A Study in Sherlock. Raymond G. Farney
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