الفصل الفصل 1 · Part I - Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

. Part I - Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the

University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course

prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my studies there,

I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant

Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before I

could join it, the second Afghan war had broken out. On landing at

Bombay, I learned that my corps had advanced through the passes, and

was already deep in the enemy’s country. I followed, however, with many

other officers who were in the same situation as myself, and succeeded

in reaching Candahar in safety, where I found my regiment, and at once

entered upon my new duties.

The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had

nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed from my brigade and

attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the fatal battle of

Maiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which

shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I should have

fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not been for the

devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly, who threw me across a

pack-horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to the British lines.

Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had

undergone, I was removed, with a great train of wounded sufferers, to

the base hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied, and had already improved

so far as to be able to walk about the wards, and even to bask a little

upon the verandah, when I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse

of our Indian possessions. For months my life was despaired of, and

when at last I came to myself and became convalescent, I was so weak

and emaciated that a medical board determined that not a day should be

lost in sending me back to England. I was dispatched, accordingly, in

the troopship “Orontes,” and landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty,

with my health irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a

paternal government to spend the next nine months in attempting to

improve it.

I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as

air—or as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day will

permit a man to be. Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to

London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of

the Empire are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for some time at a

private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless, meaningless

existence, and spending such money as I had, considerably more freely

than I ought. So alarming did the state of my finances become, that I

soon realized that I must either leave the metropolis and rusticate

somewhere in the country, or that I must make a complete alteration in

my style of living. Choosing the latter alternative, I began by making

up my mind to leave the hotel, and to take up my quarters in some less

pretentious and less expensive domicile.

On the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was standing at

the Criterion Bar, when some one tapped me on the shoulder, and turning

round I recognized young Stamford, who had been a dresser under me at

Barts. The sight of a friendly face in the great wilderness of London

is a pleasant thing indeed to a lonely man. In old days Stamford had

never been a particular crony of mine, but now I hailed him with

enthusiasm, and he, in his turn, appeared to be delighted to see me. In

the exuberance of my joy, I asked him to lunch with me at the Holborn,

and we started off together in a hansom.

“Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?” he asked in

undisguised wonder, as we rattled through the crowded London streets.

“You are as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut.”

I gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and had hardly concluded it

by the time that we reached our destination.

“Poor devil!” he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my

misfortunes. “What are you up to now?”

“Looking for lodgings,” I answered. “Trying to solve the problem as to

whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price.”

“That’s a strange thing,” remarked my companion; “you are the second

man to-day that has used that expression to me.”

“And who was the first?” I asked.

“A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital.

He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get someone

to go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had found, and which

were too much for his purse.”

“By Jove!” I cried, “if he really wants someone to share the rooms and

the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a

partner to being alone.”

Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine-glass. “You

don’t know Sherlock Holmes yet,” he said; “perhaps you would not care

for him as a constant companion.”

“Why, what is there against him?”

“Oh, I didn’t say there was anything against him. He is a little queer

in his ideas—an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far as I

know he is a decent fellow enough.”

“A medical student, I suppose?” said I.

“No—I have no idea what he intends to go in for. I believe he is

well up in anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but, as far as

I know, he has never taken out any systematic medical classes. His

studies are very desultory and eccentric, but he has amassed a lot of

out-of-the-way knowledge which would astonish his professors.”

“Did you never ask him what he was going in for?” I asked.

“No; he is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he can be

communicative enough when the fancy seizes him.”

“I should like to meet him,” I said. “If I am to lodge with anyone, I

should prefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am not strong

enough yet to stand much noise or excitement. I had enough of both in

Afghanistan to last me for the remainder of my natural existence. How

could I meet this friend of yours?”

“He is sure to be at the laboratory,” returned my companion. “He either

avoids the place for weeks, or else he works there from morning to

night. If you like, we shall drive round together after luncheon.”

“Certainly,” I answered, and the conversation drifted away into other

channels.

As we made our way to the hospital after leaving the Holborn, Stamford

gave me a few more particulars about the gentleman whom I proposed to

take as a fellow-lodger.

“You mustn’t blame me if you don’t get on with him,” he said; “I know

nothing more of him than I have learned from meeting him occasionally

in the laboratory. You proposed this arrangement, so you must not hold

me responsible.”

“If we don’t get on it will be easy to part company,” I answered. “It

seems to me, Stamford,” I added, looking hard at my companion, “that

you have some reason for washing your hands of the matter. Is this

fellow’s temper so formidable, or what is it? Don’t be mealy-mouthed

about it.”

“It is not easy to express the inexpressible,” he answered with a

laugh. “Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes—it approaches

to cold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a little pinch

of the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you

understand, but simply out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an

accurate idea of the effects. To do him justice, I think that he would

take it himself with the same readiness. He appears to have a passion

for definite and exact knowledge.”

“Very right too.”

“Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to beating the

subjects in the dissecting-rooms with a stick, it is certainly taking

rather a bizarre shape.”

“Beating the subjects!”

“Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw him

at it with my own eyes.”

“And yet you say he is not a medical student?”

“No. Heaven knows what the objects of his studies are. But here we are,

and you must form your own impressions about him.” As he spoke, we

turned down a narrow lane and passed through a small side-door, which

opened into a wing of the great hospital. It was familiar ground to me,

and I needed no guiding as we ascended the bleak stone staircase and

made our way down the long corridor with its vista of whitewashed wall

and dun-coloured doors. Near the further end a low arched passage

branched away from it and led to the chemical laboratory.

This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles.

Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts,

test-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickering flames.

There was only one student in the room, who was bending over a distant

table absorbed in his work. At the sound of our steps he glanced round

and sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure. “I’ve found it! I’ve

found it,” he shouted to my companion, running towards us with a

test-tube in his hand. “I have found a re-agent which is precipitated

by hæmoglobin, and by nothing else.” Had he discovered a gold mine,

greater delight could not have shone upon his features.

“Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Stamford, introducing us.

“How are you?” he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength for

which I should hardly have given him credit. “You have been in

Afghanistan, I perceive.”

“How on earth did you know that?” I asked in astonishment.

“Never mind,” said he, chuckling to himself. “The question now is about

hæmoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of this discovery of

mine?”

“It is interesting, chemically, no doubt,” I answered, “but

practically——”

“Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years.

Don’t you see that it gives us an infallible test for blood stains.

Come over here now!” He seized me by the coat-sleeve in his eagerness,

and drew me over to the table at which he had been working. “Let us

have some fresh blood,” he said, digging a long bodkin into his finger,

and drawing off the resulting drop of blood in a chemical pipette.

“Now, I add this small quantity of blood to a litre of water. You

perceive that the resulting mixture has the appearance of pure water.

The proportion of blood cannot be more than one in a million. I have no

doubt, however, that we shall be able to obtain the characteristic

reaction.” As he spoke, he threw into the vessel a few white crystals,

and then added some drops of a transparent fluid. In an instant the

contents assumed a dull mahogany colour, and a brownish dust was

precipitated to the bottom of the glass jar.

“Ha! ha!” he cried, clapping his hands, and looking as delighted as a

child with a new toy. “What do you think of that?”

“It seems to be a very delicate test,” I remarked.

“Beautiful! beautiful! The old Guiacum test was very clumsy and

uncertain. So is the microscopic examination for blood corpuscles. The

latter is valueless if the stains are a few hours old. Now, this

appears to act as well whether the blood is old or new. Had this test

been invented, there are hundreds of men now walking the earth who

would long ago have paid the penalty of their crimes.”

“Indeed!” I murmured.

“Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one point. A man is

suspected of a crime months perhaps after it has been committed. His

linen or clothes are examined, and brownish stains discovered upon

them. Are they blood stains, or mud stains, or rust stains, or fruit

stains, or what are they? That is a question which has puzzled many an

expert, and why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have the

Sherlock Holmes’ test, and there will no longer be any difficulty.”

His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over his

heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his

imagination.

“You are to be congratulated,” I remarked, considerably surprised at

his enthusiasm.

“There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year. He would

certainly have been hung had this test been in existence. Then there

was Mason of Bradford, and the notorious Muller, and Lefevre of

Montpellier, and Samson of New Orleans. I could name a score of cases

in which it would have been decisive.”

“You seem to be a walking calendar of crime,” said Stamford with a

laugh. “You might start a paper on those lines. Call it the ‘Police

News of the Past.’”

“Very interesting reading it might be made, too,” remarked Sherlock

Holmes, sticking a small piece of plaster over the prick on his finger.

“I have to be careful,” he continued, turning to me with a smile, “for

I dabble with poisons a good deal.” He held out his hand as he spoke,

and I noticed that it was all mottled over with similar pieces of

plaster, and discoloured with strong acids.

“We came here on business,” said Stamford, sitting down on a high

three-legged stool, and pushing another one in my direction with his

foot. “My friend here wants to take diggings, and as you were

complaining that you could get no one to go halves with you, I thought

that I had better bring you together.”

Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms with

me. “I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street,” he said, “which would

suit us down to the ground. You don’t mind the smell of strong tobacco,

I hope?”

“I always smoke ‘ship’s’ myself,” I answered.

“That’s good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally

do experiments. Would that annoy you?”

“By no means.”

“Let me see—what are my other shortcomings. I get in the dumps at

times, and don’t open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am

sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I’ll soon be right. What

have you to confess now? It’s just as well for two fellows to know the

worst of one another before they begin to live together.”

I laughed at this cross-examination. “I keep a bull pup,” I said, “and

I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at all

sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of

vices when I’m well, but those are the principal ones at present.”

“Do you include violin-playing in your category of rows?” he asked,

anxiously.

“It depends on the player,” I answered. “A well-played violin is a

treat for the gods—a badly-played one——”

“Oh, that’s all right,” he cried, with a merry laugh. “I think we may

consider the thing as settled—that is, if the rooms are agreeable to

you.”

“When shall we see them?”

“Call for me here at noon to-morrow, and we’ll go together and settle

everything,” he answered.

“All right—noon exactly,” said I, shaking his hand.

We left him working among his chemicals, and we walked together towards

my hotel.

“By the way,” I asked suddenly, stopping and turning upon Stamford,

“how the deuce did he know that I had come from Afghanistan?”

My companion smiled an enigmatical smile. “That’s just his little

peculiarity,” he said. “A good many people have wanted to know how he

finds things out.”

“Oh! a mystery is it?” I cried, rubbing my hands. “This is very

piquant. I am much obliged to you for bringing us together. ‘The proper

study of mankind is man,’ you know.”

“You must study him, then,” Stamford said, as he bade me good-bye.

“You’ll find him a knotty problem, though. I’ll wager he learns more

about you than you about him. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” I answered, and strolled on to my hotel, considerably

interested in my new acquaintance.