September 29, 2023 • 59 mins
In "The Man with the Twisted Lip," Sherlock Holmes is approached by Mrs. Neville St. Clair seeking assistance in finding her missing husband. Neville St. Clair, a respectable man, had vanished under mysterious circumstances.As Holmes delves into the case, he uncovers that St. Clair led a secret life as Hugh Boone, a skilled beggar with a talent for disguises. Boone often begged on the streets of London. St. Clair's disappearance coincided with a police raid in the area where Boone frequently worked.Holmes traces clues to the same place where St. Clair was last seen and encounters Boone, disguised as a beggar. Initially believing St. Clair to be dead, further investigation reveals a grim twist: another jealous beggar murdered Boone to take over his begging spot.The plot thickens when Holmes finds St. Clair's belongings, indicating foul play. However, his investigation leads to a surprising revelation—St. Clair is alive, disguised as a beggar to avoid suspicion.Holmes skillfully unravels the mystery, exposing the true culprit behind the murder. The case concludes with St. Clair reunited with his family and justice served as the murderer faces consequences for his crime."The Man with the Twisted Lip" showcases Holmes' astute deductive prowess as he navigates a story of hidden identities and the grim realities of the streets, ultimately bringing resolution to a complex and puzzling case.
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Speaker 1 (00:01):
Adventure six of the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. This LibriVox
recording is in the public domain and is read by
Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Adventures of Sherlock
Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Adventure six The Man
(00:21):
with a twisted lip. Isa Whitney, brother of the late
Elias Whitney, d d. Principle of the Theological College of
Saint 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 Quincy's description
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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
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his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with
yellow pasty face, drooping lids, and pinpoint pupils, all huddled
in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a nobleman.
One night it was in June eighty nine. There came
a ring to my bell about the hour when a
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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
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few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the linoleum.
Our own door flew open, and a lady clad in
some dark colored stuff with a black veil, entered the room.
You will excuse my calling so late, she began, and then,
suddenly losing her self control, she ran forward, through her
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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
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came in. I don't know what to do, so I
came straight to you. That was always the way folk
who were in grief came to my wife like birds
to a 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
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rather that I sent James off to bed. Oh no, no,
I want the doctor's advice and help too. Ooh, it's
about Isa. He's not been home for two days. I'm
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
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old friend and school companion. We soothed and comforted her
by such words as we could find. Did she know
where her husband was? Was it possible that we could
bring him back to her? It seems that it was.
She had the surest information that of late. He had
when the fit was on him, made use of an
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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
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the effects. There he was to be found. She was
sure of it, at the bar of Gold in Upper
Swandham 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
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course there was but one way out of it. Might
I not escort her to this place? And then, as
a second thought, why should she come at all? I
was Isa Whitney's medical adviser, and as such I had
influence over him. I could manage it better if I
were alone. I promised her on my word that I
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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 arm chair 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.
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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 lined 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,
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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 center
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,
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and terraced with wooden berths, like the forecastle of an
emigrant ship. Through the gloom one could dimly catch a
glimpse of bodies lying in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders,
bent knees, heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with
here and there a dark, lackluster eye turned upon the newcomer.
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Out of the black shadows, there glimmered little red circles
of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison
waxed door 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
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conversation coming in gushes and then suddenly tailing off into silence,
each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed
to the words of his neighbor. At the farther end
was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on
a three legged wooden stool, there sat a tall, thin
old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists
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and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.
As I entered, a sallow melee 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, mister Isa Whitney, and I wished to
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speak with him. There was a movement and an exclamation
from my right, and peering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale,
haggard and unkempt, staring out at me. My god, it's Watson,
said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction,
with every nerve and a twitter. I say, Watson, what o'clock.
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Is it nearly eleven of what day of Friday? June nineteenth?
Good heavens, I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday.
What do you want to frighten? A chap for he
sank his face on to his arms and began to
sob in a high treble key. I tell you that
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it is Friday. Man, your wife has been waiting this
two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself,
so I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I
have only been here a few hours. Three pipes, four pipes,
I forget how many. But I'll go home with you.
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I wouldn't frighten Kate, poor little Kate. Give me your hand.
Have you a cab? Yes, I have one waiting. Then
I shall go in it. But I must owe something.
Find what I owe? Watson, I am all off color.
I can do nothing for myself. I walked down the
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narrow passage between the double row of sleepers, holding my
breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug,
and looking about for the manager. As I passed the
tall man who sat by the brazier, I felt a
sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice whispered,
walk past me, and then looked back at me. The
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words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down.
They could only have come from the old man at
my side. And yet he sat now as absorbed as ever,
very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe
dangling down from between his knees as though it had
dropped in sheer lassitude from his fingers. I took two
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steps forward and looked back. It took all my self
control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry
of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none
could see him, but I his form had filled out,
his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained their fire,
And there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise,
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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
or subsided into a doddering, loose lipped senility. Holmes, I whispered,
what on earth are you doing in this den? As
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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
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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's requests, for they were always
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so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet
air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was
once confined in the cab, my mission was practically accomplished,
and for the rest I could not wish anything better
than to be associated with my friend in one of
those singular adventures which were the normal condition of his existence.
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In a few minutes, I had written my note, paid
Whitney's bill, led him out to the cab, and seen
him driven through the darkness. In a very short time,
a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den, and
I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For
two streets he shuffled along with a bent back and
an uncertain foot, Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself
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out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter. Ha
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 favored me with
your medical views. I was certainly surprised to find you there,
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but not more so than I to find you. I
came to find a friend, and I to find an enemy,
an enemy, yes, one of my natural enemies, or shall
I say my natural prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in
the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have
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hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of
these sots, as I have done before. Now. Had I
been recognized in that den, my life would not have
been worth an hour's purchase, for I have used it
before now for my own purposes, and the rascally lascar
who runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon me.
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There is a trap door at the back of that building,
near the corner of Paul's wharf, which could tell some
strange tales of what has passed through it upon the
moonless nights. What you do not mean bodies a I
Bodi's Watson. We should be rich men if we had
one thousand pounds for every poor devil who has been
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done to death in that den. It is the vilest
murder trap on the whole river side. And I fear
that Neville Saint 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,
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followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink
of horses hoofs now. Watson, said Holmes, as a tall
dog cart dashed up through the gloom, throwing out two
golden tunnels of yellow light from its side lanterns. You'll
come with me, won't you? If I can be of use? Oh,
A trusty comrade is always of use, and a chronicler
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still more so. My room at the Cedars is a
double bedded one the Cedars. Yes, that is mister Sinclair's house.
I am staying there while I conduct the inquiry. Where
is it? Then? Near Lee in Kent? We have a
seven mile drive before us. But I am all in
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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 eleven. Give her her head so long.
Then he flicked the horse with his whip, and we
dashed away through the endless succession of somber and deserted streets,
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which widened gradually until we were flying across a broad,
balustraded bridge, with a 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 policemen,
or the songs and shouts of some belated party of revelers.
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A old rack 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,
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which seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet
afraid to break in upon the current of his thoughts.
We had driven several miles and were beginning to get
to the fringe of the belt of suburban villas when
he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up his
pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied
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himself that he is acting for the best. You have
a grand gift of silence, Watson said he. It makes
you quite invaluable as a companion. Pon my word, it
is a great thing for me to have some one
to talk to, for my own thoughts are not over pleasant.
I was wondering what I should say to this dear
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little woman to night when she meets me at the door.
You forget that I know nothing about it. I shall
just have time to tell you the facts of the
case before we get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple,
and yet somehow I can get nothing to go upon.
There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can't get
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the end of it into my hand. Now I'll state
the case clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe
you can see a spark where all is dark to me.
Proceed then, some years ago to be definite. In May
eighteen eighty four there came to Lee a gentleman Neville,
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Saint Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of money.
He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely,
and lived generally in good style. By degrees. He made
friends in the neighborhood, and in eighteen eighty seven he
married the daughter of a local brewer, by whom he
now has two children. He had no occupation, but was
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interested in several companies, and went into town as a
rule in the morning, returning by the five fourteen from
Cannon Street every night. Mister Saint Clair is now thirty
seven years of age, is a man of temperate habits,
a good husband, a very affectionate father, and a man
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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
eighty eight pounds ten shillings, while he has two hundred
twenty pounds standing to his credit in the Capitol and
Counties Bank. There is no reason therefore to think that
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money troubles have been weighing upon his mind. Last Monday,
mister Neville Saint 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,
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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,
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which branches out of upper Swandham Lane, where you found me.
To night, Missus Saint 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 four thirty
five walking through Swandham Lane on her way back to
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the station. Have you followed me so far? It is
very clear if you remember. Monday was an exceedingly hot day,
and Missus Saint Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the
hope of seeing a cab, as she did not like
the neighborhood in which she found herself. While she was
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walking in this way down Swandham Lane, she suddenly heard
an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see
her husband looking down at her, and, as it seemed
to her, beckoning to her from a second floor window.
The window was open, and she distinctly saw his face,
which she describes as being terribly agitated. He waved his
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hands frantically to her, and then vanished from the window
so suddenly that it seemed to her that he had
been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind. One
singular point what struck her quick feminine eye was that,
although he wore some dark co oat, such as he
had started to town in, he had on neither collar
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nor necktie. Convinced that something was amiss with him, she
rushed down the steps, for the house was none other
than the opium den in which you found me to night,
and running through the front room, she attempted to ascend
the stairs, which led to the first floor. At the
foot of the stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel
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of whom I have spoken who thrust her back, and
aided by a Dane who acts as assistant, there pushed
her out into the street. Filled with 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.
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The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in
spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor, they made
their way to the room in which mister Saint Clair
had last been seen. There was no sign of him there.
In fact, in the whole of that floor, there was
no one to be found save a crippled wretch of
hideous aspect, who it seems made his home there. Both
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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 missus Saint Clair had
been deluded, when with a cry, she sprang at a
small deal box which lay upon the table, and tore
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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 serious. The rooms were carefully examined, and results all
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pointed to an abominable crime. The front room was plainly
furnished as a sitting room, and led into a small
bedroom which looked out upon the back of one of
the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom window is
a narrow strip which is dry at low tide, but
is covered it high tide with at least four and
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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 window sill, and
several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of
the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front
room were all the clothes of mister Neville Saint Clair,
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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 mister Nevill Saint Clair
out of the window. He must apparently have gone for
no other exit could be discovered, and the ominous blood
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stains 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 last car was known to be
a man of the vilest antecedents. But as by Missus
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Saint Clair's story, he was known to have been at
the foot of the stair within a very few seconds
of her husband's appearance at the window, he could hardly
have been more than an accessory to the crime. His
defense was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that
he had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Bone,
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his lodger, and that he could not account in any
way for the presence of the missing gentleman's clothes. So
much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple
who lives upon the second floor of the Opium den,
and who was certainly the last human being whose eyes
rested upon Neville Saint Clair. His name is Hugh Boone,
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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 Vesta's. Some
little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left hand side,
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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 reign of charity descends into the greasy leather
cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I have
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watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought
of making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised
at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time.
His appearance, you see, is so remot maarkable that no
one can pass him without observing him. A shock of
orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar which,
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by its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of
his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair of
very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrast to
the color of his hair, all mark him out from
amid the common crowd of mendicants. And so too does
his wit, for he is ever ready with the reply
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to any piece of chaff which may be thrown at
him by the passers by. This is the man whom
we now learn to have been the lodger at the
Opium den, and to have been the last man to
see the gentleman of whom we are in quest. But
a cripple, said I what could he have done single
handed against a man in the prime of life. He
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is a cripple in the sense that he walks with
a limp, but in other respects he appears to be
a powerful and well nurtured man. Surely your medical experience
would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one limb is
often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others. Pray
continue your narrative, Missus. Saint Clair had fainted at the
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sight of the blood upon the window, and she was
escorted home in a cab by the police, as her
presence could be of no help to them in their investigations.
Inspector Barton, who in charge of the case, made a
very careful examination of the premises, but without finding anything
which threw any light upon the matter. One mistake had
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been made in not arresting Boone instantly, as he was
allowed some few minutes during which he might have communicated
with his friend the Lascar. But this fault was soon remedied,
and he was seized and searched without anything being found
which could incriminate him. There were, it is true, some
blood stains upon his right shirt sleeve, but he pointed
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to his ring finger, which had been cut near the nail,
and explained that the bleeding came from there, adding that
he had been to the window not long before, and
that the stains which had been observed there came doubtless
from the same source. He denied strenuously having ever seen
mister Neville Saint Clair, and swore that the presence of
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the clothes in his room was as much a mystery
to him as to the police. As to Missus Saint
Clair's assertion that she had actually seen her husband at
the window, he declared that she must have been either
mad or dreaming. He was removed, loudly protesting to the
police station, while the inspector remained upon the premises in
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the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh clue,
and it did, though they hardly found upon the mud
bank what they had feared to find. It was Nevill
Saint Clair's coat, and not Neville Saint Clair, which lay
uncovered as the tide receded. And what do you think
they found in the pockets? I cannot imagine. No, I
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don't think you would guess every pocket stuffed with pennies
and halfpennies four hundred twenty one pennies and two hundred
seventy halfpennies. It was no wonder that it had not
been swept away by the tide. But a human body
is a different matter. There is a fierce eddy between
the wharf and the house. It seemed likely enough that
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the weighted coat had remained when the stripped body had
been sucked away into the river. But I understand that
all the other clothes were found in the room. Would
the body be dressed in a coat alone? No, sir,
But the facts must be met speciously enough. Suppose that
this man Boon had thrust Nevill Saint Clair through the window,
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there is no human eye which could have seen the Indeed,
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
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downstairs when the wife tried to force her way up,
and perhaps he has already heard from his last car
confederate that the police are hurrying up the street. There
is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to
some secret hoarde 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
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sure of the coat's sinking. He throws it out, and
would have done the same with the other garments, had
not he heard the rush of steps below, and only
just had time to close the window when the police appeared.
It certainly sounds feasible. Well, we will take it as
a working hip hop athesis for want of a better boone.
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As I have told you, was arrested and taken to
the station. But it could not be shown that there
had ever before been anything against him. He had for
years been known as a professional beggar, but his life
appeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one.
There the matter stands at present, and the questions which
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have to be solved, what nevill Saint Clair was doing
in the Opium Den, what happened to him when there,
where he is 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
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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
till the last straggling houses have been left behind, and
we rattled along with a country hedge upon either side
of us. Just as he finished, however, we drove through
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two scattered villages where a few lights still glimmered in
the windows. We are on the outskirts of Lee, said
my companion. We have touched on three English counties in
our short drive, starting in Middlesex, passing over an angle
of Surrey, and ending in Kent. See that light among
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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 the case from Baker Street,
I asked, because there are many inquiries which must be
made out here. Missus Saint Clair has most kindly put
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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 woe,
there woe. We had pulled up in front of a
large villa which stood within its own grounds. A stable
(32:14):
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 mussolined soul, with a touch
of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She
(32:37):
stood with her figure outlined against the flood of light,
one hand upon the door, one half raised in her eagerness,
her body slightly bent her head and face protruded with
eager eyes and parted lips. A standing question, well, she
cried well, and then seeing that there were two of us,
(32:59):
she gave a cry of hope, which sank into a
groan as she saw that my companion shook his head
and shrugged his shoulders. No good news, none, no bad
no thank God for that. But come in. You must
be weary, for you have had a long day. This
(33:21):
is my friend, doctor Watson. He has been of most
vital use to me in several of my cases, and
a lucky chance has made it possible for me to
bring him out and associate him with this investigation. I
am delighted to see you, said she, pressing my hand warmly.
You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be
(33:42):
wanting in our arrangements when you consider the blow which
has come so suddenly upon us. My dear madam said
I I am an old campaigner, and if I were not,
I can very well see that no apology is needed.
If I can be of any assistance, either to you
or to my friend here, I shall be indeed happy. Now,
(34:07):
mister Sherlock Holmes, said the lady, as we entered a
well lit dining room, upon the table of which a
cold supper had been laid out. I should very much
like to ask you one or two plain questions, to
which I beg that you will give a plain answer. Certainly, madam,
do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical
(34:30):
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,
(34:51):
standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at him
as he leaned back in a basket chair. Frankly, then, Madame,
I I do not you think that he is dead?
I do murdered. I don't say that, perhaps, and on
(35:11):
what day did he meet his death? On Monday? Then perhaps,
mister Holmes, you will 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
had been galvanized. What he roared? Yes, today, she stood, smiling,
(35:34):
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
(35:55):
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 course writing, murmured Holmes.
Surely this is not your husband's writing, madam. No, but
the enclosure is. I perceive also that whoever addressed the
(36:18):
envelope had to go and inquire as to the address.
How can you tell that? The name you see is
imperfectly black ink, which has dried itself. The rest is
of a grayish color, which shows that blotting paper has
been used. If it had been written straight off and
then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade.
(36:40):
This man has written the name, and there has then
been a pause before he wrote the address, which can
only mean that he was not familiar with it. It is,
of course a trifle, but there is nothing so important
as trifles. Now let us now see the letter hah,
there has been an enclosure here. Yes, there was a ring,
(37:04):
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
(37:27):
it may take some time to rectify. Wait in patience.
Never written in pencil upon the fly leaf of a
book octavo size, no water mark, hum posted to day
Engraveson by a fellow with a dirty thumb. Ha, and
the flap has been gummed. If I am not very
(37:48):
much in error by a person who has been chewing tobacco,
And you have no doubt that it is your husband's hand,
Madam None Nevill wrote these words and they were posted
to day at Gravesend. Well, missus, Saint Clair. The clouds lighten,
though I should not venture to say that the danger
(38:10):
is over. But he must be alive, mister 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,
(38:30):
have been ridden on Monday and only posted to day.
That is possible, if so much may have happened between Oh,
you must not discourage me, mister 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,
(38:54):
he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I, in
the dining room rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty
that something had happened. Do you think that I would
respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant of
his death. I have seen too much not to know
that the impression of a woman may be more valuable
(39:14):
than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And in this
letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence
to corroborate your view. But if your husband is alive
and able to write letters, why should he remain away
from you? I cannot imagine it is unthinkable. And on
(39:36):
Monday he made no remarks before leaving you. No, and
you were surprised to see him in Swandham Lane very
much so was the window open? Yes, then he might
have called to you. He might he only, as I understand,
(39:57):
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.
(40:17):
And you thought he was pulled back he disappeared so
suddenly he might have leaped back. You did not see
any one 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,
(40:39):
as far as you could see, had his ordinary clothes on,
but without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his
bare throat. Had he ever spoken of Swandham Lane? Never
had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium? Never?
(41:00):
Thank you missus, Saint Clair. Those are the principal points
about which I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall
now have a little supper and then retire, for we
may have a very busy day tomorrow. A large and
comfortable double bedded room had been placed at our disposal,
and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was
(41:22):
weary after my night of a venture. Sherlock Holmes was
a man, however, who, when he had an unsolved problem
upon his mind, would go for days and even for
a week without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts,
looking at it from every point of view, until he
had either fathomed it or convinced himself that his data
(41:44):
were insufficient. It was soon evident to me that he
was now preparing for an all night sitting. He took
off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue
dressing gown, and then wandered about the room, collecting pillows
from his bed and cushions from the sofa and arm chairs.
With these he constructed a sort of Eastern divan, upon
(42:07):
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,
(42:29):
and 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
(42:50):
a dense tobacco haze. But nothing remained of the heap
of shag which I had seen upon the previous night.
Awake Watson, he asked, yes, game for a morning drive. Certainly,
then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know
where the stable boy sleeps, and we shall soon have
(43:13):
the trap out. He chuckled to himself. As he spoke.
His eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to
the somber thinker of the previous night. As I dressed,
I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that
no one was stirring. It was twenty five minutes past four.
I had hardly finished when Holmes returned with the news
(43:35):
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
(43:55):
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,
(44:17):
my boy, and we shall see whether it will 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 a half clad stable
boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in and
away we dashed down the London road. A few country
(44:39):
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 But it is better
(45:01):
to learn wisdom late than never to learn it. To
tall in town, the earliest rises were just beginning to
look sleepily from their windows as we drove through the
streets of the Surrey side, Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road,
we crossed over the river, and dashing up Wellington Street,
wheeled sharply to the right, and found ourselves in Bow Street.
(45:24):
Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force, and the
two constables at the door saluted him. One of them
held the horse's head, while the other led us in.
Who is on duty? Asked Holmes. Inspector Bradstreet. Sir, ah,
brad Street, how are you? A tall stout official had
(45:46):
come down the stone flagged passage in a peaked cap
and frogged jacket. I wish to have a quiet word
with you, brad Street. Certainly, mister Holmes, step into my room. Here.
It was a small office like rooum, with a huge
ledger upon the table and a telephone projecting from the wall.
(46:06):
The inspector sat down at his desk. What can I
do for you, mister Holmes? I called about that beggarman Boone,
the one who was charged with being concerned in the
disappearance of mister Neville Sainclair of Lee. Yes, he was
brought up and remanded for further inquiries. So I heard
(46:30):
you have him here in the cells. Is he quiet? Oh,
he gives no trouble, But he is a dirty scoundrel dirty. Yes.
It is all we can do to make him wash
his hands, and his face is as black as a
tinker's well. When once his case has been settled, he
(46:52):
will have a regular prison bath. And I think if
you saw him, you would agree with me that he
needed it. I should like to see him very much,
would you. That is easily done. Come this way, you
can leave your bag. No, I think that I'll take
it very good. Come this way if you please. He
(47:16):
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 his, said the inspector. Here
it is. He quietly shot back a panel in the
upper part of the door and glanced through. Here's a sleep,
(47:40):
said he. You can see him very well. We both
put our eyes to the greeting. The prisoner lay with
his face towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing
slowly and heavily. He was a middle sized man, coarsely clad,
as became his calling, with a colored shirt protruding through
the rent in his hattered coat. He was, as the
(48:02):
inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which covered
his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad
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 the three teeth
were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very
(48:26):
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,
(48:47):
and took out, to my astonishment, a very large bath sponge.
You are a funny one, chuckled the inspector. Now, if
you will have the great goodness to open that door
very quietly, we will soon make him cut it much
more respectable. Figure. Well, I don't know why not, said
(49:09):
the inspector. He doesn't look a credit to the bow
Street sells, does he. He slipped his key into the lock,
and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper
half turned and then settled down once more into a
deep slumber. Holmes stooped to the water jug, moistened his sponge,
(49:30):
and then rubbed it twice vigorously across and down the
prisoner's face. Let me introduce you, he shouted to mister Neville,
Saint Clair of Lee in the County of Kent. Never
in my life had I seen such a sight. The
man's face peeled off under the sponge, like the bark
(49:51):
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. A twitch brought away the tangled red hair.
And there, sitting up in his bed was a pale,
sad faced, refined looking man, black haired and smooth skinned,
(50:15):
rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy bewilderment. Then,
suddenly realizing the exposure, he broke into a scream and
threw himself down with his face to the pillow. Good Heavens,
cried the inspector. It is indeed the missing man. I
know him from the photograph. The prisoner turned with the
(50:37):
reckless air of a man who abandons himself to his destiny.
Be it so, said he, and pray what am I
charged with with? Making away with mister Neville saying, oh, come,
you can't be charged with that unless they make a
case of attempted suicide of it, said the inspector with
(50:57):
a grin. Well, I've it's been twenty seven years in
the force, but this takes the cake. If I am
mister Neville, Saint 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,
(51:18):
said Holmes. You would have done better to have trusted
your wife. It was not the wife, It was the children,
groaned the prisoner. God help me, I would not have
them ashamed of their father. My God, what an exposure.
What can I do? Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him
(51:41):
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
(52:02):
the details should find their way into the papers. Inspector bradsheet, would,
I am sure, make notes upon anything which you might
tell us and submit it to the proper authorities. The
case would then never go into court at all. God
bless you, cried the prisoner Passionately. I would have endured imprisonment,
(52:24):
i even execution, rather than have left my miserable secret
as a family blot to my children. You were the
first who 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
(52:45):
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
(53:06):
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 and
(53:27):
a twist by the aid of a small slip of
flesh colored plaster. Then with a red head of hair
and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the
business part of the city, ostensibly as a match seller,
but really as a beggar. For seven hours I plied
my trade, and when I returned home in the evening,
(53:48):
I found my surprise that I had received no less
than twenty six shillings four pence. I wrote my articles
and thought little more of the matter until some time
later I bill for a friend and had a writ
served upon me for twenty five pounds. I was at
my wits end where to get the money, but a
(54:08):
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 two
(54:29):
pounds 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 it last, and
I threw up reporting and sat day after day in
the corner which I had first chosen, inspiring pity by
(54:51):
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 say lodge
in Swandham 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, Alascar, was
(55:12):
well paid by me for his rooms, so that I
knew that my secret was safe in his possession. Well
very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums
of money. I do not mean that any beggar in
the streets of London could earn seven hundred pounds a year,
which is less than my average takings. But I had
exceptional advantages in my power of making up, and also
(55:36):
in a facility of repartee which improved by practice, and
maybe quite a recognized character in the city. All day
a stream of pennies varied by silver, poured in upon me,
and it was a very bad day in which I
failed to take two pounds. As I grew richer, I
grew more ambitious, took a house in the country, and
(55:57):
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
(56:19):
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 last car, entreated him to prevent
any one from coming up to me. I heard her
voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly,
(56:42):
I threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar,
and put on my pigments and wig. Even a wife's
eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But then
it occurred to me that there might be a search
in the room, and that the clothes might betray me.
I threw open the window, reopening by my violence a
small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the
(57:04):
bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was
waited by the coppers, which I had just transferred to
it from the leather bag in which I carried my takings.
I hurled it out of the window and it disappeared
into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed, but
at that moment there was a rush of constables up
the stair, and a few minutes after I found rather
(57:28):
I confess to my relief that instead of being identified
as mister Neville Saint 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,
(57:52):
I slipped off my ring and confided it to the
last scar 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.
(58:13):
The police have watched this last scar, said Inspector Bradstreet,
and I can quite understand that he might find it
difficult to post a letter unobserved. Probably he handed it
to some sailor customer of his, who forgot all about
it for some days. That was it, said Holmes, nodding approvingly.
(58:34):
I have no doubt of it. But have you never
been prosecuted for begging? Many times? But what was a
fine to me? It must stop here, however, said Bradstreet.
If the police are to hush this thing up, there
must be no more of Hugh Boone. I have sworn
it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take.
(58:58):
In that case, I think that it is probable that
no further steps may be taken. But if you are
found again, then all must come out. I am sure,
mister Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you
for having cleared the matter up. I wish I knew
how you reach your results. I reached this one, said
(59:19):
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 be just in time for breakfast.
End of Adventure six
Adventure six of the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. This LibriVox
recording is in the public domain and is read by
Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Adventures of Sherlock
Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Adventure six The Man
(00:21):
with a twisted lip. Isa Whitney, brother of the late
Elias Whitney, d d. Principle of the Theological College of
Saint 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 Quincy's description
(00:43):
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
(01:04):
his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with
yellow pasty face, drooping lids, and pinpoint pupils, all huddled
in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a nobleman.
One night it was in June eighty nine. There came
a ring to my bell about the hour when a
(01:25):
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
(01:48):
few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the linoleum.
Our own door flew open, and a lady clad in
some dark colored stuff with a black veil, entered the room.
You will excuse my calling so late, she began, and then,
suddenly losing her self control, she ran forward, through her
(02:09):
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
(02:29):
came in. I don't know what to do, so I
came straight to you. That was always the way folk
who were in grief came to my wife like birds
to a 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
(02:53):
rather that I sent James off to bed. Oh no, no,
I want the doctor's advice and help too. Ooh, it's
about Isa. He's not been home for two days. I'm
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
(03:14):
old friend and school companion. We soothed and comforted her
by such words as we could find. Did she know
where her husband was? Was it possible that we could
bring him back to her? It seems that it was.
She had the surest information that of late. He had
when the fit was on him, made use of an
(03:35):
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
(03:57):
the effects. There he was to be found. She was
sure of it, at the bar of Gold in Upper
Swandham 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
(04:18):
course there was but one way out of it. Might
I not escort her to this place? And then, as
a second thought, why should she come at all? I
was Isa Whitney's medical adviser, and as such I had
influence over him. I could manage it better if I
were alone. I promised her on my word that I
(04:39):
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 arm chair 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.
(05:02):
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 lined 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,
(05:22):
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 center
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,
(05:46):
and terraced with wooden berths, like the forecastle of an
emigrant ship. Through the gloom one could dimly catch a
glimpse of bodies lying in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders,
bent knees, heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with
here and there a dark, lackluster eye turned upon the newcomer.
(06:09):
Out of the black shadows, there glimmered little red circles
of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison
waxed door 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
(06:29):
conversation coming in gushes and then suddenly tailing off into silence,
each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed
to the words of his neighbor. At the farther end
was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on
a three legged wooden stool, there sat a tall, thin
old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists
(06:53):
and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.
As I entered, a sallow melee 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, mister Isa Whitney, and I wished to
(07:15):
speak with him. There was a movement and an exclamation
from my right, and peering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale,
haggard and unkempt, staring out at me. My god, it's Watson,
said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction,
with every nerve and a twitter. I say, Watson, what o'clock.
(07:38):
Is it nearly eleven of what day of Friday? June nineteenth?
Good heavens, I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday.
What do you want to frighten? A chap for he
sank his face on to his arms and began to
sob in a high treble key. I tell you that
(07:59):
it is Friday. Man, your wife has been waiting this
two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself,
so I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I
have only been here a few hours. Three pipes, four pipes,
I forget how many. But I'll go home with you.
(08:19):
I wouldn't frighten Kate, poor little Kate. Give me your hand.
Have you a cab? Yes, I have one waiting. Then
I shall go in it. But I must owe something.
Find what I owe? Watson, I am all off color.
I can do nothing for myself. I walked down the
(08:41):
narrow passage between the double row of sleepers, holding my
breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug,
and looking about for the manager. As I passed the
tall man who sat by the brazier, I felt a
sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice whispered,
walk past me, and then looked back at me. The
(09:03):
words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down.
They could only have come from the old man at
my side. And yet he sat now as absorbed as ever,
very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe
dangling down from between his knees as though it had
dropped in sheer lassitude from his fingers. I took two
(09:27):
steps forward and looked back. It took all my self
control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry
of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none
could see him, but I his form had filled out,
his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained their fire,
And there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise,
(09:49):
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
or subsided into a doddering, loose lipped senility. Holmes, I whispered,
what on earth are you doing in this den? As
(10:11):
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
(10:31):
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's requests, for they were always
(10:52):
so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet
air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was
once confined in the cab, my mission was practically accomplished,
and for the rest I could not wish anything better
than to be associated with my friend in one of
those singular adventures which were the normal condition of his existence.
(11:16):
In a few minutes, I had written my note, paid
Whitney's bill, led him out to the cab, and seen
him driven through the darkness. In a very short time,
a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den, and
I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For
two streets he shuffled along with a bent back and
an uncertain foot, Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself
(11:41):
out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter. Ha
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 favored me with
your medical views. I was certainly surprised to find you there,
(12:03):
but not more so than I to find you. I
came to find a friend, and I to find an enemy,
an enemy, yes, one of my natural enemies, or shall
I say my natural prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in
the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have
(12:25):
hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of
these sots, as I have done before. Now. Had I
been recognized in that den, my life would not have
been worth an hour's purchase, for I have used it
before now for my own purposes, and the rascally lascar
who runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon me.
(12:45):
There is a trap door at the back of that building,
near the corner of Paul's wharf, which could tell some
strange tales of what has passed through it upon the
moonless nights. What you do not mean bodies a I
Bodi's Watson. We should be rich men if we had
one thousand pounds for every poor devil who has been
(13:07):
done to death in that den. It is the vilest
murder trap on the whole river side. And I fear
that Neville Saint 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,
(13:28):
followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink
of horses hoofs now. Watson, said Holmes, as a tall
dog cart dashed up through the gloom, throwing out two
golden tunnels of yellow light from its side lanterns. You'll
come with me, won't you? If I can be of use? Oh,
A trusty comrade is always of use, and a chronicler
(13:51):
still more so. My room at the Cedars is a
double bedded one the Cedars. Yes, that is mister Sinclair's house.
I am staying there while I conduct the inquiry. Where
is it? Then? Near Lee in Kent? We have a
seven mile drive before us. But I am all in
(14:13):
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 eleven. Give her her head so long.
Then he flicked the horse with his whip, and we
dashed away through the endless succession of somber and deserted streets,
(14:36):
which widened gradually until we were flying across a broad,
balustraded bridge, with a 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 policemen,
or the songs and shouts of some belated party of revelers.
(14:59):
A old rack 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,
(15:21):
which seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet
afraid to break in upon the current of his thoughts.
We had driven several miles and were beginning to get
to the fringe of the belt of suburban villas when
he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up his
pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied
(15:41):
himself that he is acting for the best. You have
a grand gift of silence, Watson said he. It makes
you quite invaluable as a companion. Pon my word, it
is a great thing for me to have some one
to talk to, for my own thoughts are not over pleasant.
I was wondering what I should say to this dear
(16:02):
little woman to night when she meets me at the door.
You forget that I know nothing about it. I shall
just have time to tell you the facts of the
case before we get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple,
and yet somehow I can get nothing to go upon.
There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can't get
(16:24):
the end of it into my hand. Now I'll state
the case clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe
you can see a spark where all is dark to me.
Proceed then, some years ago to be definite. In May
eighteen eighty four there came to Lee a gentleman Neville,
(16:45):
Saint Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of money.
He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely,
and lived generally in good style. By degrees. He made
friends in the neighborhood, and in eighteen eighty seven he
married the daughter of a local brewer, by whom he
now has two children. He had no occupation, but was
(17:09):
interested in several companies, and went into town as a
rule in the morning, returning by the five fourteen from
Cannon Street every night. Mister Saint Clair is now thirty
seven years of age, is a man of temperate habits,
a good husband, a very affectionate father, and a man
(17:29):
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
eighty eight pounds ten shillings, while he has two hundred
twenty pounds standing to his credit in the Capitol and
Counties Bank. There is no reason therefore to think that
(17:51):
money troubles have been weighing upon his mind. Last Monday,
mister Neville Saint 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,
(18:13):
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,
(18:36):
which branches out of upper Swandham Lane, where you found me.
To night, Missus Saint 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 four thirty
five walking through Swandham Lane on her way back to
(18:57):
the station. Have you followed me so far? It is
very clear if you remember. Monday was an exceedingly hot day,
and Missus Saint Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the
hope of seeing a cab, as she did not like
the neighborhood in which she found herself. While she was
(19:18):
walking in this way down Swandham Lane, she suddenly heard
an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see
her husband looking down at her, and, as it seemed
to her, beckoning to her from a second floor window.
The window was open, and she distinctly saw his face,
which she describes as being terribly agitated. He waved his
(19:42):
hands frantically to her, and then vanished from the window
so suddenly that it seemed to her that he had
been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind. One
singular point what struck her quick feminine eye was that,
although he wore some dark co oat, such as he
had started to town in, he had on neither collar
(20:04):
nor necktie. Convinced that something was amiss with him, she
rushed down the steps, for the house was none other
than the opium den in which you found me to night,
and running through the front room, she attempted to ascend
the stairs, which led to the first floor. At the
foot of the stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel
(20:26):
of whom I have spoken who thrust her back, and
aided by a Dane who acts as assistant, there pushed
her out into the street. Filled with 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.
(20:50):
The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in
spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor, they made
their way to the room in which mister Saint Clair
had last been seen. There was no sign of him there.
In fact, in the whole of that floor, there was
no one to be found save a crippled wretch of
hideous aspect, who it seems made his home there. Both
(21:13):
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 missus Saint Clair had
been deluded, when with a cry, she sprang at a
small deal box which lay upon the table, and tore
(21:35):
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 serious. The rooms were carefully examined, and results all
(21:55):
pointed to an abominable crime. The front room was plainly
furnished as a sitting room, and led into a small
bedroom which looked out upon the back of one of
the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom window is
a narrow strip which is dry at low tide, but
is covered it high tide with at least four and
(22:16):
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 window sill, and
several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of
the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front
room were all the clothes of mister Neville Saint Clair,
(22:39):
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 mister Nevill Saint Clair
out of the window. He must apparently have gone for
no other exit could be discovered, and the ominous blood
(23:00):
stains 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 last car was known to be
a man of the vilest antecedents. But as by Missus
(23:21):
Saint Clair's story, he was known to have been at
the foot of the stair within a very few seconds
of her husband's appearance at the window, he could hardly
have been more than an accessory to the crime. His
defense was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that
he had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Bone,
(23:41):
his lodger, and that he could not account in any
way for the presence of the missing gentleman's clothes. So
much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple
who lives upon the second floor of the Opium den,
and who was certainly the last human being whose eyes
rested upon Neville Saint Clair. His name is Hugh Boone,
(24:05):
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 Vesta's. Some
little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left hand side,
(24:25):
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 reign of charity descends into the greasy leather
cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I have
(24:47):
watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought
of making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised
at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time.
His appearance, you see, is so remot maarkable that no
one can pass him without observing him. A shock of
orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar which,
(25:10):
by its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of
his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair of
very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrast to
the color of his hair, all mark him out from
amid the common crowd of mendicants. And so too does
his wit, for he is ever ready with the reply
(25:32):
to any piece of chaff which may be thrown at
him by the passers by. This is the man whom
we now learn to have been the lodger at the
Opium den, and to have been the last man to
see the gentleman of whom we are in quest. But
a cripple, said I what could he have done single
handed against a man in the prime of life. He
(25:56):
is a cripple in the sense that he walks with
a limp, but in other respects he appears to be
a powerful and well nurtured man. Surely your medical experience
would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one limb is
often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others. Pray
continue your narrative, Missus. Saint Clair had fainted at the
(26:20):
sight of the blood upon the window, and she was
escorted home in a cab by the police, as her
presence could be of no help to them in their investigations.
Inspector Barton, who in charge of the case, made a
very careful examination of the premises, but without finding anything
which threw any light upon the matter. One mistake had
(26:42):
been made in not arresting Boone instantly, as he was
allowed some few minutes during which he might have communicated
with his friend the Lascar. But this fault was soon remedied,
and he was seized and searched without anything being found
which could incriminate him. There were, it is true, some
blood stains upon his right shirt sleeve, but he pointed
(27:05):
to his ring finger, which had been cut near the nail,
and explained that the bleeding came from there, adding that
he had been to the window not long before, and
that the stains which had been observed there came doubtless
from the same source. He denied strenuously having ever seen
mister Neville Saint Clair, and swore that the presence of
(27:26):
the clothes in his room was as much a mystery
to him as to the police. As to Missus Saint
Clair's assertion that she had actually seen her husband at
the window, he declared that she must have been either
mad or dreaming. He was removed, loudly protesting to the
police station, while the inspector remained upon the premises in
(27:49):
the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh clue,
and it did, though they hardly found upon the mud
bank what they had feared to find. It was Nevill
Saint Clair's coat, and not Neville Saint Clair, which lay
uncovered as the tide receded. And what do you think
they found in the pockets? I cannot imagine. No, I
(28:12):
don't think you would guess every pocket stuffed with pennies
and halfpennies four hundred twenty one pennies and two hundred
seventy halfpennies. It was no wonder that it had not
been swept away by the tide. But a human body
is a different matter. There is a fierce eddy between
the wharf and the house. It seemed likely enough that
(28:35):
the weighted coat had remained when the stripped body had
been sucked away into the river. But I understand that
all the other clothes were found in the room. Would
the body be dressed in a coat alone? No, sir,
But the facts must be met speciously enough. Suppose that
this man Boon had thrust Nevill Saint Clair through the window,
(28:57):
there is no human eye which could have seen the Indeed,
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
(29:18):
downstairs when the wife tried to force her way up,
and perhaps he has already heard from his last car
confederate that the police are hurrying up the street. There
is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to
some secret hoarde 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
(29:41):
sure of the coat's sinking. He throws it out, and
would have done the same with the other garments, had
not he heard the rush of steps below, and only
just had time to close the window when the police appeared.
It certainly sounds feasible. Well, we will take it as
a working hip hop athesis for want of a better boone.
(30:03):
As I have told you, was arrested and taken to
the station. But it could not be shown that there
had ever before been anything against him. He had for
years been known as a professional beggar, but his life
appeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one.
There the matter stands at present, and the questions which
(30:23):
have to be solved, what nevill Saint Clair was doing
in the Opium Den, what happened to him when there,
where he is 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
(30:46):
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
till the last straggling houses have been left behind, and
we rattled along with a country hedge upon either side
of us. Just as he finished, however, we drove through
(31:10):
two scattered villages where a few lights still glimmered in
the windows. We are on the outskirts of Lee, said
my companion. We have touched on three English counties in
our short drive, starting in Middlesex, passing over an angle
of Surrey, and ending in Kent. See that light among
(31:30):
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 the case from Baker Street,
I asked, because there are many inquiries which must be
made out here. Missus Saint Clair has most kindly put
(31:54):
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 woe,
there woe. We had pulled up in front of a
large villa which stood within its own grounds. A stable
(32:14):
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 mussolined soul, with a touch
of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She
(32:37):
stood with her figure outlined against the flood of light,
one hand upon the door, one half raised in her eagerness,
her body slightly bent her head and face protruded with
eager eyes and parted lips. A standing question, well, she
cried well, and then seeing that there were two of us,
(32:59):
she gave a cry of hope, which sank into a
groan as she saw that my companion shook his head
and shrugged his shoulders. No good news, none, no bad
no thank God for that. But come in. You must
be weary, for you have had a long day. This
(33:21):
is my friend, doctor Watson. He has been of most
vital use to me in several of my cases, and
a lucky chance has made it possible for me to
bring him out and associate him with this investigation. I
am delighted to see you, said she, pressing my hand warmly.
You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be
(33:42):
wanting in our arrangements when you consider the blow which
has come so suddenly upon us. My dear madam said
I I am an old campaigner, and if I were not,
I can very well see that no apology is needed.
If I can be of any assistance, either to you
or to my friend here, I shall be indeed happy. Now,
(34:07):
mister Sherlock Holmes, said the lady, as we entered a
well lit dining room, upon the table of which a
cold supper had been laid out. I should very much
like to ask you one or two plain questions, to
which I beg that you will give a plain answer. Certainly, madam,
do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical
(34:30):
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,
(34:51):
standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at him
as he leaned back in a basket chair. Frankly, then, Madame,
I I do not you think that he is dead?
I do murdered. I don't say that, perhaps, and on
(35:11):
what day did he meet his death? On Monday? Then perhaps,
mister Holmes, you will 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
had been galvanized. What he roared? Yes, today, she stood, smiling,
(35:34):
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
(35:55):
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 course writing, murmured Holmes.
Surely this is not your husband's writing, madam. No, but
the enclosure is. I perceive also that whoever addressed the
(36:18):
envelope had to go and inquire as to the address.
How can you tell that? The name you see is
imperfectly black ink, which has dried itself. The rest is
of a grayish color, which shows that blotting paper has
been used. If it had been written straight off and
then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade.
(36:40):
This man has written the name, and there has then
been a pause before he wrote the address, which can
only mean that he was not familiar with it. It is,
of course a trifle, but there is nothing so important
as trifles. Now let us now see the letter hah,
there has been an enclosure here. Yes, there was a ring,
(37:04):
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
(37:27):
it may take some time to rectify. Wait in patience.
Never written in pencil upon the fly leaf of a
book octavo size, no water mark, hum posted to day
Engraveson by a fellow with a dirty thumb. Ha, and
the flap has been gummed. If I am not very
(37:48):
much in error by a person who has been chewing tobacco,
And you have no doubt that it is your husband's hand,
Madam None Nevill wrote these words and they were posted
to day at Gravesend. Well, missus, Saint Clair. The clouds lighten,
though I should not venture to say that the danger
(38:10):
is over. But he must be alive, mister 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,
(38:30):
have been ridden on Monday and only posted to day.
That is possible, if so much may have happened between Oh,
you must not discourage me, mister 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,
(38:54):
he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I, in
the dining room rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty
that something had happened. Do you think that I would
respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant of
his death. I have seen too much not to know
that the impression of a woman may be more valuable
(39:14):
than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And in this
letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence
to corroborate your view. But if your husband is alive
and able to write letters, why should he remain away
from you? I cannot imagine it is unthinkable. And on
(39:36):
Monday he made no remarks before leaving you. No, and
you were surprised to see him in Swandham Lane very
much so was the window open? Yes, then he might
have called to you. He might he only, as I understand,
(39:57):
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.
(40:17):
And you thought he was pulled back he disappeared so
suddenly he might have leaped back. You did not see
any one 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,
(40:39):
as far as you could see, had his ordinary clothes on,
but without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his
bare throat. Had he ever spoken of Swandham Lane? Never
had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium? Never?
(41:00):
Thank you missus, Saint Clair. Those are the principal points
about which I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall
now have a little supper and then retire, for we
may have a very busy day tomorrow. A large and
comfortable double bedded room had been placed at our disposal,
and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was
(41:22):
weary after my night of a venture. Sherlock Holmes was
a man, however, who, when he had an unsolved problem
upon his mind, would go for days and even for
a week without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts,
looking at it from every point of view, until he
had either fathomed it or convinced himself that his data
(41:44):
were insufficient. It was soon evident to me that he
was now preparing for an all night sitting. He took
off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue
dressing gown, and then wandered about the room, collecting pillows
from his bed and cushions from the sofa and arm chairs.
With these he constructed a sort of Eastern divan, upon
(42:07):
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,
(42:29):
and 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
(42:50):
a dense tobacco haze. But nothing remained of the heap
of shag which I had seen upon the previous night.
Awake Watson, he asked, yes, game for a morning drive. Certainly,
then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know
where the stable boy sleeps, and we shall soon have
(43:13):
the trap out. He chuckled to himself. As he spoke.
His eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to
the somber thinker of the previous night. As I dressed,
I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that
no one was stirring. It was twenty five minutes past four.
I had hardly finished when Holmes returned with the news
(43:35):
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
(43:55):
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,
(44:17):
my boy, and we shall see whether it will 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 a half clad stable
boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in and
away we dashed down the London road. A few country
(44:39):
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 But it is better
(45:01):
to learn wisdom late than never to learn it. To
tall in town, the earliest rises were just beginning to
look sleepily from their windows as we drove through the
streets of the Surrey side, Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road,
we crossed over the river, and dashing up Wellington Street,
wheeled sharply to the right, and found ourselves in Bow Street.
(45:24):
Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force, and the
two constables at the door saluted him. One of them
held the horse's head, while the other led us in.
Who is on duty? Asked Holmes. Inspector Bradstreet. Sir, ah,
brad Street, how are you? A tall stout official had
(45:46):
come down the stone flagged passage in a peaked cap
and frogged jacket. I wish to have a quiet word
with you, brad Street. Certainly, mister Holmes, step into my room. Here.
It was a small office like rooum, with a huge
ledger upon the table and a telephone projecting from the wall.
(46:06):
The inspector sat down at his desk. What can I
do for you, mister Holmes? I called about that beggarman Boone,
the one who was charged with being concerned in the
disappearance of mister Neville Sainclair of Lee. Yes, he was
brought up and remanded for further inquiries. So I heard
(46:30):
you have him here in the cells. Is he quiet? Oh,
he gives no trouble, But he is a dirty scoundrel dirty. Yes.
It is all we can do to make him wash
his hands, and his face is as black as a
tinker's well. When once his case has been settled, he
(46:52):
will have a regular prison bath. And I think if
you saw him, you would agree with me that he
needed it. I should like to see him very much,
would you. That is easily done. Come this way, you
can leave your bag. No, I think that I'll take
it very good. Come this way if you please. He
(47:16):
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 his, said the inspector. Here
it is. He quietly shot back a panel in the
upper part of the door and glanced through. Here's a sleep,
(47:40):
said he. You can see him very well. We both
put our eyes to the greeting. The prisoner lay with
his face towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing
slowly and heavily. He was a middle sized man, coarsely clad,
as became his calling, with a colored shirt protruding through
the rent in his hattered coat. He was, as the
(48:02):
inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which covered
his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad
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 the three teeth
were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very
(48:26):
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,
(48:47):
and took out, to my astonishment, a very large bath sponge.
You are a funny one, chuckled the inspector. Now, if
you will have the great goodness to open that door
very quietly, we will soon make him cut it much
more respectable. Figure. Well, I don't know why not, said
(49:09):
the inspector. He doesn't look a credit to the bow
Street sells, does he. He slipped his key into the lock,
and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper
half turned and then settled down once more into a
deep slumber. Holmes stooped to the water jug, moistened his sponge,
(49:30):
and then rubbed it twice vigorously across and down the
prisoner's face. Let me introduce you, he shouted to mister Neville,
Saint Clair of Lee in the County of Kent. Never
in my life had I seen such a sight. The
man's face peeled off under the sponge, like the bark
(49:51):
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. A twitch brought away the tangled red hair.
And there, sitting up in his bed was a pale,
sad faced, refined looking man, black haired and smooth skinned,
(50:15):
rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy bewilderment. Then,
suddenly realizing the exposure, he broke into a scream and
threw himself down with his face to the pillow. Good Heavens,
cried the inspector. It is indeed the missing man. I
know him from the photograph. The prisoner turned with the
(50:37):
reckless air of a man who abandons himself to his destiny.
Be it so, said he, and pray what am I
charged with with? Making away with mister Neville saying, oh, come,
you can't be charged with that unless they make a
case of attempted suicide of it, said the inspector with
(50:57):
a grin. Well, I've it's been twenty seven years in
the force, but this takes the cake. If I am
mister Neville, Saint 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,
(51:18):
said Holmes. You would have done better to have trusted
your wife. It was not the wife, It was the children,
groaned the prisoner. God help me, I would not have
them ashamed of their father. My God, what an exposure.
What can I do? Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him
(51:41):
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
(52:02):
the details should find their way into the papers. Inspector bradsheet, would,
I am sure, make notes upon anything which you might
tell us and submit it to the proper authorities. The
case would then never go into court at all. God
bless you, cried the prisoner Passionately. I would have endured imprisonment,
(52:24):
i even execution, rather than have left my miserable secret
as a family blot to my children. You were the
first who 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
(52:45):
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
(53:06):
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 and
(53:27):
a twist by the aid of a small slip of
flesh colored plaster. Then with a red head of hair
and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the
business part of the city, ostensibly as a match seller,
but really as a beggar. For seven hours I plied
my trade, and when I returned home in the evening,
(53:48):
I found my surprise that I had received no less
than twenty six shillings four pence. I wrote my articles
and thought little more of the matter until some time
later I bill for a friend and had a writ
served upon me for twenty five pounds. I was at
my wits end where to get the money, but a
(54:08):
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 two
(54:29):
pounds 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 it last, and
I threw up reporting and sat day after day in
the corner which I had first chosen, inspiring pity by
(54:51):
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 say lodge
in Swandham 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, Alascar, was
(55:12):
well paid by me for his rooms, so that I
knew that my secret was safe in his possession. Well
very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums
of money. I do not mean that any beggar in
the streets of London could earn seven hundred pounds a year,
which is less than my average takings. But I had
exceptional advantages in my power of making up, and also
(55:36):
in a facility of repartee which improved by practice, and
maybe quite a recognized character in the city. All day
a stream of pennies varied by silver, poured in upon me,
and it was a very bad day in which I
failed to take two pounds. As I grew richer, I
grew more ambitious, took a house in the country, and
(55:57):
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
(56:19):
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 last car, entreated him to prevent
any one from coming up to me. I heard her
voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly,
(56:42):
I threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar,
and put on my pigments and wig. Even a wife's
eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But then
it occurred to me that there might be a search
in the room, and that the clothes might betray me.
I threw open the window, reopening by my violence a
small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the
(57:04):
bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was
waited by the coppers, which I had just transferred to
it from the leather bag in which I carried my takings.
I hurled it out of the window and it disappeared
into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed, but
at that moment there was a rush of constables up
the stair, and a few minutes after I found rather
(57:28):
I confess to my relief that instead of being identified
as mister Neville Saint 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,
(57:52):
I slipped off my ring and confided it to the
last scar 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.
(58:13):
The police have watched this last scar, said Inspector Bradstreet,
and I can quite understand that he might find it
difficult to post a letter unobserved. Probably he handed it
to some sailor customer of his, who forgot all about
it for some days. That was it, said Holmes, nodding approvingly.
(58:34):
I have no doubt of it. But have you never
been prosecuted for begging? Many times? But what was a
fine to me? It must stop here, however, said Bradstreet.
If the police are to hush this thing up, there
must be no more of Hugh Boone. I have sworn
it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take.
(58:58):
In that case, I think that it is probable that
no further steps may be taken. But if you are
found again, then all must come out. I am sure,
mister Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you
for having cleared the matter up. I wish I knew
how you reach your results. I reached this one, said
(59:19):
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 be just in time for breakfast.
End of Adventure six
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