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    The Adventures & Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
    The Adventures & Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
    The Adventures & Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
    Ebook673 pages14 hours

    The Adventures & Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes

    By Arthur Conan Doyle and Julian Wolfreys

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    About this ebook

    'My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people don't know'.


    The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes first introduced Arthur Conan Doyle's brilliant detective to the readers of The Strand Magazine. The runaway success of this series prompted a second set of stories, The Memoirs.


    In these twenty three tales, collected here in one volume, you have some of the best detective yarns ever penned.

    In his consulting room at 221B Baker Street, the master sleuth receives a stream of clients all presenting him with baffling and bizarre mysteries to unravel. There is, for example, the man who is frightened for his life because of the arrival of an envelope containing five orange pips; there is the terrified woman who is aware that her life is in danger and cannot explain the strange whistling sounds she hears in the night; and there is the riddle of the missing butler and the theft of an ancient treasure. In the last story, there is the climatic battle between Holmes and his arch enemy, 'the Napoleon of Crime' Professor Moriarty. Holmes, with trusty Watson by his side, is equal to these and the other challenges in this splendid collection.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWordsworth Editions
    Release dateSep 1, 2013
    ISBN9781848704213
    The Adventures & Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes
    Author

    Arthur Conan Doyle

    Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859–1930) was a Scottish writer and physician, most famous for his stories about the detective Sherlock Holmes and long-suffering sidekick Dr Watson. Conan Doyle was a prolific writer whose other works include fantasy and science fiction stories, plays, romances, poetry, non-fiction and historical novels.

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    Reviews for The Adventures & Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes

    4/5

    2,794 ratings99 reviews

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    • 3/5
      The stories aren't as memorable as The Hound of the Baskervilles, Study in Scarlet, and The Sign of Four. None of the stories stand out.
    • 5/5
      These are the classic Sherlock tales, and they’re probably the best known of all the short stories. I remember my dad reading these aloud to my brother and me when we were children. These stories are distinctive and quite enjoyable, and in my opinion, some of Sherlock’s most memorable moments occur within these pages. I liked that not all of these stories involved traditional crimes, and I also liked that several of them featured strong women. Holmes fails in at least two of these stories, and it really was something to see the great detective in his lower moments as well. He is still a very human character, for all his powers, and he’s very well fleshed-out here. On the whole, a wonderful collection of tales.
    • 3/5
      Nett zu lesende Kurzgeschichten aber als Krimi ungeeignet. Was das Buch dann doch noch lesenswert macht ist das Lokalkolorit des auslaufenden 19ten Jahrhunderts.
    • 3/5
      Intussen al een eeuw klassieke detective verhalen. Wat opvalt is dat Holmes eigenlijk geen sympathieke held is, en zelf regelmatig in zijn hemd wordt gezet.
    • 5/5
      Holmes is ALWAYS worth a read.
    • 4/5
      It was nice to re-read these.
    • 4/5
      The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (1892) is the first book-length collection of Holmes short stories, they were originally published in The Strand Magazine 1891-92. Most of them have small references to other stories so there is a sense of coherence and world-building. It includes "The Adventure of the Speckled Band" which Doyle considered his all-time favorite Holmes story. It's gaslight entertainment that evokes an age. The spooky mansions with the evil mastermind, brutish henchmen and the locked room with a mystery. Well, it's better than Saturday morning cartoons.
    • 4/5
      Truly a must read for men
    • 5/5
      I think that perhaps, apart from a few Nancy Drews, it was the Sherlock Holmes stories that got me started on a lifetime of mystery reading. I've reread them several times and enjoyed them just as much or more each time.
    • 3/5
      This was my first Sherlock Holmes book. It is a collection of short stories, and I am generally not a big fan of short stories. They were mostly o.k., but I had a hard time focusing on it. My mind tended to drift. And, as with most collections of short stories, some are better than others. Although, I thought they worked well as short stories, but given how much my mind wandered, I can only rate it o.k. I will likely try another Sherlock Holmes, but a novel instead next time.
    • 4/5
      Excellent narration of a classic collection of mystery stories! The version I listened to was performed by Ben Kingsley. These mysteries really do stand the test of time. One thing I found interesting is that Holmes is not a very likeable character. I have also been reading Laurie King's Mary Russell series that features a Holmes who is brusque and incredibly intelligent in that superior obnoxious way, but shows a bit more humanity.
    • 3/5
      I will admit I was reading this primarily to provide context for the recent movies (and... other media) so I wasn't nearly as concerned with the quality of the mysteries. I can definitely see why Holmes and Watson are such resilient characters - their relationship is delightful. The actual stories are pleasantly short, and I was satisfied that while I couldn't actually solve the mystery most of the time (the reader doesn't get enough info) I could usually see the shape of it, which made me anticipate the reveal more tan I would have otherwise.
    • 4/5
      A collection of tales from Sherlock Holmes.
    • 5/5
      Fantastic collection of Sherlock Holmes Stories.
    • 4/5
      You pretty much know what you're getting with Sherlock Holmes, and these are some pretty fun brainteasers that all blend together after you read several in a row.
    • 4/5
      I really liked this one, it had a number of interesting short stories in highlighting the skills of Sherlock Holmes. I much prefer longer novels to short stories but I did all these stories fully engaging. Onto the Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes now.
    • 5/5
      A strong collection of Holmes stories, highlighted by the powerfully creepy “The Speckled Band,” the modesty gothic “The Copper Beeches,” and the delightful “A Scandal in Bohemia.”The only story that was substandard for me was “The Blue Carbuncle,” in which the plot was too fantastic to be believed. But even that story is full of the late Victorian atmosphere and Holmes at his best.We tend to forget how much mystery stories and novels owe to Conan Doyle. His ideas and plots are being used even today as inspiration for authors.If you long for gas-lit London, hansom cabs, fog, and excellent detecting, try this volume, either for the first or fifth time. You’ll be glad you did.
    • 4/5
      Great little mystery stories, I had fun reading this!
    • 4/5
      A fun read with some interesting comments about human nature along the way.ON SOLVING PUZZLES AS A WAY OF DEALING WITH ENNUI‘It saved me from ennui’ he answered, yawning. ‘Alas, I already feel it closing in upon me! My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do so.’ (p. 67)ON TRUTH BEING STRANGER THAN FICTION’My dear fellow,’ said Sherlock Holmes, as we sat on either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, ‘life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and leading to the most outre results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable.’ (p. 68)ON QUANIT COUNTRYSIDES BEING JUST AS MUCH THE OCCASION FOR EVIL AS THE INNER CITYBy eleven o’clock the next day we were well upon our way to the old English capital. Holmes had been buried in the morning papers all the way down, but after we had passed the Hampshire border he threw them down, and began to admire the scenery. It was an ideal spring day, a light blue sky, flecked with little fleecy white clouds drifting across from west to east. The sun was shining very brightly, and yet there was an exhilarating nip in the air, which set an edge to a man’s energy. All over the countryside, away to the rolling hills around Aldershot, the little red and grey roofs of the farm-steadings peeped out from amidst the light green of the new foliage.‘Are they not fresh and beautiful?’ I cried, with all the enthusiasm of a man fresh from the fogs of Baker Street.But Holmes shook his head gravely.‘Do you know, Watson,’ said he, ‘that it is one of the curses of a mind with a turn like mine that I must look at everything with reference to my own special subject. You look at these scattered houses, and you are impressed by their beauty. I look at them, and the only thought which comes to me is a feeling of their isolation, and of the impunity with which crime may be committed there.’‘Good heavens!’ I cried. ‘Who would associate crime with these dear old homesteads ?’‘They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.’‘You horrify me!’‘But the reason is very obvious. The pressure of public opinion can do in the town what the law cannot accomplish. There is no lane so vile that the scream of a tortured child, or the thud of a drunkard’s blow, does not beget sympathy and indignation among the neighbours, and then the whole machinery of justice is ever so close that a word of complaint can set it going,* and there is but a step between the crime and the dock. But look at these lonely houses, each in its own fields, filled for the most part with poor ignorant folk who know little of the law. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser. Had this lady who appeals to us for help gone to live in Winchester, I should never have had a fear for her. It is the five miles of country which makes the danger. Still, it is clear that she is not personally threatened.’ (pp. 300-301)ALSO ERIC AMBLER SPEAKS IN THE INTRODUCTION ABOUT A BOOK HOLMES RECOMMENDS TO HOLMES BY WINWOOD READ CALLED THE MARTYRDOM OF MAN ABOUT HIS TAKE ON CHRISTIANITYIt took me a long time to read [The Martyrdom of Man] and I relished every moment.The church, the Bible and religious instruction at school had always bored me. After years of regular church-going I still had to watch the rest of the congregation in order to know when to stand, sit or kneel. The words of the service were still to me meaningless. I loathed hymns, found the clerical voice grotesque and the uttering of responses absurd.Of course, I had kept those thoughts to myself. Religion wasn’t something one was permitted to like or dislike. You accepted it in the form provided, as you accepted tap water, or you were damned. Young clergymen sometimes had doubts, it appeared, but as these always turned out to arise from some theological quibble or a dispute over ritual, they were small consolation to a doubter who was against clergymen of all ages and denominations. Now though, here at last, was a book by an articulate, and patently educated, writer which proclaimed, with a wealth of historical evidence and reasoned argument to support its case, that the whole thing was, and always had been, an elaborate hoax.That, at least, was how I interpreted Reade’s findings, and I was sure that Holmes had done the same. It was an enormous relief. My own doubts could now be explained in terms other than those of innate wickedness or incipient madness.The euphoria, however, was brief. Priggish youngsters seeking theoretical justification for their likes and dislikes are, though often successful, not always as fortunate as I was. After the first excitement of recognizing in Winwood Reade a kindred spirit had worn off, and I had grown used to what Watson called ‘die daring speculations of the writer’, I became more interested in the paths by which he had arrived at them than in the speculations themselves. Before long I had begun an exploration of social history which still continues.I remain grateful to Holmes. (pp. 9-10)
    • 3/5
      This was a quick read of short stories featuring the classic Sherlock Holmes. The stories were simple and fun to read. I enjoyed the personality and thought-process of Holmes more than the mysteries, but I think it was worth the read.
    • 3/5
      Prior to this, the only Sherlock Holmes I had attempted to read was "The Hound of the Baskervilles" which I started at least twice but never finished. I've enjoyed the PBS series "Sherlock" and a friend mentioned that some of the events in that corresponded with what she'd read in the stories/novels. So when this one came up as free on Amazon, I downloaded it and decided I'd give it a try. I enjoyed the stories, but I don't follow the clues that Holmes sees/hears as he investigates--so his reveal is always a bit of a surprise to me.
    • 4/5
      It is very exciting for a classic read. A classic Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys but Sherlock Holmes is definitely a more colorful character, smarter and cooler. He reminds me of Dr. House, someone who loves a good puzzle and they also have the same urge of solving a very difficulty case. Modern day policemen needs to emulate Sherlock Holmes. I commend Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for being able to reach out to readers of different ages, different sizes and different nationality.
    • 4/5
      *fond*

      I may be giving bonus points for nostalgia, but original flavor!Sherlock Holmes is still my favorite. <3
    • 4/5
      Simple but effective. An engaging read, if not particularly noteworthy in terms of writing.
    • 4/5
      The first collection of short stories about the famous detective (and the third book about him). Most of these stories were new to me on this read--I think the only one I'd read before was "The Five Orange Pips," which I found both on this read an on my first read to be disappointing in that American audiences (especially modern day ones) will have half the mystery sorted before Holmes even points out the relevant points. As with any collection, some stories are stronger than others. I quite liked "Scandal in Bohemia" and "The Bascombe Valley Mystery." I was struck by how easy it often is to pick up on at least some of the answers to the cases (a function, surely, of having them presented to one in this form--real life would be another story, I suspect). I also had great fun identifying all the little points and bits of business that have shown up thus far in Moffat and Gatiss's Sherlock.
    • 4/5
      Assortment of short stories narrated by Dr. Watson with Sherlock Holmes as the central character. These are all very interesting and quick to read. I thoroughly enjoyed them all.
    • 5/5
      Much better than the novels if you ask me. Great scope, every single case was interesting and written in a concise and clear manner, yet somehow with enough detail to give a lot of victorian flavour to the story. Loved the short but memorable appearance of Irene Adler and I was surprised to see a story about the KKK. Great collection of short stories with vivid characters and plots that, far from being far-fetched, allow Holmes' methods to shine.
    • 4/5
      The stories are interesting even today, but the writing does not fully survive the test of time. The language used on conversations is old fashioned, but even for a not-native speaker it is not hindering the experience. The only part that I really dislike is how Sherlock Holmes is portrayed as a god of deduction while Watson is constantly downgrading himself as not worthy common man next to the superior Sherlock. I'm glad the movies have fixed this and have given Watson a more active role and Sherlock some flaws.
    • 5/5
      I first met Sherlock Holmes in high school, and have been on friendly terms with him ever since. The dozen stories in this book include: A Scandal in Bohemia, The Red-Headed League, A Case of Identity, The Boscombe Valley Mystery, The Five Orange Pips, The Man with the Twisted Lip, The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle, The Adventure of the Speckled Band, The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb, The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor, The Adventure of the Beryl Cornet, and The Adventure of the Copper Beeches.
    • 2/5
      I like the way that Doyle sets a scene. When reading each short story I really feel like I am right there in 19th century London with Holmes and Watson, safe in the confines of 221B Baker Street. When compared to most modern mystery writers, Holmes mysteries are fairly low on drama . . . more like interesting puzzles to be solved by the ever intriguing and eccentric Holmes. Especially enjoyed the character development of Holmes and Watson throughout the series of short stories/

    Book preview

    The Adventures & Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle

    The Adventures and Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes

    Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

    with an introduction

    by Julian Wolfreys

    This edition of The Adventures and Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes first published by Wordsworth Editions Limited in 1996

    Introduction © Julian Wolfreys 1996

    Published as an ePublication 2013

    ISBN 978 1 84870 421 3

    Wordsworth Editions Limited

    8B East Street, Ware, Hertfordshire SG12 9HJ

    Wordsworth® is a registered trademark of

    Wordsworth Editions Limited

    All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publishers.

    Readers interested in other titles from Wordsworth Editions are invited to visit our website at

    www.wordsworth-editions.com

    For our latest list of printed books, and a full mail-order service contact

    Bibliophile Books, Unit 5 Datapoint,

    South Crescent, London E16 4TL

    Tel: +44 020 74 74 24 74

    Fax: +44 020 74 74 85 89

    [email protected]

    www.bibliophilebooks.com

    For my husband

    ANTHONY JOHN RANSON

    with love from your wife, the publisher

    Eternally grateful for your unconditional love,

    not just for me but for our children,

    Simon, Andrew and Nichola Trayler

    Contents

    The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

    1. A Scandal in Bohemia

    2. The Red-Headed League

    3. A Case of Identity

    4. The Boscombe Valley Mystery

    5. The Five Orange Pips

    6. The Man with the Twisted Lip

    7. The Blue Carbuncle

    8. The Speckled Band

    9. The Engineer’s Thumb

    10. The Noble Bachelor

    11. The Beryl Coronet

    12. The Copper Beeches

    The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes

    1. Silver Blaze

    2. The Yellow Face

    3. The Stockbroker’s Clerk

    4. The Gloria Scott

    5. The Musgrave Ritual

    6. The Reigate Squires

    7. The Crooked Man

    8. The Resident Patient

    9. The Greek Interpreter

    10. The Naval Treaty

    11. The Final Problem

    General Introduction

    Wordsworth Classics are inexpensive editions designed to appeal to the general reader and students. We commissioned teachers and specialists to write wide ranging, jargon-free introductions and to provide notes that would assist the understanding of our readers rather than interpret the stories for them. In the same spirit, because the pleasures of reading are inseparable from the surprises, secrets and revelations that all narratives contain, we strongly advise you to enjoy this book before turning to the Introduction.

    General Adviser

    Keith Carabine

    Rutherford College University of Kent at Canterbury

    Introduction

    Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle, creator of Sherlock Holmes, probably still the most famous of all fictional detectives, was born in Edinburgh on 22 May 1859, of Scots-Irish parentage. His family being Roman Catholic, Conan Doyle was educated at a series of Jesuit schools between 1868–76, culminating with a year in the Jesuit college at Feldkirch, Austria. Subsequently, he became a medical student at Edinburgh University, a training which provided him with a career in medicine as well as fitting him with knowledge which was to prove useful in creating the mind of his famous detective, who displays often formidable forensic knowledge.

    In 1877 Conan Doyle became surgeon’s clerk to Joseph Bell, an Edinburgh surgeon (and the person to whom the author later dedicated The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes), whilst also assuming various other temporary medical assistantships in the next three years throughout the Midlands. In 1880, he served a seven-month contract on a whaling vessel out of Peterhead, graduating from Edinburgh University in the following year.

    In the next two years, Conan Doyle held various posts, none of them for very long, including another brief spell as a ship’s surgeon, this time sailing to Africa. By 1882 he had begun writing, and his first short story was published in 1883. Entitled ‘The Captain of the Pole-Star’, the story drew on Conan Doyle’s experience as a ship’s surgeon. Publication of other short pieces followed on a regular basis over the next three years. By 1886 Conan Doyle had begun work on a novel, a mystery which was to introduce the reading public to the consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. This was called A Study in Scarlet, which was completed in a year and published in 1887 in Beeton’s Christmas Annual. This was to be the first of many subsequent adventures, and marked the genesis of what became for Conan Doyle a highly ambivalent relationship with his violin-playing addict of a detective. This novel, which ranged between the streets of London and the deserts of Utah, also introduced the medium through which Holmes became a familiar household name, John H. Watson MD, whose profession was clearly modelled on Conan Doyle’s own, at least in part. Holmes in fact is introduced to Watson by a mutual acquaintance, just at the moment when Holmes has discovered, in his own words, ‘a re-agent precipitated by haemoglobin and nothing else’. Holmes is then revealed by Conan Doyle to both the reader and Watson through a demonstration of his deductive and forensic powers.

    Such an introduction, hyperbolic as it was, proved to be the beginning of a literary phenomenon. The stories were to continue almost until Arthur Conan Doyle’s death in 1930. Thus Sherlock Holmes had a professional career of approximately forty years, coming to dominate his author’s life, livelihood and literary output. Although Conan Doyle always claimed Holmes was merely a popular money-spinner, to aid with the financing of ‘serious’ literary production and acceptance (which he always desired), nothing that Conan Doyle wrote was ever to prove as remotely successful – at least in commercial terms – as the adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Even the author’s other two sustained creations, Professor Challenger and Brigadier Gerard, never came close to rivalling the affection and interest in the general readership caused by Sherlock Holmes.

    A Study in Scarlet proved popular, and was published in book form in July 1888, just six months after its initial publication. Its popularity was such that, in 1889, Lippincott’s publishing house commissioned another Holmes novel, The Sign of Four (a work showing minor, if noticeable, influences from Wilkie Collins’s The Moonstone) at the same time that they commissioned The Picture of Dorian Gray from Oscar Wilde. Holmes’s second outing began to appear in serial form in Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine in March 1890, and was afterwards rapidly published as a single volume in October of the same years by Spencer Blackett. In this story Holmes had developed substantially from the Holmes of the first novel; and with The Sign of Four, the nature of Sherlock Holmes’s character, with its Dionysian and Apollonian aspects, its wide-ranging scientific knowledge, its indebtedness to German Romanticism, its brief nods towards the Nietzschean übermensch (Conan Doyle had read, but disapproved of the German philosopher) and its dandified éclat (obviously echoing certain of the fictional characters of those two great literary dandies of the Victorian epoch, Edward Bulwer-Lytton and Oscar Wilde), was formed.

    In 1891 Conan Doyle established a Harley Street practice as an eye specialist. In the same year, six short stories featuring Holmes appeared. They were published between July and December in the monthly numbers of the Strand magazine, the periodical which was to publish the stories exclusively until 1927. The Strand had been founded in the same year by Sir George Newnes, the founder of Tit-Bits (a decade earlier) and the daily Westminster Gazette (1893), and eventually closed in 1950. As well as Arthur Conan Doyle, the Strand also published H. G. Wells, Arthur Morrison, P. G. Wodehouse, Rudyard Kipling and Somerset Maugham, and may fairly be said to be amongst the most important and influential literary periodicals of the late-Victorian and Edwardian periods. The six Holmes stories published in Newnes’s monthly magazine were the first stories in what was to be The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. The other six stories were published in the first six months of 1892. These twelve tales – ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’; ‘A Case of Identity’; ‘The Red-Headed League’; ‘The Boscombe Valley Mysteries’; ‘The Five Orange Pips’; ‘The Man with the Twisted Lip’; ‘The Blue Carbuncle’; ‘The Speckled Band’; ‘The Engineer’s Thumb’; ‘The Noble Bachelor’; ‘The Beryl Coronet’; ‘The Copper Beeches’ – were brought out in a single volume very shortly after the publication of the last of the twelve. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes appeared on 31 October 1892. Newnes, the publisher of the Strand, produced this volume. Such was the popularity of Holmes that, in the same year, Newnes also published a second edition of The Sign of Four. Sherlock Holmes had arrived.

    The two Holmes novels had been a success, but the format most suited to Watson’s narratives and Conan Doyle’s style was the short story. This form allowed complete tales to be told, while affording the author the luxury of making connections and allusions across tales. In developing this style across the Adventures, Conan Doyle considered himself to be something of a literary ‘revolutionist’, to use his own word. Whatever the reason for developing Holmes through the short story rather than the novel, however, the shorter narrative certainly proved a convenient medium for transmitting the narratives through periodical publication. Those who might have missed an issue would not be excluded from following the adventures in other issues (this would certainly maximise sales).

    Another consideration was Conan Doyle’s own ability as a writer. The short-story format meant that the author was not constrained to carrying narrative developments across several issues. The Holmes novels occasionally demonstrate in their structuring Conan Doyle’s problems in working with such a form. In the novels narrative development is subject to abrupt and often quite arbitrary changes, for which the writer has to account in a somewhat artificial fashion. The short story, however, allowed Conan Doyle to focus on one particular narrative, whilst also providing a showcase for his attention to detail so necessary to his detective’s method of detection. In the development of Holmes’s career it was the short story, then, that was to prove the most enduring.

    Arthur Conan Doyle had returned to London in March 1891 to look for premises for his medical practice, following a visit to Vienna, where he had been studying the most advanced techniques in the treatment of eye conditions. By April of that year he had found suitable professional premises. At the same time he had been planning the first Holmes short story. On 3 April, the first of the adventures ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’ was completed. Another three tales were finished by the end of the month. His work on the stories was halted at the beginning of May when he suffered a near-fatal bout of flu. However, by the middle of the month he was back at work on the next Holmes adventure. By August 1891 the first half-dozen stories were completed.

    Conan Doyle drew inspiration for Holmes and his adventures from many sources, some of which have already been mentioned. Edgar Allan Poe’s detective, Dupin (of ‘The Purloined Letter’), is one such source. Joseph Bell, Conan Doyle’s teacher in Edinburgh, is another. Correspondence between the two men (who remained lifelong friends) shows that Bell deprecated his own contribution to and influence on the shaping of the detective. However great or small the influence, it is certain that it is from Bell that the author learnt much, if not all, he knew about forensic medicine. At the same time other literary figures such as Oscar Wilde and Robert Louis Stevenson informed the character of Sherlock Holmes. For other details and curious cultural minutiae which subsequently became reworked as crucial detail in the plots and fleshing-out of many of the stories, Conan Doyle drew on magazines such as Tit-Bits.

    There was a gap during the late summer of 1891, when no Holmes stories were written. Conan Doyle did not begin again until October, at which point the Strand was being persistent with its requests that more of the tremendously popular mysteries be written. There is evidence from November of that year that Conan Doyle was already fed up with his star-turn. For the early stories he was paid between £25–£35 per story. After several exchanges of correspondence, Conan Doyle reluctantly agreed to write more, but for the increased fee of £50 per adventure. However, in a letter from November to Mary Doyle, his mother, Conan Doyle comments that he is already thinking of ‘slaying Holmes’ because the detective took the author’s ‘mind from better things’. [footnote: Letter from Arthur Conan Doyle to Mary Doyle, in The Life of Arthur Conan Doyle by John Dickson Carr, cited in the Introduction by Roger Lancelyn Green to The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (Oxford University Press, Oxford, 1993), p. xxv. Green’s is the most comprehensive and authoritative account of the genesis of the Adventures, and I gratefully acknowledge its usefulness in writing this present introduction.] However, Mary convinced her son not to put Holmes to death, whilst providing him with material for a plot.

    At the same time, the Strand helped fix in the minds of the reading public what has since become the most enduring visual image of Holmes. Illustrator Sidney Paget had been commissioned to provide a pictorial accompaniment; it was he who created the image of the tall, gaunt aesthete; it was also Paget who was responsible for providing the various accoutrements which have become virtual synecdoches for Holmes himself: the meerschaum pipe, the cape and, of course, the now ubiquitous deerstalker, all of which carried over into subsequent film and television versions of Holmes – most notably Basil Rathbone’s version of the sardonic sleuth – until the 1980s when the image of Holmes was reinvented definitively by Jeremy Brett for television. It is Brett’s Holmes, with his waspish irony, high-camp mannerisms and melodramatic brio – as one anonymous critic put it, here was a Holmes whose very soul wore mascara! – which comes closest to Conan Doyle’s original intentions. But for a century the popular vision of Sherlock Holmes was indissociable from Paget’s original illustration for the Strand. However, despite the differences between the version imagined by the author, and the vision engendered by the artist, Conan Doyle pronounced himself very pleased with Paget’s creation.

    The first edition of the single-volume Adventures of Sherlock Holmes sold very well, and was critically well received also. Published at the end of October 1892, approximately 8,000 copies had sold by Christmas. One of the first reviewers was, ironically, Joseph Bell. [footnote: Bell’s review can be found in The Uncollected Sherlock Holmes, compiled by Richard Lancelyn Green (Penguin, Harmondsworth, 1983), pp. 361–7.] The review was published in the Bookman in December (subsequently reprinted as an introduction to A Study in Scarlet). Of the work and its author, Bell said that,

    Dr Conan Doyle has made a well-deserved success for his detective stories, and made the name of his hero beloved by the boys of this country by the marvellous cleverness of his method . . . Trained as he has been to notice and appreciate minute details, Dr Doyle saw how he could interest his intelligent readers by taking them into his confidence . . . He created a shrewd, quick-sighted, inquisitive man, half doctor, half virtuoso . . . [footnote: Bell’s review, pp. 362, 364]

    Half doctor, half virtuoso. Perhaps more than any other definition, these words sum up both Holmes and the reasons for his almost immediate popularity. The combination of science and panache was irresistible to the reading public, and not just the boys of Britain, as Bell’s review suggests. Not only had the great detective arrived, he had found a place in both the mind and heart of the popular imagination, unrivalled by almost any other fictional creation, certainly any fictional detective. Not even Hercule Poirot or Miss Marple came close to embracing the all-round characteristics of the persona defined succinctly by Joseph Bell.

    A second series of Holmes’s adventures began in the Strand in 1893. These were then published by George Newnes in a second collection under the title The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. One of the stories from the Strand originally intended for this collection – ‘The Cardboard Box’ – was dropped. However, the collection did contain what was the most shocking Holmes case so far published: ‘The Final Problem’. In this story Sherlock Holmes plunges to his death at the Reichenbach Falls, engaged in unarmed combat with his arch-rival Moriarty. The only witness to this scene is John Watson, for whom Holmes had been ‘the best and the wisest man’ he had ever known. Conan Doyle had killed off his detective in order to be able to concentrate on ‘serious’ writing. But he also felt, with justification perhaps, that the public can have too much of a good thing, as he revealed in an article published in 1900 in Tit-Bits. Conan Doyle was keen to avoid being labelled as capable of only one trick. As he put it in the interview, ‘ . . . why should a man be driven into a groove and not write about what interest him? . . . when I had written twenty-six stories . . . I felt that it was irksome, this searching for plots – and if it must be getting irksome for me, most certainly, I argued, it must be losing its freshness for others. I knew I had done better work in other fields of literature.’ [footnote: ‘Conan Doyle Tells the True Story of Sherlock Holmes’, Tit-Bits (15 December 1900), quoted in The Uncollected Sherlock Holmes, p. 349. Interestingly enough, in the same article, Conan Doyle cited the influence of Edgar Allan Poe’s detective M. Dupin, from ‘The Purloined Letter’ and ‘The Murders on the Rue Morgue’, on the creation of Holmes.]Whatever Conan Doyle’s reasons, Holmes was summarily disposed of, while, in the same year, ‘serious literature’ from the author was represented by a disastrous musical-comedy drama, co-authored with J. M. Barrie (a close friend of Conan Doyle, who wrote the Holmes parody ‘The Adventures of the Two Collaborators’).

    Holmes’s life appeared, then, to be limited to a brief five-year span. The detective ‘died’ in the same year as Charles Altamont Doyle, the author’s father. There was to be an eight-year hiatus in the Holmes ‘industry’, despite numerous enquiries, requests and despairing entreaties on the part of the ‘fans’ of the great detective. This absence of Holmes did not mean that Conan Doyle was idle, however. During this time, he wrote and published many short stories and several novels, often working in difference genres.

    In 1900, Arthur Conan Doyle stood unsuccessfully as the Liberal Unionist candidate for Parliament in Edinburgh Central. This was his only foray into politics. More successful was the return of Sherlock Holmes in 1901 (once more in the Strand), in the serial version of perhaps the most famous Holmes story, The Hound of the Baskervilles. Conan Doyle had finally bowed to public pressure (and perhaps economic considerations), and the novel was published as a single volume in 1902, the year he was awarded his knighthood, an award he accepted only reluctantly.

    The Hound did not mark the return of the detective, strictly speaking, however, for it was represented as merely one more tale from Holmes’s earlier life and Watson’s notebooks. There was no indication in the story that the report of the death at the Falls had been incorrectly reported by John Watson. Indeed Watson had faithfully reported what he believed he had seen, what he had believed to be the facts of the untimely demise of his friend and colleague. He was to be proved wrong, though. In October 1903 the Strand began publishing a series of stories known as The Return of Sherlock Holmes. The first of these stories was ‘The Empty House’, in which Watson is revealed to be innocent of all duplicity with regard to his reading public, as a strange old book-collector reveals himself to be none other than Holmes, much to the good doctor’s surprise. The series continued throughout 1904, and was published collectively under the title The Return of Sherlock Holmes in 1905 (once again by George Newnes). Conan Doyle had been, as ever, reluctant to write any more stories, and had tried to call the Strand’s bluff by asking for an advance for new stories of £1000. To his surprise, this price was agreed.

    Conan Doyle never wrote Holmes stories in so concerted a fashion again as had been the case for the first three volumes. Occasional adventures continued to appear in the Strand until 1927, which was the year of the detective’s final disappearance. The Valley of Fear, the final novel, appeared between 1914–15, with the collection His Last Bow being published by John Murray in 1917, and The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes being published (again by John Murray) in 1927, three years before Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s death.

    Dr Julian Wolfreys

    University of Luton

    Further Reading

    Arthur Conan Doyle: The Sherlock Holmes Stories

    A Study in Scarlet, 1888

    The Sign of Four, 1890

    The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, 1892

    The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, 1893

    The Hound of the Baskervilles, 1902

    The Return of Sherlock Holmes, 1905

    The Valley of Fear, 1915

    His Last Bow, 1917

    The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes, 1927

    Biography of Arthur Conan Doyle

    Owen Dudley Edwards, The Quest for Sherlock Holmes: A Biographical Study of Arthur Conan Doyle, 1982

    Jon L. Lellenberg, The Quest for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 1987

    Geoffrey Stavert, A Study in Southsea: The Unrevealed Life of Dr Arthur Conan Doyle, 1987

    General Holmesiana

    D. Martin Dakin, A Sherlock Holmes Commentary, 1972

    Roger Lancelyn Green, The Uncollected Sherlock Holmes, 1983

    D. A. Redmond, Sherlock Holmes: A Study in Sources, 1982

    P. A. Shreffler (ed.), The Baker Street Reader, 1984

    Studies of Detective Fiction

    Michael Cox, Introduction to Victorian Detective Stories, 1992

    Ian Ousby, Introduction to Bloodhounds of Heaven: The Detective in English Fiction from Godwin to Doyle, 1976

    Julian Symons, Bloody Murder, 1992

    The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

    1. A Scandal in Bohemia

    To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer – excellent for drawing the veil from men’s motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.

    I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in following out those clues and clearing up those mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee and, finally, of the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former friend and companion.

    One night – it was on the twentieth of March 1888 – I was returning from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in part my own.

    His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before the fire and looked me over in his singular introspective fashion.

    ‘Wedlock suits you,’ he remarked. ‘I think, Watson, that you have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you.’

    ‘Seven!’ I answered.

    ‘Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me that you intended to go into harness.’

    ‘Then, how do you know?’

    ‘I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and careless servant girl?’

    ‘My dear Holmes,’ said I, ‘this is too much. You would certainly have been burned had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but as I have changed my clothes I can’t imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but there, again, I fail to see how you work it out.’

    He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together.

    ‘It is simplicity itself,’ said he; ‘my eyes tell me that on the inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it, the leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round the edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it. Hence, you see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile weather and that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting specimen of the London slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger and a bulge on the right side of his top-hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce him to be an active member of the medical profession.’

    I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his process of deduction. ‘When I hear you give your reasons,’ I remarked, ‘the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each successive instance of your reasoning I am baffled until you explain your process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good as yours.’

    ‘Quite so,’ he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself down into an armchair. ‘You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps which lead up from the hall to this room.’

    ‘Frequently.’

    ‘How often?’

    ‘Well, some hundreds of times.’

    ‘Then how many are there?’

    ‘How many? I don’t know.’

    ‘Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have both seen and observed. By the way, since you are interested in these little problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one or two of my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this.’ He threw over a sheet of thick, pink-tinted notepaper which had been lying open upon the table. ‘It came by the last post,’ said he. ‘Read it aloud.’

    The note was undated, and without either signature or address.

    ‘There will call upon you tonight, at a quarter to eight o’clock [it said], a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses of Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated. This account of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your chamber then at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor wear a mask.’

    ‘This is indeed a mystery,’ I remarked. ‘What do you imagine it means?’

    ‘I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you deduce from it?’

    I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was written.

    ‘The man who wrote it was presumably well to do,’ I remarked, endeavouring to imitate my companion’s processes. ‘Such paper could not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and stiff.’

    ‘Peculiar – that is the very word,’ said Holmes. ‘It is not an English paper at all. Hold it up to the light.’

    I did so, and saw a large E with a small g, a P and a large G with a small t woven into the texture of the paper.

    ‘What do you make of that?’ asked Holmes.

    ‘The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.’

    ‘Not at all. The G with the small t stands for Gesellschaft, which is the German for Company. It is a customary contraction like our Co. P, of course, stands for Papier. Now for the Eg. Let us glance at our Continental Gazetteer.’ He took down a heavy brown volume from his shelves. ‘Eglow, Eglonitz – here we are, Egria. It is in a German-speaking country – in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. Remarkable as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass-factories and paper-mills. Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of that?’ His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud from his cigarette.

    ‘The paper was made in Bohemia,’ I said.

    ‘Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note the peculiar construction of the sentence – This account of you we have from all quarters received. A Frenchman or Russian could not have written that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts.’

    As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses’ hoofs and grating wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes whistled.

    ‘A pair, by the sound,’ said he. ‘Yes,’ he continued, glancing out of the window. ‘A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There’s money in this case, Watson, if there is nothing else.’

    ‘I think that I had better go, Holmes.’

    ‘Not a bit, doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.’

    ‘But your client – ’

    ‘Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes. Sit down in that armchair, doctor, and give us your best attention.’

    A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and authoritative tap.

    ‘Come in!’ said Holmes.

    A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as

    akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended halfway up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin suggestive of resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy.

    ‘You had my note?’ he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly marked German accent. ‘I told you that I would call.’ He looked from one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address.

    ‘Pray take a seat,’ said Holmes. ‘This is my friend and colleague, Dr Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom have I the honour to address?’

    ‘You may address me as the Count von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance.? If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone.’

    I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into my chair. ‘It is both, or none,’ said he. ‘You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to me.’

    The count shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Then I must begin,’ said he, ‘by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too much to say that it is of such weight it may have an influence upon European history.’

    ‘I promise,’ said Holmes.

    ‘And I.’

    ‘You will excuse this mask,’ continued our strange visitor. ‘The august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I may confess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is not exactly my own.’

    ‘I was aware of it,’ said Holmes dryly.

    ‘The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia.’

    ‘I was also aware of that,’ murmured Holmes, settling himself down in his armchair and closing his eyes.

    Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid, lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe.

    Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client. ‘If your majesty would condescend to state your case,’ he remarked, ‘I should be better able to advise you.’

    The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. ‘You are right,’ he cried; ‘I am the king. Why should I attempt to conceal it?’

    ‘Why, indeed?’ murmured Holmes. ‘Your majesty had not spoken before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia.’

    ‘But you can understand,’ said our strange visitor, sitting down once more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, ‘you can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power. I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting you.’

    ‘Then, pray consult,’ said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.

    ‘The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you.’

    ‘Kindly look her up in my index, doctor,’ murmured Holmes without opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish information. In this case I found her biography sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had written a monograph upon deep-sea fishes.

    ‘Let me see,’ said Holmes. ‘Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto – hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw – yes! Retired from operatic stage – ha! Living in London – quite so! Your majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of getting those letters back.’

    ‘Precisely so. But how – ’

    ‘Was there a secret marriage?’

    ‘None.’

    ‘No legal papers or certificates?’

    ‘None.’

    ‘Then I fail to follow your majesty. If this young person should produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to prove their authenticity?’

    ‘There is the writing.’

    ‘Pooh, pooh! Forgery.’

    ‘My private notepaper.’

    ‘Stolen.’

    ‘My own seal.’

    ‘Imitated.’

    ‘My photograph.’

    ‘Bought.’

    ‘We were both in the photograph.’

    ‘Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your majesty has indeed committed an indiscretion.’

    ‘I was mad – insane.’

    ‘You have compromised yourself seriously.’

    ‘I was only crown prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now.’

    ‘It must be recovered.’

    ‘We have tried and failed.’

    ‘Your majesty must pay. It must be bought.’

    ‘She will not sell.’

    ‘Stolen, then.’

    ‘Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her house. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has been waylaid. There has been no result.’

    ‘No sign of it?’

    ‘Absolutely none.’

    Holmes laughed. ‘It is quite a pretty little problem,’ said he.

    ‘But a very serious one to me,’ returned the king reproachfully.

    ‘Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the photograph?’

    ‘To ruin me.’

    ‘But how?’

    ‘I am about to be married.’

    ‘So I have heard.’

    ‘To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the King of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her family. She is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my conduct would bring the matter to an end.’

    ‘And Irene Adler?’

    ‘Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul of steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry another woman, there are no lengths to which she would not go – none.’

    ‘You are sure that she has not sent it yet?’

    ‘I am sure.’

    ‘And why?’

    ‘Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday.’

    ‘Oh, then we have three days yet,’ said Holmes with a yawn. ‘That is very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to look into just at present. Your majesty will, of course, stay in London for the present?’

    ‘Certainly. You will find me at the Langham, under the name of the Count von Kramm.’

    ‘Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress.’

    ‘Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety.’

    ‘Then, as to money?’

    ‘You have carte blanche.’

    ‘Absolutely?’

    ‘I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to have that photograph.’

    ‘And for present expenses?’

    The king took a heavy chamois-leather bag from under his cloak and laid it on the table. ‘There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes,’ he said.

    Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his notebook and handed it to him. ‘And mademoiselle’s address?’ he asked.

    ‘Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St John’s Wood.’

    Holmes took a note of it. ‘One other question,’ said he. ‘Was the photograph a cabinet?’

    ‘It was.’

    ‘Then, good-night, your majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have some good news for you. And good-night, Watson,’ he added, as the wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street. ‘If you will be good enough to call tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock I should like to chat this little matter over with you.’

    2

    At three o’clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the house shortly after eight o’clock in the morning. I sat down beside the fire, however, with the intention of awaiting him, however long he might be. I was already deeply interested in his inquiry, for, though it was surrounded by none of the grim and strange features which were associated with the two crimes which I had elsewhere recorded, still, the nature of the case and the exalted station of his client gave it a character of its own. Indeed, apart from the nature of the investigation which my friend had on hand, there was something in his masterly grasp of a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which made it a pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow the quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable success that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to enter into my head.

    It was close upon four before the door opened, and a drunken-looking groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and disreputable clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as I was to my friend’s amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look three times before I was certain that it was indeed he. With a nod he vanished into the bedroom, whence he emerged in five minutes tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting his hands into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the fire and laughed heartily for some minutes.

    ‘Well, really!’ he cried, and then he choked and laughed again until he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the chair.

    ‘What is it?’

    ‘It’s quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I employed my morning, or what I ended by doing.’

    ‘I can’t imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the habits, and perhaps the house, of Miss Irene Adler.’

    ‘Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell you, however. I left the house a little after eight o’clock this morning in the character of a groom out of work. There is a wonderful sympathy and freemasonry among horsey men. Be one of them, and you will know all that there is to know. I soon found Briony Lodge. It is a bijou villa, with a garden at the back, but built out in front right up to the road, two storeys. Chubb lock to the door. Large sitting-room on the right side, well furnished, with long windows almost to the floor, and those preposterous English window fasteners which a child could open. Behind there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage window could be reached from the top of the coach-house. I walked round it and examined it closely from every point of view, but without noting anything else of interest.

    ‘I then lounged down the street and found, as I expected, that there was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the garden. I lent the ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses, and received in exchange twopence, a glass of half-and-half, two fills of shag tobacco, and as much information as I could desire about Miss Adler, to say nothing of half a dozen other people in the neighbourhood in whom I was not in the least interested, but whose biographies I was compelled to listen to.’

    ‘And what of Irene Adler?’ I asked.

    ‘Oh, she has turned all the men’s heads down in that part. She is the daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So says the Serpentine Mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts, drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner. Seldom goes out at other times, except when she sings. Has only one male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark, handsome and dashing, never calls less than once a day, and often twice. He is a Mr Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple. See the advantages of a cabman as a confidant. They had driven him home a dozen times from Serpentine Mews, and knew all about him. When I had listened to all they had to tell, I began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge once more, and to think over my plan of campaign.

    ‘This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the matter. He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the relation between them, and what the object of his repeated visits? Was she his client, his friend or his mistress? If the former, she had probably transferred the photograph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less likely. On the issue of this question depended whether I should continue my work at Briony Lodge or turn my attention to the gentleman’s chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate point, and it widened the field of my inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these details, but I have to let you see my little difficulties if you are to understand the situation.’

    ‘I am following you closely,’ I answered.

    ‘I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab drove up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was a remarkably handsome man, dark, aquiline and moustached – evidently the man of whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a great hurry, shouted to the cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who opened the door with the air of a man who was thoroughly at home.

    ‘He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch glimpses of him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and down, talking excitedly and waving his arms. Of her I could see nothing. Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried than before. As he stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and looked at it earnestly. Drive like the devil, he shouted, first to Gross & Hankey’s in Regent Street, and then to the Church of St Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you do it in twenty minutes!

    ‘Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do well to follow them when up the lane came a neat little landau, the coachman with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under his ear, while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of the buckles. It hadn’t pulled up before she shot out of the hall door and into it. I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment, but she was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die for.

    ‘ The Church of St Monica, John, she cried, and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.

    ‘This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just balancing whether I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind her landau when a cab came through the street. The driver looked twice at such a shabby fare, but I jumped in before he could object. The Church of St Monica, said I, and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes. It was twenty-five minutes to twelve, and of course it was clear enough what was in the wind.

    ‘My cabby drove fast. I don’t think I ever drove faster, but the others were there before us. The cab and the landau with their steaming horses were in front of the door when I arrived. I paid the man and hurried into the church. There was not a soul there save the two whom I had followed and a surpliced clergyman, who seemed to be expostulating with them. They were all three standing in a knot in front of the altar. I lounged up the side aisle like any other idler who has dropped into a church. Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at the altar faced round to me, and Godfrey Norton came running as hard as he could towards me.

    ‘ Thank God, he cried. You’ll do. Come! Come!

    ‘ What then? I asked.

    ‘ Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it won’t be legal.

    ‘I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before I knew where I was I found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear, and vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally assisting in the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was all done in an instant, and there was the gentleman thanking me on the one side and the lady on the other, while the clergyman beamed on me in front. It was the most preposterous position in which I ever found myself in my life, and it was the thought of it that started me laughing just now. It seems that there had been some informality about their licence, that the

    clergyman absolutely refused to marry them without a witness of some sort, and that my lucky appearance saved the bridegroom from having to sally out into the streets in search of a best man. The bride gave me a sovereign, and I mean to wear it on my watch-chain in memory of the occasion.’

    ‘This is a very unexpected turn of affairs,’ said I; ‘and what then?’

    ‘Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as if the pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate very prompt and energetic measures on my part. At the church door, however, they separated, he driving back to the Temple, and she to her own house. I shall drive out in the park at five as usual, she said as she left him. I heard no more. They drove away in different directions, and I went off to make my own arrangements.’

    ‘Which are?’

    ‘Some cold beef and a glass of beer,’ he answered, ringing the bell. ‘I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to be busier still this evening. By the way, doctor, I shall want your co-operation.’

    ‘I shall be delighted.’

    ‘You don’t mind breaking the law?’

    ‘Not in the least.’

    ‘Nor running a chance of arrest?’

    ‘Not in a good cause.’

    ‘Oh, the cause is excellent!’

    ‘Then I am your man.’

    ‘I was sure that I might rely on you.’

    ‘But what is it you wish?’

    ‘When Mrs Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear to you . . . Now,’ he said as he turned hungrily on the simple fare that our landlady had provided, ‘I must discuss it while I eat, for I have not much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we must be on the scene of action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from her drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her.’

    ‘And what then?’

    ‘You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to occur. There is only one point on which I must insist. You must not interfere, come what may. You understand?’

    ‘I am to be neutral?’

    ‘To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in my being conveyed into the house. Four or five minutes afterwards the sitting-room window will open. You are to station yourself close to that open window.’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you.’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘And when I raise my hand – so – you will throw into the room what I give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry of fire. You quite follow me?’

    ‘Entirely.’

    ‘It is nothing very formidable,’ he said, taking a long cigar-shaped roll from his pocket. ‘It is an ordinary plumber’s smoke-rocket, fitted with a cap at either end to make it self-lighting. Your task is confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire, it will be taken up by quite a number of people. You may then walk to the end of the street, and I will rejoin you in ten minutes. I hope that I have made myself clear?’

    ‘I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you, and at the signal to throw in this object, then to raise the cry of fire, and to await you at the corner of the street.’

    ‘Precisely.’

    ‘Then you may entirely rely on me.’

    ‘That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that I prepare for the new role I have to play.’

    He disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes in the character of an amiable and simple-minded nonconformist clergyman. His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his sympathetic smile and general look of peering and benevolent curiosity were such as Mr John Hare alone could have equalled. It was not merely that Holmes changed his costume. His expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime.

    It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it still wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in Serpentine Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were just being lit as we paced up and down in front of Briony Lodge, waiting for the coming of its occupant. The house was just such as I had pictured it from Sherlock Holmes’ succinct description, but the locality appeared to be less private than I expected. On the contrary, for a small street in a quiet neighbourhood, it was remarkably animated. There was a group of shabbily dressed men smoking and laughing in a corner, a scissors-grinder with his wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with a nurse-girl, and several well-dressed young men who were lounging up and down with cigars in their mouths.

    ‘You see,’ remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of the house, ‘this marriage rather simplifies matters. The photograph becomes a double-edged weapon now. The chances are that she would be as averse to its being seen by Mr Godfrey Norton, as our client is to its coming to the eyes of his princess. Now the question is, Where are we to find the photograph?’

    ‘Where, indeed?’

    ‘It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It is cabinet size. Too large for easy concealment about a woman’s dress. She knows that the king is capable of having her waylaid and searched. Two attempts of the sort have already been made. We may take it, then, that she does not carry it about with her.’

    ‘Where, then?’

    ‘Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility. But I am inclined to think neither. Women are naturally secretive, and they like to do their own secreting. Why should she hand it over to anyone else? She could trust her own guardianship, but she could not tell what indirect or political influence might be brought to bear upon a businessman. Besides, remember that she had resolved to use it within a few days. It must be where she can lay her hands upon it. It must be in her own house.’

    ‘But it has twice been burgled.’

    ‘Pshaw! They did not know how to look.’

    ‘But how will you look?’

    ‘I will not look.’

    ‘What then?’

    ‘I will get her to show me.’

    ‘But she will refuse.’

    ‘She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels. It is her carriage. Now carry out my orders to the letter.’

    As he spoke the gleam of the sidelights of a carriage came round

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