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Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes

Silver Blaze
The Adventure Of The Copper Beeches
The Crooked Man
The Final Problem
The Gloria Scott
The Greek Interpreter
The Musgrave Ritual
The Naval Treaty
The Reigate Puzzle
The Resident Patient
The Stock-broker's Clerk
The Yellow Face

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

A Scandal In Bohemia
A Case Of Identity
His Last Bow
My Friend The Murderer
Silver Blaze
The Adventure Of Black Peter
The Adventure Of Charles Augustus Milverton
The Adventure Of The Abbey Grange
The Adventure Of The Beryl Coronet
The Adventure Of The Blue Carbuncle
The Adventure Of The Bruce-partington Plans
The Adventure Of The Cardboard Box
The Adventure Of The Copper Beeches
The Adventure Of The Dancing Men
The Adventure Of The Devil's Foot
The Adventure Of The Dying Detective
The Adventure Of The Empty House
The Adventure Of The Engineer's Thumb
The Adventure Of The Golden Pince-nez
The Adventure Of The Missing Three-quarter
The Adventure Of The Noble Bachelor
The Adventure Of The Norwood Builder
The Adventure Of The Priory School
The Adventure Of The Red Circle
The Adventure Of The Second Stain
The Adventure Of The Six Napoleons
The Adventure Of The Solitary Cyclist
The Adventure Of The Speckled Band
The Adventure Of The Three Students
The Adventure Of Wisteria Lodge
The Beetle-hunter
The Black Doctor
The Boscombe Valley Mystery
The Brazilian Cat
The Case Of Lady Sannox
The Crooked Man
The Disappearance Of Lady Frances Carfax
The Final Problem
The Five Orange Pips
The Gloria Scott
The Greek Interpreter
The Horror Of The Heights
The Japanned Box
The Jew's Breastplate
The Leather Funnel
The Lost Special
The Man With The Twisted Lip
The Man With The Watches
The Musgrave Ritual
The Naval Treaty
The New Catacomb
The Red-headed League
The Reigate Puzzle
The Resident Patient
The Stock-broker's Clerk
The Terror Of Blue John Gap
The Yellow Face



The Resident Patient








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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughed heartily at my perplexity.

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

"Oh, no!"

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

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

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

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

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

"No, I cannot."

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

"You have followed me wonderfully!" I exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You spoke to my coachman, then?"

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

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

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

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

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

"A retired army surgeon."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I bowed.

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

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

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

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

"'Really, sir!' I cried.

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

"I shrugged my shoulders.

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

"I stared at him in astonishment.

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

"'But why?' I gasped.

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

"'What am I to do, then?'

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

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

"I may say with confidence that he never had occasion to regret his
speculation. From the first it was a success. A few good cases and the
reputation which I had won in the hospital brought me rapidly to the
front, and during the last few years I have made him a rich man.

"So much, Mr. Holmes, for my past history and my relations with Mr.
Blessington. It only remains for me now to tell you what has occurred to
bring me here to-night.

"Some weeks ago Mr. Blessington came down to me in, as it seemed to me,
a state of considerable agitation. He spoke of some burglary which, he
said, had been committed in the West End, and he appeared, I remember,
to be quite unnecessarily excited about it, declaring that a day should
not pass before we should add stronger bolts to our windows and doors.
For a week he continued to be in a peculiar state of restlessness,
peering continually out of the windows, and ceasing to take the short
walk which had usually been the prelude to his dinner. From his manner
it struck me that he was in mortal dread of something or somebody, but
when I questioned him upon the point he became so offensive that I was
compelled to drop the subject. Gradually, as time passed, his fears
appeared to die away, and he had renewed his former habits, when a fresh
event reduced him to the pitiable state of prostration in which he now
lies.

"What happened was this. Two days ago I received the letter which I now
read to you. Neither address nor date is attached to it.

"'A Russian nobleman who is now resident in England,' it runs, 'would
be glad to avail himself of the professional assistance of Dr. Percy
Trevelyan. He has been for some years a victim to cataleptic attacks, on
which, as is well known, Dr. Trevelyan is an authority. He proposes to
call at about quarter past six to-morrow evening, if Dr. Trevelyan will
make it convenient to be at home.'

"This letter interested me deeply, because the chief difficulty in the
study of catalepsy is the rareness of the disease. You may believe,
then, that I was in my consulting-room when, at the appointed hour, the
page showed in the patient.

"He was an elderly man, thin, demure, and commonplace--by no means the
conception one forms of a Russian nobleman. I was much more struck by
the appearance of his companion. This was a tall young man, surprisingly
handsome, with a dark, fierce face, and the limbs and chest of a
Hercules. He had his hand under the other's arm as they entered, and
helped him to a chair with a tenderness which one would hardly have
expected from his appearance.

"'You will excuse my coming in, doctor,' said he to me, speaking English
with a slight lisp. 'This is my father, and his health is a matter of
the most overwhelming importance to me.'

"I was touched by this filial anxiety. 'You would, perhaps, care to
remain during the consultation?' said I.

"'Not for the world,' he cried with a gesture of horror. 'It is more
painful to me than I can express. If I were to see my father in one of
these dreadful seizures I am convinced that I should never survive
it. My own nervous system is an exceptionally sensitive one. With your
permission, I will remain in the waiting-room while you go into my
father's case.'

"To this, of course, I assented, and the young man withdrew. The patient
and I then plunged into a discussion of his case, of which I took
exhaustive notes. He was not remarkable for intelligence, and his
answers were frequently obscure, which I attributed to his limited
acquaintance with our language. Suddenly, however, as I sat writing,
he ceased to give any answer at all to my inquiries, and on my turning
towards him I was shocked to see that he was sitting bolt upright in his
chair, staring at me with a perfectly blank and rigid face. He was again
in the grip of his mysterious malady.

"My first feeling, as I have just said, was one of pity and horror.
My second, I fear, was rather one of professional satisfaction. I made
notes of my patient's pulse and temperature, tested the rigidity of his
muscles, and examined his reflexes. There was nothing markedly abnormal
in any of these conditions, which harmonized with my former experiences.
I had obtained good results in such cases by the inhalation of nitrite
of amyl, and the present seemed an admirable opportunity of testing
its virtues. The bottle was downstairs in my laboratory, so leaving my
patient seated in his chair, I ran down to get it. There was some little
delay in finding it--five minutes, let us say--and then I returned.
Imagine my amazement to find the room empty and the patient gone.

"Of course, my first act was to run into the waiting-room. The son had
gone also. The hall door had been closed, but not shut. My page who
admits patients is a new boy and by no means quick. He waits downstairs,
and runs up to show patients out when I ring the consulting-room bell.
He had heard nothing, and the affair remained a complete mystery. Mr.
Blessington came in from his walk shortly afterwards, but I did not say
anything to him upon the subject, for, to tell the truth, I have got in
the way of late of holding as little communication with him as possible.

"Well, I never thought that I should see anything more of the Russian
and his son, so you can imagine my amazement when, at the very same hour
this evening, they both came marching into my consulting-room, just as
they had done before.

"'I feel that I owe you a great many apologies for my abrupt departure
yesterday, doctor,' said my patient.

"'I confess that I was very much surprised at it,' said I.

"'Well, the fact is,' he remarked, 'that when I recover from these
attacks my mind is always very clouded as to all that has gone before. I
woke up in a strange room, as it seemed to me, and made my way out into
the street in a sort of dazed way when you were absent.'

"'And I,' said the son, 'seeing my father pass the door of the
waiting-room, naturally thought that the consultation had come to an
end. It was not until we had reached home that I began to realize the
true state of affairs.'

"'Well,' said I, laughing, 'there is no harm done except that you
puzzled me terribly; so if you, sir, would kindly step into the
waiting-room I shall be happy to continue our consultation which was
brought to so abrupt an ending.'

"'For half an hour or so I discussed that old gentleman's symptoms with
him, and then, having prescribed for him, I saw him go off upon the arm
of his son.

"I have told you that Mr. Blessington generally chose this hour of the
day for his exercise. He came in shortly afterwards and passed upstairs.
An instant later I heard him running down, and he burst into my
consulting-room like a man who is mad with panic.

"'Who has been in my room?' he cried.

"'No one,' said I.

"'It's a lie! He yelled. 'Come up and look!'

"I passed over the grossness of his language, as he seemed half out of
his mind with fear. When I went upstairs with him he pointed to several
footprints upon the light carpet.

"'D'you mean to say those are mine?' he cried.

"They were certainly very much larger than any which he could have made,
and were evidently quite fresh. It rained hard this afternoon, as you
know, and my patients were the only people who called. It must have been
the case, then, that the man in the waiting-room had, for some unknown
reason, while I was busy with the other, ascended to the room of my
resident patient. Nothing had been touched or taken, but there were the
footprints to prove that the intrusion was an undoubted fact.

"Mr. Blessington seemed more excited over the matter than I should have
thought possible, though of course it was enough to disturb anybody's
peace of mind. He actually sat crying in an arm-chair, and I could
hardly get him to speak coherently. It was his suggestion that I should
come round to you, and of course I at once saw the propriety of it,
for certainly the incident is a very singular one, though he appears to
completely overrate its importance. If you would only come back with me
in my brougham, you would at least be able to soothe him, though I
can hardly hope that you will be able to explain this remarkable
occurrence."

Sherlock Holmes had listened to this long narrative with an intentness
which showed me that his interest was keenly aroused. His face was as
impassive as ever, but his lids had drooped more heavily over his eyes,
and his smoke had curled up more thickly from his pipe to emphasize each
curious episode in the doctor's tale. As our visitor concluded, Holmes
sprang up without a word, handed me my hat, picked his own from the
table, and followed Dr. Trevelyan to the door. Within a quarter of an
hour we had been dropped at the door of the physician's residence
in Brook Street, one of those sombre, flat-faced houses which one
associates with a West-End practice. A small page admitted us, and we
began at once to ascend the broad, well-carpeted stair.

But a singular interruption brought us to a standstill. The light at
the top was suddenly whisked out, and from the darkness came a reedy,
quivering voice.

"I have a pistol," it cried. "I give you my word that I'll fire if you
come any nearer."

"This really grows outrageous, Mr. Blessington," cried Dr. Trevelyan.

"Oh, then it is you, doctor," said the voice, with a great heave of
relief. "But those other gentlemen, are they what they pretend to be?"

We were conscious of a long scrutiny out of the darkness.

"Yes, yes, it's all right," said the voice at last. "You can come up,
and I am sorry if my precautions have annoyed you."

He relit the stair gas as he spoke, and we saw before us a
singular-looking man, whose appearance, as well as his voice, testified
to his jangled nerves. He was very fat, but had apparently at some time
been much fatter, so that the skin hung about his face in loose pouches,
like the cheeks of a blood-hound. He was of a sickly color, and his
thin, sandy hair seemed to bristle up with the intensity of his emotion.
In his hand he held a pistol, but he thrust it into his pocket as we
advanced.

"Good-evening, Mr. Holmes," said he. "I am sure I am very much obliged
to you for coming round. No one ever needed your advice more than I do.
I suppose that Dr. Trevelyan has told you of this most unwarrantable
intrusion into my rooms."


"Quite so," said Holmes. "Who are these two men Mr. Blessington, and why
do they wish to molest you?"

"Well, well," said the resident patient, in a nervous fashion, "of
course it is hard to say that. You can hardly expect me to answer that,
Mr. Holmes."

"Do you mean that you don't know?"

"Come in here, if you please. Just have the kindness to step in here."

He led the way into his bedroom, which was large and comfortably
furnished.

"You see that," said he, pointing to a big black box at the end of his
bed. "I have never been a very rich man, Mr. Holmes--never made but
one investment in my life, as Dr. Trevelyan would tell you. But I don't
believe in bankers. I would never trust a banker, Mr. Holmes. Between
ourselves, what little I have is in that box, so you can understand what
it means to me when unknown people force themselves into my rooms."

Holmes looked at Blessington in his questioning way and shook his head.

"I cannot possibly advise you if you try to deceive me," said he.

"But I have told you everything."

Holmes turned on his heel with a gesture of disgust. "Good-night, Dr.
Trevelyan," said he.

"And no advice for me?" cried Blessington, in a breaking voice.

"My advice to you, sir, is to speak the truth."

A minute later we were in the street and walking for home. We had
crossed Oxford Street and were half way down Harley Street before I
could get a word from my companion.

"Sorry to bring you out on such a fool's errand, Watson," he said at
last. "It is an interesting case, too, at the bottom of it."

"I can make little of it," I confessed.

"Well, it is quite evident that there are two men--more, perhaps, but
at least two--who are determined for some reason to get at this fellow
Blessington. I have no doubt in my mind that both on the first and on
the second occasion that young man penetrated to Blessington's room,
while his confederate, by an ingenious device, kept the doctor from
interfering."

"And the catalepsy?"

"A fraudulent imitation, Watson, though I should hardly dare to hint as
much to our specialist. It is a very easy complaint to imitate. I have
done it myself."

"And then?"

"By the purest chance Blessington was out on each occasion. Their reason
for choosing so unusual an hour for a consultation was obviously to
insure that there should be no other patient in the waiting-room. It
just happened, however, that this hour coincided with Blessington's
constitutional, which seems to show that they were not very well
acquainted with his daily routine. Of course, if they had been merely
after plunder they would at least have made some attempt to search for
it. Besides, I can read in a man's eye when it is his own skin that he
is frightened for. It is inconceivable that this fellow could have made
two such vindictive enemies as these appear to be without knowing of it.
I hold it, therefore, to be certain that he does know who these men are,
and that for reasons of his own he suppresses it. It is just possible
that to-morrow may find him in a more communicative mood."

"Is there not one alternative," I suggested, "grotesquely improbably,
no doubt, but still just conceivable? Might the whole story of the
cataleptic Russian and his son be a concoction of Dr. Trevelyan's, who
has, for his own purposes, been in Blessington's rooms?"

I saw in the gaslight that Holmes wore an amused smile at this brilliant
departure of mine.

"My dear fellow," said he, "it was one of the first solutions which
occurred to me, but I was soon able to corroborate the doctor's tale.
This young man has left prints upon the stair-carpet which made it quite
superfluous for me to ask to see those which he had made in the room.
When I tell you that his shoes were square-toed instead of being pointed
like Blessington's, and were quite an inch and a third longer than the
doctor's, you will acknowledge that there can be no doubt as to his
individuality. But we may sleep on it now, for I shall be surprised if
we do not hear something further from Brook Street in the morning."


Sherlock Holmes's prophecy was soon fulfilled, and in a dramatic
fashion. At half-past seven next morning, in the first glimmer of
daylight, I found him standing by my bedside in his dressing-gown.

"There's a brougham waiting for us, Watson," said he.

"What's the matter, then?"

"The Brook Street business."

"Any fresh news?"

"Tragic, but ambiguous," said he, pulling up the blind. "Look at this--a
sheet from a note-book, with 'For God's sake come at once--P. T.,'
scrawled upon it in pencil. Our friend, the doctor, was hard put to
it when he wrote this. Come along, my dear fellow, for it's an urgent
call."

In a quarter of an hour or so we were back at the physician's house. He
came running out to meet us with a face of horror.

"Oh, such a business!" he cried, with his hands to his temples.

"What then?"

"Blessington has committed suicide!"

Holmes whistled.

"Yes, he hanged himself during the night."

We had entered, and the doctor had preceded us into what was evidently
his waiting-room.

"I really hardly know what I am doing," he cried. "The police are
already upstairs. It has shaken me most dreadfully."

"When did you find it out?"

"He has a cup of tea taken in to him early every morning. When the maid
entered, about seven, there the unfortunate fellow was hanging in the
middle of the room. He had tied his cord to the hook on which the heavy
lamp used to hang, and he had jumped off from the top of the very box
that he showed us yesterday."

Holmes stood for a moment in deep thought.

"With your permission," said he at last, "I should like to go upstairs
and look into the matter."

We both ascended, followed by the doctor.

It was a dreadful sight which met us as we entered the bedroom door. I
have spoken of the impression of flabbiness which this man Blessington
conveyed. As he dangled from the hook it was exaggerated and intensified
until he was scarce human in his appearance. The neck was drawn out
like a plucked chicken's, making the rest of him seem the more obese and
unnatural by the contrast. He was clad only in his long night-dress, and
his swollen ankles and ungainly feet protruded starkly from beneath it.
Beside him stood a smart-looking police-inspector, who was taking notes
in a pocket-book.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," said he, heartily, as my friend entered, "I am
delighted to see you."

"Good-morning, Lanner," answered Holmes; "you won't think me an
intruder, I am sure. Have you heard of the events which led up to this
affair?"

"Yes, I heard something of them."

"Have you formed any opinion?"

"As far as I can see, the man has been driven out of his senses by
fright. The bed has been well slept in, you see. There's his impression
deep enough. It's about five in the morning, you know, that suicides are
most common. That would be about his time for hanging himself. It seems
to have been a very deliberate affair."

"I should say that he has been dead about three hours, judging by the
rigidity of the muscles," said I.

"Noticed anything peculiar about the room?" asked Holmes.

"Found a screw-driver and some screws on the wash-hand stand. Seems to
have smoked heavily during the night, too. Here are four cigar-ends that
I picked out of the fireplace."

"Hum!" said Holmes, "have you got his cigar-holder?"

"No, I have seen none."

"His cigar-case, then?"

"Yes, it was in his coat-pocket."

Holmes opened it and smelled the single cigar which it contained.

"Oh, this is an Havana, and these others are cigars of the peculiar sort
which are imported by the Dutch from their East Indian colonies. They
are usually wrapped in straw, you know, and are thinner for their length
than any other brand." He picked up the four ends and examined them with
his pocket-lens.

"Two of these have been smoked from a holder and two without," said he.
"Two have been cut by a not very sharp knife, and two have had the ends
bitten off by a set of excellent teeth. This is no suicide, Mr. Lanner.
It is a very deeply planned and cold-blooded murder."

"Impossible!" cried the inspector.

"And why?"

"Why should any one murder a man in so clumsy a fashion as by hanging
him?"

"That is what we have to find out."

"How could they get in?"

"Through the front door."

"It was barred in the morning."

"Then it was barred after them."

"How do you know?"

"I saw their traces. Excuse me a moment, and I may be able to give you
some further information about it."

He went over to the door, and turning the lock he examined it in his
methodical way. Then he took out the key, which was on the inside, and
inspected that also. The bed, the carpet, the chairs the mantelpiece,
the dead body, and the rope were each in turn examined, until at last he
professed himself satisfied, and with my aid and that of the inspector
cut down the wretched object and laid it reverently under a sheet.

"How about this rope?" he asked.

"It is cut off this," said Dr. Trevelyan, drawing a large coil from
under the bed. "He was morbidly nervous of fire, and always kept this
beside him, so that he might escape by the window in case the stairs
were burning."

"That must have saved them trouble," said Holmes, thoughtfully. "Yes,
the actual facts are very plain, and I shall be surprised if by the
afternoon I cannot give you the reasons for them as well. I will take
this photograph of Blessington, which I see upon the mantelpiece, as it
may help me in my inquiries."

"But you have told us nothing!" cried the doctor.

"Oh, there can be no doubt as to the sequence of events," said Holmes.
"There were three of them in it: the young man, the old man, and a
third, to whose identity I have no clue. The first two, I need hardly
remark, are the same who masqueraded as the Russian count and his son,
so we can give a very full description of them. They were admitted by
a confederate inside the house. If I might offer you a word of advice,
Inspector, it would be to arrest the page, who, as I understand, has
only recently come into your service, Doctor."

"The young imp cannot be found," said Dr. Trevelyan; "the maid and the
cook have just been searching for him."

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"He has played a not unimportant part in this drama," said he. "The
three men having ascended the stairs, which they did on tiptoe, the
elder man first, the younger man second, and the unknown man in the
rear--"

"My dear Holmes!" I ejaculated.

"Oh, there could be no question as to the superimposing of the
footmarks. I had the advantage of learning which was which last night.
They ascended, then, to Mr. Blessington's room, the door of which they
found to be locked. With the help of a wire, however, they forced round
the key. Even without the lens you will perceive, by the scratches on
this ward, where the pressure was applied.

"On entering the room their first proceeding must have been to gag Mr.
Blessington. He may have been asleep, or he may have been so paralyzed
with terror as to have been unable to cry out. These walls are thick,
and it is conceivable that his shriek, if he had time to utter one, was
unheard.

"Having secured him, it is evident to me that a consultation of some
sort was held. Probably it was something in the nature of a judicial
proceeding. It must have lasted for some time, for it was then that
these cigars were smoked. The older man sat in that wicker chair; it
was he who used the cigar-holder. The younger man sat over yonder; he
knocked his ash off against the chest of drawers. The third fellow paced
up and down. Blessington, I think, sat upright in the bed, but of that I
cannot be absolutely certain.

"Well, it ended by their taking Blessington and hanging him. The matter
was so prearranged that it is my belief that they brought with them
some sort of block or pulley which might serve as a gallows. That
screw-driver and those screws were, as I conceive, for fixing it up.
Seeing the hook, however they naturally saved themselves the trouble.
Having finished their work they made off, and the door was barred behind
them by their confederate."

We had all listened with the deepest interest to this sketch of the
night's doings, which Holmes had deduced from signs so subtle and minute
that, even when he had pointed them out to us, we could scarcely follow
him in his reasoning. The inspector hurried away on the instant to make
inquiries about the page, while Holmes and I returned to Baker Street
for breakfast.

"I'll be back by three," said he, when we had finished our meal. "Both
the inspector and the doctor will meet me here at that hour, and I hope
by that time to have cleared up any little obscurity which the case may
still present."


Our visitors arrived at the appointed time, but it was a quarter to
four before my friend put in an appearance. From his expression as he
entered, however, I could see that all had gone well with him.

"Any news, Inspector?"

"We have got the boy, sir."

"Excellent, and I have got the men."

"You have got them!" we cried, all three.

"Well, at least I have got their identity. This so-called Blessington
is, as I expected, well known at headquarters, and so are his
assailants. Their names are Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat."

"The Worthingdon bank gang," cried the inspector.

"Precisely," said Holmes.

"Then Blessington must have been Sutton."

"Exactly," said Holmes.

"Why, that makes it as clear as crystal," said the inspector.

But Trevelyan and I looked at each other in bewilderment.

"You must surely remember the great Worthingdon bank business," said
Holmes. "Five men were in it--these four and a fifth called Cartwright.
Tobin, the care-taker, was murdered, and the thieves got away with seven
thousand pounds. This was in 1875. They were all five arrested, but the
evidence against them was by no means conclusive. This Blessington or
Sutton, who was the worst of the gang, turned informer. On his evidence
Cartwright was hanged and the other three got fifteen years apiece. When
they got out the other day, which was some years before their full term,
they set themselves, as you perceive, to hunt down the traitor and to
avenge the death of their comrade upon him. Twice they tried to get at
him and failed; a third time, you see, it came off. Is there anything
further which I can explain, Dr. Trevelyan?"

"I think you have made it all remarkable clear," said the doctor. "No
doubt the day on which he was perturbed was the day when he had seen of
their release in the newspapers."

"Quite so. His talk about a burglary was the merest blind."

"But why could he not tell you this?"

"Well, my dear sir, knowing the vindictive character of his old
associates, he was trying to hide his own identity from everybody as
long as he could. His secret was a shameful one, and he could not bring
himself to divulge it. However, wretch as he was, he was still living
under the shield of British law, and I have no doubt, Inspector, that
you will see that, though that shield may fail to guard, the sword of
justice is still there to avenge."


Such were the singular circumstances in connection with the Resident
Patient and the Brook Street Doctor. From that night nothing has
been seen of the three murderers by the police, and it is surmised
at Scotland Yard that they were among the passengers of the ill-fated
steamer Norah Creina, which was lost some years ago with all hands
upon the Portuguese coast, some leagues to the north of Oporto. The
proceedings against the page broke down for want of evidence, and the
Brook Street Mystery, as it was called, has never until now been fully
dealt with in any public print.





Next: The Greek Interpreter

Previous: The Crooked Man



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