The Lock and Key Library: Classic Mystery and Detective Stories: Modern English
"Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he would not
have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw happened."
"But you have no notion as to what it could have been?"
"None."
"One more question. How did your mother take the matter?"
"She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter again."
"And your father? Did you tell him?"
"Yes, and he seemed to think, with me, that something had happened, and
that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest could
anyone have in bringing me to the door of the church, and then leaving me?
Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he had married me and got my money
settled on him, there might be some reason; but Hosmer was very
independent about money, and never would look at a shilling of mine. And
yet what could have happened? And why could he not write? Oh! it drives me
half mad to think of, and I can't sleep a wink at night." She pulled a
little handkerchief out of her muff, and began to sob heavily into it.
"I shall glance into the case for you," said Holmes, rising, "and I have
no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the weight of the
matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind dwell upon it further.
Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from your memory, as he has
done from your life."
"Then you don't think I'll see him again?"
"I fear not."
"Then what has happened to him?"
"You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an accurate
description of him, and any letters of his which you can spare."
"I advertised for him in last Saturday's _Chronicle_," said she. "Here is
the slip, and here are four letters from him."
"Thank you. And your address?"
"No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell."
"Mr. Angel's address you never had, I understand. Where is your father's
place of business?"
"He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers of
Fenchurch Street."
"Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will leave the
papers here, and remember the advice which I have given you. Let the whole
incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect your life."
"You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be true to
Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back."
For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was something
noble in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled our respect. She
laid her little bundle of papers upon the table, and went her way, with a
promise to come again whenever she might be summoned.
Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his finger tips still
pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze
directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from the rack the old
and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counselor, and, having lighted
it, he leaned back in his chair, with thick blue cloud wreaths spinning up
from him, and a look of infinite languor in his face.
"Quite an interesting study, that maiden," he observed. "I found her more
interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is rather a trite
one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult my index, in Andover in
'77, and there was something of the sort at The Hague last year. Old as is
the idea, however, there were one or two details which were new to me. But
the maiden herself was most instructive."
"You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite invisible to
me," I remarked.
"Not invisible, but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to look, and
so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to realize the
importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb nails, or the great
issues that may hang from a boot lace. Now, what did you gather from that
woman's appearance? Describe it."
"Well, she had a slate-colored, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a feather of
a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewed upon it and a
fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her dress was brown, rather darker
than coffee color, with a little purple plush at the neck and sleeves. Her
gloves were grayish, and were worn through at the right forefinger. Her
boots I didn't observe. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a
general air of being fairly well-to-do, in a vulgar, comfortable,
easy-going way."
Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.
"'Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have really
done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed everything of
importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you have a quick eye for
color. Never trust to general impressions, my boy, but concentrate
yourself upon details. My first glance is always at a woman's sleeve. In a
man it is perhaps better first to take the knee of the trouser. As you
observe, this woman had plush upon her sleeve, which is a most useful
material for showing traces. The double line a little above the wrist,
where the typewritist presses against the table, was beautifully defined.
The sewing machine, of the hand type, leaves a similar mark, but only on
the left arm, and on the side of it farthest from the thumb, instead of
being right across the broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her
face, and observing the dint of a _pince-nez_ at either side of her nose,
I ventured a remark upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to
surprise her."
"It surprised me."
"But, surely, it was very obvious. I was then much surprised and
interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which she
was wearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd ones, the one
having a slightly decorated toe cap and the other a plain one. One was
buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at the
first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady, otherwise
neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd boots, half-buttoned, it
is no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry."
"And what else?" I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by my
friend's incisive reasoning.
"I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home, but
after being fully dressed. You observed that her right glove was torn at
the forefinger, but you did not, apparently, see that both glove and
finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a hurry, and
dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark would
not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing, though rather
elementary, but I must go back to business, Watson. Would you mind reading
me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?"
I held the little printed slip to the light. "Missing," it said, "on the
morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer Angel. About five feet
seven inches in height; strongly built, sallow complexion, black hair, a
little bald in the center, bushy black side-whiskers and mustache; tinted
glasses; slight infirmity of speech. Was dressed, when last seen, in black
frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and gray
Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots. Known
to have been employed in an office in Leadenhall Street. Anybody
bringing," etc., etc.
"That will do," said Holmes. "As to the letters," he continued, glancing
over them, "they are very commonplace. Absolutely no clew in them to Mr.
Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one remarkable point,
however, which will no doubt strike you."
"They are typewritten," I remarked.
"Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the neat little
'Hosmer Angel' at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no
superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The point
about the signature is very suggestive--in fact, we may call it
conclusive."
"Of what?"
"My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it bears upon
the case?"
"I cannot say that I do, unless it were that he wished to be able to deny
his signature if an action for breach of promise were instituted."
"No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters which
should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City, the other is to
the young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking him whether he could
meet us here at six o'clock to-morrow evening. It is just as well that we
should do business with the male relatives. And now, doctor, we can do
nothing until the answers to those letters come, so we may put our little
problem upon the shelf for the interim."
I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend's subtle powers of
reasoning, and extraordinary energy in action, that I felt that he must
have some solid grounds for the assured and easy demeanor with which he
treated the singular mystery which he had been called upon to fathom. Once
only had I known him to fail, in the case of the King of Bohemia and the
Irene Adler photograph, but when I looked back to the weird business of
the "Sign of the Four," and the extraordinary circumstances connected with
the "Study in Scarlet," I felt that it would be a strange tangle indeed
which he could not unravel.
I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the conviction
that when I came again on the next evening I would find that he held in
his hands all the clews which would lead up to the identity of the
disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.
A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own attention at the
time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside of the sufferer.
It was not until close upon six o'clock that I found myself free, and was
able to spring into a hansom and drive to Baker Street, half afraid that I
might be too late to assist at the _dénouement_ of the little mystery. I
found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half asleep, with his long, thin
form curled up in the recesses of his armchair. A formidable array of
bottles and test-tubes, with the pungent, cleanly smell of hydrochloric
acid, told me that he had spent his day in the chemical work which was so
dear to him.
"Well, have you solved it?" I asked as I entered.
"Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta."
"No, no; the mystery!" I cried.
"Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon. There was
never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday, some of the
details are of interest. The only drawback is that there is no law, I
fear, that can touch the scoundrel."
"Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss Sutherland?"
The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet opened his
lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the passage, and a tap at
the door.
"This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes. "He has
written to me to say that he would be here at six. Come in!"
The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some thirty years
of age, clean shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a bland, insinuating
manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating gray eyes. He shot
a questioning glance at each of us, placed his shiny top hat upon the
sideboard, and, with a slight bow, sidled down into the nearest chair.
"Good evening, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes. "I think this
typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an appointment with me
for six o'clock?"
"Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite my own
master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has troubled you about
this little matter, for I think it is far better not to wash linen of the
sort in public. It was quite against my wishes that she came, but she is a
very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may have noticed, and she is not