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The Lauriston Garden Mystery

CHAPTER III.

I confess that I was considerably startled by

this fresh proof of the practical nature of my

companion’s theories. My respect for his powers

of analysis increased wondrously. There still remained

some lurking suspicion in my mind, however,

that the whole thing was a pre-arranged

episode, intended to dazzle me, though what

earthly object he could have in taking me in was

past my comprehension. When I looked at him

he had finished reading the note, and his eyes had

assumed the vacant, lack-lustre expression which

showed mental abstraction.

“How in the world did you deduce that?” I

asked.

“Deduce what?” said he, petulantly.

“Why, that he was a retired sergeant of

Marines.”

“I have no time for trifles,” he answered,

brusquely; then with a smile, “Excuse my rudeness.

You broke the thread of my thoughts; but

perhaps it is as well. So you actually were not able

to see that that man was a sergeant of Marines?”

“No, indeed.”

“It was easier to know it than to explain why

I knew it. If you were asked to prove that two

and two made four, you might find some difficulty,

and yet you are quite sure of the fact. Even across

the street I could see a great blue anchor tattooed

on the back of the fellow’s hand. That smacked

of the sea. He had a military carriage, however,

and regulation side whiskers. There we have the

marine. He was a man with some amount of selfimportance

and a certain air of command. You

must have observed the way in which he held his

head and swung his cane. A steady, respectable,

middle-aged man, too, on the face of him—all

facts which led me to believe that he had been a

sergeant.”

“Wonderful!” I ejaculated.

“Commonplace,” said Holmes, though I

thought from his expression that he was pleased

at my evident surprise and admiration. “I said just

now that there were no criminals. It appears that

I am wrong—look at this!” He threw me over the

note which the commissionaire had brought.

“Why,” I cried, as I cast my eye over it, “this is

terrible!”

“It does seem to be a little out of the common,”

he remarked, calmly. “Would you mind reading it

to me aloud?”

This is the letter which I read to him—

“My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:

“There has been a bad business during

the night at 3, Lauriston Gardens,

off the Brixton Road. Our man on the

beat saw a light there about two in

the morning, and as the house was an

empty one, suspected that something

was amiss. He found the door open,

and in the front room, which is bare

of furniture, discovered the body of a

gentleman, well dressed, and having

cards in his pocket bearing the name

of ‘Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio,

U.S.A.’ There had been no robbery, nor

is there any evidence as to how the

man met his death. There are marks

of blood in the room, but there is no

wound upon his person. We are at a

loss as to how he came into the empty

house; indeed, the whole affair is a

puzzler. If you can come round to the

house any time before twelve, you will

find me there. I have left everything

in statu quo until I hear from you. If

you are unable to come I shall give you

fuller details, and would esteem it a

great kindness if you would favour me

with your opinion.

“Yours faithfully,

“Tobias Gregson.”

“Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland

Yarders,” my friend remarked; “he and Lestrade

are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick and

energetic, but conventional—shockingly so. They

have their knives into one another, too. They are

as jealous as a pair of professional beauties. There

will be some fun over this case if they are both put

upon the scent.”

I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled

on. “Surely there is not a moment to be lost,”

I cried, “shall I go and order you a cab?”

“I’m not sure about whether I shall go. I am the

most incurably lazy devil that ever stood in shoe

leather—that is, when the fit is on me, for I can be

spry enough at times.”

“Why, it is just such a chance as you have been

longing for.”

“My dear fellow, what does it matter to me.

Supposing I unravel the whole matter, you may be

sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will pocket

all the credit. That comes of being an unofficial

personage.”

“But he begs you to help him.”

“Yes. He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges

it to me; but he would cut his tongue

out before he would own it to any third person.

However, we may as well go and have a look. I

shall work it out on my own hook. I may have a

laugh at them if I have nothing else. Come on!”

He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about

in a way that showed that an energetic fit had superseded

the apathetic one.

“Get your hat,” he said.

“You wish me to come?”

“Yes, if you have nothing better to do.” A

minute later we were both in a hansom, driving

furiously for the Brixton Road.

It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a duncoloured

veil hung over the house-tops, looking

like the reflection of the mud-coloured streets beneath.

My companion was in the best of spirits,

and prattled away about Cremona fiddles, and the

difference between a Stradivarius and an Amati.

As for myself, I was silent, for the dull weather

and the melancholy business upon which we were

engaged, depressed my spirits.

“You don’t seem to give much thought to

the matter in hand,” I said at last, interrupting

Holmes’ musical disquisition.

“No data yet,” he answered. “It is a capital mistake

to theorize before you have all the evidence.

It biases the judgment.”

“You will have your data soon,” I remarked,

pointing with my finger; “this is the Brixton Road,

and that is the house, if I am not very much mistaken.”

“So it is. Stop, driver, stop!” We were still a

hundred yards or so from it, but he insisted upon

our alighting, and we finished our journey upon

foot.

Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an illomened

and minatory look. It was one of four

which stood back some little way from the street,

two being occupied and two empty. The latter

looked out with three tiers of vacant melancholy

windows, which were blank and dreary, save that

here and there a “To Let” card had developed like

a cataract upon the bleared panes. A small garden

sprinkled over with a scattered eruption of

sickly plants separated each of these houses from

the street, and was traversed by a narrow pathway,

yellowish in colour, and consisting apparently

of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole

place was very sloppy from the rain which had

fallen through the night. The garden was bounded

by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood

rails upon the top, and against this wall was leaning

a stalwart police constable, surrounded by a

small knot of loafers, who craned their necks and

strained their eyes in the vain hope of catching

some glimpse of the proceedings within.

I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would

at once have hurried into the house and plunged

into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared to

be further from his intention. With an air of nonchalance

which, under the circumstances, seemed

to me to border upon affectation, he lounged up

and down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the

ground, the sky, the opposite houses and the line

of railings. Having finished his scrutiny, he proceeded

slowly down the path, or rather down the

fringe of grass which flanked the path, keeping his

eyes riveted upon the ground. Twice he stopped,

and once I saw him smile, and heard him utter

an exclamation of satisfaction. There were many

marks of footsteps upon the wet clayey soil, but

since the police had been coming and going over

it, I was unable to see how my companion could

hope to learn anything from it. Still I had had such

extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptive

faculties, that I had no doubt that he could

see a great deal which was hidden from me.

At the door of the house we were met by a

tall, white-faced, flaxen-haired man, with a notebook

in his hand, who rushed forward and wrung

my companion’s hand with effusion. “It is indeed

kind of you to come,” he said, “I have had everything

left untouched.”

“Except that!” my friend answered, pointing at

the pathway. “If a herd of buffaloes had passed

along there could not be a greater mess. No doubt,

however, you had drawn your own conclusions,

Gregson, before you permitted this.”

“I have had so much to do inside the house,”

the detective said evasively. “My colleague, Mr.

Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon him to look

after this.”

Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows

sardonically. “With two such men as yourself and

Lestrade upon the ground, there will not be much

for a third party to find out,” he said.

Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied

way. “I think we have done all that can be done,”

he answered; “it’s a queer case though, and I knew

your taste for such things.”

“You did not come here in a cab?” asked Sherlock

Holmes.

“No, sir.”

“Nor Lestrade?”

“No, sir.”

“Then let us go and look at the room.” With

which inconsequent remark he strode on into the

house, followed by Gregson, whose features expressed

his astonishment.

A short passage, bare planked and dusty, led

to the kitchen and offices. Two doors opened out

of it to the left and to the right. One of these had

obviously been closed for many weeks. The other

belonged to the dining-room, which was the apartment

in which the mysterious affair had occurred.

Holmes walked in, and I followed him with that

subdued feeling at my heart which the presence of

death inspires.

It was a large square room, looking all the

larger from the absence of all furniture. A vulgar

flaring paper adorned the walls, but it was

blotched in places with mildew, and here and there

great strips had become detached and hung down,

exposing the yellow plaster beneath. Opposite the

door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece

of imitation white marble. On one corner

of this was stuck the stump of a red wax candle.

The solitary window was so dirty that the light

was hazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge

to everything, which was intensified by the thick

layer of dust which coated the whole apartment.

All these details I observed afterwards. At

present my attention was centred upon the single

grim motionless figure which lay stretched

upon the boards, with vacant sightless eyes staring

up at the discoloured ceiling. It was that of a

man about forty-three or forty-four years of age,

middle-sized, broad shouldered, with crisp curling

black hair, and a short stubbly beard. He

was dressed in a heavy broadcloth frock coat and

waistcoat, with light-coloured trousers, and immaculate

collar and cuffs. A top hat, well brushed

and trim, was placed upon the floor beside him.

His hands were clenched and his arms thrown

abroad, while his lower limbs were interlocked

as though his death struggle had been a grievous

one. On his rigid face there stood an expression

of horror, and as it seemed to me, of hatred, such

as I have never seen upon human features. This

malignant and terrible contortion, combined with

the low forehead, blunt nose, and prognathous

jaw gave the dead man a singularly simious and

ape-like appearance, which was increased by his

writhing, unnatural posture. I have seen death in

many forms, but never has it appeared to me in

a more fearsome aspect than in that dark grimy

apartment, which looked out upon one of the main

arteries of suburban London.

Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was

standing by the doorway, and greeted my companion

and myself.

“This case will make a stir, sir,” he remarked.

“It beats anything I have seen, and I am no

chicken.”

“There is no clue?” said Gregson.

“None at all,” chimed in Lestrade.

Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and,

kneeling down, examined it intently. “You are sure

that there is no wound?” he asked, pointing to numerous

gouts and splashes of blood which lay all

round.

“Positive!” cried both detectives.

“Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second

individual—presumably the murderer, if murder

has been committed. It reminds me of the circumstances

attendant on the death of Van Jansen,

in Utrecht, in the year ’34. Do you remember the

case, Gregson?”

“No, sir.”

“Read it up—you really should. There is nothing

new under the sun. It has all been done before.”

As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying

here, there, and everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning,

examining, while his eyes wore the

same far-away expression which I have already

remarked upon. So swiftly was the examination

made, that one would hardly have guessed the

minuteness with which it was conducted. Finally,

he sniffed the dead man’s lips, and then glanced

at the soles of his patent leather boots.

“He has not been moved at all?” he asked.

“No more than was necessary for the purposes

of our examination.”

“You can take him to the mortuary now,” he

said. “There is nothing more to be learned.”

Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand.

At his call they entered the room, and the stranger

was lifted and carried out. As they raised him,

a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor.

Lestrade grabbed it up and stared at it with mystified

eyes.

“There’s been a woman here,” he cried. “It’s a

woman’s wedding-ring.”

He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of

his hand. We all gathered round him and gazed

at it. There could be no doubt that that circlet of

plain gold had once adorned the finger of a bride.

“This complicates matters,” said Gregson.

“Heaven knows, they were complicated enough

before.”

“You’re sure it doesn’t simplify them?” observed

Holmes. “There’s nothing to be learned by

staring at it. What did you find in his pockets?”

“We have it all here,” said Gregson, pointing

to a litter of objects upon one of the bottom steps

of the stairs. “A gold watch, No. 97163, by Barraud,

of London. Gold Albert chain, very heavy

and solid. Gold ring, with masonic device. Gold

pin—bull-dog’s head, with rubies as eyes. Russian

leather card-case, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber

of Cleveland, corresponding with the E. J. D. upon

the linen. No purse, but loose money to the extent

of seven pounds thirteen. Pocket edition of Boccaccio’s

‘Decameron,’ with name of Joseph Stangerson

upon the fly-leaf. Two letters—one addressed

to E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph Stangerson.”

“At what address?”

“American Exchange, Strand—to be left till

called for. They are both from the Guion

Steamship Company, and refer to the sailing of

their boats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate

man was about to return to New York.”

“Have you made any inquiries as to this man,

Stangerson?”

“I did it at once, sir,” said Gregson. “I have had

advertisements sent to all the newspapers, and one

of my men has gone to the American Exchange,

but he has not returned yet.”

“Have you sent to Cleveland?”

“We telegraphed this morning.”

“How did you word your inquiries?”

“We simply detailed the circumstances, and

said that we should be glad of any information

which could help us.”

“You did not ask for particulars on any point

which appeared to you to be crucial?”

“I asked about Stangerson.”

“Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on

which this whole case appears to hinge? Will you

not telegraph again?”

“I have said all I have to say,” said Gregson, in

an offended voice.

Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared

to be about to make some remark, when

Lestrade, who had been in the front room while

we were holding this conversation in the hall, reappeared

upon the scene, rubbing his hands in a

pompous and self-satisfied manner.

“Mr. Gregson,” he said, “I have just made a discovery

of the highest importance, and one which

would have been overlooked had I not made a

careful examination of the walls.”

The little man’s eyes sparkled as he spoke, and

he was evidently in a state of suppressed exultation

at having scored a point against his colleague.

“Come here,” he said, bustling back into the

room, the atmosphere of which felt clearer since

the removal of its ghastly inmate. “Now, stand

there!”

He struck a match on his boot and held it up

against the wall.

“Look at that!” he said, triumphantly.

I have remarked that the paper had fallen away

in parts. In this particular corner of the room a

large piece had peeled off, leaving a yellow square

of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there

was scrawled in blood-red letters a single word—

RACHE.

“What do you think of that?” cried the detective,

with the air of a showman exhibiting his show.

“This was overlooked because it was in the darkest

corner of the room, and no one thought of looking

there. The murderer has written it with his or her

own blood. See this smear where it has trickled

down the wall! That disposes of the idea of suicide

anyhow. Why was that corner chosen to write

it on? I will tell you. See that candle on the mantelpiece.

It was lit at the time, and if it was lit this

corner would be the brightest instead of the darkest

portion of the wall.”

“And what does it mean now that you have

found it?” asked Gregson in a depreciatory voice.

“Mean? Why, it means that the writer was

going to put the female name Rachel, but was

disturbed before he or she had time to finish.

You mark my words, when this case comes to

be cleared up you will find that a woman named

Rachel has something to do with it. It’s all very

well for you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You

may be very smart and clever, but the old hound

is the best, when all is said and done.”

“I really beg your pardon!” said my companion,

who had ruffled the little man’s temper by

bursting into an explosion of laughter. “You certainly

have the credit of being the first of us to

find this out, and, as you say, it bears every mark

of having been written by the other participant in

last night’s mystery. I have not had time to examine

this room yet, but with your permission I shall

do so now.”

As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and

a large round magnifying glass from his pocket.

With these two implements he trotted noiselessly

about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally

kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So

engrossed was he with his occupation that he appeared

to have forgotten our presence, for he chattered

away to himself under his breath the whole

time, keeping up a running fire of exclamations,

groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of encouragement

and of hope. As I watched him I

was irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded welltrained

foxhound as it dashes backwards and forwards

through the covert, whining in its eagerness,

until it comes across the lost scent. For twenty

minutes or more he continued his researches, measuring

with the most exact care the distance between

marks which were entirely invisible to me,

and occasionally applying his tape to the walls in

an equally incomprehensible manner. In one place

he gathered up very carefully a little pile of grey

dust from the floor, and packed it away in an envelope.

Finally, he examined with his glass the word

upon the wall, going over every letter of it with the

most minute exactness. This done, he appeared to

be satisfied, for he replaced his tape and his glass

in his pocket.

“They say that genius is an infinite capacity for

taking pains,” he remarked with a smile. “It’s a

very bad definition, but it does apply to detective

work.”

Gregson and Lestrade had watched the

manoeuvres of their amateur companion with considerable

curiosity and some contempt. They evidently

failed to appreciate the fact, which I had begun

to realize, that Sherlock Holmes’ smallest actions

were all directed towards some definite and

practical end.

“What do you think of it, sir?” they both asked.

“It would be robbing you of the credit of the

case if I was to presume to help you,” remarked

my friend. “You are doing so well now that it

would be a pity for anyone to interfere.” There was

a world of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke. “If you

will let me know how your investigations go,” he

continued, “I shall be happy to give you any help I

can. In the meantime I should like to speak to the

constable who found the body. Can you give me

his name and address?”

Lestrade glanced at his note-book. “John

Rance,” he said. “He is off duty now. You will find

him at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate.”

Holmes took a note of the address.

“Come along, Doctor,” he said; “we shall go

and look him up. I’ll tell you one thing which may

help you in the case,” he continued, turning to the

two detectives. “There has been murder done, and

the murderer was a man. He was more than six

feet high, was in the prime of life, had small feet

for his height, wore coarse, square-toed boots and

smoked a Trichinopoly cigar. He came here with

his victim in a four-wheeled cab, which was drawn

by a horse with three old shoes and one new one

on his off fore leg. In all probability the murderer

had a florid face, and the finger-nails of his right

hand were remarkably long. These are only a few

indications, but they may assist you.”

Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other

with an incredulous smile.

“If this man was murdered, how was it done?”

asked the former.

“Poison,” said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and

strode off. “One other thing, Lestrade,” he added,

turning round at the door: “ ‘Rache,’ is the German

for ‘revenge;’ so don’t lose your time looking

for Miss Rachel.”

With which Parthian shot he walked away,

leaving the two rivals open-mouthed behind him.

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Mr. Sherlock Holmes The Science Of Deduction

The Science Of Deduction;

CHAPTER II.

We met next day as he had arranged, and inspected

the rooms at No. 221b, Baker Street, of

which he had spoken at our meeting. They consisted

of a couple of comfortable bed-rooms and

a single large airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished,

and illuminated by two broad windows.

So desirable in every way were the apartments,

and so moderate did the terms seem when divided

between us, that the bargain was concluded upon

the spot, and we at once entered into possession.

That very evening I moved my things round from

the hotel, and on the following morning Sherlock

Holmes followed me with several boxes and portmanteaus.

For a day or two we were busily employed

in unpacking and laying out our property

to the best advantage. That done, we gradually began

to settle down and to accommodate ourselves

to our new surroundings.

Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live

with. He was quiet in his ways, and his habits

were regular. It was rare for him to be up after ten

at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and

gone out before I rose in the morning. Sometimes

he spent his day at the chemical laboratory, sometimes

in the dissecting-rooms, and occasionally in

long walks, which appeared to take him into the

lowest portions of the City. Nothing could exceed

his energy when the working fit was upon him;

but now and again a reaction would seize him, and

for days on end he would lie upon the sofa in the

sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or moving a

muscle from morning to night. On these occasions

I have noticed such a dreamy, vacant expression in

his eyes, that I might have suspected him of being

addicted to the use of some narcotic, had not the

temperance and cleanliness of his whole life forbidden

such a notion.

As the weeks went by, my interest in him and

my curiosity as to his aims in life, gradually deepened

and increased. His very person and appearance

were such as to strike the attention of the

most casual observer. In height he was rather over

six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to

be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and

piercing, save during those intervals of torpor to

which I have alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose

gave his whole expression an air of alertness and

decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and

squareness which mark the man of determination.

His hands were invariably blotted with ink and

stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinary

delicacy of touch, as I frequently had

occasion to observe when I watched him manipulating

his fragile philosophical instruments.

The reader may set me down as a hopeless

busybody, when I confess how much this man

stimulated my curiosity, and how often I endeavoured

to break through the reticence which he

showed on all that concerned himself. Before pronouncing

judgment, however, be it remembered,

how objectless was my life, and how little there

was to engage my attention. My health forbade me

from venturing out unless the weather was exceptionally

genial, and I had no friends who would

call upon me and break the monotony of my daily

existence. Under these circumstances, I eagerly

hailed the little mystery which hung around my

companion, and spent much of my time in endeavouring

to unravel it.

He was not studying medicine. He had himself,

in reply to a question, confirmed Stamford’s

opinion upon that point. Neither did he appear to

have pursued any course of reading which might

fit him for a degree in science or any other recognized

portal which would give him an entrance

into the learned world. Yet his zeal for certain

studies was remarkable, and within eccentric limits

his knowledge was so extraordinarily ample

and minute that his observations have fairly astounded

me. Surely no man would work so hard

or attain such precise information unless he had

some definite end in view. Desultory readers are

seldom remarkable for the exactness of their learning.

No man burdens his mind with small matters

unless he has some very good reason for doing so.

His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge.

Of contemporary literature, philosophy and

politics he appeared to know next to nothing.

Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired

in the naivest way who he might be and what he

had done. My surprise reached a climax, however,

when I found incidentally that he was ignorant of

the Copernican Theory and of the composition of

the Solar System. That any civilized human being

in this nineteenth century should not be aware that

the earth travelled round the sun appeared to be to

me such an extraordinary fact that I could hardly

realize it.

“You appear to be astonished,” he said, smiling

at my expression of surprise. “Now that I do

know it I shall do my best to forget it.”

“To forget it!”

“You see,” he explained, “I consider that a

man’s brain originally is like a little empty attic,

and you have to stock it with such furniture as

you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every

sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge

which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or

at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things so

that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it.

Now the skilful workman is very careful indeed as

to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will have

nothing but the tools which may help him in doing

his work, but of these he has a large assortment,

and all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to

think that that little room has elastic walls and can

distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes

a time when for every addition of knowledge you

forget something that you knew before. It is of the

highest importance, therefore, not to have useless

facts elbowing out the useful ones.”

“But the Solar System!” I protested.

“What the deuce is it to me?” he interrupted

impatiently; “you say that we go round the sun.

If we went round the moon it would not make a

pennyworth of difference to me or to my work.”

I was on the point of asking him what that

work might be, but something in his manner

showed me that the question would be an unwelcome

one. I pondered over our short conversation,

however, and endeavoured to draw my deductions

from it. He said that he would acquire

no knowledge which did not bear upon his object.

Therefore all the knowledge which he possessed

was such as would be useful to him. I enumerated

in my own mind all the various points upon which

he had shown me that he was exceptionally wellinformed.

I even took a pencil and jotted them

down. I could not help smiling at the document

when I had completed it. It ran in this way—

Sherlock Holmes—his limits.

1. Knowledge of Literature.—Nil.

2. Philosophy.—Nil.

3. Astronomy.—Nil.

4. Politics.—Feeble.

5. Botany.—Variable. Well up in belladonna,

opium, and poisons generally. Knows nothing

of practical gardening.

6. Geology.—Practical, but limited. Tells at a

glance different soils from each other. After

walks has shown me splashes upon his

trousers, and told me by their colour and

consistence in what part of London he had

received them.

7. Chemistry.—Profound.

8. Anatomy.—Accurate, but unsystematic.

9. Sensational Literature.—Immense. He appears

to know every detail of every horror

perpetrated in the century.

10. Plays the violin well.

11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and

swordsman.

12. Has a good practical knowledge of British

law.

When I had got so far in my list I threw it into

the fire in despair. “If I can only find what the

fellow is driving at by reconciling all these accomplishments,

and discovering a calling which needs

them all,” I said to myself, “I may as well give up

the attempt at once.”

I see that I have alluded above to his powers

upon the violin. These were very remarkable,

but as eccentric as all his other accomplishments.

That he could play pieces, and difficult

pieces, I knew well, because at my request he

has played me some of Mendelssohn’s Lieder, and

other favourites. When left to himself, however, he

would seldom produce any music or attempt any

recognized air. Leaning back in his arm-chair of an

evening, he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly

at the fiddle which was thrown across his

knee. Sometimes the chords were sonorous and

melancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic and

cheerful. Clearly they reflected the thoughts which

possessed him, but whether the music aided those

thoughts, or whether the playing was simply the

result of a whim or fancy was more than I could

determine. I might have rebelled against these exasperating

solos had it not been that he usually

terminated them by playing in quick succession a

whole series of my favourite airs as a slight compensation

for the trial upon my patience.

During the first week or so we had no callers,

and I had begun to think that my companion was

as friendless a man as I was myself. Presently,

however, I found that he had many acquaintances,

and those in the most different classes of society.

There was one little sallow rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow

who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade,

and who came three or four times in a single

week. One morning a young girl called, fashionably

dressed, and stayed for half an hour or more.

The same afternoon brought a grey-headed, seedy

visitor, looking like a Jew pedlar, who appeared

to me to be much excited, and who was closely

followed by a slipshod elderly woman. On another

occasion an old white-haired gentleman had

an interview with my companion; and on another

a railway porter in his velveteen uniform. When

any of these nondescript individuals put in an appearance,

Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the use

of the sitting-room, and I would retire to my bedroom.

He always apologized to me for putting me

to this inconvenience. “I have to use this room as a

place of business,” he said, “and these people are

my clients.” Again I had an opportunity of asking

him a point blank question, and again my delicacy

prevented me from forcing another man to confide

in me. I imagined at the time that he had some

strong reason for not alluding to it, but he soon

dispelled the idea by coming round to the subject

of his own accord.

It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good

reason to remember, that I rose somewhat earlier

than usual, and found that Sherlock Holmes had

not yet finished his breakfast. The landlady had

become so accustomed to my late habits that my

place had not been laid nor my coffee prepared.

With the unreasonable petulance of mankind I

rang the bell and gave a curt intimation that I was

ready. Then I picked up a magazine from the table

and attempted to while away the time with it,

while my companion munched silently at his toast.

One of the articles had a pencil mark at the heading,

and I naturally began to run my eye through

it.

Its somewhat ambitious title was “The Book of

Life,” and it attempted to show how much an observant

man might learn by an accurate and systematic

examination of all that came in his way.

It struck me as being a remarkable mixture of

shrewdness and of absurdity. The reasoning was

close and intense, but the deductions appeared to

me to be far-fetched and exaggerated. The writer

claimed by a momentary expression, a twitch of a

muscle or a glance of an eye, to fathom a man’s

inmost thoughts. Deceit, according to him, was an

impossibility in the case of one trained to observation

and analysis. His conclusions were as infallible

as so many propositions of Euclid. So startling

would his results appear to the uninitiated that until

they learned the processes by which he had arrived

at them they might well consider him as a

necromancer.

“From a drop of water,” said the writer, “a logician

could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or

a Niagara without having seen or heard of one or

the other. So all life is a great chain, the nature

of which is known whenever we are shown a single

link of it. Like all other arts, the Science of

Deduction and Analysis is one which can only be

acquired by long and patient study nor is life long

enough to allow any mortal to attain the highest

possible perfection in it. Before turning to those

moral and mental aspects of the matter which

present the greatest difficulties, let the enquirer begin

by mastering more elementary problems. Let

him, on meeting a fellow-mortal, learn at a glance

to distinguish the history of the man, and the trade

or profession to which he belongs. Puerile as such

an exercise may seem, it sharpens the faculties of

observation, and teaches one where to look and

what to look for. By a man’s finger nails, by his

coat-sleeve, by his boot, by his trouser knees, by

the callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his

expression, by his shirt cuffs—by each of these

things a man’s calling is plainly revealed. That

all united should fail to enlighten the competent

enquirer in any case is almost inconceivable.”

“What ineffable twaddle!” I cried, slapping the

magazine down on the table, “I never read such

rubbish in my life.”

“What is it?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

“Why, this article,” I said, pointing at it with

my egg spoon as I sat down to my breakfast. “I

see that you have read it since you have marked it.

I don’t deny that it is smartly written. It irritates

me though. It is evidently the theory of some armchair

lounger who evolves all these neat little paradoxes

in the seclusion of his own study. It is not

practical. I should like to see him clapped down

in a third class carriage on the Underground, and

asked to give the trades of all his fellow-travellers.

I would lay a thousand to one against him.”

“You would lose your money,” Sherlock

Holmes remarked calmly. “As for the article I

wrote it myself.”

“You!”

“Yes, I have a turn both for observation and for

deduction. The theories which I have expressed

there, and which appear to you to be so chimerical

are really extremely practical—so practical that I

depend upon them for my bread and cheese.”

“And how?” I asked involuntarily.

“Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose

I am the only one in the world. I’m a consulting

detective, if you can understand what that is.

Here in London we have lots of Government detectives

and lots of private ones. When these fellows

are at fault they come to me, and I manage

to put them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence

before me, and I am generally able, by the

help of my knowledge of the history of crime, to

set them straight. There is a strong family resemblance

about misdeeds, and if you have all the details

of a thousand at your finger ends, it is odd if

you can’t unravel the thousand and first. Lestrade

is a well-known detective. He got himself into a

fog recently over a forgery case, and that was what

brought him here.”

“And these other people?”

“They are mostly sent on by private inquiry

agencies. They are all people who are in trouble

about something, and want a little enlightening. I

listen to their story, they listen to my comments,

and then I pocket my fee.”

“But do you mean to say,” I said, “that without

leaving your room you can unravel some knot

which other men can make nothing of, although

they have seen every detail for themselves?”

“Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way.

Now and again a case turns up which is a little

more complex. Then I have to bustle about and see

things with my own eyes. You see I have a lot of

special knowledge which I apply to the problem,

and which facilitates matters wonderfully. Those

rules of deduction laid down in that article which

aroused your scorn, are invaluable to me in practical

work. Observation with me is second nature.

You appeared to be surprised when I told

you, on our first meeting, that you had come from

Afghanistan.”

“You were told, no doubt.”

“Nothing of the sort. I knew you came from

Afghanistan. From long habit the train of thoughts

ran so swiftly through my mind, that I arrived at

the conclusion without being conscious of intermediate

steps. There were such steps, however. The

train of reasoning ran, ‘Here is a gentleman of a

medical type, but with the air of a military man.

Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come

from the tropics, for his face is dark, and that is

not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are

fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as

his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been

injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner.

Where in the tropics could an English army

doctor have seen much hardship and got his arm

wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.’ The whole

train of thought did not occupy a second. I then remarked

that you came from Afghanistan, and you

were astonished.”

“It is simple enough as you explain it,” I said,

smiling. “You remind me of Edgar Allen Poe’s

Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals did

exist outside of stories.”

Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. “No

doubt you think that you are complimenting me

in comparing me to Dupin,” he observed. “Now,

in my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow.

That trick of his of breaking in on his friends’

thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of

an hour’s silence is really very showy and superficial.

He had some analytical genius, no doubt; but

he was by no means such a phenomenon as Poe

appeared to imagine.”

“Have you read Gaboriau’s works?” I asked.

“Does Lecoq come up to your idea of a detective?”

Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. “Lecoq

was a miserable bungler,” he said, in an angry

voice; “he had only one thing to recommend him,

and that was his energy. That book made me positively

ill. The question was how to identify an

unknown prisoner. I could have done it in twentyfour

hours. Lecoq took six months or so. It might

be made a text-book for detectives to teach them

what to avoid.”

I felt rather indignant at having two characters

whom I had admired treated in this cavalier style.

I walked over to the window, and stood looking

out into the busy street. “This fellow may be very

clever,” I said to myself, “but he is certainly very

conceited.”

“There are no crimes and no criminals in these

days,” he said, querulously. “What is the use of

having brains in our profession? I know well that

I have it in me to make my name famous. No

man lives or has ever lived who has brought the

same amount of study and of natural talent to

the detection of crime which I have done. And

what is the result? There is no crime to detect, or,

at most, some bungling villany with a motive so

transparent that even a Scotland Yard official can

see through it.”

I was still annoyed at his bumptious style of

conversation. I thought it best to change the topic.

“I wonder what that fellow is looking for?” I

asked, pointing to a stalwart, plainly-dressed individual

who was walking slowly down the other

side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers.

He had a large blue envelope in his hand,

and was evidently the bearer of a message.

“You mean the retired sergeant of Marines,”

said Sherlock Holmes.

“Brag and bounce!” thought I to myself. “He

knows that I cannot verify his guess.”

The thought had hardly passed through my

mind when the man whom we were watching

caught sight of the number on our door, and ran

rapidly across the roadway. We heard a loud

knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps ascending

the stair.

“For Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, stepping

into the room and handing my friend the letter.

Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit

out of him. He little thought of this when he made

that random shot. “May I ask, my lad,” I said, in

the blandest voice, “what your trade may be?”

“Commissionaire, sir,” he said, gruffly. “Uniform

away for repairs.”

“And you were?” I asked, with a slightly malicious

glance at my companion.

“A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry,

sir. No answer? Right, sir.”

He clicked his heels together, raised his hand

in a salute, and was gone.

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