Story 6 in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Sir, Arthur
Conan Doyle. This LibriVox recording is in
the public domain. Story 6, the man with the
twisted lip. Isa Whitney brother of the late.
Elias Whitney DD. Principal of the theological
College of st. George's was much addicted to
Opium The Habit, grew upon him, as I understand from some
foolish freak, when he was at college.
For having read de quincey's description of his dreams and
Sensations. He had drenched his tobacco with
laudanum in an attempt to produce the same effects.
He found as so many more have Done that the practice is easier
to attain than to get rid of. And for many years.
He continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled
horror and pity to his friends and relatives.
I can see him. Now, with yellow pasty, face
drooping lips and pinpoint pupils all huddled in a chair,
the wreck and ruin of a noble, man.
One night. It was in June 89.
There came a ring to my bell about the hour when a man gives
his first yawn and glances at the clock.
I sat up in my chair and my wife laid her needlework down in her
lap, and made a little face of disappointment.
A patient said she you'll have to go out.
I groaned for I was newly. Come back from a weary day.
We heard the door open, a few hurried words and then quick
steps upon the linoleum our own door flew, open and a lady clad
in some dark-coloured stuff with a black veil, enter the room,
you will excuse my calling so late, she began and then
suddenly losing her self-control.
She And forward through our arms about my wife's neck and sobbed
upon her shoulder. Oh, I'm in such trouble.
She cried. I do so want a little help.
Why said my wife pulling up? Her veil?
It is Kate Whitney! How you startled me?
Kate. I had not an idea who you were
when you came in. I didn't know what to do.
So I came straight to you. That was always the way Fokker
were In grief, came to my wife, like birds to a lighthouse.
It was very sweet of you to come.
Now. You must have some wine and
water and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it.
Or should you rather that I sent James off to bed.
Oh, no. No, I want the doctor's advice
and help to it's about Isa. He has not been home for two
days. I am so frightened about him.
It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her
husband's trouble to me as a doctor to my wife, as an old
friend in school companion. We soothed and comforted her by
such words as we could find. Did she know where her husband
was? Was it possible that we could
bring him back to her. It seems that it was, she had
the surest information that of late.
He had when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the
farthest east of the city. Hitherto, his orgies, had always
been confined to one day and he had come back, twitching and
shattered in the evening. But now the spell had been upon
Him eight-and-forty hours and he lay there, doubtless among the
dregs of the docks breathing in the poison or sleeping off the
effects there. He was to be found.
She was sure of it at the bar of gold in Upper swandam Lane.
But what was she to do? How could she a young and timid
woman make her way into such a place and pluck?
Her husband out from among the Ruffians, who surrounded him.
There was the case and of course there was but one way out of it,
might I not escort her to this place and then as a second
thought, why should she come at all?
I was, he's a witness medical advisor and as such I had
influence over him. Could manage it better if I were
alone. I promised her on my word that I
would send him home in a cab within two hours.
If he were indeed at the address, which she had given me.
And so, in ten minutes, I had left my armchair and cheery
sitting-room behind me and was speeding, Eastward in a hansom
on a strange errand. As it seemed to me at the time,
though. The future only could show how
strange it was to be. But there was no great
difficulty. In the first stage of my
adventure upper. Swandam Lane is a vile alley
lurking behind the high wharves, which line the north side of the
river to the east of London. Bridge between a slop shop, and
a gin shop approached by a steep flight of steps leading down to
a black Gap. Like the mouth of a cave.
I found the den of which I was in search ordering my cab to
wait, I passed down the steps worn Hollow in the Centre by the
ceaseless, tread of drunken. Feet.
And by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door, I found
the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy
with the brown, opium smoke and terraced with wooden berths,
like The Forecastle of an emigrant ship through the Gloom.
One could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in strange.
Fantastic poses bowed. Shoulders bent knees.
Heads thrown back and Chin's pointing upward.
And with here, and there a dark lackluster, I turned upon the
newcomer. Out of the black Shadows there,
glimmered little red circles, of light.
Now Bright, Now faint as the burning poison waxed or waned,
in the bowls of the metal pipes, the most lay silent, but some
muttered to themselves and others talked together in a
strange, low monotonous voice their conversation coming in
gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence each
mumbling, out his own. It's and paying little heed to
the words of his neighbor. At the farther end was a small
Brazier of burning charcoal beside which on a three-legged
wooden stool. There sat a tall thin old man
with his jaw, resting upon his two fists and his elbows upon
his knees staring into the fire. As I entered a sallow, Malay
attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me and a supply of the
drug beckoning me to an empty berth.
Thank you. I have not come to stay said, I
there is a friend of mine here. Mr. Isa Whitney.
And I wish to speak with him. There was a movement and an
exclamation from my right and peering through the Gloom.
I saw Whitney pale Haggard and unkempt staring out of me.
My God, it's Watson said he he was in a pitiable state of
reaction with every nerve in a Twitter.
I say Watson what o'clock is it? Nearly eleven.
What day Friday? June 19th.
Good Heavens. I thought it was Wednesday.
It is Wednesday. What do you want to frighten a
chap for? He sank his face onto his arms
and began to sob in a high treble key.
I tell you that it is Friday man.
Your wife has been waiting this two days for you.
You should be ashamed of yourself.
So I am but you've got mixed Watson for I've only been here a
few hours. Three pipes, four pipes.
I forgot how many but I'll go home with you.
I wouldn't frighten. Kate, poor little Kate.
Give me your hand. Have you a cab?
Yes, I have one waiting. Then I shall go in it but I must
do something fine. What I owe Watson.
I'm all off Cutler. I can do nothing for myself.
I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of
sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile stupefying
fumes of the drug and looking about for the manager.
As I passed a tall man, who sat by the Brazier.
I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt and a low voice whispered.
Walk past me, and then look back at me.
The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear.
I glanced down. It could only have come from the
old man at my side. And yet, he sat now is absorbed
as ever, very thin, very wrinkled bent with age, an opium
pipe dangling down from beneath his knees as though it had
dropped in sheer lassitude from his fingers.
I took two steps forward and looked back.
It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out
into a cry. Of astonishment.
He had turned his back so that none could see him.
But I, his form had filled out. His wrinkles were gone.
The dull eyes had regained their fire and they're sitting by the
fire and grinning at my surprise was none other than Sherlock
Holmes. He made a slight motion to me to
approach him and instantly as he turned his face, half round to
the company. Once more subsided.
Sided into a doddering loose-lipped senility.
Holmes. I whispered what on Earth are
you doing in this Den? As low as you can, he answered?
I have excellent ears. If you would have the great
kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours.
I should be exceedingly, glad to have a little talk with you.
I have a cab outside then pray, send him home in it.
You may safely trust him for. He appears to be too limp to get
into any Mischief. I should recommend you also to
send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you have
thrown in your lot, with me, if you will wait outside.
I shall be with you in five minutes.
It was difficult to refuse, any of Sherlock Holmes is requests
for, they're always, so exceedingly definite and put
forward with such a quiet air of Mastery.
I felt however, that when Whitney was once confined in the
cab, my mission was practically accomplished and for the rest, I
could not wish anything better than to be Associated.
My friend in one of those singular Adventures, which were
the normal condition of his existence in a few minutes.
I had written my note paid Whitney's Bill.
Let him out to the cab and seen him driven through the darkness.
In a very short time, a decrepit figure had emerged from the
Opium Den and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes
42 streets. He shuffled along with a bent
back and an uncertain foot. Then glancing quickly round.
He straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of
laughter. I suppose Watson said he that
you imagine that I have added opium-smoking to cocaine
injections. And all the other little
weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical
views. Now, certainly surprised to find
you there. But not more so than I to find
you. I came to find a friend and I to
find an enemy, an enemy. Yes, one of my natural enemies
or shall I say my natural prey briefly Watson.
I'm in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry and I have
hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these
sots as I have done before now. Had I been recognised in that
Den. My life would not have been
worth an hour's purchase for. I've used it before now for my
own purposes and the rascally lascar who runs it has sworn to
have vengeance upon me. There is a trapdoor at the back
of that building near the corner of Paul's Wharf which could tell
some strange Tales of what has passed through it upon the
moonless nights. What you don't mean bodies, I
bodies Watson. We should be rich men.
If we had a thousand pounds for every poor devil who has been
done to death in that Den. It is the vilest murder trap on
the whole Riverside and I fear that Neville st.
Clair has entered it never to leave it more, but our trap
should be here. He put his two forefingers
between his teeth and whistled shrilly a signal, which was
answered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed
shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses hooves.
Now, Watson said, Holmes, as a tall dog-cart, dashed up through
the Gloom. Throwing out two, golden tunnels
of yellow light from its side lanterns.
You'll come with me. Won't you?
If I can be of use? Oh, a trusty comrade, is always
of use and a chronicler still more.
So my room at the Cedars is a double-bedded one.
The Cedars, yes, that is mr. Sinclair as house.
I am staying there while I conduct the inquiry.
Where is it? Then nearly in Kent.
We have a seven-mile drive before us.
But I'm all in the dark. Of course, you are.
You'll know all about it. Presently jump up here.
All right, John, we shall not need you.
Here's half a crown. Look out for me tomorrow about
11:00. Give her her head so long, then
he flicked the horse with his Whip and we dashed away through
the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which
widened gradually until we were flying across a broad
balustraded Bridge with the murky river flowing.
Sluggishly beneath us Beyond, lay another dull Wilderness of
bricks and mortar, its silence broken, only by the heavy
regular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and
shouts of some belated party of revellers.
A dull, wrack was drifting slowly across the sky and a star
or two twinkled dimly here and there through the Rifts of the
clouds. Holmes drove in Silence with his
head sunk upon his breast. And the air of a man who is lost
in thought. While I sat beside him, curious
to learn what this new Quest, might be, which seem to tax his
powers. So sorely and yet afraid to
break in upon the current of his thoughts.
We had driven several miles and we're beginning to get to The
Fringe of the belt of suburban Villas.
When he shook himself Shrugged, his shoulders and lit up his
pipe with the air of a man who is satisfied himself that he is
acting for the best. You have a grand gift of Silence
Watson said he it makes you quite invaluable as a companion
Pon. My word is a great thing for me
to have someone to talk to for my own thoughts and not over
Pleasant. I was wondering what I should
say to this dear little woman tonight when she meets me at the
door. You forget that.
I know nothing about it. I should just have time to tell
you the facts of the case before we get to lie.
It seems absurdly simple. And yet somehow I can get
nothing to go upon. There's plenty of thread, no
doubt, but I can't get the end of it into my hand.
Now. I'll State the case clearly and
concisely to you Watson, and maybe you can see a spark.
We're all is dark to me. Proceed.
Then some years ago to be definite, in May 1880 for the
came to Lee a gentleman Neville st.
Clair by name, who appear to have plenty of money.
He took a large Villa laid out the grounds, very nicely and
live. Generally in good Style by
degrees. He made friends in The
Neighbourhood and in 1887. He married the daughter of a
local Brewer by whom. He now has two children.
He has no occupation. But was interested in several
companies and went into town as a rule in the morning returning
by the 514 from Cannon Street every night.
Mr. St. Clair is Now 37 years of age is
a man of temperate habits, a good husband.
A very affectionate father. And a man who is popular with
all who know him. I may add that his whole debts
at the present moment. As far as we have been able to
ascertain amount to 88 pounds 10 Shillings while he has 220
pounds standing to his credit in the capital and Counties Bank.
There is no reason therefore to think that money troubles have
been weighing upon his mind. Last Monday, mr.
Neville, st. Clair went into town rather
earlier than usual remarking before he started that.
He had two important commissions to perform and that he would
bring his little boy home a box of bricks.
Now, by the merest chance, his wife received a telegram upon
this same Monday, very shortly after his departure to the
effect, that a small parcel of considerable value, which she
had been expecting was waiting for her at the offices of the
Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now if you are well up in your
London, you will know that the office of the company is in
Fresno Street, which branches out of upper swandam Lane, where
you found me tonight? Mrs. St.
Clair had her lunch started for the city.
Did some shopping proceeded to the company's office, got her
packet and found herself at exactly 435 walking through
swandam Lane, on her way back to the station.
Have you followed me so far? It is very clear.
If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day and mrs.
St. Clair walked slowly glancing
about in the hope of seeing a cab.
As she did not like The Neighbourhood in which she found
herself. While she was walking in this
way down. Swandam Lane.
She suddenly heard an ejaculation or cry and was
struck cold to see her husband looking down at her and as it
seemed to her beckoning to her, from a second-floor window.
The window is open and she distinctly saw his face which
she describes as being terribly agitated.
He waved his hands frantically to her and then vanish from the
window. So suddenly that it seemed to
her that he had been plucked back by some irresistible force
from behind. One Singular point, which struck
her quick feminine. I was that, although he wore
some dark coat, such as he had started to town in, he had on
neither collar, nor necktie convinced that something was
amiss with him. She rushed down the steps for
the house, was none other than the Opium Den in which you found
me tonight and running through the front room.
She attempted to ascend the stairs which led to the first
floor. At the foot of the stairs.
However, she met this lascar scoundrel of whom I've spoken
who thrust, her back and aided by a Dane who acts as a
assistant there. Pushed her out into the street,
filled with the most maddening, doubts, and fears.
She rushed down the lane and by Rare good-fortune met in Fresno
Street. A number of constables with an
inspector all on their way, to their beat the inspector and two
men accompanied her back and Light of the continued
resistance of the proprietor. They made their way to the room
in which mr. St.
Clair had last been seen. There was no sign of him.
There. In fact, in the whole of that
floor. There was no one to be found
save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect who it seems made
his home. They're both he and the lascar
stoutly swore that no one else had been in the front room
during the afternoon. So determined was their denial
that the inspector was staggered and had almost come to believe
that mrs. St.
Clair had been deluded. When with a cry, she sprang at a
small deal box which lay upon the table and tore the lid from
it out there. Fell a Cascade of children's
bricks. It was the toy which he had
promised to bring home this discovery.
And the evident confusion, which the cripple showed made the
inspector realize that the matter was.
Reese. The rooms were carefully,
examined and results. All pointed to an abominable
crime. The front room was plainly
furnished as a sitting-room and led into a small bedroom which
looked out upon the back of one of the Wolves.
Between the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow
strip, which is dry at low tide, but is covered at high tide
with, at least four and a half feet of water.
The bedroom window was a broad one and opened From Below on
examination. Traces of blood were to be seen
upon the windowsill and several scattered drops were visible
upon the wooden floor of the bedroom.
Thrust away behind the curtain. In the front room were all the
clothes of mr. Neville st.
Clair with the exception of his coat, his boots.
His socks, his hat and his watch all were there.
There were no signs of violence upon any of these garments and
there were no other traces of mr.
Neville. Sinclair.
Out of the window. He must apparently have gone for
no other exit could be discovered and the ominous
bloodstains upon the sill gave little promise that he could
save himself by swimming for the tide was at its very highest at
the moment of the tragedy. And now, as to the villains who
seemed to be immediately implicated in the matter, the
lascaux was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents.
But as by mrs. St.
Clair story, he was known to have been at the foot of the
stair within a very few seconds of her husband's appearance at
the window. He could hardly have been more
than an accessory to the crime. His defense was one of absolute
ignorance and he protested that he had no knowledge as to the
doings of Hugh, Boone his lodger and that he could not account in
any way for the presence of the missing gentleman's clothes.
So much for the lascaux manager. Now, for the Sinister cripple
who lives upon the second floor of the Opium Den and who was
certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville,
Sinclair. His name is Hugh Boone and his
hideous face is one which is familiar to every man who goes
much to the city. He is a professional beggar
though. In order to avoid the police
regulations. He pretends to a small trade in
wax. Investors some little distance
down. Threadneedle street upon the
left hand side. There is as you may have
remarked a small angle in the wall.
Here. It is that this creature takes
his daily seat. Cross-legged with his tiny stock
of matches on his lap. And as he is a piteous
spectacle, a small rain of Charity descends into the greasy
leather cap, which lies upon the pavement beside him.
I have watched the fellow more than once before ever.
I thought of making his professional acquaintances and I
have been surprised at the Harvest, which she has reaped in
a short time, his appearance. You see is so remarkable that no
one can pass him without observing him a shock of orange
hair. A pale face disfigured by a
horrible scar which by its contraction has turned up the
outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin and a Are a very
penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrast to
the colour of his hair. All Mark him out from amid.
The common crowd of mendicants. And so too does his wit for he
is ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which may be
thrown at him by the passes by. This is the man whom we.
Now learn to have been the lodger at the Opium Den and to
have been the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in
quest. But a crippled Jedi.
What could he have done single-handed against a man in
the prime of life. He is a cripple in the sense
that he walks with a limp. But in other respects, he
appears to be a powerful. And well nurtured man, surely,
or medical experience would tell you what's in that weakness in
one. Limb is often compensated for by
exceptional strength in the others.
Pray. Continue your narrative.
Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight
of the blood upon the window and Is this courted home in a cab by
the police? As her presence, could be of no
help to them in their investigations, inspector
Barton, who had charge of the case made a very careful
examination of the premises, but without finding anything, which
through any light upon the matter.
One mistake had been made in not arresting bun instantly as he
was allowed some few minutes, during which he might have
communicated with his friend, Alaska, but this fault was soon.
Remedied and he was seized and searched without anything being
found, which could incriminate him.
There were, it is true some bloodstains upon his right shirt
sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been cut
near the nail and explained that the bleeding came from their
adding that he had been. The window, not long before and
that the stains which have been observed.
There came doubtless from the same Source.
He denied strenuously having ever seen.
Mr. Neville, st. Clair.
And swore that the presence of the clothes in his room was as
much a mystery to him, as to the police, as to mrs.
St. Clair's assertion that she had
actually seen her husband at the window.
He declared that she must have been either mad or dreaming.
He was removed loudly protesting to the police-station.
Police station while the inspector remained upon the
premises in the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some
fresh clue. And it did.
No, they hardly found upon the mudbank what they had feared to
find. It was Neville Sinclair as coat
and not Neville Sinclair, which lay uncovered as the tide
receded. And what do you think they found
in the pockets? I can imagine?
No, I don't think you would guess every pocket stuffed with
pennies. And half pennies 421, pennies
and 270. Antique half pennies.
It was no wonder that. It had not been swept away by
the tide but a human body is a different matter.
There is a fierce Eddie between the wharf and the house, it
seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained when
the stripped body had been sucked away into the river.
But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the
room with the body. Be dressed in a coat alone.
No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough.
Suppose that this man bun had thrust Neville Sinclair through
the window. There is no human eye, which
could have seen the deed. What would he do then?
It would, of course, instantly strike him that he must get rid
of The Tell-Tale garments. He would seize the coat then and
be in the act of throwing it out.
When it would occur to him, that it would swim and not sink.
He has little time for. He has heard the scuffle
downstairs. When the wife tried to force her
way up, and perhaps, he has already heard from his lascar
Confederate that the police are hurrying up the street.
There is not an instant to be lost.
He rushes to some secret hoard where he has accumulated the
fruits of his beggary and he stuffs all the coins upon which
he can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure of the
coats sinking. He throws it out and would have
done the same with the other garments had not.
He heard the rush of steps below and only just had time to close
the window when the police appeared.
Is any sounds feasible? Well, we will take it as a
working hypothesis for want of a better bun.
As I've told you was arrested and taken to the station, but it
could not be shown that there. Had ever before, been anything
against him. He had for years been known as a
professional beggar. But his life appeared to have
been a very quiet and innocent one there.
The matter stands at present and the questions which have to be
solved what Neville Sinclair was doing in the Opium, Den.
What? To him, when they're.
Where is he now? And what Hugh Boone had to do
with his? Disappearance are all as far
from a solution as ever. I confess that I cannot recall
any case within my experience, which looked at the first
glance, so simple. And yet, which presented such
difficulties. While Sherlock Holmes have been
detailing this singular series of events.
We had been whirling through the outskirts of the great town.
Until the last straggling houses had been left behind and we
rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us,
just as he finished. However, we drove through two
scattered Villages were a few light's still glimmered in the
windows. We are on the outskirts of Lee
said, my companion. We have touched on three English
counties in. Short drive, starting in
Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey and ending in Kent.
See that light among the trees. That is the Cedars and beside
that lamp sits. A woman, whose anxious ears have
already. I have little doubt caught the
clink of our horses feet. But why are you not conducting a
case from Baker Street? I asked because there are many
inquiries, which must be made out here.
Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly put two
rooms at my disposal and you may rest assured that she will have
nothing but a welcome for my friend and colleague.
I hate to meet her Watson when I have no news of her husband.
Here. We are.
Whoa there. Whoa, we had pulled up in front
of a large villa which stood within its own.
A stable boy had run out to the horse's head and springing down.
I followed Holmes up the small winding gravel-drive which led
to the house as we approached the door flew open and a little
blond woman stood in the opening clad, in some sort of light,
mousseline de soie with a touch of fluffy pink, Chiffon at her
neck and wrists. She stood with her figure
outlined against the flood of light.
One hand upon the door. One half-raised in her
eagerness. It's her body.
Slightly bent her head and face protruded with eager eyes and
parted lips a standing question. Well, she cried well, and then
seeing that there were two of us.
She gave a cry of Hope which sank into a groan and she saw
them. My companion shook his head and
Shrugged, his shoulders. No good news.
None. No bad.
No. Thank God for that.
Come in. You must be weary for you've had
a long day. This is my friend.
Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital used
to me in several of my cases and the lucky chance has made it
possible for me to bring him out and Associate him with this
investigation. I am delighted to see.
You said, she pressing my hand warmly, you will.
I am sure forgive anything that you may be wanting in our
Arrangements when you consider the blow which has come.
So suddenly upon us. My dear Madam said, hi.
I'm an old campaigner. And if I were not I can very
well. See that.
No apology is needed. If I can be of any assistance.
Either to you or to my friend here.
I shall be indeed. Happy.
Now, mr. Sherlock Holmes said, the lady
as we entered a well-lit dining-room upon the table of
which a cold supper have been laid out.
I should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions
to, which I beg that you will give a plain answer.
Certainly Madam do not trouble about my feelings.
I am not hysterical nor given to fainting.
I simply wish to hear your real real opinion.
Upon what point in your heart of hearts.
Do you think that Neville is alive?
Sherlock. Holmes seemed to be embarrassed
by the question. Frankly.
Now she repeated standing upon the rug and looking keenly down
at him as he leaned back in a basket chair.
Frankly then Madam. I do not.
You think that he is dead. I do murdered.
I don't say that perhaps and on what day did he meet his death
on Monday? Then perhaps mr.
Holmes, you'll be good enough to explain how it is that.
I have received a letter from him today.
Sherlock, Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he'd been
galvanized. What he roared.
Yes. Today.
She stood smiling holding up a little slip of paper in the air.
May I see it? Certainly.
He snatched it from her in his eagerness and smoothing it out
upon the table. He drew over the lamp and
examined. It intently.
I had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder.
The envelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with the
Gravesend postmark and with the date of that very day or rather
of the day before for it was considerably after midnight
cause righting moment homes, surely.
This is not your husband's writing Madam.
No, but the enclosure is, I perceive also that whoever
addressed the Hope had to go and inquire to the address.
How can you tell that the name you see is in perfectly Black
Ink, which has dried itself. The rest is of the greyish
color, which shows that blotting-paper had been used.
If it had been written straight off, and then blotted, none
would be of a deep black shade. This man has written the name
and has, then been a pause before he wrote the address,
which can only mean that he was not familiar with it.
It is of course a trifle but there is nothing so important as
Trifles. Let us now see the letter ha
there has been an enclosure here.
Yes. There was a ring.
His Signet ring and you are sure that this is your husband's
hand. One of his hands one, his hand.
When he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual
writing and yet I know it well. Dearest do not be frightened.
All will come. Well.
There is a huge error, which it may take some little time to
rectify. Wait in patience Neville.
Written in pencil upon the Flyleaf of a book octavo size.
No, watermark. Hmm, posted today in Gravesend
by a man with a dirty thumb and the flap has been gummed.
If I'm not very much in error, by a person who had been chewing
tobacco, and you have no doubt that it is your husband's hand,
Madam, none Neville, wrote those words and they were posted to A
at Gravesend. Well, mrs.
St. Clair the clouds.
Lighten, though. I should not venture to say that
the danger is over, but he must be alive.
Mr. Holmes, unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the
wrong scent, the ring after all proves.
Nothing. It may have been taken from him.
No. No it is.
It is his very own writing very well, it may however have been
written on Monday and only posted today.
That is possible. If so much may have happened
between, oh, you must not discourage me.
Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well with
him. There is so Keen, a sympathy
between us that I should know. If evil Came Upon him on the
very day that I saw him. Last, he cut himself in the
bedroom and yet I in the dining-room, rushed upstairs,
instantly with the utmost certainty that something had
happened. Do you think that I would
respond? Such a trifle and yet to be
ignorant of his death. I have seen too much to know
that the impression of a woman may be more valuable than the
conclusion of an analytical Reasoner.
And in this letter, you certainly have a very strong
piece of evidence to corroborate your view.
But if your husband is alive and able to write letters, why
should you remain away from you? I cannot imagine.
It is unthinkable. And on Monday, he made no
remarks before leaving, you know, and you are surprised to
see him and swandam Lane very much.
So, was the window open. Yes, then he might have called
to you. He might, he only, as I
understand gave an inarticulate cry.
Yes. A call for help.
You thought. Yes, he waved his hands.
But it might have been a cry of surprise astonishment at the
unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands.
It is possible and you thought he was pulled back.
He disappeared. So suddenly he might have left
back. You did not see anyone else in
the room. No, but this horrible man
confessed to having been there and the lascar was at the foot
of the stairs. Quite so, your husband as far as
you could see how his ordinary clothes on.
But without his collar or tie, I distinctly saw his bare throat.
Had he ever spoken of swandam Lane never had.
He ever showed any signs of having taken opium.
Never, thank you. Mrs. St.
Clair. Those are the principal points
about which I wished to be absolutely clear.
We shall now. Have a little supper and then
retire. We may have a very busy day
tomorrow. A large and comfortable
double-bedded room had been placed at our disposal, and I
was quickly between the sheets for I was weary.
After my night of Adventure Sherlock, Holmes was a man.
However, who when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind
would go for days and even a week without rest turning it
over rearranging, his facts looking at it from every point
of view, until he had either fathomed it or convinced himself
that his data were insufficient. It was soon.
Evident to me, that he was now preparing for an all-night
sitting. He took off his coat and
waistcoat, but on a large Blue, dressing-gown and then wandered
about the room collecting pillows from his bed and
cushions from the sofa and armchairs with these.
He constructed a sort of Eastern Divan upon which he perched
himself, cross-legged with an ounce of shag.
Tobacco, and a box of matches laid out in front of him.
In the dim, light of the lamp. I saw him sitting there an old
Briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the
corner of the ceiling. The blue smoke curling up from
him, silent motionless with the light, shining upon his strong,
set, aquiline features. So he sat, as I dropped off to
sleep. And so he sat when a sudden
ejaculation caused me to wake up and I found the Summer sun,
shining into the apartment. The pipe was still between his
lips. The smoke still curled upward
and the room was full of a dense.
Tobacco Haze, but nothing remained of the Heap of shag,
which I had seen upon the previous night.
Awake Watson. He asked.
Yes, game from morning drive, certainly, then dress.
No one is stirring yet. But I know where the stableboy
sleeps and we shall soon have the trap out.
He chuckled to himself as he spoke his eyes twinkled, and he
seemed a different man to the sombre thinker of the previous
night. As I dressed, I glanced at my
watch. It was no wonder that.
No one was stirring. It was 4:25.
I'd hardly finished when Holmes returned with the news that the
boy was putting in the horse. I want to test a little theory
of mine. Said he pulling on his boots.
I think Watson that you are now standing in the presence of one
of the most absolute fools in Europe.
I deserve to be kicked from here to Charing Cross, but I think I
have the key of the affair now, and where is it?
I asked smiling in the bathroom. He answered.
Oh, yes. I am not joking.
He continued seeing my look of incredulity.
I have just been there and I have taken it out and I have got
it in this Gladstone bag. Come on my boy.
And we shall see whether it will not fit the lock.
We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out
into the bright morning sunshine in the road, stood our horse and
trap with the half-clad stable boy waiting at the head.
We both sprang in and away. We dashed down the London Road.
A few country, carts were stirring bearing in vegetables
to the Metropolis, but the lines of Villas on either side were as
silent and lifeless as some City in a dream.
It has been in some points, a singular case, said, Holmes
flicking the horse on into a Gallop.
I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is
better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.
In town. The earliest risers were just
beginning to look sleepily from their Windows as we drove
through the streets of the Surrey side.
Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road.
We crossed over the river and dashing up Wellington Street
wheeled sharply. To the right and found ourselves
in both Street Sherlock, Holmes as well known to the force and
the two constables at the door saluted him.
One of them held the horse's head while the other led us in
who is on duty asked, Holmes, inspector Bradstreet, sir,
Bradstreet. How are you?
A tall Stout official had come down.
The stone-flagged passage in a peaked cap and frogged jacket.
I wish to Have a quiet word with you Bradstreet, certainly.
Mr. Holmes step into my room here.
It was a small office-like room with a huge Ledger upon the
table and a telephone projecting from the wall.
The inspector sat down at his desk.
What can I do for you? Mr. Ohms.
I called about that beggarman bun.
The one who is charged with being concerned in The
Disappearance of mr. Neville, st.
Clair of Lee. Yes.
He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries.
So I heard you have him here in the cells.
Is he quiet? Oh, we gives no trouble, but he
is a dirty scoundrel. Dirty.
Yes. Is all we can do to make him
wash his hands and his face is, as black as a tinker's will.
Once his case has been settled. He loved a regular prison bath,
and I think if you saw him, you'd agree with me that he
needed it. I should like to see him very
much. Would you that's easily done
come this way. You can leave your bag.
No, I think this, I'll take it. Very good.
Come this way. If you please, he let us down.
A passage opened a barred door, passed down a Winding Stair and
brought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on
each side. The third on the right is is
said the inspector. Here.
It is. He quietly shot.
A panel in the upper part of the door and glanced through is a
sleep study. You can see him very well.
You both put our eyes to the grating, The Prisoner lay with
his face towards us in a very deep sleep breathing, slowly and
heavily. He was a middle-sized man.
Coarsely clad as becoming his calling with a coloured shirt
protruding through the rent in his tattered coat.
He was as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the
grime which covered his face could not conceal, its repulsive
ugliness abroad wheel from an old scar ran right across it
from eye to chin. And by its contraction had
turned up one side of the upper lip so that three teeth were
exposed in a perpetual. All a shock of very bright.
Red hair, grew low over his eyes and forehead.
He's a beauty. Isn't he said the inspector?
He certainly needs a wash remarked Holmes.
I had an idea that he might and I took the liberty of bringing
the tools with me. He opened the Gladstone bag as
he spoke and took out to my astonishment and very large bath
sponge. He you are a funny, one chuckle,
the inspector. Now, if you'll have the great
goodness to open that door very quietly will soon make him cut a
much more respectable figure. Well, I don't know why not said
the inspector. He doesn't look a credit to the
Bow Street cells. Does he?
He slipped his key into the lock and we all very quietly entered
the cell, the sleeper, half turned and then settled down.
Once more. A deep Slumber, homes stooped to
the water-jug moistened, his sponge and then rubbed it twice
vigorously across and down the prisoners face.
Let me introduce you. He shouted to mr.
Neville. St.
Clair of Lee in the county of Kent never in my life.
Have I seen such a sight, the man's face peeled off under the
sponge like the bark from a tree?
Gone was the coarse Brown tint gone, too was the horrid scar
which had seemed it across and the twisted lip, which had given
the repulsive sneer to the face at which brought away the
Tangled red hair and they're 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. We will demand then suddenly
realising the exposure. Broke into a scream and threw
himself down with his face to the pillows.
Great Heavens. Cried.
The inspector is indeed the missing, man.
I know him from the photograph. The Prisoner turned with the
Reckless air of a man who abandoned himself to his
Destiny. Be it.
So said he and pray. What am I charged with?
With making away with mr. Neville st.
How come you can't be charged with that unless they make a
case of attempted suicide of? It said the inspector with a
grin. Well, I've been 27 years in the
force, but this really takes the cake.
If I am, mr. Neville, st.
Clair then it is obvious that no crime has been committed and
that therefore I am illegally detained, no crime, but a very
great error has been committed said Holmes, you would have done
better to have trusted your wife.
It was not the wife. It was the children, grown The
Prisoner God help me. I would not have had them
ashamed of their father. My God, what an exposure?
What can I do? Sherlock Holmes, sat down beside
him on the couch and patted him kindly on the shoulder.
If you leave it to a court of law, to clear the matter up
said, he of course, you can hardly avoid publicity on the
other hand. If you convince the police
authorities that there is no possible case against you.
I do not know that there is any reason that the details should
find their way into the papers inspector Bradstreet.
Would, I am sure make notes upon anything which you might tell us
and submit it to the proper authorities.
The case would then never go into court at all.
God bless you cried. The prisoner passionately.
I would have enjoyed imprisonment.
I even execution rather than have left my miserable secret as
a family, blot to my children. You are the first to have ever
heard my story. My father was a Schoolmaster in
Chesterfield where I received an excellent education.
I traveled in my youth took to the stage and finally became a
reporter on an evening paper in London.
One day. My editor wished to have a
series of Articles upon begging in the metropolis and I
volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which
all my Adventures started. It was only by trying begging as
an amateur that I could get the facts upon which to base my
articles. When an actor I had, of course,
learned all the secrets of making up and had been famous in
the green room for my skill. I took advantage now of my
attainments. I painted my face and to make
myself as pitiable as possible. I made a good Scar and fixed one
side of my lip in a Twist. Bye.
Eighth of a small slip of flesh-coloured plaster then with
a red head of hair and an appropriate dress.
I took my station in the business part of the city
ostensibly as a match-seller, but really as a beggar for 7
hours, I plied my trade and when I returned home in the evening,
I found to my surprise that I had received no less than twenty
six shillings, and fourpence. I wrote my articles and thought
little more of the matter, until some time later.
I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served upon me for 25
pounds. I was at my Wit's End where to
get the money. But a sudden idea came to me.
I begged a fortnight's Grace from the Creditor asked for a
holiday from my employers and spent the time in begging in the
city under my disguise. In ten days, I had the money and
had paid the debt. Well, you can imagine how hard
it was to settle down to arduous work at to pound a week.
When I knew that I could earn as much in a day by smearing my
face, with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground and
sitting still, it was a long fight between my pride and the
money, but the dollars won at last and I threw up reporting
and sat day after day in the corner, which I had first
chosen. Inspiring pity by my ghastly
face and filling my pockets with coppers.
Only one man, knew my secret. He was the keeper of a low Den
in which I used to Lodge in swandam Lane where I could every
morning emerge as a squalid. Beggar, and in the evenings,
transform myself into A well-dressed, man about town,
this fellow Alaska was well paid by me for his rooms so that I
knew that my secret was safe in his possession.
Ian. Well, very soon.
I found that I was saving considerable sums of money.
I do not mean that any beggar in the Streets of London could earn
700 pounds a year, which is less than my average takings, but I
had exceptional advantages in my power of making up and also in a
facility of repartee which improved my practice and made me
quite a recognised character in the city all day, a stream of
pennies varied by silver poured. It in upon me and it was a very
bad day in which I failed to take two pounds.
As I Grew richer, I grew more ambitious.
Took a house in the country and eventually married without
anyone having a suspicion as to my real occupation.
My dear wife knew that I had business in the city.
She little knew what Last Monday, I had finished for the
day and was dressing in my room above the Opium Den.
When I looked out of my window and saw to my horror and
astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street with her
eyes, fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw
up my arms to cover my face and rushing to my Confidant.
The lascar entreated him to prevent anyone from coming up to
me. I Heard a Voice downstairs, but
I knew that she could not have send swiftly.
I threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar and put on
my pigments and wig. Even a why sighs could not
Pierce a complete a disguise, but then it occurred to me that
there might be a search in the room and that the clothes might
betray me. I threw open the window,
reopening by my violence, a small cut, which I'd inflicted
upon myself in the bedroom that morning, then I seized my coat.
Was weighted by the coppers, which I had just transferred to
it from the leather bag in, which I carried my takings.
I heard it out of the window and it disappeared into the Thames.
The other clothes would have followed but at that moment
there was A Rush of constables up the stair and a few minutes
after I found rather I confess to my relief that instead of
being identified as mr. Neville st.
Clair. I was arrested as his murderer.
I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain.
I was determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible and
hence my preference for a dirty face knowing that my wife would
be terribly anxious. I slipped off my ring and
confided it to the laska at a moment when no Constable was
watching me together with A hurried scrawl, telling her that
she had no cause to fear. That note only reached her
yesterday, said Holmes, good God.
What a week. She must have spent, but police
have watched this laska said, inspector Broad Street.
And I can quite understand that you might find it a difficult to
post a letter unobserved, probably ended it some sailor
customer of his who forgot all about it for some days.
That was it said Holmes nodding approvingly.
I have no doubt of it. But have you never been
prosecuted for begging many times?
But what was a fine to me? It must stop here.
However, said Broad Street if the police are to hush leasing
up and must be no more of you bone.
I have sworn it by the most solemn Oaths, which a man can
take in that case. I think that it is probable that
no further steps may be taken, but if you are found again, then
all must come out. I'm sure mr.
Ohms, that we are very much indebted to you for having
cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your
results. I reached this one said, my
friend by sitting upon five pillows and consuming an ounce
of shag. I think Watson that, if we drive
to Baker Street, we shall just be in time for breakfast.
End of the man with the twisted lip.