The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
By Arthur Conan Doyle
Adventure II
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 Encyclopædia 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 Encyclopædia 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 Encyclopædia
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 Encyclopædia,
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’œuvre
c’est tout,’ as Gustave Flaubert wrote
to George Sand.”
