ADVENTURE VI. THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP
Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principalof the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted toopium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from somefoolish freak when he was at college; for having read DeQuincey's description of his dreams and sensations, he haddrenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce thesame effects. He found, as so many more have done, that thepractice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for manyyears he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object ofmingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can seehim now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-pointpupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a nobleman.
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 theclock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-workdown 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 stepsupon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad insome dark-coloured 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 armsabout my wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. "Oh, I'm insuch 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 whenyou came in."
"I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you." That wasalways the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birdsto a light-house.
"It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wineand water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Orshould you rather that I sent James off to bed?"
"Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too. It's aboutIsa. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened abouthim!"
It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of herhusband's trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friendand school companion. We soothed and comforted her by such wordsas we could find. Did she know where her husband was? Was itpossible that we could bring him back to her?
It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of latehe had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in thefarthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always beenconfined to one day, and he had come back, twitching andshattered, in the evening. But now the spell had been upon himeight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among thedregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off theeffects. There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Barof Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do? How couldshe, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place andpluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?
There was the case, and of course there was but one way out ofit. Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a secondthought, why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney's medicaladviser, and as such I had influence over him. I could manage itbetter if I were alone. I promised her on my word that I wouldsend him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed at theaddress which she had given me. And so in ten minutes I had leftmy armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me, and was speedingeastward in a hansom on a strange errand, as it seemed to me atthe time, though the future only could show how strange it was tobe.
But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of myadventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind thehigh wharves which line the north side of the river to the eastof London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approachedby a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like themouth 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 inthe centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet; and by thelight of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the latchand made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with thebrown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like theforecastle of an emigrant ship.
Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lyingin strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, headsthrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there adark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the blackshadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright,now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls ofthe metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered tothemselves, and others talked together in a strange, low,monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and thensuddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his ownthoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour. Atthe farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, besidewhich on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin oldman, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows uponhis knees, staring into the fire.
As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipefor 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 friendof mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him."
There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, andpeering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, andunkempt, staring out at me.
"My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable state ofreaction, with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, whato'clock is it?"
"Nearly eleven."
"Of what day?"
"Of Friday, June 19th."
"Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. Whatd'you want to frighten a chap for?" He sank his face onto hisarms and began to sob in a high treble key.
"I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waitingthis two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!"
"So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only been herea few hours, three pipes, four pipes--I forget how many. But I'llgo 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 Iowe, Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself."
I walked down the narrow passage between the double row ofsleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefyingfumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I passedthe tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at myskirt, and a low voice whispered, "Walk past me, and then lookback at me." The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. Iglanced down. They could only have come from the old man at myside, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, verywrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from betweenhis knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from hisfingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all myself-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry ofastonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see himbut I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dulleyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire andgrinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. Hemade a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as heturned his face half round to the company once more, subsidedinto 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 youwould have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friendof yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk withyou."
"I have a cab outside."
"Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for heappears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I shouldrecommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife tosay that you have thrown in your lot with me. If you will waitoutside, I shall be
with you in five minutes."
It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes' requests, forthey were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward withsuch a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitneywas once confined in the cab my mission was practicallyaccomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish anything betterthan to be associated with my friend in one of those singularadventures which were the normal condition of his existence. In afew minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney's bill, led himout to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness. In avery short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den,and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For twostreets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot.Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out andburst into a hearty fit of laughter.
"I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have addedopium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other littleweaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medicalviews."
"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 naturalprey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkableinquiry, and I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherentramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had I beenrecognised in that den my life would not have been worth anhour's purchase; for I have used it before now for my ownpurposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to havevengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of thatbuilding, near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell somestrange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonlessnights."
"What! You do not mean bodies?"
"Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had 1000 poundsfor every poor devil who has been done to death in that den. Itis the vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear thatNeville St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more. But ourtrap should be here." He put his two forefingers between histeeth and whistled shrilly--a signal which was answered by asimilar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattleof wheels and the clink of horses' hoofs.
"Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up throughthe gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light fromits 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 stillmore 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 Iconduct 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 uphere. All right, John; we shall not need you. Here's half acrown. Look out for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her herhead. So long, then!"
He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away throughthe endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, whichwidened gradually, until we were flying across a broadbalustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishlybeneath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks andmortar, its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall ofthe policeman, or the songs and shouts of some belated party ofrevellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and astar or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts ofthe clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon hisbreast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I satbeside him, curious to learn what this new quest might be whichseemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break inupon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several miles,and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburbanvillas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit uphis pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that heis acting for the best.
"You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," said he. "It makesyou quite invaluable as a companion. 'Pon my word, it is a greatthing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts arenot over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dearlittle 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 beforewe get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I canget nothing to go upon. There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but Ican't get the end of it into my hand. Now, I'll state the caseclearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see aspark where all is dark to me."
"Proceed, then."
"Some years ago--to be definite, in May, 1884--there came to Leea gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to haveplenty of money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds verynicely, and lived generally in good style. By degrees he madefriends in the neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughterof a local brewer, by whom he now has two children. He had nooccupation, but was interested in several companies and went intotown as a rule in the morning, returning by the 5:14 from CannonStreet every night. Mr. St. Clair is now thirty-seven years ofage, is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, a veryaffectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who knowhim. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as faras we have been able to ascertain, amount to 88 pounds 10s., whilehe has 220 pounds standing to his credit in the Capital andCounties Bank. There is no reason, therefore, to think that moneytroubles have been weighing upon his mind.
"Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlierthan usual, remarking before he started that he had two importantcommissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boyhome a box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wifereceived a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after hisdeparture, to the effect that a small parcel of considerablevalue which she had been expecting was waiting for her at theoffices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now, if you are well upin your London, you will know that the office of the company isin Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, whereyou found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch, started forthe City, did some shopping, proceeded to the company's office,got her packet, and found herself at exactly 4:35 walking throughSwandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed meso 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 neighbourhood in which she found herself.While she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenlyheard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see herhusband looking down at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoningto her from a second-floor window. The window was open, and shedistinctly saw his face, which she describes as being terriblyagitated. He waved his hands frantically to her, and thenvanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her thathe had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind.One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was thatalthough he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to townin, he had on neither collar nor necktie.
"Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down thesteps--for the house was none other than the opium den in whichyou found me to-night--and running through the front room sheattempted to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. Atthe foot of the stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel ofwhom I have spoken, who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, whoacts as assistant there, pushed her out into the street. Filledwith the most maddening doubts and fears, she rushed down thelane and, by rare good-fortune, met in Fresno Street a number ofconstables with an inspector, all on their way to their beat. Theinspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of thecontinued resistance of the proprietor, they made their way tothe room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There
was nosign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that floor there wasno one to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who,it seems, made his home there. Both he and the Lascar stoutlyswore that no one else had been in the front room during theafternoon. So determined was their denial that the inspector wasstaggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair hadbeen deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal boxwhich lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fella cascade of children's bricks. It was the toy which he hadpromised to bring home.
"This discovery, and the evident confusion which the crippleshowed, made the inspector realise that the matter was serious.The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed to anabominable crime. The front room was plainly furnished as asitting-room and led into a small bedroom, which looked out uponthe back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroomwindow is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide but is coveredat high tide with at least four and a half feet of water. Thebedroom window was a broad one and opened from below. Onexamination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill,and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor ofthe bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room wereall the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception ofhis coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch--all werethere. There were no signs of violence upon any of thesegarments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St.Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for noother exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains uponthe sill gave little promise that he could save himself byswimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment ofthe tragedy.
"And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediatelyimplicated in the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of thevilest antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he wasknown to have been at the foot of the stair within a very fewseconds of her husband's appearance at the window, he couldhardly have been more than an accessory to the crime. His defencewas one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had noknowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that hecould not account in any way for the presence of the missinggentleman's clothes.
"So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple wholives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who wascertainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St.Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one whichis familiar to every man who goes much to the City. He is aprofessional beggar, though in order to avoid the policeregulations he pretends to a small trade in wax vestas. Somelittle distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left-handside, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in thewall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat,cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as heis a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into thegreasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. Ihave watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought ofmaking his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprisedat the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. Hisappearance, you see, is so remarkable that no one can pass himwithout observing him. A shock of orange hair, a pale facedisfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, hasturned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and apair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singularcontrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him out from amidthe common crowd of mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for heis ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which may bethrown at him by the passers-by. This is the man whom we nowlearn to have been the lodger at the opium den, and to have beenthe last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest."
"But a cripple!" said I. "What could he have done single-handedagainst a man in the prime of life?"
"He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but inother respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man.Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson, thatweakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptionalstrength in the others."
"Pray continue your narrative."
"Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon thewindow, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as herpresence could be of no help to them in their investigations.Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very carefulexamination of the premises, but without finding anything whichthrew any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made in notarresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutesduring which he might have communicated with his friend theLascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he was seized andsearched, without anything being found which could incriminatehim. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his rightshirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had beencut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came fromthere, adding that he had been to the window not long before, andthat the stains which had been observed there came doubtless fromthe same source. He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr.Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes inhis room was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As toMrs. St. Clair's assertion that she had actually seen her husbandat the window, he declared that she must have been either mad ordreaming. He was removed, loudly protesting, to thepolice-station, while the inspector remained upon the premises inthe hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh clue.
"And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what theyhad feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair's coat, and notNeville St. Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. Andwhat do you think they found in the pockets?"
"I cannot imagine."
"No, I don't think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed withpennies and half-pennies--421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. Itwas no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide. But ahuman body is a different matter. There is a fierce eddy betweenthe wharf and the house. It seemed likely enough that theweighted coat had remained when the stripped body had been suckedaway into the river."
"But I understand that all the other clothes were found in theroom. Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?"
"No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Supposethat this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through thewindow, there is no human eye which could have seen the deed.What would he do then? It would of course instantly strike himthat he must get rid of the tell-tale garments. He would seizethe coat, then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when itwould occur to him that it would swim and not sink. He has littletime, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife triedto force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard from hisLascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street.There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secrethoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and hestuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into thepockets to make sure of the coat's sinking. He throws it out, andwould have done the same with the other garments had not he heardthe rush of steps below, and only just had time to close thewindow when the police appeared."
"It certainly sounds feasible."
"Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of abetter. Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to thestation, but it could not be shown that there had ever beforebeen anything against him. He had for years been known as aprofessional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a veryquiet and innocent one. There the matter stands at present, andthe questions which have to be solved--what Neville St. Clair wasdoing in the opium den, what happened to him when there, where ishe now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance--areall as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I cannotrecall any case within my experience which looked at the firstglance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties."
While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series ofevents, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the greattown until the last straggling houses had been left behind, andwe rattled along with a country hedge upon either s
ide of us.Just as he finished, however, we drove through two scatteredvillages, where a few lights still glimmered in the windows.
"We are on the outskirts of Lee," said my companion. "We havetouched on three English counties in our short drive, starting inMiddlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent.See that light among the trees? That is The Cedars, and besidethat lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already, I havelittle doubt, caught the clink of our horse's feet."
"But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?" Iasked.
"Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here.Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, andyou may rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome formy friend and colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I haveno news of her husband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!"
We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within itsown grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse's head, andspringing down, I followed Holmes up the small, windinggravel-drive which led to the house. As we approached, the doorflew open, and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, cladin some sort of light mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffypink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She stood with her figureoutlined against the flood of light, one hand upon the door, onehalf-raised in her eagerness, her body slightly bent, her headand face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a standingquestion.
"Well?" she cried, "well?" And then, seeing that there were twoof us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she sawthat 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 havehad a long day."
"This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use tome in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made itpossible for me to bring him out and associate him with thisinvestigation."
"I am delighted to see you," said she, pressing my hand warmly."You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in ourarrangements, when you consider the blow which has come sosuddenly upon us."
"My dear madam," said I, "I am an old campaigner, and if I werenot I can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be ofany assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall beindeed happy."
"Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the lady as we entered awell-lit dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper hadbeen laid out, "I should very much like to ask you one or twoplain questions, to which I beg that you will give a plainanswer."
"Certainly, madam."
"Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor givento 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 lookingkeenly 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 howit is that I have received a letter from him to-day."
Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had beengalvanised.
"What!" he roared.
"Yes, to-day." She stood smiling, holding up a little slip ofpaper in the air.
"May I see it?"
"Certainly."
He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it outupon the table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. Ihad left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. Theenvelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesendpostmark and with the date of that very day, or rather of the daybefore, for it was considerably after midnight.
"Coarse writing," murmured Holmes. "Surely this is not yourhusband's writing, madam."
"No, but the enclosure is."
"I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to goand inquire as to the address."
"How can you tell that?"
"The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has drieditself. The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows thatblotting-paper has been used. If it had been written straightoff, and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. Thisman has written the name, and there has then been a pause beforehe wrote the address, which can only mean that he was notfamiliar with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but there isnothing 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 usualwriting, and yet I know it well."
"'Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is ahuge error which it may take some little time to rectify.Wait in patience.--NEVILLE.' Written in pencil upon the fly-leafof a book, octavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day inGravesend by a man with a dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has beengummed, if I am not very much in error, by a person who had beenchewing tobacco. And you have no doubt that it is your husband'shand, 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 thedanger 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 fromhim."
"No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!"
"Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and onlyposted to-day."
"That is possible."
"If so, much may have happened between."
"Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all iswell with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that Ishould know if evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw himlast he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-roomrushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty thatsomething had happened. Do you think that I would respond to sucha trifle and yet be ignorant of his death?"
"I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a womanmay be more valuable than the conclusion of an analyticalreasoner. And in this letter you certainly have a very strongpiece of evidence to corroborate your view. But if your husbandis alive and able to write letters, why should he remain awayfrom 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 theunexpected 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 theroom?"
"No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, andthe Lascar was at the foot of the stairs."
"Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had hisordinary clothes on?"
"But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his barethroat."
"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 aboutwhich I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a littlesupper and then retire, for we may have a very busy dayto-morrow."
A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at ourdisposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was wearyafter my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however,who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go fordays, and even for a week, without rest, turning it over,rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of viewuntil he had either fathomed it or convinced himself that hisdata were insufficient. It was soon evident to me that he was nowpreparing for an all-night sitting. He took off his coat andwaistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then wanderedabout the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions fromthe sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort ofEastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, withan ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in frontof him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, anold briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon thecorner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him,silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-setaquiline features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so hesat when a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I foundthe summer sun shining into the apartment. The pipe was stillbetween his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the room wasfull of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap ofshag 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 thestable-boy sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out." Hechuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemeda different man to the sombre thinker of the previous night.
As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no onewas stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardlyfinished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy wasputting in the horse.
"I want to test a little theory of mine," said he, pulling on hisboots. "I think, Watson, that you are now standing in thepresence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserveto be kicked from here to Charing Cross. But I think I have thekey of the affair now."
"And where is it?" I asked, smiling.
"In the bathroom," he answered. "Oh, yes, I am not joking," hecontinued, seeing my look of incredulity. "I have just beenthere, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in thisGladstone bag. Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it willnot fit the lock."
We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out intothe bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse andtrap, with the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We bothsprang in, and away we dashed down the London Road. A few countrycarts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, butthe lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless assome 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 beenas blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late thannever to learn it at all."
In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepilyfrom their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surreyside. Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over theriver, and dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to theright and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was wellknown to the force, and the two constables at the door salutedhim. 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 comedown the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and froggedjacket. "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 atelephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at hisdesk.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?"
"I called about that beggarman, Boone--the one who was chargedwith 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 hisface is as black as a tinker's. Well, when once his case has beensettled, he will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if yousaw 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 leaveyour bag."
"No, I think that I'll take it."
"Very good. Come this way, if you please." He led us down apassage, opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, andbrought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on eachside.
"The third on the right is his," said the inspector. "Here itis!" He quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the doorand 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 hisface towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly andheavily. He was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became hiscalling, with a coloured shirt protruding through the rent in histattered coat. He was, as the inspector had said, extremelydirty, but the grime which covered his face could not conceal itsrepulsive ugliness. A broad wheal from an old scar ran rightacross it from eye to chin, and by its contraction had turned upone side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed in aperpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red hair grew low overhis eyes and forehead.
"He's a beauty, isn't he?" said the inspector.
"He certainly needs a wash," remarked Holmes. "I had an idea thathe might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me."He opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to myastonishment, 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 veryquietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectablefigure."
"Well, I don't know why not," said the inspector. "He doesn'tlook a credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?" He slipped hiskey into the lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. Thesleeper half turned, and then settled down once more into a deepslumber. Holmes stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge,and then rubbed it twice vigorously across and down theprisoner's face.
"Let me introduce you," he shouted, "to Mr. Neville St. Clair, ofLee, in the county of Kent."
Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man's face peeledoff under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was thecoarse brown tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which hadseamed it across, and the twisted lip which had given therepulsive sneer to the face! A twitch brought away the tangledred 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 realising the exposure, he broke into a scream andthrew himself down with his face to the pillow.
"Great heavens!" cried the inspector, "it is, indeed, the missingman. I know him from the photograph."
The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandonshimself to his destiny. "Be it so," said he. "And pray what am Icharged with?"
"With making away with Mr. Neville St.-- Oh, come, you can't becharged with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide ofit," said the inspector with a grin. "Well, I have beentwenty-seven years in the
force, but this really takes the cake."
"If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crimehas been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegallydetained."
"No crime, but a very great error has been committed," saidHolmes. "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. MyGod! What an exposure! What can I do?"
Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted himkindly on the shoulder.
"If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up," saidhe, "of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand,if you convince the police authorities that there is no possiblecase against you, I do not know that there is any reason that thedetails should find their way into the papers. InspectorBradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which youmight tell us and submit it to the proper authorities. The casewould then never go into court at all."
"God bless you!" cried the prisoner passionately. "I would haveendured imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have leftmy miserable secret as a family blot to my children.
"You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was aschoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellenteducation. I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, andfinally became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One daymy editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging in themetropolis, and I volunteered to supply them. There was the pointfrom which all my adventures started. It was only by tryingbegging as an amateur that I could get the facts upon which tobase my articles. When an actor I had, of course, learned all thesecrets of making up, and had been famous in the green-room formy skill. I took advantage now of my attainments. I painted myface, and to make myself as pitiable as possible I made a goodscar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by the aid of asmall slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head ofhair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the businesspart of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as abeggar. For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returnedhome in the evening I found to my surprise that I had received noless 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 writserved upon me for 25 pounds. I was at my wit's end where to getthe money, but a sudden idea came to me. I begged a fortnight'sgrace from the creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers,and spent the time in begging in the City under my disguise. Inten days I had the money and had paid the debt.
"Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduouswork at 2 pounds a week when I knew that I could earn as much ina day by smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap onthe ground, and sitting still. It was a long fight between mypride and the money, but the dollars won at last, and I threw upreporting and sat day after day in the corner which I had firstchosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my pocketswith coppers. Only one man knew my secret. He was the keeper of alow den in which I used to lodge in Swandam Lane, where I couldevery morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the eveningstransform myself into a well-dressed man about town. This fellow,a Lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew thatmy secret was safe in his possession.
"Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums ofmoney. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of Londoncould earn 700 pounds a year--which is less than my averagetakings--but I had exceptional advantages in my power of makingup, and also in a facility of repartee, which improved bypractice and made me quite a recognised 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 pounds.
"As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in thecountry, and eventually married, without anyone having asuspicion as to my real occupation. My dear wife knew that I hadbusiness in the City. She little knew what.
"Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in myroom above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw,to my horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in thestreet, with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry ofsurprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to myconfidant, the Lascar, entreated him to prevent anyone fromcoming up to me. I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew thatshe could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled onthose of a beggar, and put on my pigments and wig. Even a wife'seyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But then itoccurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and thatthe clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopeningby my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself inthe bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which wasweighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it fromthe leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out ofthe window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clotheswould have followed, but at that moment there was a rush ofconstables 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. Iwas determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, andhence my preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife wouldbe terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to theLascar at a moment when no constable was watching me, togetherwith a hurried scrawl, telling her that she had no cause tofear."
"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 topost a letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailorcustomer of his, who forgot all about it for some days."
"That was it," said Holmes, nodding approvingly; "I have no doubtof 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 areto 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 stepsmay 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 forhaving cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach yourresults."
"I reached this one," said my friend, "by sitting upon fivepillows and consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that ifwe drive to Baker Street we shall just be in time for breakfast."
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Page 6