The Return of Sherlock Holmes
his cabin. You remember that I asked whether whisky and brandy
were in the cabin. You said they were. How many landsmen are
there who would drink rum when they could get these other
spirits? Yes, I was certain it was a seaman.”
“And how did you find him?”
“My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If it
were a seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with him on
the _Sea Unicorn_. So far as I could learn he had sailed in no
other ship. I spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at the
end of that time I had ascertained the names of the crew of the
_Sea Unicorn_ in 1883. When I found Patrick Cairns among the
harpooners, my research was nearing its end. I argued that the
man was probably in London, and that he would desire to leave the
country for a time. I therefore spent some days in the East End,
devised an Arctic expedition, put forth tempting terms for
harpooners who would serve under Captain Basil—and behold the
result!”
“Wonderful!” cried Hopkins. “Wonderful!”
“You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as
possible,” said Holmes. “I confess that I think you owe him some
apology. The tin box must be returned to him, but, of course, the
securities which Peter Carey has sold are lost forever. There’s
the cab, Hopkins, and you can remove your man. If you want me for
the trial, my address and that of Watson will be somewhere in
Norway—I’ll send particulars later.”
THE ADVENTURE OF CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON
It is years since the incidents of which I speak took place, and
yet it is with diffidence that I allude to them. For a long time,
even with the utmost discretion and reticence, it would have been
impossible to make the facts public, but now the principal person
concerned is beyond the reach of human law, and with due
suppression the story may be told in such fashion as to injure no
one. It records an absolutely unique experience in the career
both of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and of myself. The reader will excuse
me if I conceal the date or any other fact by which he might
trace the actual occurrence.
We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes and I, and
had returned about six o’clock on a cold, frosty winter’s
evening. As Holmes turned up the lamp the light fell upon a card
on the table. He glanced at it, and then, with an ejaculation of
disgust, threw it on the floor. I picked it up and read:
CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON,
Appledore Towers,
Hampstead.
_Agent_.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“The worst man in London,” Holmes answered, as he sat down and
stretched his legs before the fire. “Is anything on the back of
the card?”
I turned it over.
“Will call at 6:30—C.A.M.,” I read.
“Hum! He’s about due. Do you feel a creeping, shrinking
sensation, Watson, when you stand before the serpents in the Zoo,
and see the slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with their
deadly eyes and wicked, flattened faces? Well, that’s how
Milverton impresses me. I’ve had to do with fifty murderers in my
career, but the worst of them never gave me the repulsion which I
have for this fellow. And yet I can’t get out of doing business
with him—indeed, he is here at my invitation.”
“But who is he?”
“I’ll tell you, Watson. He is the king of all the blackmailers.
Heaven help the man, and still more the woman, whose secret and
reputation come into the power of Milverton! With a smiling face
and a heart of marble, he will squeeze and squeeze until he has
drained them dry. The fellow is a genius in his way, and would
have made his mark in some more savoury trade. His method is as
follows: He allows it to be known that he is prepared to pay very
high sums for letters which compromise people of wealth and
position. He receives these wares not only from treacherous
valets or maids, but frequently from genteel ruffians, who have
gained the confidence and affection of trusting women. He deals
with no niggard hand. I happen to know that he paid seven hundred
pounds to a footman for a note two lines in length, and that the
ruin of a noble family was the result. Everything which is in the
market goes to Milverton, and there are hundreds in this great
city who turn white at his name. No one knows where his grip may
fall, for he is far too rich and far too cunning to work from
hand to mouth. He will hold a card back for years in order to
play it at the moment when the stake is best worth winning. I
have said that he is the worst man in London, and I would ask you
how could one compare the ruffian, who in hot blood bludgeons his
mate, with this man, who methodically and at his leisure tortures
the soul and wrings the nerves in order to add to his already
swollen money-bags?”
I had seldom heard my friend speak with such intensity of
feeling.
“But surely,” said I, “the fellow must be within the grasp of the
law?”
“Technically, no doubt, but practically not. What would it profit
a woman, for example, to get him a few months’ imprisonment if
her own ruin must immediately follow? His victims dare not hit
back. If ever he blackmailed an innocent person, then indeed we
should have him, but he is as cunning as the Evil One. No, no, we
must find other ways to fight him.”
“And why is he here?”
“Because an illustrious client has placed her piteous case in my
hands. It is the Lady Eva Blackwell, the most beautiful
_débutante_ of last season. She is to be married in a fortnight
to the Earl of Dovercourt. This fiend has several imprudent
letters—imprudent, Watson, nothing worse—which were written to an
impecunious young squire in the country. They would suffice to
break off the match. Milverton will send the letters to the Earl
unless a large sum of money is paid him. I have been commissioned
to meet him, and—to make the best terms I can.”
At that instant there was a clatter and a rattle in the street
below. Looking down I saw a stately carriage and pair, the
brilliant lamps gleaming on the glossy haunches of the noble
chestnuts. A footman opened the door, and a small, stout man in a
shaggy astrakhan overcoat descended. A minute later he was in the
room.
Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty, with a large,
intellectual head, a round, plump, hairless face, a perpetual
frozen smile, and two keen grey eyes, which gleamed brightly from
behind broad, gold-rimmed glasses. There was something of Mr.
Pickwick’s benevolence in his appearance, marred only by the
insincerity of the fixed smile and by the hard glitter of those
restless and penetrating eyes. His voice was as smooth and suave
as his countenance, as he advanced with a plump little hand
extended, murmuring his regret for having missed us at his first
visit. Holmes disregarded the outstretched hand and looked at him
with a face of granite. Milverton’s smile broadened, he shrugged
his shoulders removed his overcoat, folded it with great
deliberation over the back of a chair, and then took a seat.
“This gentleman?” said he, with a wave in my direction. “Is it
discreet? Is it right?”
“Dr. Watson is my friend and partner.”
“Very good, Mr. Holmes. It is only in your client’s interests
that I protested. The matter is so very delicate——”
“Dr. Watson has already heard of it.”
“Then we can proceed to business. You say that you are acting for
Lady Eva. Has she empowered you to accept my terms?”
“What are your terms?”
“Seven thousand pounds.”
“And the alternative?”
“My dear sir, it is painful for me to discuss it, but if the
money is not paid on the 14th, there certainly will be no
marriage on the 18th.” His insufferable smile was more complacent
than ever.
Holmes thought for a little.
“You appear to me,” he said, at last, “to be taking matters too
much for granted. I am, of course, familiar with the contents of
these letters. My client will certainly do what I may advise. I
shall counsel her to tell her future husband the whole story and
to trust to his generosity.”
Milverton chuckled.
“You evidently do not know the Earl,” said he.
From the baffled look upon Holmes’s face, I could see clearly
that he did.
“What harm is there in the letters?” he asked.
“They are sprightly—very sprightly,” Milverton answered. “The
lady was a charming correspondent. But I can assure you that the
Earl of Dovercourt would fail to appreciate them. However, since
you think otherwise, we will let it rest at that. It is purely a
matter of business. If you think that it is in the best interests
of your client that these letters should be placed in the hands
of the Earl, then you would indeed be foolish to pay so large a
sum of money to regain them.” He rose and seized his astrakhan
coat.
Holmes was grey with anger and mortification.
“Wait a little,” he said. “You go too fast. We should certainly
make every effort to avoid scandal in so delicate a matter.”
Milverton relapsed into his chair.
“I was sure that you would see it in that light,” he purred.
“At the same time,” Holmes continued, “Lady Eva is not a wealthy
woman. I assure you that two thousand pounds would be a drain
upon her resources, and that the sum you name is utterly beyond
her power. I beg, therefore, that you will moderate your demands,
and that you will return the letters at the price I indicate,
which is, I assure you, the highest that you can get.”
Milverton’s smile broadened and his eyes twinkled humorously.
“I am aware that what you say is true about the lady’s
resources,” said he. “At the same time you must admit that the
occasion of a lady’s marriage is a very suitable time for her
friends and relatives to make some little effort upon her behalf.
They may hesitate as to an acceptable wedding present. Let me
assure them that this little bundle of letters would give more
joy than all the candelabra and butter-dishes in London.”
“It is impossible,” said Holmes.
“Dear me, dear me, how unfortunate!” cried Milverton, taking out
a bulky pocketbook. “I cannot help thinking that ladies are
ill-advised in not making an effort. Look at this!” He held up a
little note with a coat-of-arms upon the envelope. “That belongs
to—well, perhaps it is hardly fair to tell the name until
to-morrow morning. But at that time it will be in the hands of
the lady’s husband. And all because she will not find a beggarly
sum which she could get by turning her diamonds into paste. It
_is_ such a pity! Now, you remember the sudden end of the
engagement between the Honourable Miss Miles and Colonel Dorking?
Only two days before the wedding, there was a paragraph in the
_Morning Post_ to say that it was all off. And why? It is almost
incredible, but the absurd sum of twelve hundred pounds would