LITERATURE OUT LOUD
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Isa
Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the Theological
College of St. George’s, was much addicted to opium. The habit grew upon him,
as I understand, from some foolish freak when he was at college; for having
read De Quincey’s description of his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his
tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the same effects. He found, as
so many more have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid
of, and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of
mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with
yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a
chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.
One
night—it was in June, ’89—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 needle-work 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 losing 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 light-house.
“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 wife as an old friend and school companion. We soothed
and comforted her by such words as we could find. Did she know where her
husband was? Was it possible that we could bring him back to her?
It
seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he had, when the
fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the farthest east of the City.
Hitherto his orgies had always been confined to one day, and he 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 Isa Whitney’s medical adviser, and as such I had influence over him. I
could manage it better if I were alone. I promised her on my word that I would
send him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed at the address which
she had given me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery
sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a strange
errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only could show how
strange it was to be.
But
there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure. Upper Swandam
Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which line the north side
of the river to the east of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop,
approached by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like the
mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to
wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread
of drunken feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I
found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the
brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the forecastle of an
emigrant ship.
Through
the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in strange fantastic
poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward,
with here and there a dark, lack-luster eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of
the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now
faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes.
The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked
together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming in
gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own
thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbor. At the farther
end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged
wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two
fists, and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.
As
I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me and a
supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.
“Thank
you. I have not come to stay,” said I. “There is a friend of mine here, Mr. Isa
Whitney, and I wish to speak with him.”
There
was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering through the gloom,
I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring out at me.
“My
God! It’s Watson,” said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction, with every
nerve in a twitter. “I say, Watson, what o’clock is it?”
“Nearly
eleven.”
“Of
what day?”
“Of
Friday, June 19th.”
“Good
heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What d’you want to
frighten a chap for?” He sank his face onto his arms and began to sob in a high
treble key.
“I
tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two days for
you. You should be ashamed of yourself!”
“So
I am. But you’ve got mixed, Watson, for I 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’ 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.
“I
suppose, Watson,” said he, “that you imagine that I have added opium-smoking to
cocaine injections, and all the other little weaknesses on which you have
favoured me with your medical views.”
“I
was certainly surprised to find you there.”
“But
not more so than I to find you.”
“I
came to find a friend.”
“And
I to find an enemy.”
“An
enemy?”
“Yes;
one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey. Briefly, Watson, I
am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clue
in the incoherent ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had I
been recognized in that den my life would not have been worth an hour’s
purchase; for I have used it before now for my own purposes, and the rascally
Lascar who runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at
the back of that building, near the corner of Paul’s Wharf, which could tell
some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights.”
“What!
You do not mean bodies?”
“Ay,
bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had £1000 for every poor
devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest murder-trap on
the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. 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 lanterns. “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 Mr. St. Clair’s house. I am staying there while I conduct the inquiry.”
“Where
is it, then?”
“Near
Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us.”
“But
I am all in the dark.”
“Of
course you are. You’ll know all about it presently. Jump up here. All right,
John; we shall not need you. Here’s half a crown. Look out for me to-morrow,
about eleven. Give her her head. So long, then!”
He
flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the endless
succession of somber and deserted streets, which widened gradually, until we
were flying across a broad balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing
sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar,
its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of the policeman, or the
songs and shouts of some belated party of revelers. A dull wrack was drifting
slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through
the rifts of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his
breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat beside him,
curious to learn what this new quest might be which seemed to tax his powers so
sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of his thoughts. We had
driven several miles, and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of
suburban villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up his
pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he is acting for the
best.
“You
have a grand gift of silence, Watson,” said he. “It makes you quite invaluable
as a companion. ’Pon my word, it is a great thing for me to have someone to
talk to, for my own thoughts are not over-pleasant. I was wondering what I
should say to this dear little woman to-night when she meets me at the door.”
“You
forget that I know nothing about it.”
“I
shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get to Lee. It
seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can get nothing to go upon. There’s
plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can’t get the end of it into my hand. Now, I’ll
state the case clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a
spark where all is dark to me.”
“Proceed,
then.”
“Some
years ago—to be definite, in May, 1884—there came to Lee a gentleman, Neville
St. 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 1887 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 5:14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr. St. 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
ascertain, amount to £88 10s., while he has £220 standing
to his credit in the Capital and Counties Bank. There is no reason, therefore,
to think that money troubles have been weighing upon his mind.
“Last
Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier than usual,
remarking before he started that he had two important commissions to perform,
and that he would bring his little boy home a box of bricks. Now, by the merest
chance, his wife received a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after
his departure, to the effect that a small parcel of considerable value which
she had been expecting was waiting for her 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
Swandam Lane, where you found me to-night. Mrs. St. 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 4:35 walking through Swandam 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 Mrs. St. 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 Swandam
Lane, she suddenly heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her
husband looking down at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a
second-floor window. The window was open, and she distinctly saw his face,
which she describes as being terribly agitated. He waved his hands frantically
to her, and then vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her
that he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind. One
singular point which struck her 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 Lascar 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 Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no sign of him there. In
fact, in the whole of that floor there was no one to be 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 Mrs. St. 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 realise 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
windowsill, 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 Mr. Neville St. 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 Mr.
Neville St. Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no other
exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon the sill gave little
promise that he could save himself by swimming, for the tide was at its very
highest at the moment of the tragedy.
“And
now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated in the matter.
The Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St.
Clair’s story, he was known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very
few seconds of her husband’s appearance at the window, he could hardly have
been more than an accessory to the crime. His defense was one of absolute
ignorance, and he protested that he had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh
Boone, his lodger, and that he could not account in any way for the presence of
the missing gentleman’s clothes.
“So
much for the Lascar manager. Now for 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 St. 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 stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a piteous
spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the greasy leather cap which
lies upon the pavement beside him. I have watched the fellow more than once
before ever I thought of making his professional acquaintance, and I have been
surprised at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. His appearance,
you see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him without observing him. A
shock of orange 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.”
“Mrs.
St. 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 Barton, who had charge of the case,
made a very careful examination of the premises, but without finding anything
which threw any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made in not
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 Mr. Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes in his
room was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As to Mrs. St. 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 Neville St. Clair’s coat, and not Neville St. Clair, which lay
uncovered as the tide receded. And what do you think they found in the
pockets?”
“I
cannot imagine.”
“No,
I don’t think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with pennies and half-pennies—421
pennies and 270 half-pennies. 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 St. 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 Lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the
street. There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret hoard,
where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and he stuffs all the coins
upon which he can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure of the coat’s
sinking. He throws it out, and would have done the same with the other garments
had not he heard the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the
window when the police appeared.”
“It
certainly sounds feasible.”
“Well,
we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better. Boone, as I have
told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but it could not be shown that
there had ever before been anything against him. He had for years been known as
a professional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very quiet and
innocent one. There the matter stands at present, and the questions which have
to be solved—what Neville St. Clair was doing in the opium den, what happened
to him when there, where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his
disappearance—are all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I cannot
recall any case within my experience which looked at the first glance so simple
and yet which presented such difficulties.”
While
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 horse’s 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. Mrs. St. 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. Whoa, there, whoa!”
We
had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its own grounds. A
stable-boy had run out to the horse’s head, and springing down, I followed
Holmes up the small, winding gravel-drive which led to the house. As we
approached, the door flew open, and a little blonde woman stood in the opening,
clad in some sort of light mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy pink
chiffon at her neck and wrists. She stood with her figure outlined against the
flood of light, one hand upon the door, one half-raised in her eagerness, her
body slightly bent, her head and face protruded, with eager eyes and parted
lips, a standing question.
“Well?”
she cried, “well?” And then, seeing that there were two of us, she gave a cry
of hope which sank into a groan as she saw that my companion shook his head and
shrugged his shoulders.
“No
good news?”
“None.”
“No
bad?”
“No.”
“Thank
God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for you have had a long day.”
“This
is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to me in several of my
cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for me to bring him out and
associate him with this investigation.”
“I
am delighted to see you,” said she, pressing my hand warmly. “You will, I am
sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our arrangements, when you
consider the blow which has come so suddenly upon us.”
“My
dear madam,” said I, “I am an old campaigner, and if I were not I can very well
see that no apology is needed. If I can be of any assistance, either to you or
to my friend here, I shall be indeed happy.”
“Now,
Mr. 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
Holmes 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, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it is that I have
received a letter from him to-day.”
Sherlock
Holmes 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 enclosure here!”
“Yes,
there was a ring. His signet-ring.”
“And
you are sure that this is your husband’s hand?”
“One
of his hands.”
“One?”
“His
hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual writing, and yet I
know it well.”
“
‘Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge error which
it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in patience.—NEVILLE.’ Written in
pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted
to-day in 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, Mrs. St. Clair, the clouds lighten,
though I should not venture to say that the danger is over.”
“But
he must be alive, Mr. Holmes.”
“Unless
this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. The ring, after all,
proves nothing. It may have been taken from him.”
“No,
no; it is, it is his very own writing!”
“Very
well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only posted to-day.”
“That
is possible.”
“If
so, much may have happened between.”
“Oh,
you must not discourage me, Mr. 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 Swandam Lane?”
“Very
much so.”
“Was
the window open?”
“Yes.”
“Then
he might have called to you?”
“He
might.”
“He
only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?”
“Yes.”
“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 leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the room?”
“No,
but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the Lascar was at the
foot of the stairs.”
“Quite
so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary clothes on?”
“But
without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat.”
“Had
he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?”
“Never.”
“Had
he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?”
“Never.”
“Thank
you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about which I wished to be
absolutely clear. We shall now have a little supper and then retire, for we may
have a very busy day to-morrow.”
A
large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our disposal, and I
was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after my night of adventure.
Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when he had an unsolved problem upon
his mind, would go for days, and even for a week, without rest, turning it
over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of view until he
had either fathomed it or convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It
was soon evident to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He
took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then
wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions from the
sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort of Eastern divan, upon
which he perched himself cross-legged, with an ounce of shag tobacco and a box
of matches laid out in front of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him
sitting there, an old briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon
the corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent,
motionless, with 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 the summer sun shining into the apartment. The pipe
was still between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the room was
full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag which I
had seen upon the previous night.
“Awake,
Watson?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Game
for a morning drive?”
“Certainly.”
“Then
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 the half-clad stable-boy
waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and away we dashed down the London
Road. A few country carts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the
metropolis, but the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless
as some city in a dream.
“It
has been in some points a singular case,” said Holmes, flicking the horse on
into a gallop. “I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better
to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.”
In
town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from their
windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side. Passing down the
Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and dashing up Wellington
Street wheeled sharply to the right and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock
Holmes was well known to the force, and the two constables at the door saluted
him. One of them held the horse’s head while the other led us in.
“Who
is on duty?” asked Holmes.
“Inspector
Bradstreet, sir.”
“Ah,
Bradstreet, how are you?” A tall, stout official had come down the
stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. “I wish to have a
quiet word with you, Bradstreet.” “Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room
here.” It was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table, and
a telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk.
“What
can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”
“I
called about that beggar man, Boone—the one who was charged with being
concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. 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
tinker’s. Well, when 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 led us down a passage, opened a barred
door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to a whitewashed corridor
with a line of doors on each side.
“The
third on the right is his,” said the inspector. “Here it is!” He quietly shot
back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced through.
“He
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 in his tattered coat. He was, as the inspector had said, extremely
dirty, but the grime which covered his face could not conceal its repulsive
ugliness. A broad wheal 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!
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 Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee, in 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 tint! Gone, too, was the
horrid scar which had seamed it across, and the twisted lip which had given the
repulsive sneer to the face! A twitch brought away the tangled red hair, and
there, sitting up in his bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man,
black-haired and smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him with
sleepy bewilderment. Then suddenly realizing the exposure, he broke into a
scream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow.
“Great
heavens!” cried the inspector, “it is, indeed, the missing man. I know him from
the photograph.”
The
prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons himself to his
destiny. “Be it so,” said he. “And pray what am I charged with?”
“With
making away with Mr. Neville St.— 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 Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has been
committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained.”
“No
crime, but a very great error has been committed,” said Holmes. “You would have
done better to have trusted your wife.”
“It
was not the wife; it was the children,” groaned the prisoner. “God help me, I
would not have them ashamed of their father. My God! What an exposure! What can
I do?”
Sherlock
Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him kindly on the shoulder.
“If
you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up,” said he, “of course you
can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you convince the police
authorities that there is no possible case against you, I do not know that
there is any reason that the details should find their way into the papers.
Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which you might
tell us and submit it to the proper authorities. The case would then never go
into court at all.”
“God
bless you!” cried the prisoner passionately. “I would have endured
imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left my miserable secret as
a family blot 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 travelled in my youth,
took to the stage, and finally became a reporter on an evening paper in London.
One day my editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the
metropolis, and I volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which
all my adventures started. It was only by trying begging as an amateur that I
could get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an actor I had, of
course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had been famous in the
green-room for my skill. I took advantage now of my attainments. I painted my
face, and to make myself as pitiable as possible I made a good scar and fixed one
side of my lip in a twist by the aid of a small slip of flesh-colored plaster.
Then with a red head of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in
the business part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a
beggar. For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home in the
evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less than 26s. 4d.
“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 £25. I
was at my wit’s end where to get the money, but a sudden idea came to me. I
begged a fortnight’s grace from the creditor, asked for a holiday from my
employers, and spent the time in begging in the City under my disguise. In ten
days I had the money and had paid the debt.
“Well,
you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work at £2 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
Swandam Lane, where I could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the
evenings transform myself into a well-dressed man about town. This fellow, a
Lascar, 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 £700 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 £2.
“As
I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country, and
eventually married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my real occupation.
My dear wife knew that I had business in the City. She little knew what.
“Last
Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room above the opium
den when I looked out of my window and saw, to my horror and astonishment, that
my wife was standing in the street, with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a
cry of surprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to my
confidant, the Lascar, entreated him to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I
heard her voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I
threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and
wig. Even a wife’s eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But then it
occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and that the clothes
might betray me. I threw open the window, reopening by my violence a small cut
which I had inflicted upon myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my
coat, which was weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from
the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the window,
and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed, but
at that moment there was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few minutes
after I found, rather, I confess, to my relief, that instead of being identified
as Mr. Neville St. 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.”
“That
note only reached her yesterday,” said Holmes.
“Good
God! What a week she must have spent!”
“The
police have watched this Lascar,” said Inspector Bradstreet, “and I can quite
understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter unobserved.
Probably he handed 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 begging?”
“Many
times; but what was a fine to me?”
“It
must stop here, however,” said Bradstreet. “If the police are to hush this
thing up, there must be no more of Hugh 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, Mr. 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.”
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