THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE
I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year
and found him in deep conversation with a
very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman
with fiery red hair. With an apology for my
intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes
pulled me abruptly into the room and closed
the door behind me.
“You could not possibly have come at a better
time, my dear Watson,” he said cordially.
“I was afraid that you were engaged.”
“So I am. Very much so.”
“Then I can wait in the next room.”
“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson,
has been my partner and helper in many of
my most successful cases, and I have no doubt
that he will be of the utmost use to me in
yours also.”
The stout gentleman half rose from his chair
and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little
questioning glance from his small fat-encircled
eyes.
“Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing
into his armchair and putting his fingertips
together, as was his custom when in judicial
moods. “I know, my dear Watson, that you
share my love of all that is bizarre and outside
the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday
life. You have shown your relish for it by
the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle,
and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat
to embellish so many of my own little adventures.”
“Your cases have indeed been of the greatest
interest to me,” I observed.
“You will remember that I remarked the other
day, just before we went into the very simple
problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland,
that for strange effects and extraordinary
combinations we must go to life itself, which
is always far more daring than any effort
of the imagination.”
“A proposition which I took the liberty
of doubting.”
“You did, Doctor, but none the less you
must come round to my view, for otherwise
I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you
until your reason breaks down under them and
acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez
Wilson here has been good enough to call upon
me this morning, and to begin a narrative
which promises to be one of the most singular
which I have listened to for some time. You
have heard me remark that the strangest and
most unique things are very often connected
not with the larger but with the smaller crimes,
and occasionally, indeed, where there is room
for doubt whether any positive crime has been
committed. As far as I have heard, it is impossible
for me to say whether the present case is
an instance of crime or not, but the course
of events is certainly among the most singular
that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr.
Wilson, you would have the great kindness
to recommence your narrative. I ask you not
merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not
heard the opening part but also because the
peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious
to have every possible detail from your lips.
As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication
of the course of events, I am able to guide
myself by the thousands of other similar cases
which occur to my memory. In the present instance
I am forced to admit that the facts are, to
the best of my belief, unique.”
The portly client puffed out his chest with
an appearance of some little pride and pulled
a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside
pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down
the advertisement column, with his head thrust
forward and the paper flattened out upon his
knee, I took a good look at the man and endeavoured,
after the fashion of my companion, to read
the indications which might be presented by
his dress or appearance.
I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection.
Our visitor bore every mark of being an average
commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous,
and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd’s
check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat,
unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat
with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square
pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament.
A frayed top-hat and a faded brown overcoat
with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair
beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there
was nothing remarkable about the man save
his blazing red head, and the expression of
extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.
Sherlock Holmes’ quick eye took in my occupation,
and he shook his head with a smile as he noticed
my questioning glances. “Beyond the obvious
facts that he has at some time done manual
labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a
Freemason, that he has been in China, and
that he has done a considerable amount of
writing lately, I can deduce nothing else.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair,
with his forefinger upon the paper, but his
eyes upon my companion.
“How, in the name of good-fortune, did you
know all that, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “How
did you know, for example, that I did manual
labour. It’s as true as gospel, for I began
as a ship’s carpenter.”
“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand
is quite a size larger than your left. You
have worked with it, and the muscles are more
developed.”
“Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?”
“I won’t insult your intelligence by telling
you how I read that, especially as, rather
against the strict rules of your order, you
use an arc-and-compass breastpin.”
“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?”
“What else can be indicated by that right
cuff so very shiny for five inches, and the
left one with the smooth patch near the elbow
where you rest it upon the desk?”
“Well, but China?”
“The fish that you have tattooed immediately
above your right wrist could only have been
done in China. I have made a small study of
tattoo marks and have even contributed to
the literature of the subject. That trick
of staining the fishes’ scales of a delicate
pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in
addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from
your watch-chain, the matter becomes even
more simple.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well,
I never!” said he. “I thought at first
that you had done something clever, but I
see that there was nothing in it after all.”
“I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes,
“that I make a mistake in explaining. ‘Omne
ignotum pro magnifico,’ you know, and my
poor little reputation, such as it is, will
suffer shipwreck if I am so candid. Can you
not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”
“Yes, I have got it now,” he answered
with his thick red finger planted halfway
down the column. “Here it is. This is what
began it all. You just read it for yourself,
sir.”
I took the paper from him and read as follows:
“TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of
the bequest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of
Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is
now another vacancy open which entitles a
member of the League to a salary of £4 a
week for purely nominal services. All red-headed
men who are sound in body and mind and above
the age of twenty-one years, are eligible.
Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o’clock,
to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League,
7 Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.”
“What on earth does this mean?” I ejaculated
after I had twice read over the extraordinary
announcement.
Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair,
as was his habit when in high spirits. “It
is a little off the beaten track, isn’t
it?” said he. “And now, Mr. Wilson, off
you go at scratch and tell us all about yourself,
your household, and the effect which this
advertisement had upon your fortunes. You
will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper
and the date.”
“It is The Morning Chronicle of April
27, 1890. Just two months ago.”
“Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?”
“Well, it is just as I have been telling
you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson,
mopping his forehead; “I have a small pawnbroker’s
business at Coburg Square, near the City.
It’s not a very large affair, and of late
years it has not done more than just give
me a living. I used to be able to keep two
assistants, but now I only keep one; and I
would have a job to pay him but that he is
willing to come for half wages so as to learn
the business.”
“What is the name of this obliging youth?”
asked Sherlock Holmes.
“His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s
not such a youth, either. It’s hard to say
his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant,
Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could
better himself and earn twice what I am able
to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied,
why should I put ideas in his head?”
“Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in
having an employé who comes under the full
market price. It is not a common experience
among employers in this age. I don’t know
that your assistant is not as remarkable as
your advertisement.”
“Oh, he has his faults, too,” said Mr.
Wilson. “Never was such a fellow for photography.
Snapping away with a camera when he ought
to be improving his mind, and then diving
down into the cellar like a rabbit into its
hole to develop his pictures. That is his
main fault, but on the whole he’s a good
worker. There’s no vice in him.”
“He is still with you, I presume?”
“Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who
does a bit of simple cooking and keeps the
place clean—that’s all I have in the house,
for I am a widower and never had any family.
We live very quietly, sir, the three of us;
and we keep a roof over our heads and pay
our debts, if we do nothing more.
“The first thing that put us out was that
advertisement. Spaulding, he came down into
the office just this day eight weeks, with
this very paper in his hand, and he says:
“ ‘I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that
I was a red-headed man.’
“ ‘Why that?’ I asks.
“ ‘Why,’ says he, ‘here’s another
vacancy on the League of the Red-headed Men.
It’s worth quite a little fortune to any
man who gets it, and I understand that there
are more vacancies than there are men, so
that the trustees are at their wits’ end
what to do with the money. If my hair would
only change colour, here’s a nice little
crib all ready for me to step into.’
“ ‘Why, what is it, then?’ I asked.
You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very stay-at-home
man, and as my business came to me instead
of my having to go to it, I was often weeks
on end without putting my foot over the door-mat.
In that way I didn’t know much of what was
going on outside, and I was always glad of
a bit of news.
“ ‘Have you never heard of the League
of the Red-headed Men?’ he asked with his
eyes open.
“ ‘Never.’
“ ‘Why, I wonder at that, for you are
eligible yourself for one of the vacancies.’
“ ‘And what are they worth?’ I asked.
“ ‘Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year,
but the work is slight, and it need not interfere
very much with one’s other occupations.’
“Well, you can easily think that that made
me prick up my ears, for the business has
not been over good for some years, and an
extra couple of hundred would have been very
handy.
“ ‘Tell me all about it,’ said I.
“ ‘Well,’ said he, showing me the advertisement,
‘you can see for yourself that the League
has a vacancy, and there is the address where
you should apply for particulars. As far as
I can make out, the League was founded by
an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins,
who was very peculiar in his ways. He was
himself red-headed, and he had a great sympathy
for all red-headed men; so, when he died,
it was found that he had left his enormous
fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions
to apply the interest to the providing of
easy berths to men whose hair is of that colour.
From all I hear it is splendid pay and very
little to do.’
“ ‘But,’ said I, ‘there would be
millions of red-headed men who would apply.’
“ ‘Not so many as you might think,’
he answered. ‘You see it is really confined
to Londoners, and to grown men. This American
had started from London when he was young,
and he wanted to do the old town a good turn.
Then, again, I have heard it is no use your
applying if your hair is light red, or dark
red, or anything but real bright, blazing,
fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr.
Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps
it would hardly be worth your while to put
yourself out of the way for the sake of a
few hundred pounds.’
“Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may
see for yourselves, that my hair is of a very
full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me
that if there was to be any competition in
the matter I stood as good a chance as any
man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding
seemed to know so much about it that I thought
he might prove useful, so I just ordered him
to put up the shutters for the day and to
come right away with me. He was very willing
to have a holiday, so we shut the business
up and started off for the address that was
given us in the advertisement.
“I never hope to see such a sight as that
again, Mr. Holmes. From north, south, east,
and west every man who had a shade of red
in his hair had tramped into the city to answer
the advertisement. Fleet Street was choked
with red-headed folk, and Pope’s Court looked
like a coster’s orange barrow. I should
not have thought there were so many in the
whole country as were brought together by
that single advertisement. Every shade of
colour they were—straw, lemon, orange, brick,
Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding
said, there were not many who had the real
vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how
many were waiting, I would have given it up
in despair; but Spaulding would not hear of
it. How he did it I could not imagine, but
he pushed and pulled and butted until he got
me through the crowd, and right up to the
steps which led to the office. There was a
double stream upon the stair, some going up
in hope, and some coming back dejected; but
we wedged in as well as we could and soon
found ourselves in the office.”
“Your experience has been a most entertaining
one,” remarked Holmes as his client paused
and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch
of snuff. “Pray continue your very interesting
statement.”
“There was nothing in the office but a couple
of wooden chairs and a deal table, behind
which sat a small man with a head that was
even redder than mine. He said a few words
to each candidate as he came up, and then
he always managed to find some fault in them
which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy
did not seem to be such a very easy matter,
after all. However, when our turn came the
little man was much more favourable to me
than to any of the others, and he closed the
door as we entered, so that he might have
a private word with us.
“ ‘This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,’ said
my assistant, ‘and he is willing to fill
a vacancy in the League.’
“ ‘And he is admirably suited for it,’
the other answered. ‘He has every requirement.
I cannot recall when I have seen anything
so fine.’ He took a step backward, cocked
his head on one side, and gazed at my hair
until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly
he plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated
me warmly on my success.
“ ‘It would be injustice to hesitate,’
said he. ‘You will, however, I am sure,
excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.’
With that he seized my hair in both his hands,
and tugged until I yelled with the pain. ‘There
is water in your eyes,’ said he as he released
me. ‘I perceive that all is as it should
be. But we have to be careful, for we have
twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint.
I could tell you tales of cobbler’s wax
which would disgust you with human nature.’
He stepped over to the window and shouted
through it at the top of his voice that the
vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment
came up from below, and the folk all trooped
away in different directions until there was
not a red-head to be seen except my own and
that of the manager.
“ ‘My name,’ said he, ‘is Mr. Duncan
Ross, and I am myself one of the pensioners
upon the fund left by our noble benefactor.
Are you a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you
a family?’
“I answered that I had not.
“His face fell immediately.
“ ‘Dear me!’ he said gravely, ‘that
is very serious indeed! I am sorry to hear
you say that. The fund was, of course, for
the propagation and spread of the red-heads
as well as for their maintenance. It is exceedingly
unfortunate that you should be a bachelor.’
“My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes,
for I thought that I was not to have the vacancy
after all; but after thinking it over for
a few minutes he said that it would be all
right.
“ ‘In the case of another,’ said he,
‘the objection might be fatal, but we must
stretch a point in favour of a man with such
a head of hair as yours. When shall you be
able to enter upon your new duties?’
“ ‘Well, it is a little awkward, for
I have a business already,’ said I.
“ ‘Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!’
said Vincent Spaulding. ‘I should be able
to look after that for you.’
“ ‘What would be the hours?’ I asked.
“ ‘Ten to two.’
“Now a pawnbroker’s business is mostly
done of an evening, Mr. Holmes, especially
Thursday and Friday evening, which is just
before pay-day; so it would suit me very well
to earn a little in the mornings. Besides,
I knew that my assistant was a good man, and
that he would see to anything that turned
up.
“ ‘That would suit me very well,’ said
I. ‘And the pay?’
“ ‘Is £4 a week.’
“ ‘And the work?’
“ ‘Is purely nominal.’
“ ‘What do you call purely nominal?’
“ ‘Well, you have to be in the office,
or at least in the building, the whole time.
If you leave, you forfeit your whole position
forever. The will is very clear upon that
point. You don’t comply with the conditions
if you budge from the office during that time.’
“ ‘It’s only four hours a day, and
I should not think of leaving,’ said I.
“ ‘No excuse will avail,’ said Mr.
Duncan Ross; ‘neither sickness nor business
nor anything else. There you must stay, or
you lose your billet.’
“ ‘And the work?’
“ ‘Is to copy out the Encyclopaedia
Britannica. There is the first volume of it
in that press. You must find your own ink,
pens, and blotting-paper, but we provide this
table and chair. Will you be ready to-morrow?’
“ ‘Certainly,’ I answered.
“ ‘Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson,
and let me congratulate you once more on the
important position which you have been fortunate
enough to gain.’ He bowed me out of the
room and I went home with my assistant, hardly
knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased
at my own good fortune.
“Well, I thought over the matter all day,
and by evening I was in low spirits again;
for I had quite persuaded myself that the
whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud,
though what its object might be I could not
imagine. It seemed altogether past belief
that anyone could make such a will, or that
they would pay such a sum for doing anything
so simple as copying out the Encyclopaedia
Britannica. Vincent Spaulding did what he
could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had
reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However,
in the morning I determined to have a look
at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of
ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets
of foolscap paper, I started off for Pope’s
Court.
“Well, to my surprise and delight, everything
was as right as possible. The table was set
out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was
there to see that I got fairly to work. He
started me off upon the letter A, and then
he left me; but he would drop in from time
to time to see that all was right with me.
At two o’clock he bade me good-day, complimented
me upon the amount that I had written, and
locked the door of the office after me.
“This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes,
and on Saturday the manager came in and planked
down four golden sovereigns for my week’s
work. It was the same next week, and the same
the week after. Every morning I was there
at ten, and every afternoon I left at two.
By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming
in only once of a morning, and then, after
a time, he did not come in at all. Still,
of course, I never dared to leave the room
for an instant, for I was not sure when he
might come, and the billet was such a good
one, and suited me so well, that I would not
risk the loss of it.
“Eight weeks passed away like this, and
I had written about Abbots and Archery and
Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped
with diligence that I might get on to the
B’s before very long. It cost me something
in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled
a shelf with my writings. And then suddenly
the whole business came to an end.”
“To an end?”
“Yes, sir. And no later than this morning.
I went to my work as usual at ten o’clock,
but the door was shut and locked, with a little
square of cardboard hammered on to the middle
of the panel with a tack. Here it is, and
you can read for yourself.”
He held up a piece of white cardboard about
the size of a sheet of note-paper. It read
in this fashion:
THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE
IS
DISSOLVED.
October 9, 1890.
Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement
and the rueful face behind it, until the comical
side of the affair so completely overtopped
every other consideration that we both burst
out into a roar of laughter.
“I cannot see that there is anything very
funny,” cried our client, flushing up to
the roots of his flaming head. “If you can
do nothing better than laugh at me, I can
go elsewhere.”
“No, no,” cried Holmes, shoving him back
into the chair from which he had half risen.
“I really wouldn’t miss your case for
the world. It is most refreshingly unusual.
But there is, if you will excuse my saying
so, something just a little funny about it.
Pray what steps did you take when you found
the card upon the door?”
“I was staggered, sir. I did not know what
to do. Then I called at the offices round,
but none of them seemed to know anything about
it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who is
an accountant living on the ground floor,
and I asked him if he could tell me what had
become of the Red-headed League. He said that
he had never heard of any such body. Then
I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered
that the name was new to him.
“ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘the gentleman
at No. 4.’
“ ‘What, the red-headed man?’
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘his name was William
Morris. He was a solicitor and was using my
room as a temporary convenience until his
new premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.’
“ ‘Where could I find him?’
“ ‘Oh, at his new offices. He did tell
me the address. Yes, 17 King Edward Street,
near St. Paul’s.’
“I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got
to that address it was a manufactory of artificial
knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard
of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan
Ross.”
“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.
“I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and
I took the advice of my assistant. But he
could not help me in any way. He could only
say that if I waited I should hear by post.
But that was not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes.
I did not wish to lose such a place without
a struggle, so, as I had heard that you were
good enough to give advice to poor folk who
were in need of it, I came right away to you.”
“And you did very wisely,” said Holmes.
“Your case is an exceedingly remarkable
one, and I shall be happy to look into it.
From what you have told me I think that it
is possible that graver issues hang from it
than might at first sight appear.”
“Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson.
“Why, I have lost four pound a week.”
“As far as you are personally concerned,”
remarked Holmes, “I do not see that you
have any grievance against this extraordinary
league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand,
richer by some £30, to say nothing of the
minute knowledge which you have gained on
every subject which comes under the letter
A. You have lost nothing by them.”
“No, sir. But I want to find out about them,
and who they are, and what their object was
in playing this prank—if it was a prank—upon
me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them,
for it cost them two and thirty pounds.”
“We shall endeavour to clear up these points
for you. And, first, one or two questions,
Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first
called your attention to the advertisement—how
long had he been with you?”
“About a month then.”
“How did he come?”
“In answer to an advertisement.”
“Was he the only applicant?”
“No, I had a dozen.”
“Why did you pick him?”
“Because he was handy and would come cheap.”
“At half wages, in fact.”
“Yes.”
“What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?”
“Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways,
no hair on his face, though he’s not short
of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon
his forehead.”
Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable
excitement. “I thought as much,” said
he. “Have you ever observed that his ears
are pierced for earrings?”
“Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done
it for him when he was a lad.”
“Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep
thought. “He is still with you?”
“Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.”
“And has your business been attended to
in your absence?”
“Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s
never very much to do of a morning.”
“That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy
to give you an opinion upon the subject in
the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday,
and I hope that by Monday we may come to a
conclusion.”
“Well, Watson,” said Holmes when our visitor
had left us, “what do you make of it all?”
“I make nothing of it,” I answered frankly.
“It is a most mysterious business.”
“As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more
bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it
proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless
crimes which are really puzzling, just as
a commonplace face is the most difficult to
identify. But I must be prompt over this matter.”
“What are you going to do, then?” I asked.
“To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite
a three pipe problem, and I beg that you won’t
speak to me for fifty minutes.” He curled
himself up in his chair, with his thin knees
drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and there
he sat with his eyes closed and his black
clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some
strange bird. I had come to the conclusion
that he had dropped asleep, and indeed was
nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out
of his chair with the gesture of a man who
has made up his mind and put his pipe down
upon the mantelpiece.
“Sarasate plays at the St. James’s Hall
this afternoon,” he remarked. “What do
you think, Watson? Could your patients spare
you for a few hours?”
“I have nothing to do to-day. My practice
is never very absorbing.”
“Then put on your hat and come. I am going
through the City first, and we can have some
lunch on the way. I observe that there is
a good deal of German music on the programme,
which is rather more to my taste than Italian
or French. It is introspective, and I want
to introspect. Come along!”
We travelled by the Underground as far as
Aldersgate; and a short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg
Square, the scene of the singular story which
we had listened to in the morning. It was
a poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where
four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses
looked out into a small railed-in enclosure,
where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps
of faded laurel bushes made a hard fight against
a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere.
Three gilt balls and a brown board with “JABEZ
WILSON” in white letters, upon a corner
house, announced the place where our red-headed
client carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes
stopped in front of it with his head on one
side and looked it all over, with his eyes
shining brightly between puckered lids. Then
he walked slowly up the street, and then down
again to the corner, still looking keenly
at the houses. Finally he returned to the
pawnbroker’s, and, having thumped vigorously
upon the pavement with his stick two or three
times, he went up to the door and knocked.
It was instantly opened by a bright-looking,
clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to
step in.
“Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished
to ask you how you would go from here to the
Strand.”
“Third right, fourth left,” answered the
assistant promptly, closing the door.
“Smart fellow, that,” observed Holmes
as we walked away. “He is, in my judgment,
the fourth smartest man in London, and for
daring I am not sure that he has not a claim
to be third. I have known something of him
before.”
“Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s
assistant counts for a good deal in this mystery
of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you
inquired your way merely in order that you
might see him.”
“Not him.”
“What then?”
“The knees of his trousers.”
“And what did you see?”
“What I expected to see.”
“Why did you beat the pavement?”
“My dear doctor, this is a time for observation,
not for talk. We are spies in an enemy’s
country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg
Square. Let us now explore the parts which
lie behind it.”
The road in which we found ourselves as we
turned round the corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg
Square presented as great a contrast to it
as the front of a picture does to the back.
It was one of the main arteries which conveyed
the traffic of the City to the north and west.
The roadway was blocked with the immense stream
of commerce flowing in a double tide inward
and outward, while the footpaths were black
with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It
was difficult to realise as we looked at the
line of fine shops and stately business premises
that they really abutted on the other side
upon the faded and stagnant square which we
had just quitted.
“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at
the corner and glancing along the line, “I
should like just to remember the order of
the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to
have an exact knowledge of London. There is
Mortimer’s, the tobacconist, the little
newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City
and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant,
and McFarlane’s carriage-building depot.
That carries us right on to the other block.
And now, Doctor, we’ve done our work, so
it’s time we had some play. A sandwich and
a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land,
where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony,
and there are no red-headed clients to vex
us with their conundrums.”
My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being
himself not only a very capable performer
but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the
afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in
the most perfect happiness, gently waving
his long, thin fingers in time to the music,
while his gently smiling face and his languid,
dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes
the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted,
ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible
to conceive. In his singular character the
dual nature alternately asserted itself, and
his extreme exactness and astuteness represented,
as I have often thought, the reaction against
the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally
predominated in him. The swing of his nature
took him from extreme languor to devouring
energy; and, as I knew well, he was never
so truly formidable as when, for days on end,
he had been lounging in his armchair amid
his improvisations and his black-letter editions.
Then it was that the lust of the chase would
suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant
reasoning power would rise to the level of
intuition, until those who were unacquainted
with his methods would look askance at him
as on a man whose knowledge was not that of
other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon
so enwrapped in the music at St. James’s
Hall I felt that an evil time might be coming
upon those whom he had set himself to hunt
down.
“You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,”
he remarked as we emerged.
“Yes, it would be as well.”
“And I have some business to do which will
take some hours. This business at Coburg Square
is serious.”
“Why serious?”
“A considerable crime is in contemplation.
I have every reason to believe that we shall
be in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday
rather complicates matters. I shall want your
help to-night.”
“At what time?”
“Ten will be early enough.”
“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”
“Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may
be some little danger, so kindly put your
army revolver in your pocket.” He waved
his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared
in an instant among the crowd.
I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours,
but I was always oppressed with a sense of
my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock
Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard,
I had seen what he had seen, and yet from
his words it was evident that he saw clearly
not only what had happened but what was about
to happen, while to me the whole business
was still confused and grotesque. As I drove
home to my house in Kensington I thought over
it all, from the extraordinary story of the
red-headed copier of the Encyclopaedia down
to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the
ominous words with which he had parted from
me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and
why should I go armed? Where were we going,
and what were we to do? I had the hint from
Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s
assistant was a formidable man—a man who
might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle
it out, but gave it up in despair and set
the matter aside until night should bring
an explanation.
It was a quarter-past nine when I started
from home and made my way across the Park,
and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street.
Two hansoms were standing at the door, and
as I entered the passage I heard the sound
of voices from above. On entering his room,
I found Holmes in animated conversation with
two men, one of whom I recognised as Peter
Jones, the official police agent, while the
other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with
a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable
frock-coat.
“Ha! Our party is complete,” said Holmes,
buttoning up his pea-jacket and taking his
heavy hunting crop from the rack. “Watson,
I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard?
Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather,
who is to be our companion in to-night’s
adventure.”
“We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor,
you see,” said Jones in his consequential
way. “Our friend here is a wonderful man
for starting a chase. All he wants is an old
dog to help him to do the running down.”
“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be
the end of our chase,” observed Mr. Merryweather
gloomily.
“You may place considerable confidence in
Mr. Holmes, sir,” said the police agent
loftily. “He has his own little methods,
which are, if he won’t mind my saying so,
just a little too theoretical and fantastic,
but he has the makings of a detective in him.
It is not too much to say that once or twice,
as in that business of the Sholto murder and
the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly
correct than the official force.”
“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all
right,” said the stranger with deference.
“Still, I confess that I miss my rubber.
It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty
years that I have not had my rubber.”
“I think you will find,” said Sherlock
Holmes, “that you will play for a higher
stake to-night than you have ever done yet,
and that the play will be more exciting. For
you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be some £30,000;
and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon
whom you wish to lay your hands.”
“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher,
and forger. He’s a young man, Mr. Merryweather,
but he is at the head of his profession, and
I would rather have my bracelets on him than
on any criminal in London. He’s a remarkable
man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was
a royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton
and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his
fingers, and though we meet signs of him at
every turn, we never know where to find the
man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland
one week, and be raising money to build an
orphanage in Cornwall the next. I’ve been
on his track for years and have never set
eyes on him yet.”
“I hope that I may have the pleasure of
introducing you to-night. I’ve had one or
two little turns also with Mr. John Clay,
and I agree with you that he is at the head
of his profession. It is past ten, however,
and quite time that we started. If you two
will take the first hansom, Watson and I will
follow in the second.”
Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative
during the long drive and lay back in the
cab humming the tunes which he had heard in
the afternoon. We rattled through an endless
labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged
into Farrington Street.
“We are close there now,” my friend remarked.
“This fellow Merryweather is a bank director,
and personally interested in the matter. I
thought it as well to have Jones with us also.
He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute
imbecile in his profession. He has one positive
virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as
tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws
upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting
for us.”
We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare
in which we had found ourselves in the morning.
Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the
guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down
a narrow passage and through a side door,
which he opened for us. Within there was a
small corridor, which ended in a very massive
iron gate. This also was opened, and led down
a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated
at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather
stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted
us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and
so, after opening a third door, into a huge
vault or cellar, which was piled all round
with crates and massive boxes.
“You are not very vulnerable from above,”
Holmes remarked as he held up the lantern
and gazed about him.
“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather,
striking his stick upon the flags which lined
the floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite
hollow!” he remarked, looking up in surprise.
“I must really ask you to be a little more
quiet!” said Holmes severely. “You have
already imperilled the whole success of our
expedition. Might I beg that you would have
the goodness to sit down upon one of those
boxes, and not to interfere?”
The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself
upon a crate, with a very injured expression
upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his
knees upon the floor and, with the lantern
and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely
the cracks between the stones. A few seconds
sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to
his feet again and put his glass in his pocket.
“We have at least an hour before us,”
he remarked, “for they can hardly take any
steps until the good pawnbroker is safely
in bed. Then they will not lose a minute,
for the sooner they do their work the longer
time they will have for their escape. We are
at present, Doctor—as no doubt you have
divined—in the cellar of the City branch
of one of the principal London banks. Mr.
Merryweather is the chairman of directors,
and he will explain to you that there are
reasons why the more daring criminals of London
should take a considerable interest in this
cellar at present.”
“It is our French gold,” whispered the
director. “We have had several warnings
that an attempt might be made upon it.”
“Your French gold?”
“Yes. We had occasion some months ago to
strengthen our resources and borrowed for
that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank
of France. It has become known that we have
never had occasion to unpack the money, and
that it is still lying in our cellar. The
crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons
packed between layers of lead foil. Our reserve
of bullion is much larger at present than
is usually kept in a single branch office,
and the directors have had misgivings upon
the subject.”
“Which were very well justified,” observed
Holmes. “And now it is time that we arranged
our little plans. I expect that within an
hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime
Mr. Merryweather, we must put the screen over
that dark lantern.”
“And sit in the dark?”
“I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of
cards in my pocket, and I thought that, as
we were a partie carrée, you might have
your rubber after all. But I see that the
enemy’s preparations have gone so far that
we cannot risk the presence of a light. And,
first of all, we must choose our positions.
These are daring men, and though we shall
take them at a disadvantage, they may do us
some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand
behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves
behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon
them, close in swiftly. If they fire, Watson,
have no compunction about shooting them down.”
I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top
of the wooden case behind which I crouched.
Holmes shot the slide across the front of
his lantern and left us in pitch darkness—such
an absolute darkness as I have never before
experienced. The smell of hot metal remained
to assure us that the light was still there,
ready to flash out at a moment’s notice.
To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch
of expectancy, there was something depressing
and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the
cold dank air of the vault.
“They have but one retreat,” whispered
Holmes. “That is back through the house
into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have
done what I asked you, Jones?”
“I have an inspector and two officers waiting
at the front door.”
“Then we have stopped all the holes. And
now we must be silent and wait.”
What a time it seemed! From comparing notes
afterwards it was but an hour and a quarter,
yet it appeared to me that the night must
have almost gone, and the dawn be breaking
above us. My limbs were weary and stiff, for
I feared to change my position; yet my nerves
were worked up to the highest pitch of tension,
and my hearing was so acute that I could not
only hear the gentle breathing of my companions,
but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier
in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin,
sighing note of the bank director. From my
position I could look over the case in the
direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught
the glint of a light.
At first it was but a lurid spark upon the
stone pavement. Then it lengthened out until
it became a yellow line, and then, without
any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open
and a hand appeared, a white, almost womanly
hand, which felt about in the centre of the
little area of light. For a minute or more
the hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded
out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as
suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark
again save the single lurid spark which marked
a chink between the stones.
Its disappearance, however, was but momentary.
With a rending, tearing sound, one of the
broad, white stones turned over upon its side
and left a square, gaping hole, through which
streamed the light of a lantern. Over the
edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face,
which looked keenly about it, and then, with
a hand on either side of the aperture, drew
itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until
one knee rested upon the edge. In another
instant he stood at the side of the hole and
was hauling after him a companion, lithe and
small like himself, with a pale face and a
shock of very red hair.
“It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have
you the chisel and the bags? Great Scott!
Jump, Archie, jump, and I’ll swing for it!”
Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized
the intruder by the collar. The other dived
down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending
cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The
light flashed upon the barrel of a revolver,
but Holmes’ hunting crop came down on the
man’s wrist, and the pistol clinked upon
the stone floor.
“It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes
blandly. “You have no chance at all.”
“So I see,” the other answered with the
utmost coolness. “I fancy that my pal is
all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails.”
“There are three men waiting for him at
the door,” said Holmes.
“Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing
very completely. I must compliment you.”
“And I you,” Holmes answered. “Your
red-headed idea was very new and effective.”
“You’ll see your pal again presently,”
said Jones. “He’s quicker at climbing
down holes than I am. Just hold out while
I fix the derbies.”
“I beg that you will not touch me with your
filthy hands,” remarked our prisoner as
the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. “You
may not be aware that I have royal blood in
my veins. Have the goodness, also, when you
address me always to say ‘sir’ and ‘please.’ ”
“All right,” said Jones with a stare and
a snigger. “Well, would you please, sir,
march upstairs, where we can get a cab to
carry your Highness to the police-station?”
“That is better,” said John Clay serenely.
He made a sweeping bow to the three of us
and walked quietly off in the custody of the
detective.
“Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather
as we followed them from the cellar, “I
do not know how the bank can thank you or
repay you. There is no doubt that you have
detected and defeated in the most complete
manner one of the most determined attempts
at bank robbery that have ever come within
my experience.”
“I have had one or two little scores of
my own to settle with Mr. John Clay,” said
Holmes. “I have been at some small expense
over this matter, which I shall expect the
bank to refund, but beyond that I am amply
repaid by having had an experience which is
in many ways unique, and by hearing the very
remarkable narrative of the Red-headed League.” 
“You see, Watson,” he explained in the
early hours of the morning as we sat over
a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street,
“it was perfectly obvious from the first
that the only possible object of this rather
fantastic business of the advertisement of
the League, and the copying of the Encyclopaedia,
must be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker
out of the way for a number of hours every
day. It was a curious way of managing it,
but, really, it would be difficult to suggest
a better. The method was no doubt suggested
to Clay’s ingenious mind by the colour of
his accomplice’s hair. The £4 a week was
a lure which must draw him, and what was it
to them, who were playing for thousands? They
put in the advertisement, one rogue has the
temporary office, the other rogue incites
the man to apply for it, and together they
manage to secure his absence every morning
in the week. From the time that I heard of
the assistant having come for half wages,
it was obvious to me that he had some strong
motive for securing the situation.”
“But how could you guess what the motive
was?”
“Had there been women in the house, I should
have suspected a mere vulgar intrigue. That,
however, was out of the question. The man’s
business was a small one, and there was nothing
in his house which could account for such
elaborate preparations, and such an expenditure
as they were at. It must, then, be something
out of the house. What could it be? I thought
of the assistant’s fondness for photography,
and his trick of vanishing into the cellar.
The cellar! There was the end of this tangled
clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious
assistant and found that I had to deal with
one of the coolest and most daring criminals
in London. He was doing something in the cellar—something
which took many hours a day for months on
end. What could it be, once more? I could
think of nothing save that he was running
a tunnel to some other building.
“So far I had got when we went to visit
the scene of action. I surprised you by beating
upon the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining
whether the cellar stretched out in front
or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang
the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant answered
it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had
never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly
looked at his face. His knees were what I
wished to see. You must yourself have remarked
how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were.
They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The
only remaining point was what they were burrowing
for. I walked round the corner, saw the City
and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend’s
premises, and felt that I had solved my problem.
When you drove home after the concert I called
upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of
the bank directors, with the result that you
have seen.”
“And how could you tell that they would
make their attempt to-night?” I asked.
“Well, when they closed their League offices
that was a sign that they cared no longer
about Mr. Jabez Wilson’s presence—in other
words, that they had completed their tunnel.
But it was essential that they should use
it soon, as it might be discovered, or the
bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit
them better than any other day, as it would
give them two days for their escape. For all
these reasons I expected them to come to-night.”
“You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed
in unfeigned admiration. “It is so long
a chain, and yet every link rings true.”
“It saved me from ennui,” he answered,
yawning. “Alas! I already feel it closing
in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort
to escape from the commonplaces of existence.
These little problems help me to do so.”
“And you are a benefactor of the race,”
said I.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, perhaps,
after all, it is of some little use,” he
remarked. “‘L’homme c’est rien—l’oeuvre
c’est tout,’ as Gustave Flaubert wrote
to George Sand.”
