A Study in Scarlet

by Arthur Conan Doyle

  CHAPTER V. OUR ADVERTISEMENT BRINGS A VISITOR.

  OUR morning's exertions had been too much for my weak health, and I wastired out in the afternoon. After Holmes' departure for the concert, Ilay down upon the sofa and endeavoured to get a couple of hours' sleep.It was a useless attempt. My mind had been too much excited by all thathad occurred, and the strangest fancies and surmises crowded intoit. Every time that I closed my eyes I saw before me the distortedbaboon-like countenance of the murdered man. So sinister was theimpression which that face had produced upon me that I found itdifficult to feel anything but gratitude for him who had removed itsowner from the world. If ever human features bespoke vice of the mostmalignant type, they were certainly those of Enoch J. Drebber, ofCleveland. Still I recognized that justice must be done, and that thedepravity of the victim was no condonment [11] in the eyes of the law.

  The more I thought of it the more extraordinary did my companion'shypothesis, that the man had been poisoned, appear. I remembered how hehad sniffed his lips, and had no doubt that he had detected somethingwhich had given rise to the idea. Then, again, if not poison, whathad caused the man's death, since there was neither wound nor marks ofstrangulation? But, on the other hand, whose blood was that which lay sothickly upon the floor? There were no signs of a struggle, nor had thevictim any weapon with which he might have wounded an antagonist. Aslong as all these questions were unsolved, I felt that sleep would beno easy matter, either for Holmes or myself. His quiet self-confidentmanner convinced me that he had already formed a theory which explainedall the facts, though what it was I could not for an instant conjecture.

  He was very late in returning--so late, that I knew that the concertcould not have detained him all the time. Dinner was on the table beforehe appeared.

  "It was magnificent," he said, as he took his seat. "Do you rememberwhat Darwin says about music? He claims that the power of producing andappreciating it existed among the human race long before the power ofspeech was arrived at. Perhaps that is why we are so subtly influencedby it. There are vague memories in our souls of those misty centurieswhen the world was in its childhood."

  "That's rather a broad idea," I remarked.

  "One's ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to interpretNature," he answered. "What's the matter? You're not looking quiteyourself. This Brixton Road affair has upset you."

  "To tell the truth, it has," I said. "I ought to be more case-hardenedafter my Afghan experiences. I saw my own comrades hacked to pieces atMaiwand without losing my nerve."

  "I can understand. There is a mystery about this which stimulates theimagination; where there is no imagination there is no horror. Have youseen the evening paper?"

  "No."

  "It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does not mention thefact that when the man was raised up, a woman's wedding ring fell uponthe floor. It is just as well it does not."

  "Why?"

  "Look at this advertisement," he answered. "I had one sent to everypaper this morning immediately after the affair."

  He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place indicated. Itwas the first announcement in the "Found" column. "In Brixton Road,this morning," it ran, "a plain gold wedding ring, found in the roadwaybetween the 'White Hart' Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr. Watson,221B, Baker Street, between eight and nine this evening."

  "Excuse my using your name," he said. "If I used my own some of thesedunderheads would recognize it, and want to meddle in the affair."

  "That is all right," I answered. "But supposing anyone applies, I haveno ring."

  "Oh yes, you have," said he, handing me one. "This will do very well. Itis almost a facsimile."

  "And who do you expect will answer this advertisement."

  "Why, the man in the brown coat--our florid friend with the square toes.If he does not come himself he will send an accomplice."

  "Would he not consider it as too dangerous?"

  "Not at all. If my view of the case is correct, and I have every reasonto believe that it is, this man would rather risk anything than lose thering. According to my notion he dropped it while stooping over Drebber'sbody, and did not miss it at the time. After leaving the house hediscovered his loss and hurried back, but found the police already inpossession, owing to his own folly in leaving the candle burning. He hadto pretend to be drunk in order to allay the suspicions which might havebeen aroused by his appearance at the gate. Now put yourself in thatman's place. On thinking the matter over, it must have occurred to himthat it was possible that he had lost the ring in the road after leavingthe house. What would he do, then? He would eagerly look out for theevening papers in the hope of seeing it among the articles found. Hiseye, of course, would light upon this. He would be overjoyed. Why shouldhe fear a trap? There would be no reason in his eyes why the findingof the ring should be connected with the murder. He would come. He willcome. You shall see him within an hour?"

  "And then?" I asked.

  "Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then. Have you any arms?"

  "I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges."

  "You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate man,and though I shall take him unawares, it is as well to be ready foranything."

  I went to my bedroom and followed his advice. When I returned withthe pistol the table had been cleared, and Holmes was engaged in hisfavourite occupation of scraping upon his violin.

  "The plot thickens," he said, as I entered; "I have just had an answerto my American telegram. My view of the case is the correct one."

  "And that is?" I asked eagerly.

  "My fiddle would be the better for new strings," he remarked. "Put yourpistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes speak to him in an ordinaryway. Leave the rest to me. Don't frighten him by looking at him toohard."

  "It is eight o'clock now," I said, glancing at my watch.

  "Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the door slightly.That will do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you! This is aqueer old book I picked up at a stall yesterday--'De Jure interGentes'--published in Latin at Liege in the Lowlands, in 1642. Charles'head was still firm on his shoulders when this little brown-backedvolume was struck off."

  "Who is the printer?"

  "Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the fly-leaf, in veryfaded ink, is written 'Ex libris Guliolmi Whyte.' I wonder who WilliamWhyte was. Some pragmatical seventeenth century lawyer, I suppose. Hiswriting has a legal twist about it. Here comes our man, I think."

  As he spoke there was a sharp ring at the bell. Sherlock Holmes rosesoftly and moved his chair in the direction of the door. We heard theservant pass along the hall, and the sharp click of the latch as sheopened it.

  "Does Dr. Watson live here?" asked a clear but rather harsh voice. Wecould not hear the servant's reply, but the door closed, and some onebegan to ascend the stairs. The footfall was an uncertain and shufflingone. A look of surprise passed over the face of my companion as helistened to it. It came slowly along the passage, and there was a feebletap at the door.

  "Come in," I cried.

  At my summons, instead of the man of violence whom we expected, a veryold and wrinkled woman hobbled into the apartment. She appeared to bedazzled by the sudden blaze of light, and after dropping a curtsey, shestood blinking at us with her bleared eyes and fumbling in her pocketwith nervous, shaky fingers. I glanced at my companion, and his facehad assumed such a disconsolate expression that it was all I could do tokeep my countenance.

  The old crone drew out an evening paper, and pointed at ouradvertisement. "It's this as has brought me, good gentlemen," she said,dropping another curtsey; "a gold wedding ring in the Brixton Road. Itbelongs to my girl Sally, as was married only this time twelvemonth,which her husband is steward aboard a Union boat, and what he'd say ifhe come 'ome and found her without her ring is more than I can think, hebeing short enough at the best o' times, but more especially when hehas the drink. If it please you, she went t
o the circus last night alongwith----"

  "Is that her ring?" I asked.

  "The Lord be thanked!" cried the old woman; "Sally will be a glad womanthis night. That's the ring."

  "And what may your address be?" I inquired, taking up a pencil.

  "13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. A weary way from here."

  "The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and Houndsditch," saidSherlock Holmes sharply.

  The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her littlered-rimmed eyes. "The gentleman asked me for _my_ address," she said."Sally lives in lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham."

  "And your name is----?"

  "My name is Sawyer--her's is Dennis, which Tom Dennis married her--anda smart, clean lad, too, as long as he's at sea, and no steward in thecompany more thought of; but when on shore, what with the women and whatwith liquor shops----"

  "Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer," I interrupted, in obedience to a signfrom my companion; "it clearly belongs to your daughter, and I am gladto be able to restore it to the rightful owner."

  With many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude the old cronepacked it away in her pocket, and shuffled off down the stairs. SherlockHolmes sprang to his feet the moment that she was gone and rushed intohis room. He returned in a few seconds enveloped in an ulster anda cravat. "I'll follow her," he said, hurriedly; "she must be anaccomplice, and will lead me to him. Wait up for me." The hall door hadhardly slammed behind our visitor before Holmes had descended the stair.Looking through the window I could see her walking feebly along theother side, while her pursuer dogged her some little distance behind."Either his whole theory is incorrect," I thought to myself, "or else hewill be led now to the heart of the mystery." There was no need for himto ask me to wait up for him, for I felt that sleep was impossible untilI heard the result of his adventure.

  It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how long he mightbe, but I sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and skipping over the pagesof Henri Murger's "Vie de Boheme." Ten o'clock passed, and I heard thefootsteps of the maid as they pattered off to bed. Eleven, and themore stately tread of the landlady passed my door, bound for the samedestination. It was close upon twelve before I heard the sharp sound ofhis latch-key. The instant he entered I saw by his face that he had notbeen successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to be struggling for themastery, until the former suddenly carried the day, and he burst into ahearty laugh.

  "I wouldn't have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world," he cried,dropping into his chair; "I have chaffed them so much that they wouldnever have let me hear the end of it. I can afford to laugh, because Iknow that I will be even with them in the long run."

  "What is it then?" I asked.

  "Oh, I don't mind telling a story against myself. That creature hadgone a little way when she began to limp and show every sign of beingfoot-sore. Presently she came to a halt, and hailed a four-wheeler whichwas passing. I managed to be close to her so as to hear the address, butI need not have been so anxious, for she sang it out loud enough tobe heard at the other side of the street, 'Drive to 13, Duncan Street,Houndsditch,' she cried. This begins to look genuine, I thought, andhaving seen her safely inside, I perched myself behind. That's an artwhich every detective should be an expert at. Well, away we rattled, andnever drew rein until we reached the street in question. I hopped offbefore we came to the door, and strolled down the street in an easy,lounging way. I saw the cab pull up. The driver jumped down, and I sawhim open the door and stand expectantly. Nothing came out though. WhenI reached him he was groping about frantically in the empty cab, andgiving vent to the finest assorted collection of oaths that ever Ilistened to. There was no sign or trace of his passenger, and I fear itwill be some time before he gets his fare. On inquiring at Number 13we found that the house belonged to a respectable paperhanger, namedKeswick, and that no one of the name either of Sawyer or Dennis had everbeen heard of there."

  "You don't mean to say," I cried, in amazement, "that that tottering,feeble old woman was able to get out of the cab while it was in motion,without either you or the driver seeing her?"

  "Old woman be damned!" said Sherlock Holmes, sharply. "We were the oldwomen to be so taken in. It must have been a young man, and anactive one, too, besides being an incomparable actor. The get-up wasinimitable. He saw that he was followed, no doubt, and used this meansof giving me the slip. It shows that the man we are after is not aslonely as I imagined he was, but has friends who are ready to risksomething for him. Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up. Take my adviceand turn in."

  I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction. Ileft Holmes seated in front of the smouldering fire, and long into thewatches of the night I heard the low, melancholy wailings of his violin,and knew that he was still pondering over the strange problem which hehad set himself to unravel.