Books: Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes

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"So now, my dear fellow, you see exactly how we stand
and why it is I want you. It is perfectly plain that
after the ladies parted from this man he followed them
at a distance, that he saw the quarrel between husband
and wife through the window, that he rushed in, and
that the creature which he carried in his box got
loose. That is all very certain. But he is the only
person in this world who can tell us exactly what
happened in that room."

"And you intend to ask him?"

"Most certainly--but in the presence of a witness."

"And I am the witness?"

"If you will be so good. If he can clear the matter
up, well and good. If he refuses, we have no
alternative but to apply for a warrant."

"But how do you know he'll be there when we return?"

"You may be sure that I took some precautions. I have
one of my Baker Street boys mounting guard over him
who would stick to him like a burr, go where he might.
We shall find him in Hudson Street to-morrow, Watson,
and meanwhile I should be the criminal myself if I
kept you out of bed any longer."

It was midday when we found ourselves at the scene of
the tragedy, and, under my companion's guidance, we
made our way at once to Hudson Street. In spite of
his capacity for concealing his emotions, I could
easily see that Holmes was in a state of suppressed
excitement, while I was myself tingling with that
half-sporting, half-intellectual pleasure which I
invariably experienced when I associated myself with
him in his investigations.

"This is the street," said he, as we turned into a
short thoroughfare lined with plain two-storied brick
houses. "Ah, here is Simpson to report."

"He's in all right, Mr. Holmes," cried a small street
Arab, running up to us.

"Good, Simpson!" said Holmes, patting him on the head.
"Come along, Watson. This is the house." He sent in
his card with a message that he had come on important
business, and a moment later we were face to face with
the man whom we had come to see. In spite of the warm
weather he was crouching over a fire, and the little
room was like an oven. The man sat all twisted and
huddled in his chair in a way which gave an
indescribably impression of deformity; but the face
which he turned towards us, though worn and swarthy,
must at some time have been remarkable for its beauty.
He looked suspiciously at us now out of yellow-shot,
bilious eyes, and, without speaking or rising, he
waved towards two chairs.

"Mr. Henry Wood, late of India, I believe," said
Holmes, affably. "I've come over this little matter
of Colonel Barclay's death."

"What should I know about that?"

"That's what I want to ascertain. You know, I
suppose, that unless the matter is cleared up, Mrs.
Barclay, who is an old friend of yours, will in all
probability be tried for murder."

The man gave a violent start.

"I don't know who you are," he cried, "nor how you
come to know what you do know, but will you swear that
this is true that you tell me?"

"Why, they are only waiting for her to come to her
senses to arrest her."

"My God! Are you in the police yourself?"

"No."

"What business is it of yours, then?"

"It's every man's business to see justice done."

"You can take my word that she is innocent."

"Then you are guilty."

"No, I am not."

"Who killed Colonel James Barclay, then?"

"It was a just providence that killed him. But, mind
you this, that if I had knocked his brains out, as it
was in my heart to do, he would have had no more than
his due from my hands. If his own guilty conscience
had not struck him down it is likely enough that I
might have had his blood upon my soul. You want me to
tell the story. Well, I don't know why I shouldn't,
for there's no cause for me to be ashamed of it.

"It was in this way, sir. You see me now with my back
like a camel and by ribs all awry, but there was a
time when Corporal Henry Wood was the smartest man in
the 117th foot. We were in India then, in
cantonments, at a place we'll call Bhurtee. Barclay,
who died the other day, was sergeant in the same
company as myself, and the belle of the regiment, ay,
and the finest girl that ever had the breath of life
between her lips, was Nancy Devoy, the daughter of the
color-sergeant. There were two men that loved her,
and one that she loved, and you'll smile when you look
at this poor thing huddled before the fire, and hear
me say that it was for my good looks that she loved
me.

"Well, though I had her heart, her father was set upon
her marrying Barclay. I was a harum-scarum, reckless
lad, and he had had an education, and was already
marked for the sword-belt. But the girl held true to
me, and it seemed that I would have had her when the
Mutiny broke out, and all hell was loose in the
country.

"We were shut up in Bhurtee, the regiment of us with
half a battery of artillery, a company of Sikhs, and a
lot of civilians and women-folk. There were ten
thousand rebels round us, and they were as keen as a
set of terriers round a rat-cage. About the second
week of it our water gave out, and it was a question
whether we could communicate with General Neill's
column, which was moving up country. It was our only
chance, for we could not hope to fight our way out
with all the women and children, so I volunteered to
go out and to warn General Neill of our danger. My
offer was accepted, and I talked it over with Sergeant
Barclay, who was supposed to know the ground better
than any other man, and who drew up a route by which I
might get through the rebel lines. At ten o'clock the
same night I started off upon my journey. There were
a thousand lives to save, but it was of only one that
I was thinking when I dropped over the wall that
night.

"My way ran down a dried-up watercourse, which we
hoped would screen me from the enemy's sentries; but
as I crept round the corner of it I walked right into
six of them, who were crouching down in the dark
waiting for me. In an instant I was stunned with a
blow and bound hand and foot. But the real blow was
to my heart and not to my head, for as I came to and
listened to as much as I could understand of their
talk, I heard enough to tell me that my comrade, the
very man who had arranged the way that I was to take,
had betrayed me by means of a native servant into the
hands of the enemy.

"Well, there's no need for me to dwell on that part of
it. You know now what James Barclay was capable of.
Bhurtee was relieved by Neill next day, but the rebels
took me away with them in their retreat, and it was
many a long year before ever I saw a white face again.
I was tortured and tried to get away, and was captured
and tortured again. You can see for yourselves the
state in which I was left. Some of them that fled
into Nepaul took me with them, and then afterwards I
was up past Darjeeling. The hill-folk up there
murdered the rebels who had me, and I became their
slave for a time until I escaped; but instead of going
south I had to go north, until I found myself among
the Afghans. There I wandered about for many a year,
and at last came back to the Punjab, where I lived
mostly among the natives and picked up a living by the
conjuring tricks that I had learned. What use was it
for me, a wretched cripple, to go back to England or
to make myself known to my old comrades? Even my wish
for revenge would not make me do that. I had rather
that Nancy and my old pals should think of Harry Wood
as having died with a straight back, than see him
living and crawling with a stick like a chimpanzee.
They never doubted that I was dead, and I meant that
they never should. I heard that Barclay had married
Nancy, and that he was rising rapidly in the regiment,
but even that did not make me speak.

"But when one gets old one has a longing for home.
For years I've been dreaming of the bright green
fields and the hedges of England. At last I
determined to see them before I died. I saved enough
to bring me across, and then I came here where the
soldiers are, for I know their ways and how to amuse
them and so earn enough to keep me."

"Your narrative is most interesting," said Sherlock
Holmes. "I have already heard of your meeting with
Mrs. Barclay, and your mutual recognition. You then,
as I understand, followed her home and saw through the
window an altercation between her husband and her, in
which she doubtless cast his conduct to you in his
teeth. Your own feelings overcame you, and you ran
across the lawn and broke in upon them."

"I did, sir, and at the sight of me he looked as I
have never seen a man look before, and over he went
with his head on the fender. But he was dead before
he fell. I read death on his face as plain as I can
read that text over the fire. The bare sight of me
was like a bullet through his guilty heart."

"And then?"

"Then Nancy fainted, and I caught up the key of the
door from her hand, intending to unlock it and get
help. But as I was doing it it seemed to me better to
leave it alone and get away, for the thing might look
black against me, and any way my secret would be out
if I were taken. In my haste I thrust the key into my
pocket, and dropped my stick while I was chasing
Teddy, who had run up the curtain. When I got him
into his box, from which he had slipped, I was off as
fast as I could run."

"Who's Teddy?" asked Holmes.

The man leaned over and pulled up the front of a kind
of hutch in the corner. In an instant out there
slipped a beautiful reddish-brown creature, thin and
lithe, with the legs of a stoat, a long, thin nose,
and a pair of the finest red eyes that ever I saw in
an animal's head.

"It's a mongoose," I cried.

"Well, some call them that, and some call them
ichneumon," said the man. "Snake-catcher is what I
call them, and Teddy is amazing quick on cobras. I
have one here without the fangs, and Teddy catches it
every night to please the folk in the canteen.

"Any other point, sir?"

"Well, we may have to apply to you again if Mrs.
Barclay should prove to be in serious trouble."

"In that case, of course, I'd come forward."

"But if not, there is no object in raking up this
scandal against a dead man, foully as he has acted.
You have at least the satisfaction of knowing that for
thirty years of his life his conscience bitterly
reproached him for this wicked deed. Ah, there goes
Major Murphy on the other side of the street.
Good-by, Wood. I want to learn if anything has
happened since yesterday."

We were in time to overtake the major before he
reached the corner.

"Ah, Holmes," he said: "I suppose you have heard that
all this fuss has come to nothing?"

"What then?"

"The inquest is just over. The medical evidence
showed conclusively that death was due to apoplexy.
You see it was quite a simple case after all."

"Oh, remarkably superficial," said Holmes, smiling.
"Come, Watson, I don't think we shall be wanted in
Aldershot any more."

"There's one thing," said I, as we walked down to the
station. "If the husband's name was James, and the
other was Henry, what was this talk about David?"

"That one word, my dear Watson, should have told me
the whole story had I been the ideal reasoner which
you are so fond of depicting. It was evidently a term
of reproach."

"Of reproach?"

"Yes; David strayed a little occasionally, you know,
and on one occasion in the same direction as Sergeant
James Barclay. You remember the small affair of Uriah
and Bathsheba? My biblical knowledge is a trifle
rusty, I fear, but you will find the story in the
first or second of Samuel."

Adventure VIII

The Resident Patient

Glancing over the somewhat incoherent series of
Memoirs with which I have endeavored to illustrate a
few of the mental peculiarities of my friend Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, I have been struck by the difficulty
which I have experienced in picking out examples which
shall in every way answer my purpose. For in those
cases in which Holmes has performed some tour de force
of analytical reasoning, and has demonstrated the
value of his peculiar methods of investigation, the
facts themselves have often been so slight or so
commonplace that I could not feel justified in laying
them before the public. On the other hand, it has
frequently happened that he has been concerned in some
research where the facts have been of the most
remarkable and dramatic character, but where the share
which he has himself taken in determining their causes
has been less pronounced than I, as his biographer,
could wish. The small matter which I have chronicled
under the heading of "A Study in Scarlet," and that
other later one connected with the loss of the Gloria
Scott, may serve as examples of this Scylla and
Charybdis which are forever threatening the historian.
It may be that in the business of which I am now about
to write the part which my friend played is not
sufficiently accentuated; and yet the whole train of
circumstances is so remarkable that I cannot bring
myself to omit it entirely from this series.

It had been a close, rainy day in October. Our blinds
were half-drawn, and Holmes lay curled upon the sofa,
reading and re-reading a letter which he had received
by the morning post. For myself, my term of service
in India had trained me to stand heat better than
cold, and a thermometer of 90 was no hardship. But
the paper was uninteresting. Parliament had risen.
Everybody was out of town, and I yearned for the
glades of the New Forest or the shingle of Southsea.
A depleted bank account had caused me to postpone my
holiday, and as to my companion, neither the country
nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him.
He loved to lie in the very centre of five millions of
people, with his filaments stretching out and running
through them, responsive to every little rumor or
suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of Nature
found no place among his many gifts, and his only
change was when he turned his mind from the evil-doer
of the town to track down his brother of the country.

Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation,
I had tossed aside the barren paper, and leaning back
in my chair, I fell into a brown study. Suddenly my
companion's voice broke in upon my thoughts.

"You are right, Watson," said he. "It does seem a
very preposterous way of settling a dispute."

"Most preposterous!" I exclaimed, and then, suddenly
realizing how he had echoed the inmost thought of my
soul, I sat up in my chair and stared at him in blank
amazement.

"What is this, Holmes?" I cried. "This is beyond
anything which I could have imagined."

He laughed heartily at my perplexity.

"You remember," said he, "that some little time ago,
when I read you the passage in one of Poe's sketches,
in which a close reasoner follows the unspoken thought
of his companion, you were inclined to treat the
matter as a mere tour de force of the author. On my
remarking that I was constantly in the habit of doing
the same thing you expressed incredulity."

"Oh, no!"

"Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but
certainly with your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw
down your paper and enter upon a train of thought, I
was very happy to have the opportunity of reading it
off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof
that I had been in rapport with you."

But I was still far from satisfied. "In the example
which you read to me," said I, "the reasoner drew his
conclusions from the actions of the man whom he
observed. If I remember right, he stumbled over a
heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so on.
But I have been seated quietly in my chair, and what
clues can I have given you?"

"You do yourself an injustice. The features are given
to man as the means by which he shall express his
emotions, and yours are faithful servants."

"Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts
from my features?"

"Your features, and especially your eyes. Perhaps you
cannot yourself recall how your reverie commenced?"

"No, I cannot."

"Then I will tell you. After throwing down your
paper, which was the action which drew my attention to
you, you sat for half a minute with a vacant
expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your
newly-framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by
the alteration in your face that a train of thought
had been started. But it did not lead very far. Your
eyes turned across to the unframed portrait of Henry
Ward Beecher which stands upon the top of your books.
You then glanced up at the wall, and of course your
meaning was obvious. You were thinking that if the
portrait were framed it would just cover that bare
space and correspond with Gordon's picture over
there."

"You have followed me wonderfully!" I exclaimed.

"So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your
thoughts went back to Beecher, and you looked hard
across as if you were studying the character in his
features. Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but you
continued to look across, and your face was
thoughtful. You were recalling the incidents of
Beecher's career. I was well aware that you could not
do this without thinking of the mission which he
undertook on behalf of the North at the time of the
Civil War, for I remember you expressing your
passionate indignation at the way in which he was
received by the more turbulent of our people. You
felt so strongly about it that I knew you could not
think of Beecher without thinking of that also. When
a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the
picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned to
the Civil War, and when I observed that your lips set,
your eyes sparkled, and your hands clinched, I was
positive that you were indeed thinking of the
gallantry which was shown by both sides in that
desperate struggle. But then, again, your face grew
sadder; you shook your head. You were dwelling upon
the sadness and horror and useless waste of life.
Your hand stole towards your own old wound, and a
smile quivered on your lips, which showed me that the
ridiculous side of this method of settling
international questions had forced itself upon your
mind. At this point I agreed with you that it was
preposterous, and was glad to find that all my
deductions had been correct."

"Absolutely!" said I. "And now that you have
explained it, I confess that I am as amazed as
before."

"It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure
you. I should not have intruded it upon your
attention had you not shown some incredulity the other
day. But the evening has brought a breeze with it.
What do you say to a ramble through London?"

I was weary of our little sitting-room and gladly
acquiesced. For three hours we strolled about
together, watching the ever-changing kaleidoscope of
life as it ebbs and flows through Fleet Street and the
Strand. His characteristic talk, with its keen
observance of detail and subtle power of inference
held me amused and enthralled. It was ten o'clock
before we reached Baker Street again. A brougham was
waiting at our door.

"Hum! A doctor's--general practitioner, I perceive,"
said Holmes. "Not been long in practice, but has had
a good deal to do. Come to consult us, I fancy!
Lucky we came back!"

I was sufficiently conversant with Holmes's methods to
be able to follow his reasoning, and to see that the
nature and state of the various medical instruments in
the wicker basket which hung in the lamplight inside
the brougham had given him the data for his swift
deduction. The light in our window above showed that
this late visit was indeed intended for us. With some
curiosity as to what could have sent a brother medico
to us at such an hour, I followed Holmes into our
sanctum.

A pale, taper-faced man with sandy whiskers rose up
from a chair by the fire as we entered. His age may
not have been more than three or four and thirty, but
his haggard expression and unhealthy hue told of a
life which has sapped his strength and robbed him of
his youth. His manner was nervous and shy, like that
of a sensitive gentleman, and the thin white hand
which he laid on the mantelpiece as he rose was that
of an artist rather than of a surgeon. His dress was
quiet and sombre--a black frock-coat, dark trousers,
and a touch of color about his necktie.

"Good-evening, doctor," said Holmes, cheerily. "I am
glad to see that you have only been waiting a very few
minutes."

"You spoke to my coachman, then?"

"No, it was the candle on the side-table that told me.
Pray resume your seat and let me know how I can serve
you."

"My name is Doctor Percy Trevelyan," said our visitor,
"and I live at 403 Brook Street."

"Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure
nervous lesions?" I asked.

His pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing that
his work was known to me.

"I so seldom hear of the work that I thought it was
quite dead," said he. "My publishers gave me a most
discouraging account of its sale. You are yourself, I
presume, a medical man?"

"A retired army surgeon."

"My own hobby has always been nervous disease. I
should wish to make it an absolute specialty, but, of
course, a man must take what he can get at first.
This, however, is beside the question, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, and I quite appreciate how valuable your time
is. The fact is that a very singular train of events
has occurred recently at my house in Brook Street, and
to-night they came to such a head that I felt it was
quite impossible for me to wait another hour before
asking for your advice and assistance."

Sherlock Holmes sat down and lit his pipe. "You are
very welcome to both," said he. "Pray let me have a
detailed account of what the circumstances are which
have disturbed you."

"One or two of them are so trivial," said Dr.
Trevelyan, "that really I am almost ashamed to mention
them. But the matter is so inexplicable, and the
recent turn which it has taken is so elaborate, that I
shall lay it all before you, and you shall judge what
is essential and what is not.

"I am compelled, to begin with, to say something of my
own college career. I am a London University man, you
know, and I am sure that your will not think that I am
unduly singing my own praises if I say that my student
career was considered by my professors to be a very
promising one. After I had graduated I continued to
devote myself to research, occupying a minor position
in King's College Hospital, and I was fortunate enough
to excite considerable interest by my research into
the pathology of catalepsy, and finally to win the
Bruce Pinkerton prize and medal by the monograph on
nervous lesions to which your friend has just alluded.
I should not go too far if I were to say that there
was a general impression at that time that a
distinguished career lay before me.

"But the one great stumbling-block lay in my want of
capital. As you will readily understand, a specialist
who aims high is compelled to start in one of a dozen
streets in the Cavendish Square quarter, all of which
entail enormous rents and furnishing expenses.
Besides this preliminary outlay, he must be prepared
to keep himself for some years, and to hire a
presentable carriage and horse. To do this was quite
beyond my power, and I could only hope that by economy
I might in ten years' time save enough to enable me to
put up my plate. Suddenly, however, an unexpected
incident opened up quite a new prospect to me.

"This was a visit from a gentleman of the name of
Blessington, who was a complete stranger to me. He
came up to my room one morning, and plunged into
business in an instant.

"'You are the same Percy Trevelyan who has had so
distinguished a career and won a great prize lately?'
said he.

"I bowed.

"'Answer me frankly,' he continued, 'for you will find
it to your interest to do so. You have all the
cleverness which makes a successful man. Have you the
tact?'

"I could not help smiling at the abruptness of the
question.

"'I trust that I have my share,' I said.

"'Any bad habits? Not drawn towards drink, eh?'

"'Really, sir!' I cried.

"'Quite right! That's all right! But I was bound to
ask. With all these qualities, why are you not in
practice?'

"I shrugged my shoulders.

"'Come, come!' said he, in his bustling way. 'It's
the old story. More in your brains than in your
pocket, eh? What would you say if I were to start you
in Brook Street?'

"I stared at him in astonishment.

"'Oh, it's for my sake, not for yours,' he cried.
'I'll be perfectly frank with you, and if it suits you
it will suit me very well. I have a few thousands to
invest, d'ye see, and I think I'll sink them in you.'

"'But why?' I gasped.

"'Well, it's just like any other speculation, and
safer than most.'

"'What am I to do, then?'

"'I'll tell you. I'll take the house, furnish it, pay
the maids, and run the whole place. All you have to
do is just to wear out your chair in the
consulting-room. I'll let you have pocket-money and
everything. Then you hand over to me three quarters
of what you earn, and you keep the other quarter for
yourself.'

"This was the strange proposal, Mr. Holmes, with which
the man Blessington approached me. I won't weary you
with the account of how we bargained and negotiated.
It ended in my moving into the house next Lady-day,
and starting in practice on very much the same
conditions as he had suggested. He came himself to
live with me in the character of a resident patient.
His heart was weak, it appears, and he needed constant
medical supervision. He turned the two best rooms of
the first floor into a sitting-room and bedroom for
himself. He was a man of singular habits, shunning
company and very seldom going out. His life was
irregular, but in one respect he was regularity
itself. Every evening, at the same hour, he walked
into the consulting-room, examined the books, put down
five and three-pence for every guinea that I had
earned, and carried the rest off to the strong-box in
his own room.

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