Chapter Chapter 5 · Part I - Our Advertisement Brings A Visitor.

. Part I - Our Advertisement Brings A Visitor.

Our morning’s exertions had been too much for my weak health, and I was

tired out in the afternoon. After Holmes’ departure for the concert, I

lay 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 that

had occurred, and the strangest fancies and surmises crowded into it.

Every time that I closed my eyes I saw before me the distorted

baboon-like countenance of the murdered man. So sinister was the

impression which that face had produced upon me that I found it

difficult to feel anything but gratitude for him who had removed its

owner from the world. If ever human features bespoke vice of the most

malignant type, they were certainly those of Enoch J. Drebber, of

Cleveland. Still I recognized that justice must be done, and that the

depravity of the victim was no condonement in the eyes of the law.

The more I thought of it the more extraordinary did my companion’s

hypothesis, that the man had been poisoned, appear. I remembered how he

had sniffed his lips, and had no doubt that he had detected something

which had given rise to the idea. Then, again, if not poison, what had

caused the man’s death, since there was neither wound nor marks of

strangulation? But, on the other hand, whose blood was that which lay

so thickly upon the floor? There were no signs of a struggle, nor had

the victim any weapon with which he might have wounded an antagonist.

As long as all these questions were unsolved, I felt that sleep would

be no easy matter, either for Holmes or myself. His quiet

self-confident manner convinced me that he had already formed a theory

which explained all 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 concert

could not have detained him all the time. Dinner was on the table

before he appeared.

“It was magnificent,” he said, as he took his seat. “Do you remember

what Darwin says about music? He claims that the power of producing and

appreciating it existed among the human race long before the power of

speech was arrived at. Perhaps that is why we are so subtly influenced

by it. There are vague memories in our souls of those misty centuries

when 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 interpret

Nature,” he answered. “What’s the matter? You’re not looking quite

yourself. This Brixton Road affair has upset you.”

“To tell the truth, it has,” I said. “I ought to be more case-hardened

after my Afghan experiences. I saw my own comrades hacked to pieces at

Maiwand without losing my nerve.”

“I can understand. There is a mystery about this which stimulates the

imagination; where there is no imagination there is no horror. Have you

seen the evening paper?”

“No.”

“It gives a fairly good account of the affair. It does not mention the

fact that when the man was raised up, a woman’s wedding ring fell upon

the floor. It is just as well it does not.”

“Why?”

“Look at this advertisement,” he answered. “I had one sent to every

paper this morning immediately after the affair.”

He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place indicated.

It was the first announcement in the “Found” column. “In Brixton Road,

this morning,” it ran, “a plain gold wedding ring, found in the roadway

between 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 these

dunderheads would recognize it, and want to meddle in the affair.”

“That is all right,” I answered. “But supposing anyone applies, I have

no ring.”

“Oh yes, you have,” said he, handing me one. “This will do very well.

It is 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 reason

to believe that it is, this man would rather risk anything than lose

the ring. According to my notion he dropped it while stooping over

Drebber’s body, and did not miss it at the time. After leaving the

house he discovered his loss and hurried back, but found the police

already in possession, owing to his own folly in leaving the candle

burning. He had to pretend to be drunk in order to allay the suspicions

which might have been aroused by his appearance at the gate. Now put

yourself in that man’s place. On thinking the matter over, it must have

occurred to him that it was possible that he had lost the ring in the

road after leaving the house. What would he do, then? He would eagerly

look out for the evening papers in the hope of seeing it among the

articles found. His eye, of course, would light upon this. He would be

overjoyed. Why should he fear a trap? There would be no reason in his

eyes why the finding of the ring should be connected with the murder.

He would come. He will come. 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 for

anything.”

I went to my bedroom and followed his advice. When I returned with the

pistol the table had been cleared, and Holmes was engaged in his

favourite occupation of scraping upon his violin.

“The plot thickens,” he said, as I entered; “I have just had an answer

to 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 your

pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes speak to him in an

ordinary way. Leave the rest to me. Don’t frighten him by looking at

him too hard.”

“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 a queer old book I picked up at a stall yesterday—‘De Jure inter

Gentes’—published in Latin at Liege in the Lowlands, in 1642. Charles’

head was still firm on his shoulders when this little brown-backed

volume was struck off.”

“Who is the printer?”

“Philippe de Croy, whoever he may have been. On the fly-leaf, in very

faded ink, is written ‘Ex libris Guliolmi Whyte.’ I wonder who William

Whyte was. Some pragmatical seventeenth century lawyer, I suppose. His

writing 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 rose

softly and moved his chair in the direction of the door. We heard the

servant pass along the hall, and the sharp click of the latch as she

opened it.

“Does Dr. Watson live here?” asked a clear but rather harsh voice. We

could not hear the servant’s reply, but the door closed, and some one

began to ascend the stairs. The footfall was an uncertain and shuffling

one. A look of surprise passed over the face of my companion as he

listened to it. It came slowly along the passage, and there was a

feeble tap at the door.

“Come in,” I cried.

At my summons, instead of the man of violence whom we expected, a very

old and wrinkled woman hobbled into the apartment. She appeared to be

dazzled by the sudden blaze of light, and after dropping a curtsey, she

stood blinking at us with her bleared eyes and fumbling in her pocket

with nervous, shaky fingers. I glanced at my companion, and his face

had assumed such a disconsolate expression that it was all I could do

to keep my countenance.

The old crone drew out an evening paper, and pointed at our

advertisement. “It’s this as has brought me, good gentlemen,” she said,

dropping another curtsey; “a gold wedding ring in the Brixton Road. It

belongs 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 if

he come ‘ome and found her without her ring is more than I can think,

he being short enough at the best o’ times, but more especially when he

has the drink. If it please you, she went to the circus last night

along with——”

“Is that her ring?” I asked.

“The Lord be thanked!” cried the old woman; “Sally will be a glad woman

this 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,”

said Sherlock Holmes sharply.

The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her little

red-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—hers is Dennis, which Tom Dennis married her—and a

smart, clean lad, too, as long as he’s at sea, and no steward in the

company more thought of; but when on shore, what with the women and

what with liquor shops——”

“Here is your ring, Mrs. Sawyer,” I interrupted, in obedience to a sign

from my companion; “it clearly belongs to your daughter, and I am glad

to be able to restore it to the rightful owner.”

With many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude the old

crone packed it away in her pocket, and shuffled off down the stairs.

Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet the moment that she was gone and

rushed into his room. He returned in a few seconds enveloped in an

ulster and a cravat. “I’ll follow her,” he said, hurriedly; “she must

be an accomplice, and will lead me to him. Wait up for me.” The hall

door had hardly slammed behind our visitor before Holmes had descended

the stair. Looking through the window I could see her walking feebly

along the other side, while her pursuer dogged her some little distance

behind. “Either his whole theory is incorrect,” I thought to myself,

“or else he will be led now to the heart of the mystery.” There was no

need for him to ask me to wait up for him, for I felt that sleep was

impossible until I heard the result of his adventure.

It was close upon nine when he set out. I had no idea how long he might

be, but I sat stolidly puffing at my pipe and skipping over the pages

of Henri Murger’s “Vie de Bohème.” Ten o’clock passed, and I heard the

footsteps of the maid as they pattered off to bed. Eleven, and the more

stately tread of the landlady passed my door, bound for the same

destination. It was close upon twelve before I heard the sharp sound of

his latch-key. The instant he entered I saw by his face that he had not

been successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to be struggling for the

mastery, until the former suddenly carried the day, and he burst into a

hearty 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 would

never have let me hear the end of it. I can afford to laugh, because I

know 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 had

gone a little way when she began to limp and show every sign of being

foot-sore. Presently she came to a halt, and hailed a four-wheeler

which was passing. I managed to be close to her so as to hear the

address, but I need not have been so anxious, for she sang it out loud

enough to be heard at the other side of the street, ‘Drive to 13,

Duncan Street, Houndsditch,’ she cried. This begins to look genuine, I

thought, and having seen her safely inside, I perched myself behind.

That’s an art which every detective should be an expert at. Well, away

we rattled, and never drew rein until we reached the street in

question. I hopped off before 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 saw him open the door and stand expectantly. Nothing

came out though. When I reached him he was groping about frantically in

the empty cab, and giving vent to the finest assorted collection of

oaths that ever I listened to. There was no sign or trace of his

passenger, and I fear it will be some time before he gets his fare. On

inquiring at Number 13 we found that the house belonged to a

respectable paperhanger, named Keswick, and that no one of the name

either of Sawyer or Dennis had ever been 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 old

women to be so taken in. It must have been a young man, and an active

one, too, besides being an incomparable actor. The get-up was

inimitable. He saw that he was followed, no doubt, and used this means

of giving me the slip. It shows that the man we are after is not as

lonely as I imagined he was, but has friends who are ready to risk

something for him. Now, Doctor, you are looking done-up. Take my advice

and turn in.”

I was certainly feeling very weary, so I obeyed his injunction. I left

Holmes seated in front of the smouldering fire, and long into the

watches of the night I heard the low, melancholy wailings of his

violin, and knew that he was still pondering over the strange problem

which he had set himself to unravel.