The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (8 page)

Ainsworth, who fervently desired to marry the young lady for her money, was at least indicated

without even the evidence of the watch."

"Surely not!" I objected.

"My dear fellow, consider Trelawney's will."

"Then, after all, Trelawney did not make that unjust will?"

"Indeed, he did. He let it be known that such was his intention and he carried out that

intention. But there was only one person who was aware of the final outcome; namely, that he

never actually signed it."

"You mean Trelawney himself?"

"I mean Ainsworth, the solicitor who drew the will. He has admitted as much in his

confession."

Holmes leaned back in his chair and placed his fingertips together.

"Chloroform is easily obtainable, as the British public knows from the Bartlett case. In such

a small community, a friend of the family, like Ainsworth, would have easy access to the

medical works in the vicar's library. He evolved rather a clever plan at his leisure. In my

little analysis last night, I should have been less confident had not examination of the dead

man's face with a lens revealed jury-proof evidence in the form of minute burns and traces of

vaseline in the skin-pores."

"But Miss Dale and Dr. Griffin!"

"Their conduct puzzled you?"

"Well, women are strange."

"My dear Watson, when I hear of a young woman, all fire and temperament, who is thrown

into the company of a man of exactly similar characteristics—in sharp contrast to a cold-

minded solicitor who watches her carefully —my suspicions are aroused, especially when she

expresses unprovoked dislike on all public occasions."

"Then why did she not simply break her engagement!"

"You overlook the fact that her uncle always upbraided her for fickleness. Had she revoked her

pledge, she would have lost dignity in her own eyes. But why on earth, Watson, are you

chuckling now?"

"Merely a sense of incongruity. I was thinking of the singular name of that village in

Somerset."

"The village of Camberwell?" said Holmes, smiling. "Yes, it is indeed different from our

London district of Camberwell. You must give the chronicle a different title, Watson, lest

readers be confused as to the true locale of the Camberwell poisoning case."

The year '87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or less interest, of which I

retain the records. Among my headings under this one twelve months I find . . . the

Camberwell poisoning case.

FROM "THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS."

3

The Adventure of the Wax Gamblers

When my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes sprained his ankle, irony followed upon irony. Within

a matter of hours he was presented with a problem whose singular nature seemed to make

imperative a visit to that sinister, underground room so well known to the public.

My friend's accident had been an unlucky one. Purely for the sport of it, he had consented to

an impromptu glove-match with Bully Boy Rasher, the well-known professional middle-

weight, at the old Cribb Sporting Club in Panton Street. To the amazement of the spectators,

Holmes knocked out the Bully Boy before the latter could settle down to a long, hard mill.

Having broken Rasher's hanging guard and survived his right hand, my friend was leaving

the sparring-saloon when he tripped on those ill-lighted, rickety stairs which I trust the

Honorary Secretary of the club has since caused to be mended.

The intelligence of this mishap reached me as my wife and I finished our midday meal one

cold season of rain and screaming winds. Though I have not my note-book at hand, I believe

it was the first week in March, 1890. Uttering an exclamation as I read the telegram from Mrs.

Hudson, I handed the message to my wife.

"You must go at once and see to the comfort of Mr. Sherlock Holmes for a day or two,"

said she. "Anstruther will always do your work for you."

Since at that time my house was in the Paddington area, it took me no great time to be

in Baker Street.

Holmes was, as I expected, seated upon the sofa with his back to the wall, wearing a purple

dressing-gown and with his bandaged right ankle upon a heap of cushions. A low-power

microscope stood on a small table at his left hand, while on the sofa at his right lay a

perfect drift of discarded newspapers.

Despite the weary, heavy-lidded expression which veiled his keen and eager nature, I

could see that the misfortune had not sweetened his temper. Since Mrs. Hudson's telegram had

mentioned only a fall on some stairs, I asked for an explanation and received that with which I

have prefaced this chronicle.

"I was proud of myself, Watson," he added bitterly, "and careless of my step. The more fool

I!"

"Yet surely some modest degree of pride was permissible! The Bully Boy is no mean

opponent."

"On the contrary, I found him much overrated and half drunk. But I see, Watson, that

you yourself are troubled about your health."

"Good heavens, Holmes! It is true that I suspect the advent of a cold. But, since there is as

yet no sign in my appearance or voice, it is astonishing that you can have known it!"

"Astonishing? It is elementary. You have been taking your own pulse. A minute trace of the

silver nitrate upon your right forefinger has been transferred to a significant spot on your left

wrist. But what on earth are you doing now?"

Heedless of his protests, I examined and re-bandaged his ankle.

"And yet, my dear fellow," I went on, endeavouring to raise his spirits as I might cheer

any patient, "in one sense it gives me great pleasure to see you thus incapacitated."

Holmes looked at me fixedly, but did not speak.

"Yes," said I, continuing to cheer him, "we must curb our impatience while we are confined

to our sofa for a fortnight or perhaps more. But do not misunderstand me. When last

summer I had the privilege of meeting your brother, Mycroft, you stated that he was your

superior in observation and deduction."

"I spoke the truth. If the art of detection began and ended in reasoning from an arm-chair,

my brother would be the greatest criminal agent that ever lived."

"A proposition which I take the liberty of doubting. Now behold! Here are you enforced to

the seated position. It will delight me to see you demonstrate your superiority when you are

presented with some case—"

"Case? I have no case!"

"Be of good cheer. A case will come."

"The agony column of
The Times,"
said he, nodding towards the drift of newspapers, "is

quite featureless. And even the joys of studying a new disease germ are not inexhaustible. As

between you and another comforter, Watson, I really prefer Job's."

The entrance of Mrs. Hudson, bearing a letter which had been delivered by hand,

momentarily cut him short. Though I had not actually expected my prophecy to be fulfilled

with such promptness, I could not but remark that the note-paper bore a crest and must have

cost fully half a crown a packet. Nevertheless, I was doomed to disappointment. After tearing

open the letter eagerly, Holmes uttered a snort of vexation.

"So much for your soothsaying!" said he, scribbling a reply for our landlady to give to a

district messenger. "It is merely an ill-spelt note from Sir Gervase Darlington, asking for an

appointment at eleven tomorrow morning, and requesting that it be confirmed by hand to

the Hercules Club."

"Darlington!" remarked I. "Surely you have mentioned that name before?"

"Yes, so I have. But upon that occasion I referred to Darlington the art-dealer, whose

substitution of a false Leonardo painting for a real one caused such a scandal at the

Grosvenor Galleries. Sir Gervase is a different and more exalted Darlington, though no less

associated with scandal."

"Who is he?"

"Sir Gervase Darlington, Watson, is the bold, bad baronet of fiction, addicted to

pugilism and profligate ladies. But he is by no means a swaggering figure of the

imagination; too many such men lived in our grandfathers' time." My friend looked

thoughtful. "At the moment, he had best mind his step."

"You interest me. Why so?"

"Well, I am no racing man. Yet I recall that Sir Gervase won a fortune during last year's

Derby. Ill-disposed persons whispered that he did so by bribery and secret information. Be good

enough, Watson, to remove this microscope."

I did so. There remained upon the little table only the sheet of crested note-paper which

Holmes had flung down there. From the pocket of his dressing-gown he took out the snuff box

of old gold, with a great amethyst in the centre of the lid, which had been a present from the

King of Bohemia.

"However," he added, "every move made by Sir Gervase Darlington is now carefully

watched. Should he so much as attempt to communicate with any suspicious person, he will be

warned off the turf even if he does not land in gaol. I cannot recall the name of the horse on

which he wagered—"

"Lord Hove's Bengal Lady," cried I. "By Indian Rajah out of Countess. She finished three

furlongs ahead of the field. Though, of course," I added, "I know little more of racing

matters than yourself."

"Indeed, Watson?"

"Holmes, such suspicions as you appear to entertain are base and unworthy! I am a

married man with a depleted bank balance. Besides, what race is run in such wild weather as

this?"

"Well, the Grand National cannot be too far off."

"By Jove, yes! Lord Hove has two entries for the Grand National. Many fancy Thunder

Lad, though not much is expected of Sheerness. But to me," I added, "a scandal attached to the

sport of kings is incredible. Lord Hove is an honourable man."

"Precisely. Being an honourable man, he is no friend to Sir Gervase Darlington."

"But why are you sure Sir Gervase can bring you nothing of interest?"

"If you were acquainted with the gentleman, Watson, you would acquit him of being

concerned in anything whatever of interest, save that he is a really formidable heavy-weight

boxer—" Holmes whistled. "Come! Sir Gervase was among those who witnessed my own

trifling encounter with the Bully Boy this morning."

"Then what can he want of you?"

"Even if the question were of any moment, I have no data. A pinch of snuff, Watson? Well,

well, I am not enamoured of it myself, though it represents an occasional variation from too

much self-poisoning by nicotine."

I could not help laughing.

"My dear Holmes, your case is typical. Every medical man knows that a patient with an

injury like yours, though the injury is slight and even of a humorous character, becomes as

unreasonable as a child."

Holmes snapped shut the snuff-box and put it into his pocket.

"Watson," said he, "grateful though I am for your presence, I shall be obliged if you do not

utter one word more for at least the next six hours, lest I say something which I may regret."

Thus, remaining silent even at supper, we sat very late in the snug room. Holmes

moodily cross-indexed his records of crime, and I was deep in the pages of the
British

Medical Journal.
Save for the tick of the clock and the crackle of the fire, there was no sound

but the shrieking of the March gale, which drove the rain against the windows like

handfuls of small shot, and growled and whooped in the chimney.

"No, no," my friend said querulously, at long last. "Optimism is stupidity. Certainly no

case will come to my—Hark! Was that not the bell?"

"Yes. I heard it clearly in spite of the wind. But who can it be?"

"If a client," said Holmes, craning his long neck for a glimpse of the clock, "it must

be a matter of deep seriousness to bring someone out at two in the morning and in such a

gale."

After some delay, during which it took Mrs. Hudson an interminable time to rise from her

bed and open the street door, no less than two clients were ushered into our room. Both of them

had been speaking at once, but their conversation became distinct as they approached the door-

way.

"Grandfather, you mustn't!" came a young woman's voice. "For the last time, please! You

don't want Mr. Holmes to think you are," here she lowered her voice to a whisper,
"simple."

"I'm not simple!" cried her companion. "Drat it, Nellie, I see what I see! I should have come

to tell the gentleman yesterday morning, only you wouldn't hear of it."

"But, Grandfather, that Room of Horrors is a fearfully frightening place. You imagined

it, dear."

"I'm seventy-six years old. But I've got no more imagination," said the old man, proudly,

"than one of them wax figures. Me imagine it? Me, that's been night-watchman since long

before the museum was took where it is now, and was still here in Baker Street?"

The newcomers paused. The ancient visitor, squat and stubborn-looking in his rain-sodden

brown greatcoat and shepherd's check trousers, was a solid man of the people with fine white

hair. The girl was different. Graceful and lissom, with fair hair and grey eyes encircled by black