THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE 5 page

Date: 2015-10-07; view: 353.

those hours of burrowing. The only remaining point was what they

were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw the City and

Suburban Bank abutted on our friend's premises, and felt that I

had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert I

called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the bank

directors, with the result that you have seen."

"And how could you tell that they would make their attempt

to-night?" I asked.

"Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that

they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence--in other

words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential

that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the

bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than

any other day, as it would give them two days for their escape.

For all these reasons I expected them to come to-night."

"You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed in unfeigned

admiration. "It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings

true."

"It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I already

feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort

to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little

problems help me to do so."

"And you are a benefactor of the race," said I.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of

some little use," he remarked. "'L'homme c'est rien--l'oeuvre

c'est tout,' as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand."

ADVENTURE III. A CASE OF IDENTITY

"My dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side

of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is infinitely

stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We

would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere

commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window

hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the

roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the

strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the

wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and

leading to the most outrй results, it would make all fiction with

its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and

unprofitable."

"And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered. "The cases which

come to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and

vulgar enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to

its extreme limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed,

neither fascinating nor artistic."

"A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a

realistic effect," remarked Holmes. "This is wanting in the

police report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the

platitudes of the magistrate than upon the details, which to an

observer contain the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend

upon it, there is nothing so unnatural as the commonplace."

I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite understand your thinking

so." I said. "Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser

and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout

three continents, you are brought in contact with all that is

strange and bizarre. But here"--I picked up the morning paper

from the ground--"let us put it to a practical test. Here is the

first heading upon which I come. 'A husband's cruelty to his

wife.' There is half a column of print, but I know without

reading it that it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is, of

course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the

bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of

writers could invent nothing more crude."

"Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument,"

said Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. "This

is the Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged

in clearing up some small points in connection with it. The

husband was a teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the

conduct complained of was that he had drifted into the habit of

winding up every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling

them at his wife, which, you will allow, is not an action likely

to occur to the imagination of the average story-teller. Take a

pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge that I have scored over

you in your example."

He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in

the centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his

homely ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon

it.

"Ah," said he, "I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks.

It is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my

assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers."

"And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which

sparkled upon his finger.

"It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in

which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it

even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of

my little problems."

"And have you any on hand just now?" I asked with interest.

"Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of

interest. They are important, you understand, without being

interesting. Indeed, I have found that it is usually in

unimportant matters that there is a field for the observation,

and for the quick analysis of cause and effect which gives the

charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are apt to be the

simpler, for the bigger the crime the more obvious, as a rule, is

the motive. In these cases, save for one rather intricate matter

which has been referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing

which presents any features of interest. It is possible, however,

that I may have something better before very many minutes are

over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken."

He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted

blinds gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London street.

Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite

there stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck,

and a large curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was

tilted in a coquettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her

ear. From under this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous,

hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body oscillated

backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her glove

buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves

the bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp

clang of the bell.

"I have seen those symptoms before," said Holmes, throwing his

cigarette into the fire. "Oscillation upon the pavement always

means an affaire de coeur. She would like advice, but is not sure

that the matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet

even here we may discriminate. When a woman has been seriously

wronged by a man she no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom

is a broken bell wire. Here we may take it that there is a love

matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry as perplexed, or

grieved. But here she comes in person to resolve our doubts."

As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons

entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself

loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed

merchant-man behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed

her with the easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and,

having closed the door and bowed her into an armchair, he looked

her over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was

peculiar to him.

"Do you not find," he said, "that with your short sight it is a

little trying to do so much typewriting?"

"I did at first," she answered, "but now I know where the letters

are without looking." Then, suddenly realising the full purport

of his words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear

and astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face. "You've

heard about me, Mr. Holmes," she cried, "else how could you know

all that?"

"Never mind," said Holmes, laughing; "it is my business to know

things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others

overlook. If not, why should you come to consult me?"

"I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege,

whose husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had

given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as

much for me. I'm not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in

my own right, besides the little that I make by the machine, and

I would give it all to know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel."

"Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?" asked

Sherlock Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to

the ceiling.

Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss

Mary Sutherland. "Yes, I did bang out of the house," she said,

"for it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr.

Windibank--that is, my father--took it all. He would not go to

the police, and he would not go to you, and so at last, as he

would do nothing and kept on saying that there was no harm done,

it made me mad, and I just on with my things and came right away

to you."

"Your father," said Holmes, "your stepfather, surely, since the

name is different."

"Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny,

too, for he is only five years and two months older than myself."

"And your mother is alive?"

"Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn't best pleased, Mr.

Holmes, when she married again so soon after father's death, and

a man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father

was a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy

business behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the

foreman; but when Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the

business, for he was very superior, being a traveller in wines.

They got 4700 pounds for the goodwill and interest, which wasn't

near as much as father could have got if he had been alive."

I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this

rambling and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he

had listened with the greatest concentration of attention.

"Your own little income," he asked, "does it come out of the

business?"

"Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle

Ned in Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4 1/2 per

cent. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can

only touch the interest."

"You interest me extremely," said Holmes. "And since you draw so

large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the

bargain, you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in

every way. I believe that a single lady can get on very nicely

upon an income of about 60 pounds."

"I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you

understand that as long as I live at home I don't wish to be a

burden to them, and so they have the use of the money just while

I am staying with them. Of course, that is only just for the

time. Mr. Windibank draws my interest every quarter and pays it

over to mother, and I find that I can do pretty well with what I

earn at typewriting. It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can

often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in a day."

"You have made your position very clear to me," said Holmes.

"This is my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as

freely as before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your

connection with Mr. Hosmer Angel."

A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, and she picked

nervously at the fringe of her jacket. "I met him first at the

gasfitters' ball," she said. "They used to send father tickets

when he was alive, and then afterwards they remembered us, and

sent them to mother. Mr. Windibank did not wish us to go. He

never did wish us to go anywhere. He would get quite mad if I

wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school treat. But this time I

was set on going, and I would go; for what right had he to

prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to know, when all

father's friends were to be there. And he said that I had nothing

fit to wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never so much

as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would do,

he went off to France upon the business of the firm, but we went,

mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it

was there I met Mr. Hosmer Angel."

"I suppose," said Holmes, "that when Mr. Windibank came back from

France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball."

"Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and

shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying

anything to a woman, for she would have her way."

"I see. Then at the gasfitters' ball you met, as I understand, a

gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel."

"Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if

we had got home all safe, and after that we met him--that is to

say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father

came back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house

any more."

"No?"

"Well, you know father didn't like anything of the sort. He

wouldn't have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to

say that a woman should be happy in her own family circle. But

then, as I used to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to

begin with, and I had not got mine yet."

"But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see

you?"

"Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer

wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to see each

other until he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he

used to write every day. I took the letters in in the morning, so

there was no need for father to know."

"Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that

we took. Hosmer--Mr. Angel--was a cashier in an office in

Leadenhall Street--and--"

"What office?"

"That's the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don't know."

"Where did he live, then?"

"He slept on the premises."

"And you don't know his address?"

"No--except that it was Leadenhall Street."

"Where did you address your letters, then?"

"To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called

for. He said that if they were sent to the office he would be

chaffed by all the other clerks about having letters from a lady,

so I offered to typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn't

have that, for he said that when I wrote them they seemed to come

from me, but when they were typewritten he always felt that the

machine had come between us. That will just show you how fond he

was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little things that he would think

of."

"It was most suggestive," said Holmes. "It has long been an axiom

of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.

Can you remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?"

"He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me

in the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to

be conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his

voice was gentle. He'd had the quinsy and swollen glands when he

was young, he told me, and it had left him with a weak throat,

and a hesitating, whispering fashion of speech. He was always

well dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak, just

as mine are, and he wore tinted glasses against the glare."

"Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather,

returned to France?"

"Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed that we

should marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest

and made me swear, with my hands on the Testament, that whatever

happened I would always be true to him. Mother said he was quite

right to make me swear, and that it was a sign of his passion.

Mother was all in his favour from the first and was even fonder

of him than I was. Then, when they talked of marrying within the

week, I began to ask about father; but they both said never to

mind about father, but just to tell him afterwards, and mother

said she would make it all right with him. I didn't quite like

that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that I should ask his leave, as

he was only a few years older than me; but I didn't want to do

anything on the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the

company has its French offices, but the letter came back to me on

the very morning of the wedding."

"It missed him, then?"

"Yes, sir; for he had started to England just before it arrived."

"Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then, for

the Friday. Was it to be in church?"

"Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour's, near

King's Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the St.

Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there were

two of us he put us both into it and stepped himself into a

four-wheeler, which happened to be the only other cab in the

street. We got to the church first, and when the four-wheeler

drove up we waited for him to step out, but he never did, and

when the cabman got down from the box and looked there was no one

there! The cabman said that he could not imagine what had become

of him, for he had seen him get in with his own eyes. That was

last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard anything

since then to throw any light upon what became of him."

"It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated," said

Holmes.

"Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all

the morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to

be true; and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to

separate us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to him,

and that he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed

strange talk for a wedding-morning, but what has happened since

gives a meaning to it."

"Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some

unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?"

"Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he

would not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw

happened."

"But you have no notion as to what it could have been?"

"None."

"One more question. How did your mother take the matter?"

"She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter

again."

"And your father? Did you tell him?"

"Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that something had

happened, and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said,

what interest could anyone have in bringing me to the doors of

the church, and then leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my

money, or if he had married me and got my money settled on him,

there might be some reason, but Hosmer was very independent about

money and never would look at a shilling of mine. And yet, what

could have happened? And why could he not write? Oh, it drives me

half-mad to think of it, and I can't sleep a wink at night." She

pulled a little handkerchief out of her muff and began to sob

heavily into it.

"I shall glance into the case for you," said Holmes, rising, "and

I have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the

weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind

dwell upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel

vanish from your memory, as he has done from your life."

"Then you don't think I'll see him again?"

"I fear not."

"Then what has happened to him?"

"You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an

accurate description of him and any letters of his which you can

spare."

"I advertised for him in last Saturday's Chronicle," said she.

"Here is the slip and here are four letters from him."

"Thank you. And your address?"

"No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell."

"Mr. Angel's address you never had, I understand. Where is your

father's place of business?"

"He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers

of Fenchurch Street."

"Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will

leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given

you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it

to affect your life."

"You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be

true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back."

For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was

something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which

compelled our respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon

the table and went her way, with a promise to come again whenever

she might be summoned.

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips

still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him,

and his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down

from the rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a

counsellor, and, having lit it, he leaned back in his chair, with

the thick blue cloud-wreaths spinning up from him, and a look of

infinite languor in his face.

"Quite an interesting study, that maiden," he observed. "I found

her more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way,

is rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you

consult my index, in Andover in '77, and there was something of

the sort at The Hague last year. Old as is the idea, however,

there were one or two details which were new to me. But the

maiden herself was most instructive."

"You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite

invisible to me," I remarked.

"Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to

look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring

you to realise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of

thumb-nails, or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace.

Now, what did you gather from that woman's appearance? Describe

it."

"Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a

feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads

sewn upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her

dress was brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little

purple plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish and

were worn through at the right forefinger. Her boots I didn't

observe. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a

general air of being fairly well-to-do in a vulgar, comfortable,

easy-going way."

Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.

"'Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have

really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed

everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and

you have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general

impressions, my boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My

first glance is always at a woman's sleeve. In a man it is

perhaps better first to take the knee of the trouser. As you

observe, this woman had plush upon her sleeves, which is a most

useful material for showing traces. The double line a little

above the wrist, where the typewritist presses against the table,

was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of the hand type,

leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side

of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the

broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face, and,

observing the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I

ventured a remark upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed

to surprise her."

"It surprised me."

"But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and

interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots

which she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were

really odd ones; the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and

the other a plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower

buttons out of five, and the other at the first, third, and

fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady, otherwise neatly

dressed, has come away from home with odd boots, half-buttoned,

it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry."

"And what else?" I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by

my friend's incisive reasoning.

"I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving

home but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right