Читать книгу A Study in Sherlock - Raymond G. Farney - Страница 14

The Man With

The Twisted Lip

 Publication & Dates:Strand, December 1891The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. (6th story) 1892Illustrations: Sidney Paget (10)Conan Doyle’s 8th storyHolmes’ 23rd case

 Story Introduction:Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the Theological College of St. George’s, was much addicted to opium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he was at college, for having read De Quincey’s description of his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.One night—it was in June, ’89—there came a ring to my bell, about the hour when a man gives his first yawn, and glances at the clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needlepoint down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment.“A patient!” said she. “You’ll have to go out.”I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.We heard the door open, and a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.“You will excuse my calling so late,” she began, and then, suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my wife’s neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. “Oh! I’m in such trouble!” she cried; “I do so want a little help.”“Why,” said my wife, pulling up her veil, “it is Kate Whitney. How you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in.”“I don’t know what to do, so I came straight to you.” That was always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a lighthouse.“It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you rather that I send James off to bed?”“Oh, no, no. I want the doctor’s advice and help too. It’s about Isa. He has not been home for two days. I’m so frightened about him!”It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband’s trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find. Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we could bring him back to her?It seemed that it was. She had the surest information that of late he had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the furthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and shattered, in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless, among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the “Bar of Gold,” in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do? How could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place, and pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it. Might I not escort her to this place? And, then, as a second thought, why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney’s medical advisor, and as such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were alone. I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only could show how strange it was to be.But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and gin-shop approached by a steep flight of stairs leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the stairs, worn hollow in the centre by the careless tread of drunken feet, and by the light of the flickering oil lamp above the door I found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship.Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back and chins pointing upwards, with here and there a dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadow there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed and waned in the bowls of the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts, and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour. At the further end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows on his knees, staring into the fire.As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with the pipe for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.“Thank you, I have not come to stay,” said I. “There is a friend of mine here, Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him.”There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and, peering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring out at me.“My God! It’s Watson,” said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. “I say, Watson, what o’clock is it?”“Nearly eleven.”“ Of what day?”“Of Friday, June 19.”“Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What d’ you want to frighten the chap for?” He sank his face on to his arms, and began to sob in a high treble key.“I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!”“So I am. But you’ve got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few hours, three pipes, four pipes—I forgot how many. But I’ll go home with you. I wouldn’t frighten Kate—poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Have you a cab?”“Yes, I have one waiting.”“Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe, Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself.”I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my shirt, and a low voice whispered, “Walk past me, and then look back at me.” The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, and opium pipe dangling down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see him but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire, and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes.“But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street.”Case Information

 Date:“One night—it was in June ’89” “Friday June 19th”“about the hour when a man gives his first yawn, and glances at the clock.”

 Duration:2 Days

 Crime:None.

 Client:Mrs. Neville St. Clair, married two years to Neville, with two children. Daughter of a local brewer.

 Victim:None.

 Crime Scene:The Bar of Gold, Upper Swandam Lane, “by the light of the flickering oil lamp above the door I found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like a forecastle of an emigrant ship.”

 Criminals:Hugh Boone / Neville St. Clair.“He had for years been known as a professional beggar, a lodger in the opium-den and a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp. A shock of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin and a pair of very penetrating dark eyes.”“a broad wheal from an old scar from eye to chin, and by its contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.”Mr. Neville St. Clair, 37 years old, had no occupation, but was interested in several companies. Married two years with two children. Temperate habits, good husband and a very affectionate father. A little blonde woman.“Let me introduce you,” he shouted, “to Mr. Neville St Clair, of Lee, in the County of Kent.”

 Punishment:None. “It must stop here, however,” said Bradstreet. “If the police are to hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone.”

 Official Police:Inspector Barton, Holmes thought that it was a mistake not to arrest Boone instantly, after his examination of the premises.Inspector Bradstreet, a tall, stout official in a peaked cap and frogged jacket, 27 years on the force. On duty at the Bow-street Station, on the 2nd morning of the case, when Holmes & Watson went to Hugh Boone’s cell to clean his face.

 Characters:Watson’s wife.Mrs. Kate Whitney, Isa’s wife, a friend and school companion to Watson’s wife.Malay attendant offered Watson a pipe at the Bar of Gold.Isa Whitney, Watson’s friend and patient, whom he removed from the opium den Bar of Gold.John, Holmes had him waiting for him and Watson with a dogcart near the Bar of Gold.Lascar, manager of the opium-den. Known to be of the vilest antecedents. “He has sworn to have vengeance upon Holmes.”

 Others Mentioned:late Elias Whitney, D.D., principal of the Theological College of St. George’s. Isa Whitney’s brother.Dane, Lascar’s assistant who aided in removing Mrs. St. Clair from the opium den.Father of Neville St. Clair, a schoolmaster in Chesterfield.

 Locations:Watson’s home, possibly in Kensington.Bar of Gold, Upper Swandam Lane, opium den, furthest east of the city.The Cedars near Lee in Kent, St. Clair’s house. “A large villa which stood within its own grounds.” Seven miles from the Bar of Gold.“we both sprang, and away we dashed down the London road.”“In town, the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from the windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side. Passing down the Waterloo Bridge road over the river, and dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right, and found ourselves in Bow Street. From the St. Clair home to the police Station where Hugh Boone was being held.”

 Locations Mentioned:Baker Street, “But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street.”Upper Swandam Lane is a “vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which lined the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave.”Paul’s Wharf, “Could tell some strange tales of what has passed through it upon a moonless night.”Aberdeen Shipping Company, Fresno Street. Mrs. St Clair was picking up a parcel there the day she saw her husband in the window of the opium den.Threadneedle Street, where Hugh Boone sat at a small angle wall and begged.Fresno Street, where Mrs. St. Clair found a number of constables with an inspector.“We have touched on three English counties in our short drive (from the Bar of Gold to The Cedars), starting in Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent.”Gravesend, post-mark on letter from Neville to his wife.Chesterfield, where Neville St. Clair’s father was a schoolmaster.Cannon Street 5:14 train St. Clair would take home every night.

 Evidence & Clues:Mrs. St Clair’s assertion that she had actually seen her husband at the window.“a small box of children’s bricks lay upon the table.”Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair with the exception of his coat.Mrs. St. Clair receives a letter from her husband, with his signet ring. Possibly written on Monday but only received on Friday.“The name, you see, is a perfectly black ink, which is dried itself. The rest is of the grayish colour which shows blotting paper has been used.”Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb.

 Motive:To support his family, earning seven hundred pounds a year.

 Timeline:May 1884, Neville St. Clair takes “The Cedars” in Lee, Kent.1887, Neville St. Clair marries his wife.Monday a.m.. Mr. Neville St. Clair leaves home and goes to town, earlier than usual, and has not been heard from since.4:35 p.m., Mrs. St Clair sees her husband in the opium den second-floor window.Wednesday June 17th, Isa Whitney arrives at the opium den Bar of Gold.1st Day Friday, June 19thMrs. St. Clair receives a letter from her husband Neville, postmarked and delivered that day.Late in the evening, Kate Whitney goes to Watson and his wife’s house seeking help in getting her husband back from the opium den11:00 p.m., Watson finds his friend Isa in the Bar of Gold and also meets Holmes disguised as an old man.Soon after 11:00 p.m., Watson sends Isa home in a cab, and leaves with Holmes for St. Clair’s house.Nearly midnight, Holmes and Watson arrive at The Cedars, to speak with Mrs. St. Clair.2nd Day Saturday, June 20thConsiderably after midnight, * Mrs. St. Clair tells Holmes about receiving a letter from her husband, Neville, the day before, Friday. Holmes and Watson finish speaking with Mrs. St. Clair, have a cold supper, and retire to their room.4:25 a.m., Holmes wakes Watson, asks him to dress while he has the stableboy prepare the dogcart for a trip to London’s Bow Street police Station.In the very early morning, Holmes and Watson arrive at the cell of Hugh Boone in the Bow Street police Station. Holmes washes his face to expose that he is really Neville St. Clair in disguise.11:00 a.m. Saturday, the night before Holmes asks John the dogcart driver to meet him.

 Story Conclusion:“It must stop here, however,” said Bradstreet. “If the police are to hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone.”“I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take.”“In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may be taken. But if you are found again, then all must come out. I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you reached your results.”“I reached this one,” said my friend, “by sitting upon five pillows and consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker Street we shall just be in time for breakfast.”

 Weather:Monday, five days earlier, when Mrs. St. Clair saw Neville in the window at Bar of Gold. “I remember it was an exceedingly hot day.”1st Day, “a dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the clouds.”2nd Day, “we made our way downstairs as quickly as possible; and out into the bright morning sun.”

 Payment:None. “I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you reached your results.”

 Quotes:Holmes:“I suppose, Watson,” said he, “that you imagine that I have added opium-smoking to cocaine injections and all the other little weaknesses on which you have favored me with your medical advice.”“I should recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you have thrown in your lot with me.”“Had I have been recognized in that den my life would not have been worth an hour’s purchase.”“In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?” “Frankly then, Madam, I do not.”“Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind would go for days, and even for a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of view, until he had either fathomed it, or convinced himself that his data were insufficient.”“I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from here to Charing-cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now.”“I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late, than never to learn it all.”“Holmes opened his Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my astonishment, a very large bath sponge.”Watson:“You have a grand gift of silence, Watson,” said Holmes. “It makes you quite invaluable as a companion.”“This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to me in several of my cases.”

 Notes:Holmes is in a disguise at the Bar of Gold.Baker Street not part of the story.Watson, although married at the time, stayed with Holmes overnight to solve the case.Similar plot to Silver Blaze, Holmes washing an individual’s face to expose true identity.