The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (11 page)

"Holmes," cried I, "enough of such torture! The true culprit is not Miss Baxter, but this

ruffian who stands and laughs at us!"

"Believe me, Miss Baxter, I would not distress you," said Holmes. "I have no doubt you

learned by accident of Sheerness' powers. Sporting peers will speak quite carelessly when

they hear only the harmless clicking of a type-writer from an adjoining room. But Sir

Gervase, long before he was so carefully watched, must have urged you to keep your ears open

and communicate with him in this ingenious way should you acquire information of value.

"At first the method seemed almost too ingenious. Indeed, I could not understand why you

did not merely write to him, until when
he
arrived here I learned that even his letters are

steamed open. The cards were the only possible way. But we have the evidence now—"

"No, by God!" said Sir Gervase Darlington. "You've got no evidence at all!"

His left hand, quick as a striking snake, snatched the cards from Holmes's grasp. As my

friend instinctively stood up, the pain in his swollen ankle making him bite back a cry, Sir

Gervase's open right hand drove into Holmes's neck and sent him sprawling back on the

sofa. Again the triumphant laugh rang out. "Gervase!" pleaded Miss Baxter, wringing her

hands. "Please! Don't look at me so! I meant no harm!"

"Oh, no!" said he, with a sneer on his brutal face. "N-no-o-o! Come here and betray

me, would you? Make me jump when I see you, hey? You're no better than you should be,

and I'll tell that to anybody who asks. Now stand aside, damn you!"

"Sir Gervase," said I, "already I have warned you for the last time."

"Sawbones interfering, eh? I'll—" Now, I am the first to admit that it was luck rather

than judgment, though perhaps I may add that I am quicker on my feet than my friends

suppose. Suffice to say Miss Baxter screamed.

Despite the pain of his ankle, Sherlock Holmes again leaped from the sofa.

"By Jove, Watson! A finer left on the mark and right to the head I never witnessed!

You've grassed him so hard he will be unconscious for ten minutes!"

"Yet I trust," said I, blowing upon cracked knuckles, "that poor Miss Baxter has not been

unduly distressed by the crash with which he struck the floor? It would also grieve me to

alarm Mrs. Hudson, whom I hear approaching with bacon and eggs."

"Good old Watson!"

"Why do you smile, Holmes? Have I said something of a humorous character?"

"No, no. Heaven forbid! Yet sometimes I suspect that I may be much shallower, and you

far more deep, than customarily I am wont to believe."

"Your satire is beyond me. However, there is the evidence. But you must not publicly

betray even Sir Gervase Darlington, lest you betray Miss Baxter as well!"

"Humph! I have a score to settle with that gentleman, Watson. His offer to open for me a

career as a professional boxer I could not in honesty resent. In its way, it is a great compliment.

But to confuse me with a Scotland Yard detective! That was an insult, I fear, which I can

neither forget nor forgive."

"Holmes, how many favours have I ever asked of you?"

"Well, well, have it as you please. We shall keep the cards only as a last resort, should that

sleeping beauty again misbehave. As for Miss Baxter—"

"I loved him!" cried the poor young lady passionately. "Or—well, at least, I thought I did."

"In any event, Miss Baxter, Watson shall remain silent as long as you like. He must not

speak until some long, long distant date when you, perhaps as an ancient great-grandam, shall

smile and give your leave. Half a century ere that, you will have forgotten all about Sir Gervase

Darlington."

"Never! Never! Never!"

"Oh, I fancy so," smiled Sherlock Holmes.
"On s' enlace; puis, un jour, on se lasse; c'est

l'amour.
There is more wisdom in that French epigram than in the whole works of Henrik

Ibsen."

4

The Adventure of the Highgate Miracle

Though we were accustomed to receiving strange telegrams at our rooms in Baker Street,

there was one which served to introduce an affair unique even in the annals of Mr. Sherlock

Holmes.

I had met Holmes for a stroll in the Regent's Park one dark, drizzling, but not too cold

afternoon in December, during which we discussed certain personal affairs of mine with

which I need not burden the reader. When we returned to the snug sitting-room at four

o'clock, Mrs. Hudson brought up the telegram along with a substantial tea-tray. It was

addressed to Holmes, and ran thus:

"Can you imagine man worshipping umbrella? Husbands are irrational. Suspect chicanery

with diamonds. Will call upon you tea-time.—Mrs. Gloria Cabpleasure."

I rejoiced to see a gleam of interest flash in Sherlock Holmes's deep-set eyes.

"What's this, what's this?" said he, as with unusual appetite he attacked the hot buttered

scones and jam.

"Highgate postmark, hardly a fashionable area, and dispatched at three-seventeen. Study it,

Watson!"

At this time—to be more precise, it was late December of the year 1896—I was not living

in Baker Street, but I had come for a few days to visit old haunts. Under the heading for this

year, my note-book records few cases. Of these only one, the affair of Mrs. Ronder, the veiled

lodger, have I seen fit so far to set down; and Mrs. Ronder's problem afforded little scope

for my friend's great powers.

Thus Holmes entered a brief period of stagnation and desperation. As I saw his gaunt

countenance in the shaded light of the table-lamp, I could not but rebuke myself. Of what

moment were my trivial affairs against the thirst for abstruse problems raging in that

extraordinary intellect?

"It is possible," continued Holmes, snatching back the telegram to read it again, "that there

may be in London two women with the singular and even striking name of Gloria Cabpleasure.

But I doubt it."

"You are acquainted with the lady, then?"

"No, no, I have never even seen her. Still, I fancy she must be a certain beauty-specialist

who—in any event, what do you make of this?"

"Well, it presents that feature of the bizarre which is so dear to you. 'Can you imagine

man worshipping umbrella?' But it is a little difficult."

"True, Watson. A woman, however extravagant she may be in large matters, is usually

economical in small. Mrs. Cabpleasure has been so thrifty of her 'an's' and 'the's' that I am not

at all sure of her meaning."

"Nor I."

"Does it mean that a certain man worships a certain umbrella? Or is man in the abstract,

Englishmen perhaps, desired to bow down to the umbrella as his tribal deity and shield

against the climate? At least, what can we deduce from it?"

"Deduce? From the telegram?"

"Of course."

I was glad to laugh, since for that same brief time I had been feeling rheumatic and less

than young.

"Holmes, we cannot possibly deduce. We can only guess."

"Tut, how often must I tell you that I never guess? It is a shocking habit, destructive of

the logical faculty."

"And yet, were I to adopt your own somewhat didactic manner, I should say that nothing

affords less opportunity to the reasoner than a telegram, because it is so brief and

impersonal."

"Then I fear you would be wrong."

"Confound it, Holmes—"

"Yet, consider. When a man writes me a letter of a dozen pages, he may conceal his true

nature in a cloud of words. When he is obliged to be terse, however, I know him at once. You

may have remarked a similar thing in public speakers."

"But this is a woman."

"Yes, Watson, no doubt the fact makes a difference. But let me have your views. Come!

Apply to a study of this telegram your own natural shrewdness."

Thus challenged, and flattering myself that in the past I had not been altogether

unhelpful to him, I did as I was requested.

"Well," said I, "Mrs. Cabpleasure is surely very inconsiderate, since she makes an

appointment without confirming it, and seems to think your time is her own."

"Capital, Watson. You improve with the years. What else?"

Inspiration rushed upon me.

"Holmes, the word, 'Mrs.,' in so compressed a message, is totally unnecessary! I think I see it

all!"

"Better still, my dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes, throwing down his napkin and clapping

his hands together without noise. "I shall be happy to hear your analysis."

"Mrs. Gloria Cabpleasure, Holmes, is a young bride. Being still in the proud flush of her

newly wedded name, she is so insistent upon it that she uses it even in this message. What

could be more natural? Especially when we think of a happy, perhaps beautiful young woman

—"

"Yes, yes. But be good enough, Watson, to omit the descriptive passages and come to the

point."

"By Jove, I am sure of it!" said I. "It supports my first modest deduction too. The poor girl

is inconsiderate, let us say, merely because she is pampered by an affectionate young husband."

But my friend shook his head.

"I think not, Watson. If she were in the first strong pride of so-called wedded bliss, she

would have signed herself 'Mrs. Henry Cabpleasure,' or 'Mrs. George Cabpleasure,' or

whatever the name of her husband chanced to be. But in one respect, at least, you are

correct. There is something odd—even disturbing—about that word 'Mrs.' She insists upon it

too much."

"My dear fellow!"

Abruptly Holmes rose to his feet and wandered towards his arm-chair. Our gas was lit, and

there was a cheery fire against the dark, bleak drizzle which we could hear dripping outside the

window.

But he did not sit down. Deep in concentration, his brows knitted, he slowly stretched out

his hand towards the right side angle of the chimney-piece. A genuine thrill of emotion shot

through my being as he picked up his violin, the old and beloved Stradivarius which, in his

moodiness and black humor, he told me he had not touched for weeks.

The light ran along satiny wood as he tucked the violin under his chin and
whisked up the

bow. None the less, my friend hesitated. He lowered both violin and bow with something like a

snarl.

"No, I have not yet enough data," said he, "and it is a cardinal error to theorize without data."

"Then at least," said I, "it is a pleasure to think that I have deduced from the telegram as

much as you have deduced yourself."

"Oh, the telegram?" said Holmes, as though he had never heard of it.

"Yes. Is there any point which I have overlooked?"

"Well, Watson, I fear you were wrong in almost every particular. The woman who

dispatched that telegram has been married for some years, and is no longer in her first youth.

She is of either Scottish or American origin, well educated and well-to-do, but unhappily

married and of a domineering disposition. On the other hand, it is probable that she is quite

handsome. Though these are only trifling and obvious deductions, perhaps they may do."

A few moments ago I had hoped to see Sherlock Holmes in such a mood, vigorous and

alert, with the old mocking light in his eyes. Yet the bright-patterned china rattled upon the

snowy napery as I smote the table a blow with my fist.

"Holmes, this time you have carried a jest too far!"

"My dear Watson, I do really beg your pardon. I had no idea you would take the matter so

seri—"

"For shame! In popular esteem, at least, only the vulgar live at Hampstead and Highgate,

which are usually pronounced without the aspirate. You may be making sport of some

wretched, ill-educated female who is on the point of starving!"

"Hardly, Watson. Though an ill-educated woman might attempt such words as 'irrational' and

'chicanery,' she would be unlikely to spell them correctly. Similarly, since Mrs. Cabpleasure

tells us that she suspects false dealing in a matter of diamonds, we may assume she does not

scavenge her bread from dustbins."

"She has been married for some years? And unhappily?"

"We live in an age of propriety, Watson; and I confess I prefer it so."

"What on earth has that to do with the matter?"

"Only a woman who has been married for years, and hence past her first youth, will so

candidly write in a telegram—under the eye of a post-office clerk—her belief that all husbands

are irrational. You must perceive some sign of unhappiness, together with a domineering

nature? Secondary inference: since the charge of chicanery appears to relate to her husband,

this marriage must be even more unhappy than are most."

"But her origin?"

"Pray re-peruse the last sentence of the telegram. Only a Scot or an American says, 'Will

call upon you,' when he, or in this case she, means the 'shall' of simple futurity, which would

be used as a matter of course by any Englishwoman educated or uneducated. Are you

answered?"

"I—I—stay a moment! You stated, not as fancy but as fact, that she must be handsome!"

"Ah, I can say only that it is probable. And the hypothesis comes not from the