chair with a tenderness which one would hardly have
expected from his appearance. You will excuse me coming in, doctor,
said he to me, speaking English with a slight lisp.
This is my father, and his health is a matter
of the most overwhelming importance to me. I was touched
by his filial anxiety. You would perhaps care to remain
during the consultation, said I, Not for the world, he cried,
with a gesture of horror. It is more painful to
me than I can express. If I were to see
my father in one of those dreadful seizures. I am
convinced that I should never survive it. My own nervous
system is an exceptionally sensitive one. With your permission, I
will remain in the waiting room while you go into
my father's case. To this, of course, I assented, and
the young man withdrew the patient, and I then plunged
into a discussion of his case, of which I took
exhaustive notes. He was not remarkable for intelligence, and his
answers were frequently obscure, which I attribut to his limited
acquaintance with our language. Suddenly, however, as I sat writing,
he ceased to give any answer at all to my inquiries,
and on my turning towards him, I was shocked to
see that he was sitting bolt upright in his chair,
staring at me with a perfectly blank and rigid face.
He was again in the grip of his mysterious malady.
My first feeling, as I have just said, was one
of pity and horror. My second, I fear, was rather
one of professional satisfaction. I made notes of my patient's
pulse and temperature, tested the rigidity of his muscles, and
examined his reflexes. There was nothing markedly abnormal in any
of these conditions, which harmonized with my former experiences. I
had obtained good results in such cases by the inhalation
of nitrite of amyl, and the presence seemed an admirable
opportunity of testing its virtues. The bottle was downstairs in
my laboratory, so leaving my patient seated in his chair,
I ran down to get it. There was some little
delay in finding it five minutes, let us say, and
then I returned. Imagine my amazement to find the room
empty and the patient gone. Of course, my first act
was to run into the waiting room. The sun had
gone also. The hall door had been closed, but not shut.
My page, who admits patience, is a new boy, and
by no means quick he waits downstairs and runs up
to show patients out. When I ring the consulting room bell,
he had heard nothing, and the affair remained a complete mystery.
Mister Blessington came in from his walk shortly afterwards, but
I did not say anything to him upon the subject,
for to tell the truth, I have got in the
way of late of holding as little communication with him
as possible. Well, I never thought that I should see
anything more of the Russian and his son, So you
can imagine my amazement when at the very same hour
this evening they both came marching into my consulting room,
just as they had done before. I feel that I
owe you a great many apologies for my abrupt departure yesterday, doctor,
said my patient. I confess that I was very much
surprised at it, said I. Well, the fact is, he remarked,
that when I recover from these attacks, my mind is
always very clouded as to all that has gone before.
I woke up in a strange room, as it seemed
to me, and made my way out into the street
in a sort of dazed way when you were absent,
and I said the son, seeing my father past the
door of the waiting room, naturally thought that the consultation
had come to an end. It was not until we
had reached home that I began to realize the true
state of affairs. Well, said I, laughing. There is no
harm done except that you puzzled me terribly. So if you, sir,
would kindly step into the waiting room, I shall be
happy to continue our consultation, which was brought to so
abrupt an ending. For half an hour or so, I
discussed that old gentleman's symptoms with him, and then, having
prescribed for him, I saw him go off upon the
arm of his son. I have told you that mister
Blessington generally chose this hour of the day for his exercise.
He came in shortly afterwards and passed upstairs. An instant
later I heard him running down, and he burst into
my consulting room like a man who is mad with panic.
Who has been in my room? He cried. No, one
said I, it's a lie, he yelled, come up and look.
I passed over the grossness of his language, as he
seemed half out of his mind with fear. When I
went upstairs with him, he pointed to several footprints upon
the light carpet. Do you mean to say those are mine?
He cried. They were certainly very much larger than any
which he could have made, and were evidently quite fresh.
It rained hard this afternoon, as you know, and my
patients were the only people who called. It must have
been the case, then, that the man in the waiting
room had, for some unknown reason, while I was busy
with the other ascended to the room of my resident patient.
Nothing had been touched or taken, but there were the
footprints to prove that the intrusion was an undoubted fact.
Mister Blessington seemed more excited over the matter than I
should have thought possible, though of course it was enough
to disturb anybody's peace of mind. He actually sat crying
in an arm chair, and I it'd hardly get him
to speak coherently. It was his suggestion that I should
come round to you, and of course I at once
saw the propriety of it, For certainly the incident is
a very singular one, though he appears to completely overrate
its importance. If you would only come back with me,
my Brotherham, you would at least be able to soothe him,
though I can hardly hope that you will be able
to explain this remarkable occurrence. Sherlock Holmes had listened to
this long narrative with an intentness which showed me that
his interest was keenly aroused. His face was as impassive
as ever, but his lids had dropped more heavily over
his eyes, and his smoke had curled up more thickly
from his pipe to emphasize each curious episode in the
doctor's tale. As our visitor concluded, Holmes sprang up without
a word, hand him in my hat, picked his own
from the table, and followed Doctor Trevallian to the door.
Within a quarter of an hour, we had been dropped
at the door of the physician's residence in Brook Street,
one of those somber, flat faced houses which one associates
with the West End practice. A small page admitted us,
and we began at once to ascend the broad well
carpeted stare, but a singular interruption brought us to a standstill.
The light at the top was suddenly whisked out, and
from the darkness came a reedy, quivering voice. I have
a pistol, it cried. I give you my word that
I'll fire if you come any nearer. This really grows outrageous,
mister Blessington, cried doctor Trevallian. Oh then it is you, doctor,
said the voice, with a great heave of relief. But
those other gentlemen, are they what they pretend to be?
We were conscious of a long scrutiny out of the darkness. Yes, yes,
it's all right, said the voice. At last, you can
come up, and I am sorry if my precautions have
annoyed you. He reel at the stair gas as he spoke,
and we saw before us a singular looking man whose appearance,
as well as his voice, testified to his jangled nerves.
He was very fat, but had apparently at some time
been much fatter, so that the skin hung about his
face in loose pouches, like the cheeks of a bloodhound.
He was of a sickly color, and his thin, sandy
hair seemed to bristle up with the intensity of his emotion.
In his hand he held a pistol, but he thrust
it into his pocket as we advanced good evening, mister
Holmes said he I am sure, I am very much
obliged to you for coming round. No one ever needed
your advice more than I do. I suppose that doctor
Trevallian has told you of this most unwarrantable intrusion into
my rooms. Quite so, said Holmes. Who are these two men,
mister Blessington, and why do they wish to molest you? Well? Well,
said the resident patient, in a nervous fashion. Of course,
it is hard to say that. You can hardly expect
me to answer that, mister Holmes, Do you mean that
you don't know? Come in here, if you please, just
have the kindness to step in here. He led the
way into his bedroom, which was large and comfortably furnished.
You see that said he, pointing to a big black
box at the end of his bed. I have never
been a very rich man, mister Holmes, never made but
one investment in my life, as doctor Trevallian would tell you.
But I don't believe in bankers. I would never trust
a banker, mister Holmes. Between ourselves, what little I have
is in that box. So you can understand what it
means to me when unknown people forced themselves into my rooms.
Holmes looked at Blessington in his questioning way and shook
his head. I cannot possibly advise you if you try
to deceive me, said he. But I have told you everything.
Holmes turned on his heel with a gesture of disgust.
Good Night, doctor Trevallion said he And no advice for me,
cried Blessington in a breaking voice. My advice to you, sir,
is to speak the truth. A minute later, we were
in the street and walking for home. We had crossed
Oxford Street and were half way down Harley Street before
I could get a word from my companion. Sorry to
bring you out on such a fool's errand Watson, he said,
at last, it is an interesting case too. At the
bottom of it, I can make little of it. I confessed, well,
it is quite evident that there are two men more perhaps,
but at least two who are determined for some reason
to get at this fellow Blessington. I have no doubt
in my mind that both on the first and on
the second occasion, that young man penetrated to Blessington's room,
while his confederate, by an ingenious device, kept the doctor
from interfering, and the catalepsy a fraudulent imitation, Watson, though
I should hardly dare to hint as much to our specialist,
It is a very easy complaint to imitate. I have
done it myself, And then, by the purest chance, Blessington
was out on each occasion. Their reason for choosing so
unusual an hour for a consultation was obviously to ensure
that there should be no other patient in the waiting room.
It just happened, however, that this hour coincided with Blessington's constitutional,
which seems to show that they were not very well
acquainted with his daily routine. Of course, if they had
been merely after plunder, they would at least have made
some attempt to search for it. Besides, I can read
in a man's eye, when it is his own skin
that he is frightened. For it is inconceivable that this
fellow could have made two such vindictive enemies as these
appear to be without knowing of it. I hold it, therefore,
to be certain that he does know who these men are,
and that, for reasons of his own, he suppresses it.
It is just possible that to morrow may find him
in a more communicative mood. Is there not one alternative?
I suggested? Grotesquely improbable, no doubt, but still just conceivable.
Might the whole story of the cataleptic Russian and his
son be a concoction of doctor Trevallion's, who has, for
his own purposes, been in Blessington's rooms. I saw in
the gaslight that Holmes wore an amused smile at this
brilliant departure of mine, my dear fellow, said he. It
was one of the first solutions which occurred to me.
But I was soon able to corroborate the doctor's tale.
This young man has left Prince upon the stair carpet,
which made it quite superfluous for me to ask to
see those which he had made in the room. When
I tell you that his shoes were square toed instead
of being pointed like Blessington's, and were quite an inch
and a third longer than the doctor's. You will acknowledge
that there can be no doubt as to his individuality.
But we may sleep on it now, for I shall
be surprised if we do not hear something further from
Brook Street in the morning. Sherlock Holmes's prophecy was soon fulfilled,
and in a dramatic fashion. At half past seven next morning,
in the first glimmer of daylight, I found him standing
by my bedside in his dressing gown. There's a broughon
waiting for us, Watson, said he. What's the matter? Then?
The Brook Street business? Any fresh news? Tragic but ambiguous,
said he, pulling up the blind. Look at this a
sheet from a note book with for God's sake, come
at once p. T. Scrawled upon it in pencil. Our friend,
the doctor was hard put to it when he wrote this,
come along, my dear fellow, for it's an urgent call.
In a quarter of an hour or so we were
back at the physician's house. He came running out to
meet us with a face of horror. Oh, such a business,
he cried, with his hands to his temples. What then,
Blessington has committed suicide? Holmes whistled, Yes, he hanged himself
during the night we had entered, and the doctor had
preceded us into what was evidently his waiting room. I
really hardly know what I'm doing, he cried. The police
are already upstairs. It has shaken me most dreadfully. When
did you find out he has a cup of tea
taken into him early every morning? When the maid entered
about seven there the unfortunate fellow was hanging in the
middle of the room. He had tied his cord to
the hook on which the heavy lamp used to hang,
and he had jumped off from the top of the
very box that he showed us yesterday. Holmes stood for
a moment in deep thought. With your permission, said he
at last, I should like to go upstairs and look
into the matter. We both ascended, followed by the doctor.
It was a dreadful sight which met us as we
entered the bedroom door. I have spoken of the impression
of flabbiness which this man Blessington conveyed as he dangled
from the hook. It was exaggerated and intensified until he
was scarce human in his appearance. The neck was drawn
out like a plucked chicken's, making the rest of him
seem the more obese and unnatural. By contrast, he was
clad only in his long night dress, and his swollen
ankles and ungainly feet protruded starkly from beneath it. Beside
him stood a smart looking police inspector who was taking
notes in a pocket book. Ah, mister Elmes, said he
heartily as my friend entered. I am delighted to I
see you. Good morning, Leanna answered Holmes. You won't think
me an intruder. I am sure. Have you heard of
the events which led up to this affair? Yeah, I
heard something of them. Have you formed any opinion? As
far as I can see, the man has been driven
out of his senses by fright. The bed has been
well slept in. You see, there's his impression deep enough.
It's about five in the morning. You know that suicides
are most common. That would be about his time for
hanging himself. It seems to have been a very deliberate affair.
I should say that he has been dead about three hours,
judging by the rigidity of the muscles, said, I noticed
anything peculiar about the room, asked Holmes found a screwdriver
and some screws on the washhand stand. Seems to have
smoked heavily during the night too. Here are four cigar
ends that I've picked out of the fireplace, hm said Holmes.
Have you got his cigar holder? No, I have, say none,
his cigar case? Then, yes, it was in his coat pocket.
Holmes opened it and smelled the single cigar which it contained. Oh,
this is an Havana and these others are cigars of
the peculiar sort, which are imported by the Dutch from
their East Indian colonies. They are usually wrapped in straw,
you know, and are thinner for their length than any
other brand. He picked up the four ends and examined
them with his pocket lens. Two of these have been
smoked from a holder and two without, said he. Two
have been cut by a not very sharp knife, and
two have had the ends bitten off by a set
of excellent teeth. This is no suicide, mister Leanna. It
is a very deeply planned and cold blooded murder. Impossible,
cried the inspector. And why why should any one murder
a man? In so clumsy a fashion as by hanging him.
That is what we have to find out. How could
thy gain through the front door? It was barred in
the morning, then it was barred after them. How do
you know I saw their traces. Excuse me a moment,
and I may be able to give you some further
information about it. He went over to the door, and
turning the lock, he examined it in his methodical way.
Then he took out the key, which was on the inside,
and inspected that. Also the bed, the carpet, the chairs,
the mantel piece, the dead body, and the rope were
each in turn examined, until at last he professed himself satisfied, and,
with my aid and that of the inspector, cut down
the wretched object and laid it reverently under a sheet.
How about this rope, he asked, It is cut off,
This said doctor Trevillian, drawing a large coil from under
the bed. He was morbidly of fire, and always kept
this beside him so that he might escape by the
window in case the stairs were burning. That must have
saved them trouble, said Holmes thoughtfully. Yes, the actual facts
are very plain, and I shall be surprised if by
the afternoon I cannot give you the reasons for them
as well. I will take this photograph of Blessington, which
I see upon the mantelpiece, as it may help me
in my inquiries. But you have told us nothing, cried
the doctor. Oh, there can be no doubt as to
the sequence of events, said Holmes. There were three of
them in it, the young man, the old man, and
a third to whose identity I have no clue. The
first two, I need hardly remark, are the same who
masqueraded as the Russian count and his son, so we
can give a very full description of them. They were
admitted by a confederate inside the house. If I might
offer you a word of advice, Specter, it would be
to arrest the page, who, as I understand, has only
recently come into your service. Doctor. The young imp cannot
be found, said Doctor Trevallion. The maid and the cook
have just been searching for him. Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
He has played a not unimportant part in this drama,
said he. The three men having ascended the stairs, which
they did on tiptoe, the elder man first, the younger
man second, and the unknown man in the rear, My
dear Holmes, I ejaculated. Oh, there could be no question
as to the superimposing of the footmarks. I had the
advantage of learning which was which last night. They ascended
then to mister Blessington's room, the door of which they
found to be locked. With the help of a wire. However,
they forced round the quay even without the lens. You
will perceive by the scratches on this ward where the
pressure was applied on entering the room. Their first proceeding
must have been to gag mister Blessington. He may have
been asleep, or he may have been so paralyzed with
terror as to have been unable to cry out. These
walls are thick, and it is conceivable that his shriek,
if he had time to utter one, was unheard. Having
secured him, it is evident to me that a consultation
of some sort was held. Probably it was something in
the nature of a judicial proceeding. It must have lasted
for some time, for it was then that these cigars
were smoked. The older man sat in that wicker chair.
It was he who used the cigar holder. The younger
man sat over yonder. He knocked his ash off against
the chest of drawers. The third fellow paced up and down.
Blessington I think sat upright in the bed, but of
that I cannot be absolutely certain. Well it ended by
their taking Blessington and hanging him. The matter was so
prearranged that it is my belief that they brought with
them some sort of block or pulley which might serve
as a gallows. That screwdriver and those screws were, as
I conceive, for fixing it up. Seeing the hook, however,
they naturally saved themselves the trouble. Having finished their work,
they made off, and the door was barred behind them
by their confederate. We had all listened with the deepest
interest to this sketch of the night's doings, which Holmes
had deduced from signs so subtle and minute that even
when he had pointed them out to us, we could
scarcely follow him in his reasoning. The inspector hurried away
on the instant to make inquiries about the page, while
Holmes and I returned to Baker Street for breakfast. I'll
be back by three, said he, when we'd finished our meal.
Both the inspector and the doctor will meet me here
at that hour, and I hope by that time to
have cleared up any little obscurity which the case may
still present. Our visitors arrived at the appointed time, but
it was a quarter to four before my friend put
in an appearance. From his expression as he entered, however,
I could see that all had gone well with him.
Any news, Inspector. We've got the boy, sir, excellent, and
I have got the men. You have got them, we
cried all three. Well, at least I have got their identity.
This so called Blessington is, as I expected, well known
at headquarters, and so are his assailants. Their names are Biddle,
Haywood and moffat the Worthingdon Bank gang, cried the inspector. Precisely,
said Holmes. Then Blessington must have been sattin exactly, said Holmes.
Why that makes it as clear as crystal, said the inspector.
But Trevellion and I looked at each other in bewilderment.
You must surely remember the great Worthingdon Bank business, said Holmes.
Five men were in it, these four and a fifth
called Cartwright. Tobin. The caretaker was murdered, and the thieves
got away with seven thousand pounds. This was in eighteen
seventy five. They were all five arrested, but the evidence
against them was by no means conclusive. This Blessington or Sutton,
who was the worst of the gang, turned informer on
his evidence. Cartwright was hanged and the other three got
fifteen years apiece. When they got out the other day,
which was some years before their full term, they set themselves,
as you perceive, to hunt down the traitor and to
avenge the death of their comrade upon him. Twice they
tried to get at him and failed. A third time,
you see it came off. Is there anything further which
I can explain, Doctor Trevallian? I think you've made it
all remarkably clear, the doctor, no doubt. The day on
which he was perturbed was the day when he had
seen of their release in the newspapers. Quite so, his
talk about a burglary was the merest blind. But why
could he not tell you this? Well, my dear sir,
knowing the vindictive character of his old associates, he was
trying to hide his own identity from everybody as long
as he could. His secret was a shameful one, and
he could not bring himself to divulge it. However, wretch
as he was, he was still living under the shield
of British law. And I have no doubt, Inspector, that
you will see that though that shield might fail to guard,
the sword of justice is still there to avenge. Such
were the singular circumstances in connection with the Resident Patient
and the brook Street doctor. From that night. Nothing has
been seen of the three murderers by the police, and
it is surmised at Scotland Yard that they were among
them passengers of the ill fated steamer Norah Creina, which
was lost some years ago with all hands upon the
Portuguese coast, some leagues to the north of a Porto.
The proceedings against the page broke down for want of evidence,
and the brook Street mystery, as it was called, has
never until now been fully dealt with in any public print.
End of the Resident Patient