Scandal in Bohemia
A Scandal in Bohemia
First published in the Strand Magazine, July 1891,
I
For Sherlock Holmes, she always remained “That Woman.” I rarely heard him call her by any other name. In his eyes, she eclipsed all representatives of her sex. Not that he felt anything close to love for Irene Adler. All feelings, and especially love, were hated by his cold, precise, but surprisingly balanced mind. In my opinion, he was the most perfect thinking and observing machine the world has ever seen; but as a lover he would be out of place. He always spoke about tender feelings only with contemptuous mockery and mockery. Tender feelings were in his eyes a magnificent object for observation, an excellent means of stripping the veil from human motives and affairs. But for a sophisticated thinker to allow such an intrusion of feeling into his refined and superbly organized inner world would mean introducing confusion there, which would nullify all the gains of his thought. A grain of sand caught in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his mighty lenses - that's what love would be for a man like Holmes. And yet, there was one woman for him, and this woman was the late Iran Adler, a person of very, very dubious reputation.
Lately I have rarely seen Holmes - my marriage has alienated us from each other. My personal cloudless happiness and the purely family interests that arise in a person when he first becomes master of his own home were enough to absorb all my attention. Meanwhile, Holmes, who with his gypsy soul hated any form of social life, remained living in our apartment on Baker Street, surrounded by piles of his old books, alternating weeks of cocaine addiction with bouts of ambition, the dormant state of a drug addict with the wild energy inherent in his nature.
As before, he was deeply passionate about solving crimes. He devoted his enormous abilities and extraordinary gift of observation to the search for clues to clarify those secrets that were considered incomprehensible by the official police. From time to time I heard vague rumors about his affairs: that he had been summoned to Odessa in connection with the murder of Trepov, that he had managed to shed light on the mysterious tragedy of the Atkinson brothers in Trincomalee, and, finally, about an assignment from the Dutch royal at home, which he executed exceptionally subtly and successfully.
However, apart from this information about his activities, which I, like all readers, drew from newspapers, I knew little about my former friend and comrade.
One night - it was March 20, 1888 - I was returning from a patient (for I was now back in private practice), and my path led me to Baker Street. As I passed the well-known door, which in my mind is forever connected with the memory of the time of my matchmaking and with the gloomy events of A Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again and find out what problems his wonderful mind was currently working on. His windows were brightly lit, and, looking up, I saw his tall, thin figure, which flashed twice in a dark silhouette on the lowered curtain. He walked quickly and swiftly around the room, his head bowed low and his hands clasped behind his back. To me, who knew all his moods and habits, his walking from corner to corner and his entire appearance spoke volumes. He went back to work. He shook off his drug-induced foggy dreams and was unraveling the threads of some new mystery. I called and was shown to a room that had once been partly mine.
He met me without enthusiastic outpourings. He indulged in such outpourings extremely rarely, but, it seems to me, he was glad of my arrival. Almost without words, he invited me to sit down with a friendly gesture, pushed a box of cigars towards me and pointed to the cellar where the wine was stored. Then he stood in front of the fireplace and looked at me with his special, penetrating gaze.
Then he stood before fire
Family life is good for you,” he noted. “I think, Watson, that since I saw you you have gained seven and a half pounds.”
- At seven.
- Is it true? No, no, a little more. A little more, I assure you. And you are practicing again, as I see. You didn't tell me that you were going to put yourself to work.
- So how do you know this?
- I see this, I draw conclusions. For example, how do I know that you recently got very wet and that your maid is a big slob?
“Dear Holmes,” I said, “this is too much.” You would undoubtedly have been burned at the stake if you had lived centuries ago. It is true that on Thursday I had to be out of town and I returned home all dirty, but I changed my suit, so there were no traces of the rain left. As for Mary Jane, she is truly incorrigible, and her wife has already warned that she wants to fire her. Still, I don't understand how you figured it out.
Holmes laughed quietly and rubbed his long, nervous hands.
- As easy as pie! - he said. “My eyes notify me that on the inside of your left shoe, just where the light falls, six almost parallel scratches are visible on the skin. Apparently the scratches were made by someone very carelessly rubbing the edges of the sole to remove dried dirt. From this, as you see, I draw the double conclusion that you went out in bad weather and that you have a very bad example of a London servant. And as for your practice, if a gentleman comes into my room smelling of iodoform, if he has index finger on his right hand there is a black stain of nitric acid, and on the cylinder there is a lump indicating where he hid his stethoscope, I would have to be a complete fool not to recognize him as an active representative of the medical world.
I could not help laughing as I listened to the ease with which he explained to me the path of his conclusions.
“When you reveal your thoughts,” I remarked, “everything seems ridiculously simple to me; I could easily figure it all out myself.” And in each new case I am completely stunned until you explain to me your train of thought. Meanwhile, I think that my vision is no worse than yours.
“Quite right,” Holmes answered, lighting a cigarette and stretching out in his chair. - You look, but you don't observe, and that's a big difference. For example, have you often seen the steps leading from the hallway to this room?
- Often.
- How often?
- Well, several hundred times!
- Great. How many steps are there?
- How many? Didn't pay attention.
- That's it, they didn't pay attention. Meanwhile, you saw! That's the whole point. Well, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I saw and observed. By the way, you are interested in those small problems in solving which my craft lies, and you were even kind enough to describe two or three of my small experiments. Therefore, you may perhaps be interested in this letter.
He tossed me a piece of thick pink notepaper that was lying on the table.
“Just received,” he said. - Read it out loud.
The letter was undated, unsigned and without an address.
“Tonight, at a quarter to eight,” the note said, “a gentleman will come to you who wants to get advice from you on a very important matter. The services you recently rendered to one of the royal families of Europe have shown that you can be trusted with matters of extreme importance. We received such feedback about you from all sides. Be at home at this hour and don’t think anything bad if your visitor is wearing a mask.”
“It’s really mysterious,” I remarked. - What do you think this all means?
- I don’t have any data yet. Theorizing without data is dangerous. Unbeknownst to himself, a person begins to manipulate the facts in order to fit them to his theory, instead of justifying the theory with facts. But the note itself! What conclusions can you draw from the note?
I carefully examined the letter and the paper on which it was written.
“The one who wrote this letter apparently has the means,” I noted, trying to imitate my friend’s methods. - This kind of paper costs at least half a crown a pack. It is very strong and dense.
“Outlandish is the right word,” Holmes remarked.
- And this is not English paper. Look it up to the light.
I did so and saw watermarks on the paper: a large "E" and a small "g", then a "P" and a large "G" with a small "t".
- What conclusion can you draw from this? - Holmes asked.
- This is undoubtedly the name of the manufacturer, or rather his monogram.
- Well, we made a mistake! The big "G" with a small "t" is an abbreviation of "Gesellschaft", which is German for "company". This is a common abbreviation, like our “K°”. "P" of course stands for "Papier", paper. Let's decipher "E" now. Let's look at a foreign geographical directory... - He took a heavy tome bound in brown from the shelf. - Eglow, Eglonitz... So we found it: Egeria. This is a German-speaking area in Bohemia, near Carlsbad. The place of Wallenstein's death is famous for its numerous glass factories and paper mills... Ha ha, my boy, what conclusion do you draw from this? - His eyes sparkled with triumph, and he released a large blue cloud from his pipe.
“The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said.
- Exactly. And the person who wrote the note is German. Do you notice the strange construction of the phrase: “We received such feedback about you from all sides”? A Frenchman or a Russian couldn't write it like that. Only the Germans are so unceremonious with their verbs. Consequently, all that remains is to find out what this German needs, who writes on Bohemian paper and prefers to wear a mask rather than show his face... Here he is, if I’m not mistaken. He will solve all our doubts.
We heard the sharp clatter of horse hooves and the squeal of wheels sliding along the nearest roadside. Soon after, someone pulled the bell with force.
Holmes whistled.
“Judging by the sound, a pair of carriages... Yes,” he continued, looking out the window, “an elegant little carriage and a pair of trotters... one hundred and fifty guineas each.” One way or another, this case smells like money, Watson.
- I think I'd better go, Holmes?
- No, no, stay! What will I do without my biographer? The case promises to be interesting. It will be a shame if you miss it.
- But your client...
- Nothing, nothing. I may need your help, and so will he... Well, here he comes. Sit in that chair, doctor, and be very careful.
The slow, heavy footsteps that we had heard on the stairs and in the corridor died down just before our door. Then there was a loud and authoritative knock.
- Come in! - said Holmes.
A man came in, barely six feet six inches tall, of Herculean build. He was dressed luxuriously, but this luxury would be considered vulgar in England. The sleeves and lapels of his double-breasted coat were trimmed with heavy stripes of astrakhan; the dark blue cloak, draped over the shoulders, was lined with fiery red silk and fastened at the neck with a buckle of sparkling beryl. Boots reaching halfway to his calves and trimmed with expensive brown fur on top complemented the impression of barbaric splendor that his entire appearance produced. He held a wide-brimmed hat in his hand, and the upper part of his face was covered with a black mask that reached below his cheekbones. He had obviously just put on this mask, which looked like a visor, because when he entered, his hand was still raised. Judging by the lower part of his face, he was a man of strong will: a thick protruding lip and a long, straight chin spoke of determination, turning into stubbornness.
-Did you receive my note? - he asked in a low, rough voice with a strong German accent. - I told you that I would come to you. “He looked first at one of us, then at the other, apparently not knowing who to turn to.
- Sit down please. - said Holmes. - This is my friend and comrade, Doctor Watson. He is so kind that he sometimes helps me in my work. Who do I have the honor of speaking to?
- You may consider me to be Count von Cramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I believe that this gentleman, your friend, is a man worthy of complete confidence, and I can initiate him into a matter of the utmost importance? If this is not the case, I would prefer to talk to you in private.
I stood up to leave, but Holmes grabbed my arm and pushed me back into the chair:
- Either talk to both of us, or don't talk. In the presence of this gentleman, you can say everything that you would say to me in private.
The Count shrugged his broad shoulders.
“In that case, I must first of all make you both promise that the matter that I am now going to tell you about will remain secret for two years.” After two years it won't matter. At present, I can say, without exaggeration, that this whole story is so serious that it can affect the destinies of Europe.
“I give you my word,” said Holmes.
- And I.
“Forgive me this mask,” continued the strange visitor. “The august person on whose behalf I am acting wished that his confidant remain unknown to you, and I must admit that the title with which I called myself is not entirely accurate.
“I noticed that,” Holmes said dryly.
- The circumstances are very delicate, and it is necessary to take all measures so that because of them a huge scandal does not develop, which could greatly compromise one of the reigning dynasties of Europe. To put it simply, the matter is connected with the reigning house of Ormstein, kings of Bohemia.
“That’s what I thought,” Holmes muttered, settling more comfortably in his chair and closing his eyes.
The visitor looked with obvious surprise at the lazily lounging, indifferent man, whom he had undoubtedly been described as the most insightful and most energetic of all European detectives. Holmes slowly opened his eyes and looked impatiently at his ponderous client.
“If Your Majesty deigns to let us in on your business,” he noted, “it will be easier for me to give you advice.”
The visitor jumped up from his chair and began to pace around the room in great excitement. Then, with a gesture of despair, he tore the mask from his face and threw it on the floor.
“You’re right,” he exclaimed, “I am the king!” Why should I try to hide it?
- Really, why? Your Majesty had not yet begun to speak, as I already knew that before me was Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismund von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Kassel-Felstein and hereditary king of Bohemia.
“But you understand,” said our strange visitor, sitting down again and moving his hand over his high white forehead, “you understand that I am not used to personally dealing with such matters!” However, the matter was so sensitive that I could not entrust it to any of the police agents without risking being at his mercy. I came from Prague incognito specifically to seek your advice.
“Please contact me,” said Holmes, closing his eyes again.
- The facts are briefly as follows: about five years ago, during a long stay in Warsaw, I met the well-known adventuress Irene Adler. This name is undoubtedly familiar to you?
“Please, doctor, look in my file cabinet,” Holmes muttered without opening his eyes.
Many years ago he had established a system of recording various facts concerning people and things, so that it was difficult to name a person or thing about which he could not immediately give information. In this case, I found a biography of Irene Adler between the biography of a Jewish rabbi and the biography of a chief of staff who wrote a work on deep-sea fish.
“Show me,” said Holmes. - Hm! Born in New Jersey in 1858. Contralto, um... La Scala, yes, yes!.. Diva of the Imperial Opera in Warsaw, yes! Left the opera stage, ha! Lives in London... quite right! Your Majesty, as far as I understand, got into the network of this young lady, wrote compromising letters to her and now would like to return these letters.
- Absolutely right. But how?
-Did you secretly marry her?
- No.
- No documents or evidence?
- None.
- In that case, I don’t understand you, Your Majesty. If this young woman wanted to use the letters for blackmail or other purposes, how would she prove their authenticity?
- My handwriting.
- Nonsense! Forgery.
- My personal note paper.
- Stolen.
- My personal seal.
- Fake.
- My Photo.
- Bought.
- But we were photographed together!
- Oh, this is very bad! Your Majesty really made a big mistake.
- I was crazy about Irene.
-You have seriously compromised yourself.
“I was just the crown prince then.” I was young. I'm still only thirty.
- The photograph must be returned at all costs.
- We tried, but we failed.
- Your Majesty must incur expenses: the photograph must be bought.
- Irene doesn’t want to sell it.
- Then we need to steal it.
- Five attempts were made. I hired burglars twice and they ransacked her entire house. One time when she was traveling, we searched her luggage. Twice she was lured into a trap. We haven't achieved any results.
- None?
- Absolutely none.
Holmes laughed.
- Wow, that's a problem! - he said.
- But for me this is a very serious task! - the king objected reproachfully.
- Yes indeed. What does she intend to do with the photograph?
- Destroy me.
- But how?
- I'm going to get married.
- I heard about this.
- On Clotilde Lotman von Saxe-Meningen. Perhaps you know the strict principles of this family. Clotilde herself is purity personified. The slightest shadow of doubt about my past would lead to a breakup.
- And Irene Adler?
“She threatens to send the photograph to my fiancee’s parents.” And he will send it, he will certainly send it! You don't know her. She has an iron character. Yes, yes, the face of a charming woman, and the soul of a cruel man. She will stop at nothing to stop me from marrying someone else.
-Are you sure she hasn't sent the photo to your fiancee yet?
- Sure.
- Why?
- She said that she would send a photo on the day of my official engagement. And this will be next Monday.
- Oh, we have three days left! - said Holmes, yawning. “And that’s very nice, because now I have some important things to do.” Your Majesty, of course, will remain in London for now?
- Certainly. You can find me at the Langham Hotel under the name of Count von Cramm.
“In that case, I’ll send you a note to let you know how things are going.”
- I'm begging you. I'm so excited!
- Well, what about the money?
- Spend as much as you find necessary. You are given complete freedom of action.
- Absolutely?
- Oh, I’m ready to give any of the provinces of my kingdom for this photo!
- What about current expenses?
The king took out a heavy leather bag from behind his cloak and placed it on the table.
“There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred banknotes,” he said.
Holmes wrote a receipt on a page of his notebook and handed it to the king.
- Mademoiselle's address? - he asked.
- Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St Johnswood.
Holmes wrote it down.
“And one more question,” he said. - Was the photograph office size?
- Yes, office.
“And now good night, Your Majesty, and I hope that we will soon have good news... Good night, Watson,” he added, as the wheels of the royal carriage clattered on the pavement. - Be kind enough to come by tomorrow at three o'clock, I would like to talk to you about this matter.
II
At exactly three o'clock I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not yet returned. The housekeeper told me that he left the house at a little after eight. I sat down by the fire with the intention of waiting for him, no matter how long I had to wait. I became deeply interested in his investigation, although it lacked the bizarre and dark features of the two crimes I have described elsewhere. But the peculiar features of this case and the high position of the client gave the case an unusual character. Even if we leave aside the very content of the research that my friend carried out, how successfully, with what skill he immediately mastered the entire situation and what strict, irrefutable logic was in his conclusions! It was a real pleasure to watch the quick, deft techniques with which he unraveled the most intricate mysteries. I was so accustomed to his constant triumphs that the very possibility of failure did not fit into my head.
It was about four o'clock when the door opened and a tipsy groom, with sideburns, disheveled hair, an inflamed face, dressed poorly and vulgarly, entered the room. No matter how used I am to amazing ability my friend to change his appearance, I had to look three times before I was sure that it was really Holmes. Nodding to me as he walked, he disappeared into his bedroom, from where he appeared five minutes later in a dark suit, correct as always. Putting his hands in his pockets, he stretched his legs towards the blazing fireplace and laughed merrily for several minutes.
- Wonderful! - he exclaimed, then coughed and laughed again, so much so that in the end he became weak and leaned back in his chair in complete exhaustion.
- What's the matter?
- Funny, incredibly funny! I'm sure you'll never guess how I spent that morning and what I ended up doing.
- I can not imagine. I suppose you were observing the habits or perhaps the house of Miss Irene Adler.
- Absolutely true, but the consequences were quite extraordinary... However, I’ll tell you in order. At the beginning of eight I left the house under the guise of an unemployed groom. There is an amazing sympathy, a kind of community, between everyone who deals with horses. Become a groom and you will learn everything you need. I quickly found Briony Lodge. This is a tiny luxurious two-story villa; she goes out into the street, behind her is a garden. Massive lock on the garden gate. On the right side is a large living room, well furnished, with high windows, almost to the floor, and with ridiculous English window shutters that a child could open. There is nothing special behind the house except that the gallery window is accessible from the roof of the coach house. I walked around this barn from all sides and examined it very carefully, but did not notice anything interesting. Then I walked along the street and saw, as I expected, in an alley adjacent to the wall of the garden, a stable. I helped the grooms brush the horses and received for this two pence, a glass of vodka, two packets of tobacco and plenty of information about Miss Adler, as well as about other local residents. The local residents did not interest me at all, but I was forced to listen to their biographies.
- What did you learn about Irene Adler? - I asked.
- Oh, she turned the heads of all the men in this part of the city. She is the loveliest hat-wearing creature on this planet. This is what all the Serpentine grooms say with one voice. She lives quietly, sometimes performs at concerts, goes out for a ride every day at five o’clock in the afternoon and returns for dinner at exactly seven o’clock. Rarely goes out at other times, except when she sings. Only one man visits her - only one, but very often. He is brunette, handsome, dresses beautifully, visits her every day, and sometimes twice a day. His name is Mr. Godfrey Norton of Temple. You see how profitable it is to gain confidence in the coachmen! They took him home from the Serpentine stables twenty times and everyone knows about him. After listening to what they told me, I again began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge and ponder further actions.
This Godfrey Norton is obviously playing significant role in the whole matter. He's a lawyer. This sounds ominous. What connects them and what is the reason for his frequent visits? Who is she: his client? His friend? His lover? If she's his client, she probably gave him that photo for safekeeping. If the beloved - hardly. The solution of this question will determine whether I should continue to work at Briony Lodge or turn my attention to that gentleman's apartment in the Temple. This question is very sensitive and expands the field of my searches... I am afraid, Watson, that I am boring you with these details, but in order for you to understand the whole situation, I must reveal to you my minor difficulties.
“I’m following your story carefully,” I replied.
“I was still weighing this matter in my mind when an elegant carriage drove up to Briony Lodge and a gentleman jumped out of it, extraordinarily handsome, mustachioed, dark, with an aquiline nose. Obviously, this was the person I heard about. Apparently he was in a hurry and was extremely excited. Ordering the coachman to wait, he ran past the maid who opened the door for him, with the air of a man who feels like the master of this house.
He stayed there for about half an hour, and through the living room window I could see him walking up and down the room, talking excitedly about something and waving his arms. I haven't seen her. But then he went outside, even more excited. Approaching the carriage, he took a gold watch out of his pocket and looked at it with concern. “Drive like the devil! - he shouted to the coachman. - First to Gross and Henke in Regent Street, and then to St. Monica's Church in Edgware Road. Half a guinea if you get there in twenty minutes!”
They sped off, and I was just wondering whether I should follow them, when suddenly a charming little landau rolled up to the house. The coachman's coat was half-buttoned, the knot of his tie stuck out just under his ear, and the harness straps had popped out of their buckles. The coachman barely had time to stop the horses before Irene rushed out of the villa doors and jumped into the landau. I saw her only for one moment, but that was enough: a very pretty woman with the kind of face that men fall in love with to death. “St. Monica's Church, John! - she shouted. “Half a guinea if you get there in twenty minutes!”
This was an opportunity not to be missed, Watson. I was already beginning to think about what was better: running after her or clinging to the back of the landau, when suddenly a cab appeared on the street. The coachman looked twice at such an unprepossessing rider, but I jumped up before he had time to object. “St. Monica’s Church,” I said, “and half a guinea if you get there in twenty minutes!” It was twenty-five minutes to twelve, and, of course, it was not difficult to guess what was going on.
My cab was speeding like an arrow. I don’t think I’ve ever driven faster, but the carriage and landau with lathered horses were already standing at the entrance to the church. I paid the coachman and ran up the steps. There was not a soul in the church except those whom I followed, and the priest, who, apparently, addressed them with some kind of reproaches. All three stood in front of the altar. I began to wander around the side aisle, like a loiter who had accidentally entered the church. Suddenly, to my amazement, the three turned to me, and Godfrey Norton rushed towards me as fast as he could.
"God bless! - he shouted. - We need you. Let's go! Let's go! "
"What's the matter?" - I asked.
"Go, go, a kind person, just three minutes!”
I was almost forcibly dragged to the altar, and before I knew it, I was muttering answers that were whispered in my ear, swearing what I did not know at all, and generally assisting in the marriage of Irene Adler, a spinster, to Godfrey Norton, a bachelor.
All this happened in one minute, and now the gentleman thanks me on the one hand, the lady on the other, and the priest beams with a smile. It was the most ridiculous position I have ever been in; It was the memory of him that made me laugh now. Apparently, some formalities were not completed, and the priest flatly refused to perform the wedding ceremony unless there was a witness. My successful appearance in the church saved the groom from having to run outside in search of the first person he came across. My fiancée gave me a guinea and I plan to wear this coin on my watch chain as a memento of my adventure.
“The matter took a very unexpected turn,” I said. - What will be next?
- Well, I realized that my plans are in serious jeopardy. It looked as if the newlyweds were planning to leave immediately, and therefore prompt and energetic action was required on my part. However, at the door of the church they parted: he went to Temple, she went to her home. “I’ll go for a ride in the park, as always, at five o’clock,” she said, saying goodbye to him. I heard nothing more. They went off in different directions, and I returned to take up my preparations.
- What are they?
“Some cold meat and a glass of beer,” Holmes answered, tugging at the bell. - I was too busy and completely forgot about food. I'll probably have even more trouble tonight. By the way, doctor, I will need your assistance.
- I will be very glad.
-Are you not afraid to break laws?
- Not at all.
- And the danger of arrest doesn’t scare you?
- I’m ready for this for a good cause.
- Oh, it's great!
- In that case, I am at your service.
- I was sure that I could rely on you.
- But what are you planning?
“When Mrs. Turner brings dinner, I will explain everything to you... Now,” he said, greedily pouncing on the modest food prepared by the housekeeper, “I must discuss the whole matter with you while eating, because I have little time left.” It's almost five o'clock now. We should be there in two hours. Miss Irene, or rather Mrs., returns from her walk at seven o'clock. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her.
- What's next?
- Leave this to me. I have already prepared what is about to happen. I insist on only one thing: no matter what happens, do not interfere. You understand?
- Should I be neutral?
- That's it. Do nothing. It'll probably be a bit of a nuisance. Don't interfere. It will end with me being carried into the house. In four or five minutes the living room window will be opened. You should get closer to this open window.
- Fine.
- You must watch me, because I will be in your sight.
- Fine.
- And when I raise my hand - like this - you will throw into the room what I will give you for this purpose, and at the same time shout: “Fire!” Do you understand me?
- Quite.
“There’s nothing dangerous here,” he said, taking a cigar-shaped package out of his pocket. - This is an ordinary smoke rocket, equipped with a primer at both ends so that it ignites by itself. All your work comes down to this. When you shout “Fire!”, your cry will be taken up by many people, after which you can walk to the end of the street, and I will catch up with you in ten minutes. I hope you understand?
- I must remain neutral, come closer to the window, watch you and, at your signal, throw this object through the window, then raise a cry about a fire and wait for you on the street corner.
- Absolutely right.
- You can rely on me.
- So that's great. Perhaps it’s time for me to start preparing for the new role that I will have to play today.
He disappeared into the bedroom and a few minutes later appeared in the form of an amiable, simple-minded priest. His wide-brimmed black hat, baggy trousers, white tie, attractive smile and general expression of benevolent curiosity were incomparable. It's not just that Holmes changed his costume. His facial expression, his manners, his very soul seemed to change with every new role he had to play. The stage lost a wonderful actor in him, and science lost a subtle thinker when he became a crime investigation specialist.
At a quarter past six we left the house, and ten minutes remained before the appointed hour when we found ourselves in Serpentine Avenue. It was already dark, the street lamps had just come on, and we began to walk past Briony Lodge, waiting for its inhabitants to return. The house was exactly how I had imagined it brief description Sherlock Holmes, but the area turned out to be far from being as deserted as I expected. On the contrary: this small, quiet street on the outskirts of the city was literally teeming with people. On one corner some ragamuffins were smoking and laughing, there was a grinder with his wheel, two guardsmen flirting with a nanny, and several well-dressed young men walking back and forth with cigars in their mouths.
“You see,” Holmes remarked as we wandered in front of the house, “this wedding greatly simplifies the whole matter.” Now photography becomes a double-edged sword. It is possible that Iran just does not want Mr. Godfrey Norton to see the photograph, just as our client does not want it to catch the eye of his princess. The question now is where we will find the photograph.
- Really, where?
“It is absolutely incredible that Irene would carry it with her.” An office-sized photograph is too large to be hidden under a woman’s dress. Irene knows that the king is able to lure her somewhere and search her. Two attempts of this kind have already been made. This means we can be sure that she does not carry a photograph with her.
- Well, where does she keep it?
- From your banker or your lawyer. Both are possible, but I doubt both. Women are naturally inclined to mystery and like to surround themselves with secrets. Why would she let anyone else in on her secret? She could rely on her own ability to keep things, but she was unlikely to have confidence that a business man, if she entrusted her secret to him, would be able to withstand political or some other influence. Also, remember that she decided to use the photograph in the coming days. To do this, you need to keep it at hand. The photograph must be in her own home.
- But the burglars ransacked the house twice.
- Nonsense! They didn't know how to look.
- How will you search?
- I won't look.
- How else?
“I’ll have Irene show it to me herself.”
- She will refuse.
- That’s the point, she won’t succeed... But I hear the wheels knocking. This is her carriage. Now follow my instructions exactly.
At that moment the light of the side lamps of the carriage appeared at the turn, and a smart little landau rolled up to the doors of Briony Lodge. When the carriage stopped, one of the tramps standing on the corner rushed to open the doors in the hope of earning a copper, but he was pushed aside by another tramp, who ran up with the same intention. A fierce fight ensued. Both guardsmen, who took the side of one of the tramps, and the grinder, who with the same fervor began to defend the other, added fuel to the fire. In an instant, the lady who got out of the carriage found herself in a heated, fighting crowd of people who were wildly beating each other with fists and sticks. Holmes rushed into the crowd to protect the lady. But, having made his way to her, he suddenly let out a scream and fell to the ground with his face covered in blood. When he fell, the soldiers began to run in one direction, the ragamuffins in the other. Several decent-looking passersby, who had not taken part in the scuffle, ran up to protect the lady and help the wounded man. Irene Adler, as I will continue to call her, ran up the steps, but stopped on the landing and began to look down the street; her magnificent figure stood out against the backdrop of the illuminated living room.
Is the poor gentleman badly injured? - she asked.
“He’s dead,” answered several voices.
- No, no, he's still alive! - someone shouted. - But he will die before you get him to the hospital.
- What a brave man! - said some woman. “If it weren’t for him, they would have taken both the lady’s wallet and watch.” There's a whole gang of them here and they're very dangerous. A-ah, he began to breathe!
- He can’t lie on the street... Will you allow him to be moved into the house, madam?
- Certainly! Move it into the living room. There's a comfortable sofa there. Here please!
Holmes was carried slowly and solemnly into Briony Lodge and laid down in the drawing-room, while I still watched from my post at the window. The lamps were lit, but the curtains were not drawn, so that I could see Holmes lying on the sofa. I don’t know whether his conscience reproached him for playing such a role, but never in my life did I experience deeper shame than in those moments when this lovely woman, in the conspiracy against whom I participated, courted me with such kindness and caressing the wounded. And yet it would be black treason if I did not carry out Holmes' instructions. With a heavy heart, I pulled out a smoke flare from under my coat. "After all," I thought, "we're not hurting her, we're only stopping her from hurting another person."
Holmes sat up on the sofa, and I saw that he was making movements like a man who is short of breath. The maid rushed to the window and opened it wide. At the same instant Holmes raised his hand; At this signal, I threw a rocket into the room and shouted: “Fire!” The word had barely left my lips before the whole crowd took it up. Well-dressed and poorly dressed gentlemen, grooms and maids all shouted in one voice: “Fire!” Thick clouds of smoke swirled in the room and escaped through the open window. I saw people rushing about outside the window; a moment later Holmes' voice was heard, insisting that it was a false alarm.
Pushing through the crowd, I reached the corner of the street. Ten minutes later, to my joy, Holmes caught up with me, took me by the arm, and we left the scene of violent events. He walked quickly for some time and did not utter a single word until we turned into one of the quiet streets leading to Edgware Road.
“You did it very cleverly, doctor,” Holmes remarked.
- Never better. Everything is fine.
- Did you get the photo?
- I know where it is hidden.
- How did you find out?
- Irene herself showed me, as I predicted to you.
- I still don’t understand anything.
“I don’t make any secret of it,” he said, laughing. - Everything was very simple. You probably guessed that all these onlookers on the street were my accomplices. All of them were hired by me.
- I guessed that.
- I had some wet red paint in my hand. When the fight began, I rushed forward, fell, pressed my hand to my face and appeared bloody... An old trick.
- I realized this too...
- They carry me into the house. Irene Adler is forced to accept me, what can she do? I find myself in the living room, in the very room that I was suspicious of. The photo is somewhere nearby, either in the living room or bedroom. I was determined to find out exactly where. They lay me down on the couch and I pretend that I'm short of air. They are forced to open the window and you get to do your thing.
- What did you gain from this?
- So many. When a woman thinks there is a fire in her house, her instinct makes her save what is most dear to her. This is the most powerful impulse, and I have benefited from it more than once. I used it in the Darlington scandal, and also in the Arnsworth Palace case. A married woman saves a child, an unmarried woman saves a jewelry box. Now it is clear to me that for our lady in the house there is nothing more valuable than what we are looking for. This is exactly what she rushed to save. The fire alarm was played out perfectly. The smoke and scream were enough to shake nerves of steel. Irene did exactly what I expected. The photo is in a hiding place, behind a sliding board, just above the bell cord. Irene was there in an instant, and I even saw the edge of the photograph as she pulled it halfway out. When I shouted that it was a false alarm, Irene put the photo back, glanced briefly at the rocket, ran out of the room, and after that I did not see her. I stood up and, apologizing, slipped out of the house. I wanted to immediately get the photograph, but the coachman entered the room and began to watch me vigilantly, so I inevitably had to postpone my raid until another time. Excessive haste can ruin everything.
- Well, what next? - I asked.
- Our search is almost over. Tomorrow I will come to Irene Adler with the king and with you, if you wish to accompany us. We will be asked to wait in the living room, but it is very likely that when the lady comes out to us, she will not find us or the photograph. It is possible that His Majesty will be pleased to get the photograph with his own hands.
- When will you go there?
- At eight o'clock in the morning. She will still be in bed, so we have complete freedom of action. In addition, she must act quickly, because marriage can completely change her life and her habits. I must send a telegram to the king immediately.
We walked to Baker Street and stopped at the door of our house. Holmes was looking for his key in his pockets when a passer-by said:
- Good night, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!
There were several people on the panel at the time, but the greeting apparently came from someone passing by slender young man in a long coat.
“I’ve already heard this voice somewhere,” said Holmes, looking around the dimly lit street, “but I don’t understand, damn it, who it could be.”
III
That night I slept on Baker Street. We were sitting in the morning over coffee and toast when the King of Bohemia quickly entered the room.
-Did you really get the photo? - he exclaimed, hugging Sherlock Holmes by the shoulders and looking cheerfully into his face.
- Not yet.
- But you hope to get it?
- Hope.
- In that case, let's go! I'm burning with impatience.
- We need a carriage.
- My carriage is at the door.
- This simplifies things.
We went down and headed back towards Briony Lodge.
“Irene Adler got married,” Holmes noted.
- Married? When?
- Yesterday.
- For whom?
- For an English lawyer named Norton.
- But she, of course, doesn’t love him?
- I hope he loves me.
- Why do you hope?
- Because it will save Your Majesty from all future troubles. If a lady loves her husband, it means that she does not love Your Majesty, and then she has no reason to interfere with Your Majesty's plans.
- Right, right. And yet... Oh, how I wish she were of the same rank as me! What a queen she would be!
He fell into a sullen silence, which he did not break until we reached Serpentine Avenue.
The doors of Briony Lodge were open and an elderly woman stood on the stairs. She looked at us with some strange irony as we got out of the carriage.
- Mr. Sherlock Holmes? - she asked.
“Yes, I’m Sherlock Holmes,” my friend answered, looking at her with a questioning and surprised look.
- This is true! My hostess warned me that you would probably come by. This morning at five fifteen minutes she left with her husband for the Continent from Charing Cross Station.
- What?! - Sherlock Holmes staggered back, pale with grief and surprise. - Do you mean to say that she left England?
- Yes. Forever.
- And the papers? - the king asked hoarsely. - Everything is lost!
- Let's see! - Holmes quickly walked past the maid and rushed into the living room.
The king and I followed him. All the furniture in the room was randomly moved, the shelves were empty, the drawers were open - it was clear that the hostess was rummaging through them in a hurry before she fled.
Holmes rushed to the bell cord, pulled back the small sliding bar and, putting his hand into the hiding place, pulled out a photograph and a letter. It was a photograph of Irene Adler in an evening dress, and on the letter was the inscription: “To Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Give it to him when he comes."
My friend tore the envelope and all three of us began to read the letter. It was dated last night, and this is what was written on it:
“Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you really played this out superbly. At first, I trusted you. Before the fire alarm, I had no suspicions. But then, when I realized how I had given myself away, I couldn't help but think. I was warned several months ago that if the king decides to resort to an agent, he will, of course, turn to you. They gave me your address. And yet you forced me to reveal what you wanted to know. Despite my suspicions, I didn’t want to think badly of such a sweet, kind, old priest... But you know, I was an actress myself. Men's suits are nothing new to me. I often take advantage of the freedom it gives. I sent coachman John to keep an eye on you, and I ran upstairs, put on my walking suit, as I call it, and came down just as you were leaving. I followed you to your door and became convinced that the famous Sherlock Holmes was really interested in me. Then I rather carelessly wished you good night and went to Temple to see my husband.
We decided that since we were being pursued by such a strong enemy, the best salvation would be to flee. And so, when you appear tomorrow, you will find the nest empty. As for photography, your client can rest assured: I love a person who is better than him. This man loves me. The king can do whatever he pleases without fear of hindrance from the one to whom he has done so much harm. I keep the photograph only for my safety, so that I have a weapon that will protect me in the future from any hostile steps of the king. I leave here another photograph, which he may be pleased to keep, and remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
devoted to you
Irene Norton, née Adler."
- What a woman, oh, what a woman! - exclaimed the King of Bohemia when all three of us read this message. “Didn’t I tell you that she is resourceful, smart and enterprising?” Wouldn't she be an amazing queen? Isn't it a pity that she is not of the same rank as me?
“As far as I have come to know this lady, it seems to me that she is indeed of a completely different level than your Majesty,” Holmes said coldly. “I regret that I could not bring Your Majesty’s business to a more successful conclusion.”
- On the contrary, dear sir! - exclaimed the king. - There could be no greater luck. I know that her word is unbreakable. The photograph is now as safe as if it had been burned.
- I am glad to hear this from Your Majesty.
- I am infinitely obliged to you. Please tell me how can I reward you? This ring...
He took the emerald ring off his finger and held it in his palm to Holmes.
“Your Majesty has something even more valuable to me,” said Holmes.
- You just have to point it out.
- This photo.
The king looked at him in amazement.
- Photo of Irene?! - he exclaimed. - Please, if you need it.
- Thank you, Your Majesty. In that case, this matter is over. I have the honor to wish you all the best.
Holmes bowed and, not noticing the hand extended to him by the king, went home with me.
Here is a story about how a very violent outbreak almost broke out in the kingdom of Bohemia. loud scandal and how the cunning plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were ruined by the wisdom of a woman. Holmes always made fun of women's intelligence, but lately I no longer hear his mockery. And when he talks about Irene Adler or remembers her photograph, he always pronounces it as an honorary title: “This Woman.”
Union of redheads
The Red-headed League
First published in the Strand Magazine, Aug. 1891,
with 10 illustrations by Sidney Paget.
This was last fall. An elderly gentleman, very plump and fiery red-haired, was sitting with Sherlock Holmes. I wanted to go in, but I saw that both of them were engrossed in conversation, and I hurried away. However, Holmes dragged me into the room and closed the door behind me.
“You could not have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he said affably.
- I was afraid to disturb you. It seemed to me that you were busy.
- Yes, I'm busy. And even very much so.
- Isn't it better for me to wait in another room?
“No, no... Mr. Wilson,” he said, turning to the fat man, “this gentleman has more than once provided me with friendly assistance in many of my most successful studies.” I have no doubt that he will be very useful to me in your business as well.
The fat man stood up from his chair and nodded his head at me; his small, fat-swollen eyes looked at me inquisitively.
“Sit here on the sofa,” said Holmes.
He sank into a chair and, as always in moments of thoughtfulness, put the ends of the fingers of both hands together.
“I know, my dear Watson,” he said, “that you share my love for everything unusual, for everything that breaks the monotony of our everyday life.” If you did not have this love for extraordinary events, you would not have recorded my modest adventures with such enthusiasm... and in all honesty I must say that some of your stories depict my activities in a somewhat embellished form.
“Really, your adventures always seemed so interesting to me,” I objected.
- Just yesterday, I remember telling you that the wildest imagination is not able to imagine those extraordinary and outlandish cases that occur in everyday life.
- I then answered you that I allow myself to doubt the correctness of your opinion.
- And yet, doctor, you will have to admit that I am right, because otherwise I will bring down such a multitude on you. amazing facts that you will be forced to agree with me. This is at least the story that Mr. Jabez Wilson just told me. The setting where it happened is completely ordinary and everyday, and yet it seems to me that in my entire life I have never heard a more wonderful story... Please, Mr. Wilson, repeat your story. I ask you this not only so that my friend, Dr. Watson, will listen to the story from beginning to end, but also so that I myself will not miss the slightest detail. Usually, as soon as they start telling me about a case, thousands of similar cases appear in my memory. But this time I have to admit that I have never heard anything like it.
The fat client puffed out his chest with some pride, pulled a dirty, crumpled newspaper from his inside coat pocket and laid it out on his lap. While he, craning his neck, ran his eyes through the columns of advertisements, I looked at him carefully and tried, imitating Sherlock Holmes, to guess from his clothes and appearance who he was.
Unfortunately, my observations yielded almost no results. It was immediately possible to notice that our visitor was the most ordinary small shopkeeper, self-satisfied, stupid and slow. His trousers were baggy, gray, and checkered. His not very neat black frock coat was unbuttoned, and on his dark vest there was a massive chain of applied gold, on which a quadrangular piece of some metal, drilled through, hung as a keychain. His worn top hat and faded brown coat with a wrinkled velvet collar were thrown right there on the chair. In a word, no matter how much I looked at this man, I did not see anything remarkable in him, except for his fiery red hair. It was clear that he was extremely puzzled by some unpleasant event.
My occupation did not escape the penetrating gaze of Sherlock Holmes.
“Of course, it is clear to everyone,” he said with a smile, “that our guest at one time was engaged in manual labor, that he sniffs tobacco, that he is a Freemason, that he was in China and that in recent months he has had to write a lot.” Apart from these obvious facts, I could not guess anything.
Mr. Jabez Wilson jumped up from his chair and, without lifting his index finger from the newspaper, stared at my friend.
- How, Mr. Holmes, could you find out all this? - he asked. - How do you know, for example, that I was engaged in physical labor? Yes, indeed, I started my career as a ship carpenter.
“Your hands told me this, my dear sir.” Your right hand is larger than your left. You worked with it, and the muscles on it are more developed.
- What about snuff? What about Freemasonry?
- It’s not difficult to guess about Freemasonry, since you, contrary to the strict rules of your society, wear a cufflink with the image of an arc and a circle.
- Oh yes! I forgot about it... But how did you guess that I had to write a lot?
- What else can your shiny right sleeve and the worn cloth on your left sleeve near the elbow indicate otherwise!
- And China?
- Only in China could the fish that adorns your right wrist be tattooed. I studied tattoos and even had to write scientific articles about them. The custom of painting fish scales soft pink is unique to China. Seeing the Chinese coin on your watch chain, I was finally convinced that you were in China.
Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed loudly.
- That's it! - he said. - At first I thought that you were guessing in God knows what complicated ways, but it turns out it’s so simple.
“I think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I made a mistake in explaining how I came to my conclusions.” As you know, “Omne ignotum pro magnifico,” and my modest reputation is in danger of ruin if I am so frank... Have you found the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?
“Found it,” he answered, holding his thick red finger in the center of the newspaper column. - Here it is. Since this all started. Read it yourself, sir.
I took the newspaper and read:
Union of Redheads in pursuance of the will of the late Ezekin Hopkins of Lebanon, Pennsylvania (USA).
A new vacancy has opened for a member of the Union. A salary of four pounds sterling per week is offered for purely nominal work. Every redhead at least twenty-one years of age, of sound mind and sober memory, may be suitable for this work. Apply personally to Duncan Ross on Monday, at eleven o'clock, at the Union Office, Fleet Street, 7 Pops Court.
- What the hell does that mean? - I exclaimed, having read the extraordinary announcement twice.
Holmes laughed silently and somehow shrank in his chair, and this was a sure sign that he was experiencing considerable pleasure.
- Not a very ordinary announcement, don’t you think, huh? - he said. - Well, Mr. Wilson, continue your story and tell us about yourself, about your home and what role this advertisement played in your life. And you, doctor, please write down what kind of newspaper this is and from what date.
- "Morning Chronicle". April 27, 1890. Exactly two months ago.
- Great. Carry on, Mr. Wilson.
“As I already told you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson, wiping his brow, “I have a small money-lending office in Saxe-Coburg Square, not far from the City.” My business was not going well before, but over the past two years the income from it was only enough to somehow make ends meet. I once kept two assistants, but now I have only one; It would have been difficult for me to pay him either, but he agreed to work at half salary in order to be able to study my business.
What is the name of this helpful young man? - asked Sherlock Holmes.
- His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he is far from a young man. It's hard to say how old he is. I couldn't find a more efficient assistant. I understand perfectly well that he could easily do without me and earn twice as much. But, in the end, since he is satisfied, why would I instill in him thoughts that would be detrimental to my interests?
- Really, why? I see you are very lucky: you have an assistant, whom you pay much less than others pay for the same work. It’s not often we see such selfless employees these days.
- Oh, my assistant has his faults! - said Mr. Wilson. - I have never met a person who was so passionate about photography. He clicks the machine when he needs to work, and then dives into the cellar, like a rabbit into a hole, and develops the records. This is its main drawback. But otherwise he is a good worker.
- I hope he still serves you now?
- Yes, sir. He and a fourteen-year-old girl who somehow cooks and sweeps the floors. I have no one else, I am a widower and also childless. The three of us live very quietly, sir, keep the fire burning and pay the bills - that’s all our merits... This announcement unsettled us, Mr. Wilson continued. “Today marks exactly eight weeks since the day when Spalding walked into the office with this newspaper in his hand and said: “I wish, Mr. Wilson, that God had made me red.”
"Why?" - I ask.
“Well,” he says, “a new vacancy has opened in the Union of Redheads. It will give good income to the one who takes it. There appear to be more vacancies than candidates, and executors are scratching their heads over what to do with the money. If my hair could change its color, I would certainly take advantage of this advantageous place.”
“What kind of Union of Redheads is this?” - I asked. - You see, Mr. Holmes, I’m a big homebody, and since I don’t have to run after clients, the clients themselves come to me, I sometimes don’t cross the threshold for whole weeks. That’s why I know little about what’s going on in the world, and I’m always glad to hear something new...
“Have you never heard of the Redheads’ Union?” - Spaulding asked, eyes wide.
"Never".
“This surprises me very much, since you are one of those who have the right to fill the vacancy.”
“How much can this give?” - I asked.
“About two hundred pounds sterling a year, no more, but the work is trivial and, moreover, such that it does not prevent a person from doing any other business.”
“Tell me everything you know about this Union,” I said.
“As you can see for yourself,” Spaulding replied, showing me the advertisement, “there is a vacancy in the Union of Redheads, and here is the address where you can apply for help if you want to know all the details. As far as I know, this Union was founded by the American millionaire Hezekiah Hopkins, a great eccentric. He himself was fiery red-haired and sympathized with all red-haired people in the world. When he died, he left his executors a huge sum and bequeathed it to be used to alleviate the plight of those with bright red hair. I was told that these lucky ones are paid an excellent salary, and almost no work is required of them.”
“But there are millions of redheads,” I said, “and everyone will want to take this vacant place.”
“Not as much as you think,” he replied. - The announcement, as you can see, is addressed only to Londoners and, moreover, only to adults. This American was born in London, lived his youth here and wanted to benefit his hometown. In addition, as far as I heard, it makes no sense to apply to the Union of Redheads for those people who have light red or dark red hair - they require people with hair of a bright, dazzling, fiery red color. If you want to take advantage of this offer, Mr. Wilson, all you have to do is walk to the Redhead Union office. But does it make sense for you to take a break from your main occupation for the sake of a few hundred pounds?...”
As you will see, gentlemen, I have real bright red hair of a fiery red hue, and it seemed to me that if it came to a competition for redheads, I might have a chance to fill the vacancy. Vincent Spaulding, as a man very knowledgeable in this matter, could bring me great benefit, so I ordered the shutters to be closed all day and told him to accompany me to the Union premises. He was very glad that he would not have to work today, and we, having closed the office, went to the address indicated in the advertisement.
I saw a sight, Mr. Holmes, such as I will never see again! From the north, from the south, from the east and from the west, all people who had even the slightest shade of red in their hair rushed to the City. The whole of Fleet Street was filled with redheads, and Pops Court looked like an orange peddler's car. I never thought there were so many redheads in England. There were all shades of red: straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish Setter shade, bile shade, clay shade; but, as Spalding pointed out, there were very few heads of real life, bright, fiery color here. Still, seeing such a crowd, I fell into despair. Spaulding was not taken aback. I don’t know how he managed it, but he pushed and pushed his way with such diligence that he managed to lead me through the crowd, and we found ourselves on the stairs leading to the office. A double stream of people moved along the stairs: some ascended, full of pleasant hopes, others descended in despondency. We squeezed forward and soon found ourselves in the office...
- A wonderfully interesting story happened to you! - said Holmes, when his client fell silent to refresh his memory with a snuff. - Please continue.
- I wasn’t in the office. nothing but a couple of wooden chairs and a simple pine table, at which sat a small man even redder than me. He exchanged a few words with each of the candidates; as they approached the table, each one revealed some flaw. Apparently, filling this vacancy was not so easy. However, when we, in turn, approached the table, the little man greeted me much more welcomingly than the other candidates, and, as soon as we entered, he locked the doors so that he could talk to us privately.
“This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,” said my assistant. “He would like to fill a vacancy in the Union.”
“And he is quite worthy of occupying it,” answered the little man. “I haven’t seen such beautiful hair for a long time!”
He took a step back, tilted his head to the side and looked at my hair for so long that I felt embarrassed. Then he suddenly rushed forward, grabbed my hand and warmly congratulated me.
“It would be unfair for me to delay,” he said. “However, I hope you will forgive me if I take some precautions.” He grabbed my hair with both hands and pulled so hard that I howled in pain.
“You have tears in your eyes,” he said, releasing me. - So, everything is in order. Sorry, we have to be careful because we've been tricked twice with wigs and once with dye. I could tell you about such dishonest tricks that would disgust you with people.”
He went to the window and shouted at the top of his lungs that the vacancy had already been filled. A groan of disappointment came from below, the crowd spread across different directions, and soon there was not a single redhead left in this entire area except me and the man who hired me.
“My name is Mr. Duncan Ross,” he said, “and I also receive a pension from the fund that our generous benefactor left us. Are you married, Mr. Wilson? Do you have a family?"
I replied that I was a childless widower. An expression of sorrow appeared on his face.
"My God! - he said gloomily. - But this is a serious obstacle! How sad I am that you are not. married! The foundation was created to breed and spread redheads, not just to keep them alive. What a misfortune that you turned out to be a bachelor!”
At these words my face fell, Mr. Holmes, as I began to fear that they would not take me; but, after thinking, he declared that everything would be okay:
“For the sake of anything else, we would not deviate from the rules, but a person with such hair can be met halfway. When can you begin your new responsibilities?”
“It’s a little difficult because I’m busy with something else,” I said.
“Don't worry about it, Mr. Wilson! - said Vincent Spaulding. “I can handle that job without you.”
“What hours will I be busy?” - I asked.
"From ten to two."
Since in the loan offices main job happens in the evenings, Mr. Holmes, especially on Thursdays and Fridays, the day before payday, I decided that it would not be a bad idea to earn something in the morning hours. Moreover, my assistant is a reliable person and can easily replace me if necessary.
“This watch suits me,” I said. “What salary do you pay?”
"Four pounds a week."
“What is the job?”
“The work is purely nominal.”
“What do you call purely nominal work?”
"All. During the time assigned for work, you will have to be in our office or, at least, in the building where our office is located. If you ever leave during office hours, you will lose your service forever. The testator especially insists on the exact fulfillment of this clause. You will be deemed to have failed to comply with our requirements if you leave the office even once during business hours.”
“If we are talking about only four hours a day, of course it would never even occur to me to leave the office,” I said.
“This is very important,” Mr. Duncan Ross insisted. “Then we won’t listen to any apologies.” No illness, no business will serve as an excuse. You must be in the office - or you lose your service."
“What is the job anyway?”
“You will have to rewrite the Encyclopedia Britannica. The first volume is in this closet. You will get ink, pens, paper and blotter yourself; we give you a table and a chair. Can you start work tomorrow?"
“Of course,” I replied.
“In that case, goodbye, Mr. Jabez Wilson. Let me congratulate you once again for getting such a good position.”
He nodded to me. I left the room and went home with my assistant, rejoicing at my extraordinary luck. I spent the whole day thinking about this incident, and by evening I became somewhat disheartened, as it began to seem to me that this whole affair was simply a fraud, although I could not guess what the purpose of such an undertaking might be. It seemed incredible that such a will existed and that people would be willing to pay so much money for the copying of the Encyclopædia Britannica. Vincent Spalding did his best to cheer me up, but when I went to bed I was determined to give up the matter. However, in the morning it occurred to me that I should at least go there just in case. Having bought a penny of ink, taking a quill pen and seven large sheets papers, I went to Pops Court. To my surprise, everything was fine there. I was very happy. The table was already prepared for my work, and Mr. Duncan Ross was waiting for me. He told me to start with the letter “A” and left; however, from time to time he returned to the office to see if I was working. At two o'clock he said goodbye to me, praised me for having managed to rewrite so much, and locked the office door behind me.
It went on like this from day to day, Mr. Holmes. On Saturday my master laid four gold sovereigns on the table before me - a week's rent. So the second week and the third passed. Every morning I arrived there promptly at ten and left promptly at two. Little by little, Mr. Duncan Ross began to come into the office only in the mornings, and over time he stopped visiting there altogether. Nevertheless, I, of course, did not dare to leave the room even for a minute, since I could not be sure that he would not come, and did not want to risk such a profitable service.
Eight weeks have passed; I rewrote articles on Abbots, on Artillery, on Architecture, on Attica and hoped to soon move on to the letter “B”. I used up a lot of paper, and what I wrote barely fit on the shelf. But suddenly it all ended at once.
- Is it over?
- Yes, sir. This morning. I went to work, as always, at ten o’clock, but the door was locked, and a piece of cardboard was nailed to the door. Here it is, read for yourself.
He handed us a cardboard the size of a piece of notepad. On the cardboard it was written:
Sherlock Holmes and I looked for a long time at both this brief note and the sad face of Jabez Wilson; Finally, the funny side of the incident obscured everything else from us: we couldn’t help but burst out laughing.
I don't see anything funny here! - our client shouted, jumping up from his chair and blushing to the roots of his burning hair. - If you, instead of helping me, are going to laugh at me, I will turn to someone else for help!
- No no! - Holmes exclaimed, seating him in the chair again. “I won’t part with your business for anything in the world.” It literally refreshes my soul with its newness. But, forgive me, there is still something funny in it... What did you do when you found this note on the door?
- I was shocked, sir. I didn't know what to do. I went around to the neighboring offices, but no one there knew anything. Finally, I went to the owner of the house who lived on the ground floor and asked him if he could tell me what had happened to the Redhead Union. He replied that he had never heard of such an organization. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He replied that he was hearing this name for the first time.
“I’m talking,” I said, “about the gentleman who rented apartment number four from you.”
“About the redhead?”
"Yes".
“His name is William Morris. He is a lawyer, he rented a room from me temporarily - his permanent office was under renovation. I left yesterday.”
“Where can I find it?”
“At his permanent office. He left his address. Here: 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul's Cathedral."
I went to this address, Mr. Holmes, but it turned out to be a prosthetic workshop; no one in it had ever heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross.
- What did you do then? - Holmes asked.
“I returned home to Saxe-Coburg Square and consulted with my assistant. He couldn't help me. He said that I should wait and that they would probably tell me something by mail. But that doesn't suit me, Mr. Holmes. I do not want to give up such an excellent place without a fight, and since I heard that you give advice to poor people in difficult situations, I went straight to you.
“And they did the right thing,” said Holmes. - Your case is a wonderful case, and I am happy that I have the opportunity to deal with it. After listening to you, I come to the conclusion that this matter is much more serious than it might seem at first glance.
- What’s more serious? said Mr. Jabez Wilson. - I lost four pounds a week.
“Speaking of you personally,” said Holmes, “you can hardly complain about this extraordinary Union.” On the contrary, as far as I understand, you have become thirty pounds richer thanks to him, not to mention the fact that you have acquired a deep knowledge of subjects beginning with the letter “A”. So, essentially, you haven't lost anything.
- I don’t argue, it’s all true, sir. But I would like to find them, find out who they are and why they played this joke on me, if only it was a joke. The fun cost them quite a lot: they paid thirty-two pounds for it.
- We'll try to figure it all out. But first let me ask you a few questions, Mr. Wilson. How long has this assistant been with you... the one who showed you the ad?
“By that time he had been working with me for about a month.
- Where did you find it?
- He came to me following my advertisement in the newspaper.
- Was he the only one who responded to your ad?
- No, about ten people responded.
- Why did you choose him?
- Because it's broken and cheap.
- Were you tempted by the opportunity to pay him half his salary?
- Yes.
-What is he like, this Vincent Spalding?
- Small, stocky, very lively. Not a single hair on his face, although he is already approaching thirty. He has a white spot on his forehead from an acid burn.
Holmes straightened up. He was very excited.
- I thought so! - he said. -Have you noticed any holes in his ears for earrings?
- I noticed, sir. He explained to me that some gypsy woman had pierced his ears when he was little.
- Hm! - Holmes said and leaned back in his chair in deep thought. - Do you still have it?
- Oh yes, sir, I just saw him.
- Did he handle your affairs well when you were not at home?
- I can't complain, sir. However, in the mornings there is almost nothing to do in my loan office.
- That's enough, Mr. Wilson. In a day or two I will have the pleasure of telling you what I think of this incident. Today is Saturday... I hope on Monday we will know everything.
“Well, Watson,” said Holmes, when our visitor had left, “what do you think about all this?”
“I don’t think anything,” I answered frankly. - This matter seems completely mysterious to me.
“The general rule is,” said Holmes, “the stranger the case, the less mysterious it turns out to be.” It is the ordinary, colorless crimes that are most difficult to solve, just as it is the most difficult to find in a crowd a person with ordinary facial features. But this case needs to be ended as soon as possible.
- What are you going to do? - I asked.
“Smoking,” he answered. - This task is just for three handsets, and I ask you not to talk to me for ten minutes.
He hunched over in a chair, raising his thin knees to his hawk's nose, and sat in this position for a long time, closing his eyes and sticking out a black clay tube, like the beak of some strange bird. I came to the conclusion that he had fallen asleep, and was already beginning to doze off, when suddenly he jumped up with the air of a man who had made a firm decision, and laid his pipe on the fireplace.
“Sarasate is playing at St. James’s Hall today,” he said. - What do you think about this, Watson? Can your patients do without you for a few hours?
- Today I'm free. My practice does not take me too much time.
- In that case, put on your hat and let's go. First of all, I need to go to the City. We'll have a snack somewhere along the way.
We took the tube to Aldersgate, and from there we walked to Saxe-Coburg Square, where all the events that we were told about in the morning took place. Sax Coburg Square is a sleepy little square with pitiful pretensions to aristocratic style. Four rows of dirty two-story brick houses look out onto a tiny garden overgrown with weeds, among which several faded laurel bushes are fighting a hard battle with. soot-saturated air. Three gold-plated balls and a brown sign hanging on the corner with the word "Jabez Wilson" in white letters indicated that this was the location of our red-haired client's business.
Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of the door and fixed his eyes on it, shining brightly from under half-closed eyelids. Then he walked slowly down the street, then returned to the corner, peering carefully at the houses. In front of the loan office, he struck the pavement with his cane three times, then went to the door and knocked. The door was immediately opened by an efficient, clean-shaven young man and asked us to enter.
“Thank you,” Holmes said. “I just wanted to ask how to get from here to the Strand.”
“Third turn to the right, fourth turn to the left,” Mr. Wilson’s assistant instantly answered and slammed the door.
- Clever fellow! - Holmes remarked as we walked down the street again. “I believe that in terms of agility he ranks fourth in London, and in terms of courage, perhaps even third.” I know something about him.
“Apparently,” I said, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant plays a significant role in this Union of Redheads.” I'm sure you asked him for directions just to look at him.
- Not at him.
- For what?
- On his lap.
- And what did you see?
- What I expected to see.
- Why were you knocking on the pavement stones?
- Dear doctor, now is the time for observations, not for talking. We are scouts in the enemy camp. We managed to find out something about Sax-Coburg Square. Now let's examine the streets that adjoin it on that side.
The difference between Sax-Coburg Square and what we saw when we turned the corner was as great as the difference between a painting and its reverse side. Around the corner was one of the city's main arteries, connecting the City to the north and west. This large street was completely packed with carriages moving in two streams to the right and left, and swarms of pedestrians lined the sidewalks. Looking at the rows of beautiful shops and luxurious offices, it was difficult to imagine that behind these very houses there was such a miserable, deserted square.
“Let me have a good look,” said Holmes, stopping at the corner and carefully examining each house one by one. - I want to remember the order of the buildings. Exploring London is my passion... First Mortimer's tobacco shop, then a newspaper shop, then the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, then a vegetarian restaurant, then Macfarlane's coach house. And there’s already the next block... Well, doctor, our work is over! Now we can have a little fun: a sandwich, a cup of coffee and - to the land of violins, where everything is sweetness, bliss and harmony, where there are no red-haired clients annoying us with puzzles.
My friend was passionate about music; he was not only a very capable performer, but also an extraordinary composer. He sat in the chair all evening, quite happy, slightly moving his long, thin fingers to the beat of the music: his softly smiling face, his wet, misty eyes did not in any way remind of Holmes the bloodhound, of the ruthless, cunning Holmes, the pursuer of bandits. His amazing character consisted of two principles. It often occurred to me that his insight, amazing in its accuracy, was born in a struggle with the poetic thoughtfulness that constituted the main feature of this man. He constantly moved from complete relaxation to extraordinary energy. I was well aware of the thoughtless calm with which he devoted himself in the evenings to his improvisations and notes. But suddenly a hunting passion seized him, his characteristic brilliant power of thinking increased to the level of intuition, and people unfamiliar with his method began to think that in front of them was not a person, but some kind of supernatural creature. Watching him at St. James's Hall and seeing how completely his soul was given to music, I felt that it would be bad for those whom he was hunting.
“You, doctor, are going to go home, of course,” he said when the concert ended.
- Home, of course.
- And I have one more thing to do, which will take me three to four hours. This incident in Coburg Square is a very serious matter.
- Serious?
- A major crime is being prepared there. I have every reason to think that we will still have time to prevent it. But things get complicated because today is Saturday. I may need your help this evening.
- At what time?
- About ten o'clock, not earlier.
- I'll be on Baker Street at ten sharp.
- Great. Keep in mind, doctor, that this will be a dangerous matter. Put your army revolver in your pocket.
He waved his hand at me, turned sharply and instantly disappeared into the crowd.
I do not consider myself stupider than others, but whenever I deal with Sherlock Holmes, I am oppressed by a heavy consciousness of my own stupidity. After all, I heard the same thing that he heard, I saw the same thing that he saw, however, judging by his words, he knows and understands not only what happened, but also what will happen, but everything to me this matter still seems to be an incomprehensible absurdity.
On the way home, I again remembered the whole extraordinary story of the red-haired copyist of the Encyclopedia Britannica, and our visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and those ominous words that Holmes said to me at parting. What does this night expedition mean and why do you need me to come armed? Where will we go with him and what will we have to do? Holmes hinted to me that the beardless assistant to the owner of the loan office was very a dangerous person capable of great crimes.
I tried my best to solve these riddles, but nothing came of it, and I decided to wait for the night, which was supposed to explain everything to me.
At a quarter past nine I left the house and, walking through Hyde Park, along Oxford Street, found myself in Baker Street. There were two cabs parked at the entrance, and as I entered the hallway, I heard the noise of voices. I found two people at Holmes's. Holmes was talking animatedly to them. I knew one of them - it was Peter Jones. official police agent; the other was a long, skinny, sullen man in a sparkling top hat and a depressingly immaculate tailcoat.
- Ah, here we are assembled! - said Holmes, buttoning his sailor jacket and taking a hunting whip with a heavy handle from the shelf. - Watson, you seem to know Mr. Jones from Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather. Mr. Merryweather will also take part in our nightly adventure.
“As you can see, Doctor, Mr. Holmes and I are hunting together again,” said Jones with his usual important and condescending air. - Our friend is an invaluable person. But at the very beginning of the hunt, he needs the help of an old hound dog to pursue the beast.
“I’m afraid we’ll shoot not an animal, but a duck,” said Mr. Merryweather gloomily.
“You can completely rely on Mr. Holmes, sir,” the police agent said patronizingly. - He has his own favorite methods, which, let me say, are somewhat abstract and fantastic, but nevertheless give excellent results. It must be admitted that there were cases when he was right and the official police were wrong.
“Since you say so, Mr. Jones, then everything is in order,” the stranger said condescendingly. “And yet, I must admit, I’m sorry that today I won’t have to play my usual game of rubber.” This is the first Saturday evening in twenty-seven years that I will spend without cards.
- In today's game the bet is larger than in yours card games, - said Sherlock Holmes, - and the game itself is more exciting. Your bid, Mr. Merryweather, is thirty thousand pounds. And your bet, Jones, is the man you've been wanting to catch for a long time.
“John Clay is a murderer, a thief, a burglar and a swindler,” Jones said. “He is still young, Mr. Merryweather, but he is the most skillful thief in the country: I would not put handcuffs on anyone else as willingly as on him.” He wonderful person, this John Clay. His grandfather was a Duke, and he himself studied at Eton and Oxford. His brain is as sophisticated as his fingers, and although we stumble upon his traces at every step, he still remains elusive. This week he'll rob someone in Scotland, and the next he'll be raising money to build an orphanage in Corrnwell. I've been chasing him for years now and I've never seen him before.
- Tonight I will have the pleasure of introducing him to you. I, too, have come across the exploits of Mr. John Clay a couple of times, and I quite agree with you that he is the most skillful thief in the country... It’s already the eleventh hour, and it’s time for us to hit the road. You two go in the first cab, and Watson and I will go in the second.
Sherlock Holmes was not very sociable during our long trip: he sat back and whistled tunes that he heard today at the concert. We drove through an endless tangle of gas-lit streets until we finally reached Farringdon Street.
“We’re very close now,” said my friend. - Merryweather is a director of the bank and is personally interested in the whole matter. Jones will also be useful to us. He is a nice fellow, although he knows nothing about his profession. However, he has one undoubted advantage: he is courageous, like a bulldog, and tenacious, like a crayfish. If he grabs someone with his claw, he won’t let him go... We’ve arrived. Here they are.
We stopped again on the same crowded and busy street where we had been in the morning. Having paid the cabbies and followed Mr. Merryweather, we entered a narrow corridor and slipped through a side door, which he unlocked for us. Behind the door was another corridor, very short. At the end of the corridor there were massive iron doors. By opening these doors, we... They went down the stone steps of the spiral staircase and came to another door, just as impressive. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern and led us down a dark, earthy corridor. Passing another door, we found ourselves in a vast crypt or cellar, filled with baskets and heavy boxes.
It’s not so easy to get here from above,” Holmes will note, raising the lantern and looking around the ceiling.
“Understairs too,” said Mr. Merryweather, tapping his cane on the flagstones that covered the floor. - Damn it, it sounds like there's emptiness there! - he exclaimed in amazement.
“I have to ask you not to make noise,” Holmes said angrily. “Because of you, our entire expedition may end in failure.” Kindly sit on one of these boxes and don't interfere.
The important Mr. Merryweather sat down on the basket with an offended look, and Holmes knelt down and, with the help of a flashlight and a magnifying glass, began to study the cracks between the slabs. After a few seconds, satisfied with the results of his research, he stood up and put the magnifying glass in his pocket.
“We have at least an hour ahead of us,” he noted, “since they are unlikely to get down to business before the venerable owner of the loan office falls asleep.” And when he falls asleep, they will not waste a minute, because the sooner they finish their work, the more time they will have to escape... We are, doctor, - as you, no doubt, have already guessed, - in the basements of a department of one of richest London banks. Mr. Merriweather is chairman of the board of the bank; he will explain to us what makes the most daring criminals at this time pay special attention to these basements.
“We store our French gold here,” the director said in a whisper. - We already had a number of warnings that an attempt would be made to kidnap him.
- Your French gold?
- Yes. A few months ago we needed additional funds and borrowed thirty thousand Napoleons from the Bank of France. But we didn't even have to unpack that money, and it's still in our basements. The basket on which I sit contains two thousand Napoleons, laid between sheets of lead paper. Rarely do one bank branch store as much gold as we currently have. Somehow this has become known to many people and it makes directors worry.
“They have every reason to be worried,” Holmes noted. - Well, it's time for us to get ready. I believe that within the next hour it will all be over. We'll have to cover this lantern with something dark, Mr. Merryweather...
- And sit in the dark?
- I'm afraid so. I brought a deck of cards so you can play your game of rubber, since there are four of us here. But I see that the enemy’s preparations have gone very far and that leaving light here would be risky. Besides, we need to switch places. They are brave people and, although we will attack them suddenly, they can cause us a lot of harm if we are not careful. I will stand behind this basket, and you hide behind those. When I shine the light on the robbers, grab them. If they start shooting, Watson, shoot them without hesitation.
I placed my loaded revolver on the lid of a wooden box and hid behind the box. Holmes covered the lantern and left us in complete darkness. The smell of heated metal reminded us that the lantern was not extinguished and that the light was ready to flash at any moment. My nerves, tense with anticipation, were suppressed by this sudden darkness, this cold dampness of the dungeon.
“They have only one way to escape - back through the house in Saxe-Coburg Square,” Holmes whispered. - I hope you did what I asked of you, Jones?
- The inspector and two officers are waiting for them at the front entrance.
- So we plugged all the holes. Now we can only remain silent and wait.
How slowly time passed! In fact, only an hour and a quarter had passed, but it seemed to me that the night was already over and it was dawning above. My legs were tired and numb, as I was afraid to move; Nerves were tense. And suddenly I noticed a flickering light below.
At first it was a weak spark that flickered in the gap between the floor slabs. Soon this spark turned into a yellow stripe. Then, without any noise, a hole appeared in the floor, and in the very middle of the illuminated space a hand appeared - white, feminine - which seemed to be trying to grope for some object. For a minute, this hand with moving fingers stuck out from the floor. Then she disappeared as suddenly as she had appeared, and everything was plunged into darkness again; only a faint light made its way through a narrow gap between the two slabs.
However, a moment later, one of the wide white slabs turned over with a sharp creak, and in its place was a deep square hole, from which the light of a lantern poured out. A clean-shaven boyish face appeared above the pit; the unknown person looked vigilantly in all directions: two hands rested on the edges of the hole; the shoulders rose from the pit, then the whole body rose; my knee hit the floor. A second later, the stranger stood at his full height on the floor near the pit and helped his comrade, equally small and flexible, with a pale face and curls of bright red hair, to climb in.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. - Do you have a chisel and bags?.. Damn! Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll stand up for myself.
Sherlock Holmes grabbed him by the collar. The second thief darted into the hole; Jones tried to detain him, but apparently to no avail: I heard the sound of tearing material. The light flashed on the barrel of the revolver, but Holmes struck his captive on the arm with a hunting whip, and the revolver fell with a ringing sound to the stone floor.
“It’s no use, John Clay,” Holmes said softly. - You're caught.
“I see,” he answered completely calmly. “But my comrade managed to escape, and you only caught the tail of his jacket.”
“Three people are waiting for him outside the door,” said Holmes.
- Oh, that's how it is! Clean job! Congratulations.
- And I - you. Your idea about redheads is quite original and successful.
“Now you will see your friend,” Jones said. - He knows how to dive into holes better than me. Now I'm going to handcuff you.
- Take your dirty hands away, please! Do not touch me! - our prisoner told him after the handcuffs were put on. “Perhaps you don’t know that royal blood flows in me.” Please be kind enough to call me “sir” and say “please” when addressing me.
“Great,” Jones said, grinning. - Please, sir, go upstairs and deign to get into the cab that will take your lordship to the police.
“That’s better,” John Clay said calmly.
Nodding his head majestically to us, he serenely walked away under the guard of a detective.
“Mr. Holmes,” said Merryweather, lead us out of the storeroom, “I really don’t know how our bank can thank you for this service.” You managed to prevent a major theft.
“I had my own scores to settle with Mr. John Clay,” said Holmes. “I incurred small expenses on today’s business, and your bank will certainly reimburse them to me, although, in essence, I have already been rewarded by having experienced a one-of-a-kind adventure and hearing a wonderful story about the Union of Redheads ...
“You see, Watson,” Sherlock Holmes explained to me early in the morning, when we were sitting with him on Baker Street over a glass of whiskey and soda, “it was clear to me from the very beginning that the only purpose of this fantastic announcement about the Red-Headed Union and the rewriting of the British encyclopedia" can only be the removal from the house of the not very smart owner of the loan office for several hours every day. The method they chose is, of course, curious, but thanks to this method they completely achieved their goal. This whole plan was no doubt suggested to Clay's inspired mind by the color of his accomplice's hair. Four pounds a week was a lure for Wilson, and what was four pounds a week to them if they expected to receive thousands! They placed an ad in the newspaper; one swindler rented an office temporarily, another swindler persuaded his owner to go there, and both together got the opportunity to take advantage of his absence every morning. As soon as I heard that the assistant was content with half his salary, I realized that he had good reasons for this.
- But how did you guess their plan?
“The enterprise of our red-haired client is insignificant; there is nothing in his entire apartment that would be worth starting such a complex game for.” Therefore, they meant something outside his apartment. What could it be? I remembered the assistant’s passion for photography, and that he uses this passion to climb into the cellar for some reason. Cellar! Here is the other end of the tangled thread. I questioned Wilson in detail about this mysterious assistant and realized that I was dealing with one of the most cold-blooded and daring criminals in London. He is doing something in the cellar, something difficult, since he has to work there for several hours every day for two months. What can he do there? Only one thing: dig a tunnel leading to some other building. Having come to this conclusion, I grabbed you and went to get acquainted with the place where all this is happening. You were very surprised when I hit the pavement with my cane. Meanwhile, I wanted to know where the tunnel was being laid - in front of the facade or in the backyard. It turned out that he was not in front of the facade. I called. As I expected, the assistant opened the door for me. We've already had some run-ins with him, but we've never seen each other in person. And this time I didn’t look him in the face. I wanted to see his knees. You might have noticed for yourself how dirty, wrinkled, and worn out they were. They testified to the many hours spent digging the tunnel. All that remained was to find out where he was leading his mine. I turned the corner, saw the sign of the City and Suburban Bank and realized that the problem had been solved. When you went home after the concert, I went to Scotland Yard, and from there to the chairman of the bank.
- How did you know that they would try to commit a robbery that night? - I asked.
“By closing the office of the Union of Redheads, they thereby made it clear that they no longer needed the absence of Mr. Jabez Wilson - in other words, their undermining was ready. It was clear that they would try to use it as soon as possible, since, firstly, the tunnel could be discovered, and secondly, the gold could be transported to another place. Saturday is especially convenient for them because it gives them an extra day to escape. Based on all these considerations, I came to the conclusion that the attempted robbery would be carried out next night.
- Your reasoning is wonderful! - I exclaimed in unfeigned delight. - You have created such a long chain, and every link in it is flawless.
This incident saved me from oppressive boredom,” said Sherlock Holmes, yawning. - Alas, I feel that boredom is beginning to overcome me again! My whole life is a continuous effort to escape the dreary monotony of our everyday life. Little riddles that I sometimes solve help me achieve this goal.
“You are a true benefactor of humanity,” I said.
Holmes shrugged:
“Perhaps I do bring some benefit.”
“L"homme c"est rien - I"oeuvre c"est tout", as Gustave Flaubert put it in a letter to George Sand.
Identification
A Case of Identity
First published in the Strand Magazine, Sept. 1891,
with 7 illustrations by Sidney Paget.
“My dear friend, life is incomparably stranger than anything that the human imagination can create,” said Sherlock Holmes as we sat by the fireplace in his apartment on Baker Street. “We wouldn’t even think of many things that in reality are something completely banal.” If you and I could, holding hands, fly out of the window and, hovering over this huge city, lift the roofs and look inside the houses, then in comparison with the extraordinary coincidences, plans, misunderstandings, incomprehensible events that revealed themselves to us, which, paving their way through many generations, lead to absolutely incredible results, all elegant literature with its conventions and predetermined endings would seem flat and trivial to us.
“And yet you haven’t convinced me,” I answered. - The cases that we read about in the newspapers, as a rule, are presented in a rather frank and crude manner. Naturalism in police reports is taken to extreme limits, but this does not mean that they are at all attractive or artistic.
“In order to achieve a truly realistic effect, careful selection and a certain restraint are necessary,” Holmes noted. “And this is precisely what is missing in police reports, where much more space is given to the vulgar maxims of the magistrate rather than to the details, which for an attentive observer contain the essence of the case. Believe me, there is nothing more unnatural than banality.
I smiled and shook my head.
- It’s clear why you think so. Of course, being in the position of an unofficial consultant and assistant to the completely confused inhabitants of three continents, you are constantly dealing with all sorts of strange and fantastic phenomena. But let’s arrange a practical test, let’s see, for example, what is written here,” I said, picking up the morning newspaper from the floor. - Let’s take the first headline that comes across: “Cruel treatment of husband and wife.” What follows is half a column of text, but even without reading it, I am sure that all this is very familiar. This undoubtedly involves another woman, drunkenness, beatings, bruises, a sympathetic sister or landlady. Even a tabloid scribbler couldn't come up with anything ruder.
“I’m afraid your example is unsuccessful, like your whole argument,” said Holmes, looking at the newspaper. “This is the Dundes divorce case, and it so happens that I was engaged in ascertaining some minor circumstances connected with it. The husband was a teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the complaint was that after meals he took out the habit of taking out his artificial jaw and throwing it at his wife, which, you see, would hardly occur to the average novelist. Take a pinch of tobacco, doctor, and admit that I put you down on both shoulder blades with your example.
He handed me an antique gold snuffbox with a large amethyst on the lid. The splendor of this thing was so inconsistent with the simple and modest habits of my friend that I could not refrain from remarking on it.
“Yes, I completely forgot that we haven’t seen each other for several weeks,” he said. - This is a small souvenir from the King of Bohemia in gratitude for my help in the matter with Irene Adler’s letters.
- And the ring? - I asked, looking at the magnificent diamond that glittered on his finger.
- Gift of the Dutch royal family; but this matter is so delicate that I have no right to confide even to you, although you have kindly taken the trouble to describe some of my modest achievements.
- Do you have any business on your hands now? - I asked with interest.
- About ten or twelve, but not a single interesting one. That is, they are all important in their own way, but they are of no interest to me. You see, I have discovered that it is the small cases that provide scope for observation, for the subtle analysis of cause and effect, which alone constitutes the whole beauty of the investigation. Major crimes are usually very simple, because the motives for major crimes are mostly obvious. And among these cases there is nothing interesting, except for one very confusing story that happened in Marseille. It is possible, however, that within a few minutes I will have something more interesting to do, for, it seems to me, I see one of my clients.
As he spoke, he rose from his chair and went to the window, looking out at the quiet, gray London street. Looking over his shoulder, I saw on the opposite side big woman in a heavy fur boa, with a large shaggy red feather on a wide-brimmed hat coquettishly tilted to one side. From under this magnificent armor she looked hesitantly at our windows, now and then rushing forward and nervously fiddling with the clasp of her glove.
Suddenly, like a swimmer throwing himself into the water, she rushed across the street, and we heard a sharp bell.
“Familiar symptoms,” said Holmes, throwing a cigarette butt into the fireplace. - Indecision at the door always indicates matters of the heart. She wants to ask for advice, but is afraid: the matter is obviously too sensitive. But here too there are different shades. If a woman has been deeply insulted, she no longer hesitates and, as a rule, ends the call. In this case, we can also assume a love story, but this girl is not so much angry as alarmed or upset. And here she is. Now all our doubts will be resolved.
At that moment there was a knock at the door, and a boy in a uniform jacket with buttons announced the arrival of Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself towered behind his small black figure, like a merchant ship in full rigging, following a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes greeted the guest with his usual casual politeness, then closed the door and, seating her in an armchair, looked at her with a intent and at the same time characteristic absent-minded gaze.
“Don’t you find,” he said, “that with your myopia it’s tiring to write so much on a typewriter?”
“At first I was tired, but now I type touch,” she answered. Then, suddenly understanding the meaning of his words, she shuddered and looked at Holmes with fear. Extreme amazement was expressed on her broad, good-natured face.
- Do you know me, Mr. Holmes? - she exclaimed. - Otherwise, how do you know all this?
“It doesn’t matter,” Holmes laughed. - Knowing everything is my profession. Perhaps I have learned to see what others do not notice. Otherwise, why would you come to me for advice?
“I came because I heard about you from Mrs. Etheridge, whose husband you so quickly found when everyone, even the police, thought he was dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, if only you could help me in the same way! I am not rich, but I still have an annuity of a hundred pounds a year and, besides, I earn money by writing on a typewriter, and I would give anything to know what became of Mr. Gosmer Angel.
- Why were you in such a hurry to run to me for advice? - asked Sherlock Holmes, folding his fingertips and looking at the ceiling.
Miss Mary Sutherland's simple face looked frightened again.
“Yes, I really just flew out of the house,” she said. “I was angry at the indifference with which Mr. Windibank, that is, my father, treated this matter. He didn’t want to go to the police or to you, he doesn’t want to do anything, he just knows to repeat that nothing terrible happened, so I couldn’t stand it, I dressed somehow and went straight to you.
- Your father? - Holmes asked. - Rather, your stepfather. After all, you have different last names.
- Yes, stepfather. I call him father, although it's funny - he's only five years and two months older than me.
- Is your mother alive?
- Oh yes, mom is alive and well. I wasn’t very pleased when she got married, and so soon after dad’s death, and he was fifteen years younger than her. Dad had a soldering shop on Tottenham Court Road, a profitable business, and Mum continued to run it with the help of the head foreman, Mr Hardy. But Mr. Windibank forced her to sell the workshop: it doesn’t suit him, you see, he’s a traveling wine salesman. They received four thousand seven hundred pounds with interest, although the father, if he had lived, would have received much more.
I thought that Sherlock Holmes would get tired of this incoherent story, but he, on the contrary, listened with the greatest attention.
- And your personal income comes from this amount? - he asked.
- Oh no, sir! I have my own fortune, my Uncle Ned from Oakland left me an inheritance. Capital in New Zealand securities, four and a half percent per annum. It's only two and a half thousand pounds, but I can only get interest.
“This is all very interesting,” said Holmes. - Earning a hundred pounds a year and earning more, you, of course, have the opportunity to travel and indulge in other entertainment. I believe that on an income of sixty pounds a single lady can live quite comfortably.
“I could get by with less, Mr. Holmes, but you yourself understand that I don’t want to be a burden at home and while I live with them, I give money to the family.” Of course, this is only temporary. Mr. Windibank receives my interest every quarter and gives it to my mother, and I make a great living by typing. Two pence a page, and often I manage to write fifteen or twenty pages a day.
“You have outlined all the circumstances very clearly to me,” said Holmes. - Let me introduce you to my friend, Doctor Watson; in front of him you can speak frankly, as if you were alone with me. Now, please tell us in detail about your relationship with Mr. Gosmer Angel.
Miss Sutherland blushed and began nervously fiddling with the hem of her jacket.
“I met him at the gas pipeline workers’ ball. They always sent tickets to dad, but now they remembered about us and sent tickets to mom. Mr. Windibank didn't want us to go to the ball. He doesn't want us to go anywhere. And when I start talking about some Sunday school picnic, he gets furious. But this time I decided to go at all costs, because what right does he have to not let me in? There is no need to keep company with such people, he says, but all my father’s friends gather there. And he also said that I had nothing to wear when I had a red velvet dress that had not yet been worn. He had nothing more to object to, and he went to France on company business, and my mother and I and Mr. Hardy, our former master, let's go to the ball. There I met Mr. Gosmer Angel.
I suppose that when Mr. Windibank returned from France he was very unhappy that you went to the ball? - Holmes asked.
- No, he wasn't angry at all. He laughed, shrugged his shoulders and said: no matter what you forbid a woman, she will still do it her own way.
- Understand. So it was at the Gas Pipelines' Ball that you met a gentleman named Gosmer Angel?
- Yes, sir. I met him that evening, and the next day he came to inquire whether we had got home safely, and after that we, that is, I, went for a walk with him twice, and then my father returned, and Mr. Gosmer Angel was no longer could visit us.
- Could not? Why?
“You see, my father doesn’t like guests and always insists that a woman should be content with her family circle.” And I told my mother: yes, a woman should have her own circle, but I don’t have one yet!
End of free trial.
May 22 marks the 150th anniversary of the birth of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the literary “father” of one of the greatest detectives of all time, Sherlock Holmes. The writer himself did not like it when the public forgot that he was the author of stories not only about the London detective, but also many others. Meanwhile, his hero is still “alive”: he became an honorary member of the Royal Society of Chemistry, and thanks to the filmmakers, Holmes acquired a house in London and a wife.
The return of Sherlock Holmes took place in April 1894 in the story "The Empty House".
Since then, the legendary detective has become no less real for the British than his creator. Over the past century, he managed to acquire a house, a monument, numerous fan clubs... He was even accepted into honorary members Royal Society of Chemistry.
Before Holmes, only laureates received this honor Nobel Prize, as well as other celebrities from the world of science and business. The award ceremony took place at the detective's official residence at 221b Baker Street, London.
Recently, an avid bachelor and a brilliant detective got married. The detective's mysterious lover, Irene Adler, will be played by 32-year-old Canadian actress Rachel McAdams in the new sequel by British director Guy Ritchie.
By the way, in Conan Doyle's original version, Irene Adler appears only once - in the story "A Scandal in Bohemia", but evokes romantic feelings in the unapproachable bachelor.
The role of Dr. Watson went to Jude Law, and the most famous detective will be played by Robert Downey Jr. - his last film work was the main role in the science-fiction blockbuster “Iron Man”.
Meanwhile, Vasily Livanov is unanimously recognized as the best Holmes in the world. The Russian actor was awarded the Order of the British Empire for the “best detective”. A photograph of Vasily Livanov hangs on the ground floor of the famous house on Baker Street.
The material was prepared by the editors of rian.ru based on information from RIA Novosti and open sources
Scandal in Bohemia (short story)
Union of Redheads (story)
Identification (story)
The Boscombe Valley Mystery (short story)
Five orange seeds (story)
The Man with the Cut Lip (short story)
Blue Carbuncle (short story)
The Speckled Ribbon (story)
The Engineer's Finger (short story)
Noble Bachelor (story)
Beryl Diadem (story)
"Copper Beeches" (story)
Scandal in Bohemia
Translation by N. Voitinskaya
For Sherlock Holmes, she always remained “That Woman.” I rarely heard him call her by any other name. In his eyes, she eclipsed all representatives of her sex. Not that he felt anything close to love for Irene Adler. All feelings, and especially love, were hated by his cold, precise, but surprisingly balanced mind. In my opinion, he was the most perfect thinking and observing machine the world has ever seen; but as a lover he would be out of place. He always spoke about tender feelings only with contemptuous mockery and mockery. Tender feelings were in his eyes a magnificent object for observation, an excellent means of stripping the veil from human motives and affairs. But for a sophisticated thinker to allow such an intrusion of feeling into his refined and superbly organized inner world would mean introducing confusion there, which would nullify all the gains of his thought. A grain of sand caught in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his mighty lenses - that's what love would be for a man like Holmes. And yet, there was one woman for him, and this woman was the late Iran Adler, a person of very, very dubious reputation.
Lately I have rarely seen Holmes - my marriage has alienated us from each other. My personal cloudless happiness and the purely family interests that arise in a person when he first becomes master of his own home were enough to absorb all my attention. Meanwhile, Holmes, who with his gypsy soul hated any form of social life, remained living in our apartment on Baker Street, surrounded by piles of his old books, alternating weeks of cocaine addiction with bouts of ambition, the dormant state of a drug addict with the wild energy inherent in his nature.
As before, he was deeply passionate about solving crimes. He devoted his enormous abilities and extraordinary gift of observation to the search for clues to clarify those secrets that were considered incomprehensible by the official police. From time to time I heard vague rumors about his affairs: that he had been summoned to Odessa in connection with the murder of Trepov, that he had managed to shed light on the mysterious tragedy of the Atkinson brothers in Trincomalee, and, finally, about an assignment from the Dutch royal at home, which he executed exceptionally subtly and successfully.
However, apart from this information about his activities, which I, like all readers, drew from newspapers, I knew little about my former friend and comrade.
One night - it was March 20, 1888 - I was returning from a patient (for I was now back in private practice), and my path led me to Baker Street. As I passed the well-known door, which in my mind is forever connected with the memory of the time of my matchmaking and with the gloomy events of A Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again and find out what problems his wonderful mind was currently working on.
Annotation
This weighty volume includes almost all of Arthur Conan Doyle's works about the life and work of Sherlock Holmes: three novellas and 56 short stories.
Arthur Conan Doyle
A study in Scarlet
CHAPTER II. THE ART OF MAKING CONCLUSIONS
CHAPTER III. THE MYSTERY OF LAURISTON GARDENS
CHAPTER IV. WHAT JOHN RANCE SAID
CHAPTER V. THEY COME TO US AFTER AN ANNOUNCEMENT
CHAPTER VI. TOBIAS GREGSON PROVES WHAT HE'S CAPABLE OF
CHAPTER VII. A GLIMMER OF LIGHT
CHAPTER I. IN THE GREAT SALT DESERT
CHAPTER II. UTAH FLOWER
CHAPTER III. JOHN FERRIER TALKS TO THE SEER
CHAPTER IV. THE ESCAPE
CHAPTER V. AVENGING ANGELS
CHAPTER VI. CONTINUATION OF DR. JOHN WATSON'S NOTES
CHAPTER VII. CONCLUSION
Sign of four
CHAPTER I. The essence of Holmes' deductive method
CHAPTER II. We get to know the case
CHAPTER III. Looking for a solution
CHAPTER IV. The story of the man with the bald head
CHAPTER V. Tragedy at Pondicherry Lodge
CHAPTER VI. Sherlock Holmes demonstrates his method
CHAPTER VII. The episode with the barrel
CHAPTER VIII. Baker Street Irregulars
CHAPTER IX. Open circuit
CHAPTER X. The End of the Islander
CHAPTER XI. Treasures of Agra
CHAPTER XII. The Jonathan Small Story
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (collection)
Scandal in Bohemia
Union of redheads
Identification
Boscombe Valley Mystery
Five orange seeds
Man with a split lip
Blue carbuncle
Variegated ribbon
Engineer's finger
Noble Bachelor
Beryl tiara
"Copper Beeches"
Notes on Sherlock Holmes (collection)
Silver
yellow face
Adventures of a Clerk
"Gloria Scott"
Musgrave House Rite
Reigate Squires
Regular patient
Naval Treaty
The case of the translator
Holmes's last case
The Return of Sherlock Holmes (collection)
Empty house
Norwood Contractor
Dancing men
Lonely female cyclist
Incident at the boarding school
Black Peter
The End of Charles Augustus Milverton
Six Napoleons
Three students
Pince-nez in gold frame
Missing rugby player
Murder at Abbey Grange
Second spot
Hound of the Baskervilles
Chapter I. Mister SHERLOCK HOLMES
Chapter II. THE CURSE OF THE BASKERVILLES
Chapter III. TASK
Chapter IV. SIR HENRY BASKERVILLE
Chapter V. THREE DROPPED THREADS
Chapter VI. BASKERVILLE HALL
Chapter VII. THE STAPLETONS OF MERRIPIT HOUSE
Chapter VIII. DR WATSON'S FIRST REPORT
Chapter IX. DR WATSON'S SECOND REPORT
Chapter X. EXTRACTS FROM DOCTOR WATSON'S DIARY
Chapter XI. MAN ON A GRANITE PILLAR
Chapter XII. DEATH IN THE SWAMPS
Chapter XIII. THE NETS ARE PLACED
Chapter XIV. THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES
Chapter XV. LOOK BACK
His farewell bow (collection)
Preface
At the Lilac Gatehouse
1. An Extraordinary Adventure with Mr. John Scott-Eccles
2. Tiger from San Pedro
Cardboard box
Scarlet Ring
Bruce-Partington drawings
Sherlock Holmes dying
The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax
Devil's foot
His farewell bow
Sherlock Holmes Archive (collection)
Notable client
Man with a white face
Mazarin Stone
Incident at the Three Skates Villa
Vampire in Sussex
Three Garridebs
The mystery of the Torsky Bridge
Man on all fours
Lion's mane
The history of the dwelling under the veil
The Mystery of Shoscombe Manor
The moscatelist is retired
Arthur Conan Doyle
A study in Scarlet
Part I
Mr Sherlock Holmes
CHAPTER I
MISTER SHERLOCK HOLMES
In 1878 I graduated from the University of London, receiving the title of doctor, and immediately went to Netley, where I took a special course for military surgeons. After finishing my studies I was appointed assistant surgeon to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. At that time the regiment was stationed in India, and before I could reach it, the second war with Afghanistan broke out. Having landed in Bombay, I learned that my regiment had crossed the pass and advanced far into enemy territory. Together with other officers who found themselves in the same situation, I set off in pursuit of my regiment; I managed to reach Kandahar safely, where I finally found him and immediately began my new duties.
This campaign brought honors and promotions to many, but I received nothing but failure and misfortune. I was transferred to the Berkshire Regiment, with whom I participated in the fatal battle of Maiwand. A rifle bullet hit me in the shoulder, broke the bone and hit the subclavian artery.
Most likely I would have fallen into the hands of the merciless ghazis if it had not been for the devotion and courage of my orderly Murray, who threw me over the back of a pack horse and managed to deliver me safely to the location of the English units.
Exhausted by the wound and weakened by prolonged privations, I, along with many other wounded sufferers, was sent by train to the main hospital in Peshawer. There I began to gradually recover and was already so strong that I could move around the ward and even go out onto the veranda to bask a little in the sun, when suddenly I was struck down by typhoid fever, the scourge of our Indian colonies. For several months I was considered almost hopeless, and having finally returned to life, I could barely stand on my feet from weakness and exhaustion, and the doctors decided that I needed to be sent to England immediately. I sailed on the military transport Orontes and a month later landed at the pier in Plymouth with my health irreparably damaged, but with permission from the paternal and caring government to restore it within nine months.
In England I had neither close friends nor relatives, and I was free as the wind, or rather, like a man who was supposed to live on eleven shillings and sixpence a day. Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London, to that huge dustbin where idlers and lazy people from all over the empire inevitably end up. In London I lived for some time in a hotel on the Strand and eked out an uncomfortable and meaningless existence, spending my pennies much more freely than I should have. Finally, my financial situation became so threatening that I soon realized: it was necessary either to flee the capital and vegetate somewhere in the countryside, or to radically change my lifestyle. Having chosen the latter, I first decided to leave the hotel and find myself some more unpretentious and less expensive accommodation.
The day I came to this decision, someone tapped me on the shoulder in the Criterion bar. Turning around, I saw young Stamford, who had once worked for me as a medical assistant in a London hospital. How nice it is for a lonely person to suddenly see a familiar face in the vast wilds of London! In the old days Stamford and I had never been particularly friendly, but now I greeted him almost with delight, and he, too, seemed glad to see me. Out of excess of feelings, I invited him to have breakfast with me, and we immediately took a cab and drove to Holborn.
What have you done to yourself, Watson? - he asked with undisguised curiosity as the cab's wheels clattered along the crowded London streets. - You have dried up like a sliver and turned yellow like a lemon!
I briefly told him about my misadventures and barely had time to finish the story before we reached the place.
Eh, poor fellow! - he sympathized when he learned about my troubles. - Well, what are you doing now?
“I’m looking for an apartment,” I answered. - I’m trying to solve the question of whether there are comfortable rooms in the world at a reasonable price.
It’s strange,” my companion noted, “you are the second person from whom I hear this phrase today.”
Who's first? - I asked.
One guy who works in the chemical laboratory at our hospital. This morning he was complaining: he had found a very nice apartment and could not find a companion, and he could not afford to pay for it in full.
Damn it! - I exclaimed. - If he really wants to share the apartment and expenses, then I’m at his service! I also find it much more pleasant to live together than to live alone!
Young Stamford looked at me vaguely over his glass of wine.
Arthur Conan Doyle
THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
Introduction by Mark Gatiss
Published in 2011 by BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing.
Ebury Publishing is a part of the Penguin Random House group of companies.
Sherlock is a Hartswood Films production for BBC Wales, co-produced with MASTERPIECE.
Executive Producers: Beryl Vertue, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat
BBC Executive Producer: Bethan Jones
MASTERPIECE Executive Producer: Rebecca Eaton
Series Producer: Sue Vertue
Introduction © Mark Gatiss, 2011.
This book is published to accompany the television series entitled Sherlock, first broadcast on BBC1 in 2011
Front and back cover photographs by Colin Hutton © Hartswood Films Ltd
© M. Fetisova, translation of the preface
© AST Publishing House LLC, 2016
* * *
Preface
Taking an old black heather pipe, I pinned the unopened letters to the mantelpiece with a penknife and fell into dark reverie. An equatorial storm howls outside the window, a visitor desperately tugs at the string of the bell. I'm ready for adventure. And you?
It is truly an honor and pleasure to be given the chance to present The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. On the one hand, they remain for me the best Holmes stories, stories written by Arthur Conan Doyle in the first rush of literary success and the uncontrollable surge of bright, brilliant ideas that flowed from his amazingly inventive mind. However, there is another reason why these stories remain so dear to my heart: they are the first adventures of Holmes and Watson that I read.
I can't say exactly when I first became aware of the strongest literary friendships, but I remember that when I was seven, there was a poster of Holmes on the wall of my classroom (labeled "The Great Detective"), and wonderful films with Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce is forever etched in my memory. As a desperately uncool kid, I trudged around with a little hooked yellow plastic tube filled with coconut tobacco (it was the 1970s!) or freshly cut grass, depending on the state of my pocket money, trying to deduce my father's behavior from the trail of ashes from his " Embassy No. 3.” I don't remember finding out anything more than that he stepped in some dirt and then lit a cigarette while watching Nationwide.
However, I had not really read a single original story until that fateful Saturday when, having recovered from rubella, I received a reward: a trip to W. H. Smith and buying any book I want.
There, nestled among all the possible contenders for my shiny fiftypence, was a luxurious, plump book in a purple paperback with a color illustration by Sidney Paget: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. It all promised fascinating mysteries with a hint of the charm of the Victorian era, which I already loved passionately. But first there was a preface. I don’t remember much of it now, except that it ended with the exciting sentiment: “I wish I could read these stories for the first time!” I remember getting comfortable in bed that evening and nervously getting started. Yes!
There, in these pages, I first learned the grisly details about Mr. Headerley's finger, met the notorious Irene Adler and the self-confident Jabez Wilson. There he discovered the curious meaning of the word "rat" and the contents of the envelope, which led to the death of Elias Openshaw, learned about Isa Whitney and the bar of gold, about the secret kept in the Christmas goose, and the wild horror that inspired Roylott of Stoke Moron. Deep as into crimson Victorian plush, I was immersed in the sinister and brilliant melodrama, "Adventures" was everything I wanted and more. However, at the heart of each story lies, first of all, the story of a touching, inexpressible friendship between two completely different people: practical, honest, valiant Watson and sophisticated, impartial and arrogant Holmes. I loved them both from the moment I read, “For Sherlock Holmes, she was always 'That Woman,'” instantly filled with the anticipation of romance and, at the same time, the melancholic hint of loss. From these stories we learn tasty details about 221b Baker Street, the first hints of affairs we will never read about (Paredol Chamber! The Beggar-Lover Society! The Folly of Colonel Warburton!), and further evidence of Holmes's cold-blooded, but fascinating.
When Steven Moffat and I came up with the idea of modernizing the stories (or modernizing them again, since Rathbone and Bruce did it first!), it wasn't for lack of love for the magnificent late-Victorian world. Rather, it was a desire to almost literally blow away the fog that shrouded immortal friendship, to get rid of the attributes that overshadowed Holmes and Watson in our minds. We wanted to go back to the brilliant originals and understand what made us love them in the first place. By sticking to the chosen path - with some success, I'm happy to say - we were able to film some aspects that were barely (if not never) touched upon in previous adaptations. The fateful first meeting at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, Holmes flogging corpses to assess whether bruises appear after death, Watson's curious "mobile" wound received in the war, Holmes's astonishing ignorance of matters that do not interest him - such as The earth revolves around the sun! We were touched and delighted by the response to our Baker Street boys, but really we were just going back to Conan Doyle. Time and time again, when we have a problem, the answer lies with Sir Arthur. Take, for example, this gem that I stumbled upon while re-reading Identity. Holmes and Watson watch a woman looking hesitantly at their window. “Familiar symptoms,” said Holmes, throwing a cigarette butt into the fireplace. – Hesitation at the door always indicates matters of the heart. She wants to ask for advice, but is afraid: the matter is obviously too sensitive. But here too there are different shades. If a woman has been deeply offended, she no longer hesitates and, as a rule, ends the call.”
What could be more perfect and beautiful?!
Having devoured the Adventures, I succumbed to the crazy desire to read all the other stories and rushed to buy the complete collection of Sherlock Holmes stories. Of course, as Stephen likes to point out, only a complete nerd would imagine that reading all the Sherlock Holmes stories would earn him a badge of honor on the playground! I regret to this day that I didn’t take the time to enjoy them to the fullest. I still have that old, battered book, and although I love every yellowed page and admire the myriad pleasures beyond, those first stories I read, “The Adventures,” remain my favorites.
So, to quote the preface of that book after so many years, I wish I could read these stories for the first time. If you've never turned these sacred pages before, immersed yourself in a world of opium dens and diabolical stepfathers, blood-soaked gems and secret societies hell-bent on revenge, then I envy you. Honestly. Wonderful moments await you.
Mark Gatiss
Scandal in Bohemia
I
For Sherlock Holmes, she always remained “That Woman.” I almost never heard him call her anything else. In his opinion, she eclipsed and far surpassed all representatives of her sex. It cannot be said that he felt anything close to love for Irene Adler. All feelings, and especially this one, were hateful to his cold, precise and amazingly balanced mind. It seems to me that he was the most perfect thinking and observing machine the world has ever seen, but he would not have been at ease in the role of a lover. He spoke of tender feelings only with a contemptuous grin and mockery. They were a magnificent object to observe, an excellent means of stripping away the veils of human motives and actions. But to allow feelings to invade his refined and superbly regulated inner world would mean for a sophisticated thinker to introduce chaos there, which would cast a shadow on all the achievements of his thought. A grain of sand caught in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in a powerful lens, would cause less trouble to a man like Holmes than passion. And yet, one woman still existed for him, and this woman was the late Irene Adler, a person of very, very dubious reputation.
I haven't seen Holmes much lately: my marriage has alienated us from each other. The cloudless happiness and purely family interests that arise in a person when he first becomes master of his own home were enough to absorb all my attention. Meanwhile, Holmes, like a true bohemian who hated all forms of social life, remained in our apartment on Baker Street, buried among his old books, alternating weeks of cocaine addiction with bouts of ambition, the dormant state of a drug addict with the frantic energy inherent in his frantic nature .
As before, he was deeply passionate about solving crimes. He devoted his enormous abilities and extraordinary gift of observation to clarifying those mysteries that the state police, recognizing them as insoluble, abandoned. From time to time I heard vague rumors about his affairs: about how he was summoned to Odessa in connection with the murder of Trepov, that he managed to shed light on the mysterious tragedy of the Atkinson brothers in Trincomalee, and, finally, about very subtly and successfully completed a delicate assignment from the Dutch royal house. However, apart from this information, which I, like all readers, drew from newspapers, I heard little about my former friend and comrade.
One evening - it was March 20, 1888 - returning from a patient (I was now back in private practice), I found myself in Baker Street. I walked past the familiar door, which is forever linked in my memory with the time when I was in love, and with the dark events of A Study in Scarlet, and I was overcome by a keen desire to see Holmes again, to find out what his wonderful mind was now doing. The windows were brightly lit, and I even saw his tall, thin figure, which flashed twice in a dark silhouette on the lowered curtain. He walked rapidly from corner to corner, his head bowed low and his hands clasped behind his back. I knew all my friend’s habits, and therefore the impetuosity of his movements and his whole appearance told me a lot. Sherlock Holmes went back to work. He shook off his drug-induced foggy dreams and struggled with some new riddle. I called and was shown to a room that had once been partly mine.
He met me without lengthy outpourings. He was, as always, reserved, but apparently delighted at my arrival. Almost without words, he invited me to sit down with a friendly gesture, pushed a box of cigars towards me and nodded towards the wine cellar and the soda water dispenser in the corner. Then, stopping by the fireplace, he looked at me with his penetrating gaze.
“Family life is good for you, Watson,” he remarked. “I think you've gained seven and a half pounds since I saw you in last time.
- Seven! – I objected.
- Is it true? But it seemed to me a little more. A little more, I assure you. And you are practicing again, I see? You didn't say you were going to work.
- So how do you know this?
– I look and draw conclusions. For example, how do I know that you recently got wet to the skin and that your maid is a big slob?
“Dear Holmes,” I said, “this is too much!” A few centuries ago you would certainly have been burned at the stake. Indeed, on Thursday I had to take a walk outside the city, and I returned home covered in dirt, but I changed my suit, and I have no idea what you might have noticed. As for Mary Jane, she is indeed incorrigible, and her wife has already given her a warning. But I don't understand how you guessed this.
Holmes grinned and rubbed his long, nervous hands.
- As easy as pie! - he said. - On inside on your left shoe, right where the light hits, there are six almost parallel scratches. Apparently someone had very carelessly rubbed the edges of the sole to remove dried dirt. From here, as you see, I draw a double conclusion: that you went out in bad weather and that you have a sample of the worst London servants. As for your practice... if a gentleman walks into my room smelling of iodoform, if he has a black spot of lapis on the index finger of his right hand, and a lump on the side of his top hat indicating where he hid his stethoscope, you would have to be a complete fool to not to recognize him as an active representative of the medical class.
I couldn't help but laugh as I listened to the ease with which he explained his train of thought to me.
“When you tell it,” I remarked, “everything seems so ridiculously simple that I could easily figure it out myself.” Meanwhile, in each specific case, I again find myself completely bewildered until you suggest some link in your reasoning. Although, I must say, I have a sharp eye.
“Quite right,” replied Holmes, lighting his pipe and stretching out in his chair. – You look, but you don’t notice, and that’s a big difference. For example, how many times have you seen the steps leading from the hallway to this room?
- How much?
- Well, several hundred times.
- Great. How many steps are there?
- How many steps? I have no idea!
- That's it, they didn't notice. Meanwhile, you saw! That's the whole point. Well, I know that there are seventeen steps... By the way, you seem to be interested in all sorts of mysteries and were even kind enough to describe some of my modest experiences. Perhaps this note might interest you?
He tossed me a piece of thick pink notepaper that was lying on the table.
“Received with the last mail,” he said. - Read out loud.
The note was undated, unsigned and without an address.
“Tonight, at a quarter to eight, a gentleman will come to you who wishes to consult on a very important matter. The services you recently rendered to one of the royal families of Europe prove that you can be trusted with matters of the utmost importance. We received such feedback about you from everywhere. Be at home at this hour and do not consider it an insult if a visitor wears a mask.”
“It’s really mysterious,” I remarked. – What do you think this all means?
– I don’t have any data yet. To theorize without data is to make a grave mistake. Unbeknownst to himself, a person begins to adjust facts to his theory, instead of building a theory on facts. Well, what about the note itself, what can you say about it?
I carefully examined the handwriting and the paper on which the note was written.
“The person who wrote this apparently has the means,” I said, trying to imitate my friend’s techniques. “This kind of paper costs at least half a crown a pack.” It is unusually strong and dense.
“Extraordinary is the right word,” said Holmes. – And this is not English paper. Look at the light.
I did so and saw watermarks on the paper: a large "E" and a small "g", then a "P" and a large "G" with a small "t".
– What can you conclude from this? – Holmes asked.
“This is undoubtedly the manufacturer’s name, or rather his monogram.”
- Nothing like this! The big "G" with a small "t" is an abbreviation for "Gesellschaft", which means "company" in German. This is a common abbreviation, like our “K°”. "P" of course stands for "Papier", paper. Let us now decipher “Eg”. Let's take a look at the geographical directory of Europe... - He took a heavy tome bound in brown from the shelf. – Eglow, Eglonitz... We need an area where they speak German... So we found it: Egria, in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. The place of Wallenstein's death is famous for its numerous glass factories and paper mills. Ha ha, my friend, what follows from this? “His eyes sparkled with triumph, and he released a large blue cloud from his cigarette.
“The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said.
- Exactly. And the note was written by a German. Have you noticed the characteristic structure of the phrase: “We received such feedback about you from everywhere”? A French or Russian would not write like that. Only the Germans are so unceremonious with their verbs. Consequently, all that remains is to find out what this German needs, who writes on Bohemian paper and prefers to appear in a mask... And here he is, if I’m not mistaken. He will solve all our doubts.
We heard the clatter of hooves and the creaking of wheels of a carriage stopped at the side of the road. Then someone pulled the bell with force.
Holmes whistled.
“Judging by the knocking, a pair of carriages... yes,” he continued, looking out the window, “a graceful little carriage and a pair of trotters... one hundred and fifty guineas each.” One way or another, this case smells like money, Watson.
“Perhaps I should go, Holmes?”
- No, no, stay, doctor! What will I do without my Boswell? The case promises to be interesting. Sorry if you miss it...
- But your client...
- Nothing, nothing. I may need your help, and so will he... Here he is. Sit in this chair, doctor, and watch carefully.
The slow, heavy footsteps that had been heard on the stairs and in the corridor died down just before our door.
Someone knocked loudly and clearly.
- Come in! - said Holmes.
A man of Herculean build entered, no less than six feet six inches tall. He was dressed luxuriously, but this luxury in England would be considered bad taste. The sleeves and lapels of his double-breasted coat were trimmed with thick strips of astrakhan; a dark blue cloak thrown over the shoulders, lined with fiery red silk and fastened at the neck with a buckle of sparkling beryl. Boots reaching to the calves and trimmed with expensive brown fur on top complemented the impression of some kind of barbaric pomp. In his hand he held a wide-brimmed hat, and top part the faces were covered by a black mask that went down below the cheekbones. The visitor had obviously just put on a mask, because his hand was still raised. Judging by the lower part of his face, he was a man of strong will: a thick protruding lip and a long, straight chin spoke of determination bordering on stubbornness.
-Did you receive my note? - he asked in a low, hoarse voice; a strong German accent could be heard in his speech. - I told you that I would come to you. “He looked from one of us to the other, apparently not knowing who to turn to.
“Please sit down,” said Holmes. – This is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson, he sometimes kindly helps me in my work. Who do I have the honor of speaking to?
“You can call me Count von Cramm, Bohemian nobleman.” I believe that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honor, worthy of complete confidence, and I can initiate him into a matter of the utmost importance? Otherwise, I would prefer to talk to you in private.
I stood up to leave, but Holmes grabbed my hand and sat me back in the chair.
- No, we will both listen to you. In the presence of this gentleman, you can say whatever you would say to me in private.
The Count shrugged.
- Fine! First of all, I must make both of you promise that the matter I am about to tell you about will remain secret for two years. After two years, no one will be interested in it. At present, however, it can be said without exaggeration: this story is so serious that it can affect the fate of Europe.
“I give you my word,” said Holmes.
- And me too.
“Sorry that I’m wearing a mask,” continued the strange visitor. “The august person in whose service I am, wished that his confidant remain anonymous. I must admit that the title I gave does not entirely correspond to reality.
“I noticed that,” Holmes said dryly.
“The circumstances are very delicate, and all measures must be taken to prevent a huge scandal that could compromise one of the reigning dynasties of Europe.” To put it simply, the case is connected with the house of Ormstein, the hereditary kings of Bohemia.
“That’s what I thought,” Holmes muttered, settling more comfortably in his chair and closing his eyes.
The visitor looked with obvious surprise at the lazily lounging man whom he had been recommended as the most insightful and energetic detective in Europe. Holmes slowly opened his eyes and looked impatiently at his giant client.
“If Your Majesty would deign to explain the matter, it would be easier for me to give you advice.”
The visitor jumped up from his chair and began to pace around the room in great excitement. Then, with a gesture of despair, he tore the mask from his face and threw it on the floor.
“You’re right,” he exclaimed, “I am the king!” Why hide?
- Really, why? Your Majesty had not yet begun to speak, as I already knew that before me was Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismund von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Kassel-Felstein and Crown King of Bohemia.
“But you understand... you understand that I’m not used to personally dealing with such matters!” - said our visitor, sitting down again and running his hand over his high white forehead. “However, the issue is so sensitive that I could not entrust it to anyone without risking being in someone else’s power.” I came from Prague incognito specifically to consult with you.
“Please,” said Holmes, closing his eyes again.
– The facts are briefly as follows: about five years ago, during a long stay in Warsaw, I met the famous adventuress Irene Adler. This name is probably familiar to you?
“Please, doctor, look in my file cabinet,” Holmes muttered without opening his eyes.
Many years ago he made it a rule to register different facts, relating to people and events, so that it was difficult to name a person or fact about which he could not immediately give information. I discovered the biography of Irene Adler between the biography of a Jewish rabbi and the biography of the captain who wrote a work on deep-sea fish.
“Show me,” said Holmes. - Hm! Born in New Jersey in 1858. Contralto, um... La Scala, right, right!.. Diva of the Imperial Opera in Warsaw... Left the stage, ha! Lives in London - absolutely true! Your Majesty, as far as I understand, you got into the network of this young lady, corresponded with her and now would like to return these letters, which could compromise you.
- Absolutely right. But how...
-Did you secretly marry her?
– Did you leave any documents or evidence?
- Nothing.
“In that case, I don’t understand, Your Majesty.” If this woman wants to use the letters for blackmail or any other purposes, how will she prove their authenticity?
- But my handwriting...
- Nonsense! Handwriting is easy to fake.
– What about the notepaper with my name on it?
- Stolen.
- My personal seal...
- A fake again.
- My Photo…
- Bought.
– But we were photographed together!
- Ooh, this is really bad! Your Majesty made a big mistake.
“I was crazy about her.”
– Yes, photography is serious.
“I was the crown prince then.” I was very young. I'm still only thirty.
– The photograph must be returned at all costs.
“We tried, but we didn’t succeed.”
- Yes, you will have to pay. I need to buy a photo.
“She doesn’t want to sell it.”
“Then we need to steal it.”
– Five attempts were made. I hired burglars twice and they ransacked her whole house. When she was traveling, we searched her luggage. They tried to lure her into a trap twice... No results.
- No traces?
- Absolutely none.
Holmes grinned:
- Interesting problem!
– But for me this is very serious! – the king objected reproachfully.
- Still would! Why does she need a photograph?
- To destroy me.
- But how?
- I'm going to get married...
- I heard about this.
- ...on Clotilde Lotman von Sachse-Meningen, the second daughter of the Scandinavian king. Perhaps you know that this family has strict rules. Clotilde herself is purity personified. The slightest shadow of doubt about my past would lead to a breakup.
– And Irene Adler?
“She threatens to send them the photo.” And she will certainly do it! She has an iron character. Yes, yes, the face of the most charming woman, and the soul - like that of the toughest man. She will stop at nothing to stop me from marrying someone else.
“Are you sure she hasn’t sent the photo yet?”
- Sure.
- Why?
“She said she would send the photo the day the engagement was announced.” And this is scheduled for next Monday.
- Oh, we have three whole days ahead of us! - Holmes yawned. “You’re in luck, because right now I have some urgent matters to attend to.” Of course, you will stay in London for now?
- Certainly. You can find me at the Langham Hotel. I settled under the name of Count von Cramm.
- I'll let you know how things are going.
- I'm begging you. I'm so excited!
-What about money?
– Spend as much as you see fit.
- No limits?
“I’m ready to give any province of my kingdom for this photo!”
– What about current expenses?
The king took a heavy suede wallet from under his cloak and placed it on the table.
“There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in banknotes.”
Holmes wrote a receipt on a page of his notebook and handed it to the king.
- Mademoiselle's address? - he asked.
- Brieny Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. Johnswool.
Holmes wrote it down.
– One more question: was the photograph in cabinet format?
“And now good night, Your Majesty, I hope that you will soon hear good news... Good night, Watson,” he added, as the wheels of the royal carriage clattered on the pavement. “If you would be kind enough to come by tomorrow at three o’clock, I will be happy to talk with you about this matter.”
II
At exactly three o'clock I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not yet returned. The housekeeper told me that he left the house at a little after eight. I sat down by the fireplace with the firm intention of waiting for him at all costs. I was deeply interested in how he would handle the case, for the peculiarity of the case and the high position of the client gave it an unusual character, although it did not have the bizarreness and gloominess inherent in the two crimes that I have related elsewhere. Even if we leave aside the very content of the investigation that my friend conducted - with what skill he immediately mastered the situation and what strict, irrefutable logic was in his conclusions! It gave me real pleasure to observe with what quick, subtle techniques he unraveled the most incomprehensible mysteries. I'm used to his continued success. It never occurred to me that he could fail.
About four o'clock the door opened, and a tipsy man entered the room; he looked like a groom - with disheveled hair and sideburns, a swollen red face, and poor, dirty clothes. No matter how accustomed I was to my friend’s amazing ability to change his appearance, I had to look closely before I was sure that it was really Holmes. Nodding to me as he walked, he disappeared into his bedroom, from where he emerged five minutes later in a tweed suit, correct as always. With his hands in his pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the blazing fireplace and laughed heartily for several minutes.
- What fun! - he exclaimed, then coughed and laughed again, so much so that in the end he leaned back in his chair in complete exhaustion.
- What's the matter?
- Funny, incredibly funny! I'm sure you'll never guess how I spent that morning and what I ended up doing.
– I can’t even imagine. I believe they were studying the lifestyle, and perhaps the house, of Miss Irene Adler.
– Absolutely true, but the result is quite unexpected. However, I will tell you in order. At the beginning of eight I left the house under the guise of an unemployed groom. You know, there is an amazing mutual sympathy, a kind of brotherhood between everyone who deals with horses. Become a groom and you will learn everything you need. I quickly found Brieny Lodge. This is an elegant two-story villa, located right next to the street, with a garden behind it. There is a massive lock on the garden gate. On the right side of the house there is a large, well-furnished living room with high windows, almost to the floor, and on the windows there are ridiculous English bolts that any child can open. There is nothing special behind the house except that you can get into the gallery window from the roof of the coach house. I carefully examined the house, but did not notice anything else interesting. Then I walked down the street and in the alley behind the garden fence I found, as I had expected, a cabman's yard. I helped the grooms brush the horses, and received for it two pence, a glass of porter and ale, two pinches of tobacco, and plenty of information about Miss Adler and several other people living in the neighborhood. The others did not interest me at all, but I was forced to listen to their biographies.
– What did you find out about Irene Adler? – I asked.
- That she turned the heads of all the men in the block and that in general she is the most delicious morsel on our planet. So the Serpentine grooms say with one voice. She lives quietly, performs in concerts, goes for a walk every day at five o’clock in the afternoon and returns for dinner at exactly seven o’clock. At other times he is almost always at home, except when he sings. Only one man visits her, but often. He is brunette, handsome, dresses beautifully, visits her every day, and sometimes twice a day. This is a certain Mr. Godfrey Norton from Inner Temple. You see how profitable it is to use the trust of coachmen! They took him home from the Serpentine stables twenty times and know absolutely everything about him. After listening to them, I walked up and down again near Brieny Lodge, thinking over the plan of the campaign.
Godfrey Norton obviously plays an important role in this whole story. He's a lawyer. That means something. What connects them and why does he often visit her? Who is she – his client, friend, lover? If it was a client, then she probably gave the photo to him for safekeeping. If the beloved - hardly. The decision of this question determined whether I should continue my work at Brieny Lodge or turn my attention to the gentleman's office at Temple. This important circumstance expanded the scope of my research... I am afraid, Watson, that you are bored with details and doubts, but there is no other way to understand the situation.
“I’m following your story carefully,” I replied.
“I was still weighing this matter in my mind, when suddenly a gig pulled up to Brieny Lodge, and a gentleman jumped out of it, unusually handsome, dark, with an aquiline nose and a mustache. Obviously, this was the person I heard about. He was in a hurry. Ordering the coachman to wait, he ran past the maid who opened the door for him; he felt like he was at home here. He stayed there for about half an hour, and through the living room window I could see him walking up and down the room, excitedly talking about something and waving his arms. I haven't seen her. But then he went out into the street, even more excited than before. Approaching the carriage, he took a gold watch out of his pocket and looked at it with concern. “Drive with all your might! - he shouted to the coachman. “First to Gross and Henke in Regent Street, and then to St. Monica's Church in Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you get there in twenty minutes!”
Inner Temple is one of four English law corporations that train lawyers. It is located in the Temple, a building that until 1313 belonged to the Templar Order and received its name from this.