Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated)

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  “Lord Robert St. Simon,” announced our page-boy, throwing open the door. A gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured face, high-nosed and pale, with something perhaps of petulance about the mouth, and with the steady, well-opened eye of a man whose pleasant lot it had ever been to command and to be obeyed. His manner was brisk, and yet his general appearance gave an undue impression of age, for he had a slight forward stoop and a little bend of the knees as he walked. His hair, too, as he swept off his very curly-brimmed hat, was grizzled round the edges and thin upon the top. As to his dress, it was careful to the verge of foppishness, with high collar, black frock-coat, white waistcoat, yellow gloves, patent-leather shoes, and light-coloured gaiters. He advanced slowly into the room, turning his head from left to right, and swinging in his right hand the cord which held his golden eyeglasses.

  “Good-day, Lord St. Simon,” said Holmes, rising and bowing. “Pray take the basket-chair. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. Draw up a little to the fire, and we will talk this matter over.”

  “A most painful matter to me, as you can most readily imagine, Mr. Holmes. I have been cut to the quick. I understand that you have already managed several delicate cases of this sort, sir, though I presume that they were hardly from the same class of society.”

  “No, I am descending.”

  “I beg pardon.”

  “My last client of the sort was a king.”

  “Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king?”

  “The King of Scandinavia.”

  “What! Had he lost his wife?”

  “You can understand,” said Holmes suavely, “that I extend to the affairs of my other clients the same secrecy which I promise to you in yours.”

  “Of course! Very right! very right! I’m sure I beg pardon. As to my own case, I am ready to give you any information which may assist you in forming an opinion.”

  “Thank you. I have already learned all that is in the public prints, nothing more. I presume that I may take it as correct — this article, for example, as to the disappearance of the bride.”

  Lord St. Simon glanced over it. “Yes, it is correct, as far as it goes.”

  “But it needs a great deal of supplementing before anyone could offer an opinion. I think that I may arrive at my facts most directly by questioning you.”

  “Pray do so.”

  “When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?”

  “In San Francisco, a year ago.”

  “You were travelling in the States?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you become engaged then?”

  “No.”

  “But you were on a friendly footing?”

  “I was amused by her society, and she could see that I was amused.”

  “Her father is very rich?”

  “He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific slope.”

  “And how did he make his money?”

  “In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then he struck gold, invested it, and came up by leaps and bounds.”

  “Now, what is your own impression as to the young lady’s — your wife’s character?”

  The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and stared down into the fire. “You see, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “my wife was twenty before her father became a rich man. During that time she ran free in a mining camp and wandered through woods or mountains, so that her education has come from Nature rather than from the schoolmaster. She is what we call in England a tomboy, with a strong nature, wild and free, unfettered by any sort of traditions. She is impetuous — volcanic, I was about to say. She is swift in making up her mind and fearless in carrying out her resolutions. On the other hand, I would not have given her the name which I have the honour to bear” — he gave a little stately cough—”had I not thought her to be at bottom a noble woman. I believe that she is capable of heroic self-sacrifice and that anything dishonourable would be repugnant to her.”

  “Have you her photograph?”

  “I brought this with me.” He opened a locket and showed us the full face of a very lovely woman. It was not a photograph but an ivory miniature, and the artist had brought out the full effect of the lustrous black hair, the large dark eyes, and the exquisite mouth. Holmes gazed long and earnestly at it. Then he closed the locket and handed it back to Lord St. Simon.

  “The young lady came to London, then, and you renewed your acquaintance?”

  “Yes, her father brought her over for this last London season. I met her several times, became engaged to her, and have now married her.”

  “She brought, I understand, a considerable dowry?”

  “A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my family.”

  “And this, of course, remains to you, since the marriage is a fait accompli?”

  “I really have made no inquiries on the subject.”

  “Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran on the day before the wedding?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was she in good spirits?”

  “Never better. She kept talking of what we should do in our future lives.”

  “Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the morning of the wedding?”

  “She was as bright as possible — at least until after the ceremony.”

  “And did you observe any change in her then?”

  “Well, to tell the truth, I saw then the first signs that I had ever seen that her temper was just a little sharp. The incident however, was too trivial to relate and can have no possible bearing upon the case.”

  “Pray let us have it, for all that.”

  “Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet as we went towards the vestry. She was passing the front pew at the time, and it fell over into the pew. There was a moment’s delay, but the gentleman in the pew handed it up to her again, and it did not appear to be the worse for the fall. Yet when I spoke to her of the matter, she answered me abruptly; and in the carriage, on our way home, she seemed absurdly agitated over this trifling cause.”

  “Indeed! You say that there was a gentleman in the pew. Some of the general public were present, then?”

  “Oh, yes. It is impossible to exclude them when the church is open.”

  “This gentleman was not one of your wife’s friends?”

  “No, no; I call him a gentleman by courtesy, but he was quite a common-looking person. I hardly noticed his appearance. But really I think that we are wandering rather far from the point.”

  “Lady St. Simon, then, returned from the wedding in a less cheerful frame of mind than she had gone to it. What did she do on re-entering her father’s house?”

  “I saw her in conversation with her maid.”

  “And who is her maid?”

  “Alice is her name. She is an American and came from California with her.”

  “A confidential servant?”

  “A little too much so. It seemed to me that her mistress allowed her to take great liberties. Still, of course, in America they look upon these things in a different way.”

  “How long did she speak to this Alice?”

  “Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to think of.”

  “You did not overhear what they said?”

  “Lady St. Simon said something about ‘jumping a claim.’ She was accustomed to use slang of the kind. I have no idea what she meant.”

  “American slang is very expressive sometimes. And what did your wife do when she finished speaking to her maid?”

  “She walked into the breakfast-room.”

  “On your arm?”

  “No, alone. She was very independent in little matters like that. Then, after we had sat down for ten minutes or so, she rose hurriedly, muttered some words of apology, and left the room. She never came back.”

  “But this maid, Alice, as I understand, deposes that she went to her room, covered her bride’s dress with a long ulster, put on a bonnet, and went out.”

  “Quite so. And she was afterwards seen walking into Hyde Park
in company with Flora Millar, a woman who is now in custody, and who had already made a disturbance at Mr. Doran’s house that morning.”

  “Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars as to this young lady, and your relations to her.”

  Lord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. “We have been on a friendly footing for some years — I may say on a very friendly footing. She used to be at the Allegro. I have not treated her ungenerously, and she had no just cause of complaint against me, but you know what women are, Mr. Holmes. Flora was a dear little thing, but exceedingly hot-headed and devotedly attached to me. She wrote me dreadful letters when she heard that I was about to be married, and, to tell the truth, the reason why I had the marriage celebrated so quietly was that I feared lest there might be a scandal in the church. She came to Mr. Doran’s door just after we returned, and she endeavoured to push her way in, uttering very abusive expressions towards my wife, and even threatening her, but I had foreseen the possibility of something of the sort, and I had two police fellows there in private clothes, who soon pushed her out again. She was quiet when she saw that there was no good in making a row.”

  “Did your wife hear all this?”

  “No, thank goodness, she did not.”

  “And she was seen walking with this very woman afterwards?”

  “Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, looks upon as so serious. It is thought that Flora decoyed my wife out and laid some terrible trap for her.”

  “Well, it is a possible supposition.”

  “You think so, too?”

  “I did not say a probable one. But you do not yourself look upon this as likely?”

  “I do not think Flora would hurt a fly.”

  “Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of characters. Pray what is your own theory as to what took place?”

  “Well, really, I came to seek a theory, not to propound one. I have given you all the facts. Since you ask me, however, I may say that it has occurred to me as possible that the excitement of this affair, the consciousness that she had made so immense a social stride, had the effect of causing some little nervous disturbance in my wife.”

  “In short, that she had become suddenly deranged?”

  “Well, really, when I consider that she has turned her back — I will not say upon me, but upon so much that many have aspired to without success — I can hardly explain it in any other fashion.”

  “Well, certainly that is also a conceivable hypothesis,” said Holmes, smiling. “And now, Lord St. Simon, I think that I have nearly all my data. May I ask whether you were seated at the breakfast-table so that you could see out of the window?”

  “We could see the other side of the road and the Park.”

  “Quite so. Then I do not think that I need to detain you longer. I shall communicate with you.”

  “Should you be fortunate enough to solve this problem,” said our client, rising.

  “I have solved it.”

  “Eh? What was that?”

  “I say that I have solved it.”

  “Where, then, is my wife?”

  “That is a detail which I shall speedily supply.”

  Lord St. Simon shook his head. “I am afraid that it will take wiser heads than yours or mine,” he remarked, and bowing in a stately, old-fashioned manner he departed.

  “It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honour my head by putting it on a level with his own,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “I think that I shall have a whisky and soda and a cigar after all this cross-questioning. I had formed my conclusions as to the case before our client came into the room.”

  “My dear Holmes!”

  “I have notes of several similar cases, though none, as I remarked before, which were quite as prompt. My whole examination served to turn my conjecture into a certainty. Circumstantial evidence is occasionally very convincing, as when you find a trout in the milk, to quote Thoreau’s example.”

  “But I have heard all that you have heard.”

  “Without, however, the knowledge of pre-existing cases which serves me so well. There was a parallel instance in Aberdeen some years back, and something on very much the same lines at Munich the year after the Franco-Prussian War. It is one of these cases — but, hullo, here is Lestrade! Good-afternoon, Lestrade! You will find an extra tumbler upon the sideboard, and there are cigars in the box.”

  The official detective was attired in a pea-jacket and cravat, which gave him a decidedly nautical appearance, and he carried a black canvas bag in his hand. With a short greeting he seated himself and lit the cigar which had been offered to him.

  “What’s up, then?” asked Holmes with a twinkle in his eye. “You look dissatisfied.”

  “And I feel dissatisfied. It is this infernal St. Simon marriage case. I can make neither head nor tail of the business.”

  “Really! You surprise me.”

  “Who ever heard of such a mixed affair? Every clue seems to slip through my fingers. I have been at work upon it all day.”

  “And very wet it seems to have made you,” said Holmes laying his hand upon the arm of the pea-jacket.

  “Yes, I have been dragging the Serpentine.”

  “In heaven’s name, what for?”

  “In search of the body of Lady St. Simon.”

  Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.

  “Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar Square fountain?” he asked.

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “Because you have just as good a chance of finding this lady in the one as in the other.”

  Lestrade shot an angry glance at my companion. “I suppose you know all about it,” he snarled.

  “Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my mind is made up.”

  “Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpentine plays no part in the matter?”

  “I think it very unlikely.”

  “Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we found this in it?” He opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto the floor a wedding-dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin shoes and a bride’s wreath and veil, all discoloured and soaked in water. “There,” said he, putting a new wedding-ring upon the top of the pile. “There is a little nut for you to crack, Master Holmes.”

  “Oh, indeed!” said my friend, blowing blue rings into the air. “You dragged them from the Serpentine?”

  “No. They were found floating near the margin by a park-keeper. They have been identified as her clothes, and it seemed to me that if the clothes were there the body would not be far off.”

  “By the same brilliant reasoning, every man’s body is to be found in the neighbourhood of his wardrobe. And pray what did you hope to arrive at through this?”

  “At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the disappearance.”

  “I am afraid that you will find it difficult.”

  “Are you, indeed, now?” cried Lestrade with some bitterness. “I am afraid, Holmes, that you are not very practical with your deductions and your inferences. You have made two blunders in as many minutes. This dress does implicate Miss Flora Millar.”

  “And how?”

  “In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket is a card-case. In the card-case is a note. And here is the very note.” He slapped it down upon the table in front of him. “Listen to this: ‘You will see me when all is ready. Come at once. F. H. M.’ Now my theory all along has been that Lady St. Simon was decoyed away by Flora Millar, and that she, with confederates, no doubt, was responsible for her disappearance. Here, signed with her initials, is the very note which was no doubt quietly slipped into her hand at the door and which lured her within their reach.”

  “Very good, Lestrade,” said Holmes, laughing. “You really are very fine indeed. Let me see it.” He took up the paper in a listless way, but his attention instantly became riveted, and he gave a little cry of satisfaction. “This is indeed important,” said he.

  “Ha! you find i
t so?”

  “Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly.”

  Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head to look. “Why,” he shrieked, “you’re looking at the wrong side!”

  “On the contrary, this is the right side.”

  “The right side? You’re mad! Here is the note written in pencil over here.”

  “And over here is what appears to be the fragment of a hotel bill, which interests me deeply.”

  “There’s nothing in it. I looked at it before,” said Lestrade. “ ’Oct. 4th, rooms 8s., breakfast 2s. 6d., cocktail 1s., lunch 2s. 6d., glass sherry, 8d.’ I see nothing in that.”

  “Very likely not. It is most important, all the same. As to the note, it is important also, or at least the initials are, so I congratulate you again.”

  “I’ve wasted time enough,” said Lestrade, rising. “I believe in hard work and not in sitting by the fire spinning fine theories. Good-day, Mr. Holmes, and we shall see which gets to the bottom of the matter first.” He gathered up the garments, thrust them into the bag, and made for the door.

  “Just one hint to you, Lestrade,” drawled Holmes before his rival vanished; “I will tell you the true solution of the matter. Lady St. Simon is a myth. There is not, and there never has been, any such person.”

  Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then he turned to me, tapped his forehead three times, shook his head solemnly, and hurried away.

  He had hardly shut the door behind him when Holmes rose to put on his overcoat. “There is something in what the fellow says about outdoor work,” he remarked, “so I think, Watson, that I must leave you to your papers for a little.”

  It was after five o’clock when Sherlock Holmes left me, but I had no time to be lonely, for within an hour there arrived a confectioner’s man with a very large flat box. This he unpacked with the help of a youth whom he had brought with him, and presently, to my very great astonishment, a quite epicurean little cold supper began to be laid out upon our humble lodging-house mahogany. There were a couple of brace of cold woodcock, a pheasant, a pâté de foie gras pie with a group of ancient and cobwebby bottles. Having laid out all these luxuries, my two visitors vanished away, like the genii of the Arabian Nights, with no explanation save that the things had been paid for and were ordered to this address.