A Study in Scarlet: Part One

Originally published in its entirety in Beaten's Christmas annual 1887, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's

“first Sherlock Holmes story and his first novel of any description was written when he was”

just twenty-seven years old. Little did he know that it would go on to define his career for the next four and a half decades, or that his central character a consulting detective called Sherlock Holmes would prove to be one of the most enduring figures in all of literature. When Doyle wrote this story over the space of about three weeks at the tail end of 1886,

he was still working as a doctor in Hampshire. He based the character of Sherlock Holmes in part on one of his university lecturers, a brilliant physician called Joseph Bell. Combined with a more literary nod to Edgar Allan Poe's popular French detective

“or Gust Dupan, a man whose fierce intellect and attention to detail allow him to seemingly”

read his companion's minds, but a study in Scarlet was far from an instant hit. Doyle received multiple rejection letters before Beaten's agreed to publish the story. And then his request for a royalty was rejected. He was paid a flat fee of just twenty-five pounds for the rights. It was an in-or-spitter start to the young doctor's new career as

a novelist. In fact, it wasn't until four years later with his first Holmes and Watson

short story, a scandal in Bohemia, that he truly began to capture the public's imagination. But with the benefit of hindsight, this debut feature length adventure for the Redoutable duo is a worthy beginning to their enduring partnership. A dark and sinister tale of passion, power and revenge, and a mystery that spans two continents from the foggy streets

“of London to the baking desert plains of Utah.”

Over the next seven episodes we'll be bringing you the adventure that started it all. In the Noiser podcast network, this is a study in Scarlet. Part one. In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the Army. Having completed my studies there I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland fuselures as assistant

surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before I could join it,

the second Afghan war had broken out. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my core had

advanced through the passes and was already deep in the enemy's country. I followed, however, with many other officers who were in the same situation as myself, and succeeded in reaching Canada in safety, where I found my regiment and at once entered upon my new duties. The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed from my brigade and attached to the boxes, with whom I served at the fatal

battle of my wand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a jizzile bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the sub-clavian artery. I should have fallen into the hands of the murderous gazes had it not been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly, through me across a crackhorse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to the British lines. Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had undergone, I was removed

with a great train of wounded sufferers to the base hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied, and had already improved so far as to be able to walk around the wards, and even to bask a little upon the veranda, when I was struck down by an terroric fever, that curse of our Indian possessions. For months my life was despaired of, and when at last I came to myself and became cumbersome, I was so weak and emaciated, that a medical board determined

that not a day should be lost in sending me back to England. I was dispatched accordingly in the troopship or onties, and landed a month later on Portsmouth Jettie, with my health irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a paternal government to spend the next nine months in attempting to improve it. I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as air, or as free as an

income of 11 shillings and six-pence a day will permit a man to be. Under such circumstances I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the lounges and idlers

There I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless, meaningless

“existence, and spending such money as I had considerably more freely than I ought.”

So alarming did the state of my finances become, but I soon realized that I must either leave the metropolis and rusticate somewhere in the country, or that I must make a complete alteration in my style of living. Choosing the latter alternative, I began by making up my mind to leave the hotel and to take up my quarters in some less pretentious and less expensive domicile.

On the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was standing at the criterion bar when someone tapped me on the shoulder. In turning round I recognised young Stamford, who had been a dresser under me at bars. The sight of a friendly face and the great wilderness of London is a pleasant thing indeed to a lonely man.

In old days Stamford had never been a particular crony of mine, but now I hailed him with enthusiasm

and he, in his turn, appeared to be delighted to see me. In the exuberance of my joy, I asked him to lunch with me at the open, and we started off together in a handsome. Whatever you've been doing with yourself, Watson, he asked in undisguised wonder as we rattled through the crowded London streets.

You are as thin as a laugh and as brown as a nut. I gave him a short sketch of my adventures and had hardly concluded it by the time that we reached our destination. More devil, he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my misfortunes. What are you up to now?

Looking for lodgings, I answered, trying to solve the problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price.

That's a strange thing, remarked my companion, "You are the second man to day that

has used that expression to me." And who was the first? I asked. A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get someone to go halves with

him in some nice rooms which he had found, and which were too much for his purse. By jove, I cried. If he really wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a partner to being alone. Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine glass.

"You don't know Sherlock Holmes yet," he said. "Perhaps you would not care for him as a constant companion." "Why? What is there against him?" "Oh, I didn't say there was anything against him.

He is a little queer in his ideas. An enthusiast in some branches of science, as far as I know he is a decent fellow enough. The medical student I suppose," said I. "No. I have no idea what he intends to go in for.

“I believe he is well-up in anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist, but as far as I know”

he has never taken out any systematic medical classes.

His studies are very desaldezed and eccentric, but he has amassed a lot of out-of-the-way knowledge which would astonish his professors. "Did you never ask him what he was going in for?" I asked. "No.

He is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he can be communicative enough when the fancy season is him. I should light to meet him," I said. "If I am to lodge with anyone, I should prefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am not strong enough yet to stand much noise or excitement.

I had enough of both in Afghanistan to last me for the remainder of my natural existence. How could I meet this friend of yours?" "Oh, he is sure to be at the laboratory," returned my companion. The either avoids the place for weeks or else he works there from morning to night. If you like, we shall drive round together after lunch, certainly I answered, and the conversation

drifted away into other channels. "I am Julie Andrews, and it is my great pleasure to return to Jane Austen stories. This time I will be reading another beloved classic Emma. Join me as we step into the village of Hibri, home to the handsome and clever Emma Woodhouse. But as new visitors arrive and quiet mysteries unfold, what will our strong willed hero

“in learn, both of the secrets of others and of her own heart's desires?”

Listen to Jane Austen stories now, wherever you get your podcasts."

particulars about the gentleman who might propose to take as a fellow lodger.

"You mustn't blame me if you don't get on with him," he said. "I know nothing more of him than I have learned from meeting him occasionally in the laboratory.

“You propose this arrangement, so you must not hold me responsible.”

If we don't get on, it will be easy to part company," I answered. "It seems to me, Stanford. I had it looking hard at my companion, that you have some reason for watching your hands of the matter. Is this fellow's temper so formidable?

What is it? Don't be mealy mouth about it." It is not easy to express the, it's expressible, he answered with a laugh. Homes is a little too scientific for my tastes. It approaches to cold bloodedness.

I could imagine him giving a friend a little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you understand, but simply out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an accurate idea of the effects. To do him justice, I think that he would take it himself for the same readiness. He appears to have a passion for, definite and exact knowledge.

Very right, too. Yes, but it may be pushed to excess when it comes to beating the subjects in the dissecting rooms with a stick, it is certainly taking rather a bizarre shape. Beating the subject, yes? To verify how far bruises may be produced after death.

I saw him at it with my own eyes, and yet you say he is not a medical student. No?

“Heaven knows what the objects of his studies are, but here we are, and you must form your”

own impressions about him. As he spoke, we turned down a narrow lane and passed through a small side door, which opened into a wing of the great hospital. It was familiar ground to me, and I needed no guiding as we ascended the bleak stone staircase and made our way down the long corridor with its vista of white washed wall and done coloured

doors. Near the further end, a low arched passage branched away from it, and led to the chemical laboratory. This was a lofty chamber lined and littered with countless bottles. Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts, test tubes and little

bumps and lamps with their blue flickering flames. There was only one student in the room who was bending over a distant table absorbed in his work. At the sound of our steps, he glanced round and sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure. No!

I found it! I found it! He shouted to my companion, running towards us with a test tube in his hand. I have found a reagent which is precipitated by hemoglobin and by nothing else. Had he discovered a gold mine, greater delight could not have shone upon his features.

A doctor, Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes said Stanford introducing us. "How are you?" He said cordially gripping my hand with a strength, which I should hardly have given him credit. You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.

"I want Earth, did you know that?" I asked in astonishment.

"Never mind," said he, chuckling to himself.

The question now is about hemoglobin.

“No doubt you see the significance of this discovery of mine?”

It is interesting chemically, no doubt. I answered. But practically. Why man? It is the most practical, medical, legal discovery for years.

Don't you see that it gives us an infallible test for blood stains? Come over here, now! He seized me by the coat sleeve in his eagerness and drew me over to the table at which he had been working. Let us have some fresh blood.

He said, digging a long, bonkin into his finger and drawing off the resulting drop of blood in a chemical pipette. Now, I add this small quantity of blood to a liter of water. You perceive that the resulting mixture has the appearance of pure water.

The proportion of blood cannot be more than one in a million.

I have no doubt, however, that we shall be able to obtain the characteristic reaction. As he spoke, he threw into the vessel a few white crystals and then added some drops of a transparent fluid. In an instant, the contents assumed a dull mahogany colour and a brownish dust was precipitated to the bottom of the glass jar.

He cried clapping his hands and looking as delighted as a child with a new toy. What do you think of that? It seems to be a very delicate test, I remarked. "Be beautiful, beautiful, the old guacamtesque was very clumsy and uncertain, so is the microscopic examination for blood corpuscles.

The latter is valueless if these stains are a few hours old.

Had this test been invented, there are hundreds of men now walking the earth who would

long ago have paid the penalty of their crimes." Indeed, I murmured. Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one point. A man is suspected of a crime month, perhaps after it has been committed. His linen or clothes are examined and brownish stains discovered upon them.

“Are they blood stains or mud stains or rust stains or fruit stains or what are they?”

That is a question which has puzzled many an expert. And why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have the Sherlock Holmes test and there will no longer be any difficulty. His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke and he put his hand over his heart and bowed as if

to some applauding crowd conjured up by his imagination.

You are to be congratulated, I remarked, considerably surprised at his enthusiasm. There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfurt's last year. He would certainly have been hung had this test been in existence. Then there was Mason of Bradford and the notorious Muller and Le Fervre of Montpellier and Samson of New Orleans, I could name a score of cases in which it would have been decisive.

"You seem to be a walking calendar of crime," said Stamford with a laugh. "You might start a paper on those lines, call it the police news of the past." "Very interesting reading it might be made too," remarked Sherlock Holmes, sticking a small piece of plaster over the prick on his finger. "I have to be careful," he continued, turning to me with a smile, "for I dabble with

poisons or good deal." He held out his hand as he spoke. And I noticed that it was all mottled over with similar pieces of plaster and discolored with strong acids. We came here on business, said Stamford sitting down on a high three-legged stool and pushing

another one in my direction with his foot. My friend here wants to take diggings, and as you were complaining that you could get no one to go halves with you, I thought that I'd better bring you together. Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms with me. "I have my eye on a sweet, in baker's street," he said, "which would suit us down to the ground.

You don't mind these smell of strong tobacco, I hope."

"Well, I always smoke ships myself," I answered.

"That's good enough. I generally have chemicals about and occasionally do experiments with that annoy you." "By no means." "Let me see, what are my other shortcomings? I get in the dumps at times and don't open my mouth for days on end.

“You must not think I am sulkier when I do that, just let me alone and I'll soon be right.”

What have you to confess now? It's just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together." "I laughed at this cross-examination." "I keep a bold pop," I said, and I object to rouse because my nerves are shaken.

And I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices when I'm well, but those are the principal ones at present. "Do you include violin playing in your category of rouse?" He asked anxiously, "Well, it depends on the player," I answered. "A well-played violin is a treat for the gods, apparently played one."

"Oh, that's all right." He cried with a merry-lough. "I think we may consider the thing as subtle, that is, if the rums are agreeable to you." "When shall we see them?" "Call for me here at noon tomorrow and we'll go together and settle everything."

He answered, "All right, noon exactly," said I, shaking his hand. "We left him working among his chemicals and we walked together towards my hotel." "By the way, I asked suddenly stopping and turning upon Stanford. "How the juice did he know that I had come from Afghanistan? "My companion smiled and enigmatical smile."

"That's just his little peculiarity," he said. "A good many people have wanted to know how he finds things out." "Oh, a mystery hits it." "I cried rubbing my hands." "This is very pick-on."

"I'm obliged to you for bringing us together." "The proper study of mankind is man," you know.

“"You must study him then," Stanford said, "as he bade me goodbye."”

"You'll find him a naughty problem, though. "I'll wager he learns more about you than you about him." "Goodbye." "Goodbye," I answered. "And stroll onto my hotel considerably interested in my new acquaintance."

This September, on the noise of podcast network, on Jane Austen's stories, Dame Julie Andrews

On short history of, we're in medieval England for the fascinating story of the peasants

“revolt, and 25 years on from 9/11, we're on the ground in New York City.”

On real survival stories, we're on a luscious winery in northwest America, and venturing into a missile silo in the dead of night as the U.S. is threatened with nuclear disaster. And in Sherlock Holmes' short stories, get two episodes each week, a subonival explores Conan Doyle's great novel, a study in Scarlet. "Get all of these shows and more early and add free on Neiser Plus."

We met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at number 221B Baker Street,

of which he had spoken at our meeting.

They consisted of a couple of comfortable bedrooms and a single large airy sitting room, chiefly furnished and illuminated by two broad windows.

“So desirable in every way were the apartments, and so moderate to the terms seem when divided between us,”

that the bargain was concluded upon the spot, and we had once entered into possession. That very evening I moved my things round from the hotel, and on the following morning, Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and port mantos. For a day or two we were busily employed in unpacking and laying out our property to the best advantage.

That done, we gradually began to settle down and to accommodate ourselves to our new surroundings.

Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with, he was quiet in his ways and his habits were regular. It was rare for him to be up after ten at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and gone out before I rose in the morning. Sometimes he spent his day at the chemical laboratory, sometimes in the dissecting rooms, and occasionally in long walks which appeared to take him into

“the lowest portions of the city. Nothing could exceed his energy when the working fit was upon him,”

but now and again a reaction would seize him, and for days on end he would lie upon the sofa in the sitting room, hardly uttering a word or moving a muscle from morning to night. On these occasions I have noticed such a dreamy vacant expression in his eyes that I might have suspected him of being addicted to the use of some narcotic, had not the temperance and cleanliness of his whole life for bids such a notion.

As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as to his aims in life gradually deepened and increased. His very person and appearance were such as to strike the attention of the most casual observer. In height he was rather over six feet and so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and pissing, saved during those intervals of torpor to which I have alluded, and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression

an air of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and squerness which marked the man of determination. His hands were invariably blotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to observe when I watched him manipulating his fragile philosophical instruments. The reader may set me down as a hopeless busy body when I confess how much this man stimulated

my curiosity, and how often I endeavored to break through the reticence which he showed on all that concerned himself. Before pronouncing judgment however, be it remembered how objectless was my life, and how little there was to engage my attention. My health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me and break the monotony of my daily existence. Under these circumstances I eagerly hailed the little

mystery which hung around my companion, and spent much of my time in endeavoring to unravel it. He was not studying medicine, he had himself in reply to a question, confirmed Stamford's opinion upon that point. Neither did he appear to have pursued any course of reading which might fit him for a degree in science, or any other recognized portal which would give him an entrance into the learned world. Yet his zeal for certain studies was remarkable, and within eccentric

limits his knowledge was so extraordinarily ample and my newt that his observations have fairly astounded me. Surely no man would work so hard, or attain such precise information, unless he had some definite end in view. Desultory readers are seldom remarkable for the exactness of their learning. No man burdens his mind with small matters unless he has some very

philosophy and politics, he appeared to know next to nothing. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlisle,

he inquired in the naiveest way who he might be and what he had done. My surprise reached a climax, however, when I found incidentally that he was ignorant of the Copernican theory and of the composition of the solar system. That any civilized human being in this 19th century should not be aware that the earth traveled round the sun appeared to be to me such an extraordinary fact that I could hardly realise it. "You appear to be astonished," he said, smiling at my expression of surprise.

"Now that I do know it, I shall do my best to forget it. To forget it, you see," he explained.

“"I consider that a man's brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock”

it with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes

across so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or it best is jumbled up with a lot of other things so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now the skillful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his brain attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help him in doing his work. But of these, he has a large assortment and all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that the little room

has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. Depending upon it, there comes a time when for every

“addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before. It is of the highest importance”

therefore not to have useless facts, elbowing out the useful ones. But the solar system I

protested. What the juice is it to me?" He interrupted impatiently. You say that we go round the sun. If we went round the moon, it would not make a penny worth of difference to me or to my work. I was on the point of asking him what that work might be, but something in his manner showed me that the question would be an unwelcome one. I pondered over our short conversation, however, and endeavored to draw my deductions from it. He said that he would acquire no knowledge which

did not bear upon his object. Therefore, all the knowledge which he possessed was such as would be useful

“to him. I enumerated in my own mind all the various points upon which he had shown me that he was”

exceptionally well informed. I even took a pencil and jotted them down. I could not help smiling at the document when I had completed it. It ran in this way. Sherlock Holmes, his limits. One, knowledge of literature, nil, two philosophy, nil, three astronomy, nil, four politics, feeble. Five, botany, variable, well-up in Beladona, opium, and poisons generally, knows nothing of practical gardening. Six, geology, practical, but limited,

tells at a glance different soils from each other, after walks has shown me splashes upon his trousers and told me by their colour and consistency in what part of London he had received them. Seven, chemistry, profound, eight, anatomy, accurate, but unsystematic. Nine, sensational literature, immense, he appears to know every detail of every horror perpetrated in the century. Ten, plays the violin well. Eleven, is an expert, single-stick player, boxer, and swordsman.

Twelve, has a good practical knowledge of British law. When I had got so far in my list, I threw it into the fire in despair. If I can only find what the fellow is driving at by reconciling all these accomplishments and discovering a calling which needs them all, I said to myself, I may as well give up the attempt at once. I see that I have eluded above to his powers upon the violin. These were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other accomplishments.

That he could play pieces and difficult pieces I knew well, because at my request he has played me some of Mendelssohn's leader and other favourites. When left to himself, however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt any recognized air. Leaning back in his armchair of an evening, he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle which was thrown across his knee.

Clearly they reflected the thoughts which possessed him. But whether the music added to those

“thoughts or whether the playing was simply the result of a whim or fancy was more than I could determine.”

I might have rebelled against these exasperating solos, had it not been that he usually terminated them by playing in quick succession a whole series of my favourite airs as a slight

compensation for the trial upon my patients. During the first week or so we had no callers and I had

begun to think that my companion was as friendless a man as I was myself. Presently, however, I found that he had many acquaintances and those in the most different classes of society. There was one little salo rat-faced dark-eyed fellow who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade and who came three or four times in a single week. One morning a young girl called fashionably dressed and stayed for half an hour or more. The same afternoon brought a gray-headed CD visitor

who appeared to me to be much excited and who was closely followed by a slip-shot elderly woman. On another occasion an old white-haired gentleman had an interview with my companion and on another a railway porter in his velvety uniform. When any of these non-descript individuals put in an appearance Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the use of the sitting room that I would retire

to my bedroom. He always apologized to me for putting me to this inconvenience.

I have to use this room as a place of business, he said, and these people are my clients. Again I had an opportunity of asking him a point-blank question and again my delicacy prevented me from forcing another man to confide in me. I imagined at the time that he had some strong reason for not alluding to it, but he soon dispelled the idea by coming round to the subject of his own accord.

This September, on the noise of podcast network, on Jane Austen's stories, Dame Julie Andrews continues to bring Austen's beloved classic Emma to life. On short history of, we're in medieval

England for the fascinating story of the peasants' revolt, and 25 years on from 9/11,

we're on the ground in New York City. On real survival stories, we're on a luscious winery in northwest America, and venturing into a missile silo in the dead of night as the US is threatened with nuclear disaster. And in Sherlock Holmes' short stories, get two episodes each week as hubonival explores Conan Doyle's great novel, a study in Scarlett. Get all of these shows and more early and add free on Neiser Plus.

“It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to remember, that I rose somewhat earlier”

than usual, and found that Sherlock Holmes had not yet finished his breakfast. The landlady had become so accustomed to my late habits that my place had not been laid nor my coffee prepared. With the unreasonable petulence of mankind, I rang the bell and gave a cut into Mason that I was ready. There, I picked up a magazine from the table and attempted to wire away the time with it, while my companion munched silently at his toast. One of the articles had a pencil mark at the

heading, and I naturally began to run my eye through it. It's somewhat ambitious, title was The Book of Life, and it attempted to show how much an observant man might learn by an accurate and systematic examination of all that came in his way. It struck me as being a remarkable mixture of shrewdness and of absurdity. The reasoning was close and intense, but the deductions appeared to me to be far-fetched and exaggerated. The writer claimed by a momentary expression

a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye to fathom the man's in most thoughts. Deceit, according to him, was an impossibility in the case of one trained to observation and analysis. His conclusions were as infallible as so many propositions of Euclid. So startling would his results appear to the uninitiated that until they learned that processes by which he had arrived at them, they might well consider him as a necromancer. From a drop of water said the writer,

a logician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard

“of one or the other. So all life is a great chain, the nature of which is known whenever we are shown”

a single link of it. Like all other arts, the science of deduction and analysis is one which can

the highest possible perfection in it. Before turning to those moral and mental aspects of the matter

“which present the greatest difficulties, let the inquiry begin by mastering more elementary problems.”

Let him on meeting a fellow mortal learn at a glance to distinguish the history of the man and the trade or profession to which he belongs. Pure Isle has such an exercise may seem, it sharpens the faculties of observation and teaches one where to look and what to look for. By a man's fingernails by his coat sleeve, by his boot, by his trouser knees, by the velocities of his forefinger and thumb, by his expression, by his shirt cuffs, by each of these

things a man's calling is plainly revealed. That all united should fail to enlighten the competent inquiry in any case is almost inconceivable. What inevitable twattle and have a red such rubbish in my life? What is it? Ask Sherlock Holmes. Why? This article. I said pointing at it

“with my eggspoon as I sat down to my breakfast. I see that you have read it since you have marked it.”

I don't deny that it is smartly written. It irritates me though. It is evidently the theory of some armchair lounger who evolves all these neat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study.

It is not practical. I should like to see him clapped down in a third-class carriage on the

underground and ask to give the trades of all his fellow travellers. I would lay a thousand to one against him. You would lose your money. Sherlock Holmes remarked calmly. As for the article, I wrote it myself. You? Yes. I have a turn both for observation and for deduction. The theories which I have expressed there and which appear to you to be so chimerical are really extremely practical. So practical that I depend upon them for my bread and cheese and how I asked him voluntarily.

“Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the world. I may”

consulting detective if you can understand what that is. Here in London we have lots of government detectives and lots of private ones. When these fellows are at fault they come to me and I managed to put them on the right cent. They lay all the evidence before me and I am generally able by the help of my knowledge of the history of crime to set them straight. There is a strong family resemblance about misdeeds. Now if you have all the details of a thousand at your finger ends,

it is odd if you can't unravel the thousand and first. The strad is a well-known detective.

He got himself into a fog recently over a four jury case and that was what brought him here. And these other people? They are mostly sent on by private inquiry agencies. They are all people who are in trouble about something and want a little enlightening. I listen to their story, they listen to my comments and then I pocket my fee. But do you mean to say I said that without leaving your room you can unravel some knot which other men can make nothing of,

although they have seen every detail for themselves? Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way. Now and again a case turns up which is a little more complex. Then I have to bustle about and see things with my own eyes. You see I have a lot of special knowledge which I apply to the problem. And which facilitates matters wonderfully. Those rules of deduction lay down in that article

which aroused your skull are invaluable to me in practical work. Observation with me is second nature.

You appeared to be surprised when I told you on our first meeting that you had come from Afghanistan. You were told no doubt. Nothing of the sort. I knew you came from Afghanistan. From long habit the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind that I arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of intermediate steps. There were such steps however. The train of reasoning ran here is a gentleman of a medical type but with the air of a military man.

Clearly an army doctor then. He has just come from the tropics for his face is dark and that is not the natural tint of his skin for his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness as his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner where in the tropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and got

I then remarked that you came from Afghanistan and you were astonished.

“It is simple enough as you explain it, I said smiling. You remind me of Edgar Allan Poe's”

dupe. I had no idea that such individuals did exist outside of stories. Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. No doubt you think that you are complimenting me in comparing me to dupe. He observed. Now in my opinion, dupe was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of breaking in on his friend's thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of an hour's silence is really very sherry and superficial. He had some analytical genius, no doubt, but he was by no means such a phenomenon

as Poe appeared to imagine. "Have you read your barrios' works?" I asked, "Does Lecoc come up to

your idea of a detective?" Sherlock Holmes sniffed, so I don't idea. Lecoc was a miserable bungler. He said in an angry voice. He had only one thing to recommend him and that was his energy.

“That book made me positively ill. The question was how to identify an unknown prisoner.”

I could have done it in 24 hours, but Coc took six months or so. It might be made a text book for detectives to teach them what to avoid. I felt rather indignant at having two characters who might have admired treated in this cavalier style. I walked over to the window and stood

looking out into the busy street. This fellow may be very clever. I said to myself,

"But he is certainly very conceded." There are no crimes and no criminals in these days. He said, "querylessly. What is the use of having brains in our profession? I know well that I have it in me to make my name famous. No man lives or has ever lived who has brought the same amount of study and of natural talent to the detection of crime which I have done. And what is the

“result? There is no crime to detect or at most some bungling villainy with a motive so transparent”

that even a scottland yard official can see through it. I was still annoyed at his buncher style of conversation. I thought it best to change the topic." I wonder what that fellow is looking for. I asked, pointing to a stalwart plainly dressed individual who was walking slowly down the other side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers. He had a large blue envelope in his hand, and was evidently the bearer of a message. "You mean the retired sergeant of marines?" said Sherlock Holmes.

"Prag and bounce, thought I to myself. He knows that I cannot verify his guess." The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we were watching caught sight of the number on our door and ran rapidly across the roadway. We heard aloud knock, the deep voice below, and heavy steps ascending the stair. "For Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, stepping into the room and handing my friend the letter. Here was an opportunity of taking the conceit out of him.

He little thought of this when he made that random shot. "May I ask my lad?" I said in the blandest voice. "What your trade may be?" "Comissioners," he said, roughly. "Uniform away for repairs." "And you were?" I asked with a slightly malicious glance at my companion. "A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir." "No answer?" "Right, sir." He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in a salute and was gone.

I confess that I was considerably startled by this fresh proof of the practical nature of my companion's theories. My respect for his powers of analysis increased wonderfully. There still remained some lurking suspicion in my mind, however, that the whole thing was a pre-arranged episode intended to dazzle me, though what earthly object he could have in taking me in was past my comprehension. When I looked at him, he had finished reading the note,

and his eyes had assumed the vacant lackluster expression which showed mental abstraction. "How in the world did you deduce that?" I asked. "Did you swat?" said he, petulantly. "Why that he was a retired sergeant of Marines?" "I have no time for trifles," he answered Bruce Lee. "Then, with a smile, excuse my rudeness. You broke the thread of my thoughts, but perhaps it is as well, so you actually were not able to see that the man was a sergeant of

Marines." "Oh, indeed." It was easier to know it than to explain why I knew it. If you were asked

of the fact. Even across the street, I could see a great blue anchor tattooed on the back of the

fellows' hand that smacked of the sea. He had a military carriage, however, and regulation side whiskers. There, we have the Marine. He was a man with some amount of self-importance and a certain air

“of command. You must have observed the way in which he held his head and swung his cane. A steady,”

respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the face of him, all facts which led me to believe that he had been a sergeant. "All wonderful," I exclaimed. "Come and place," said Holmes, though I thought from his expression that he was pleased at my evidence of prize and admiration. "I said just now that there

were no criminals. It appears that I am wrong. Look at this. He threw me over the note which the

commissioner had brought. "Why?" I cried, as I cast my eye over it. "This is terrible. It does seem to be a little out of the common," he remarked calmly. "Would you mind reading it to me aloud?" "This is the letter which I read to him." My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, there has been a bad business during the night at three

“lorest and gardens of the Brickston Road. Our man on the beach saw a light there about two in the”

morning and as the house was an empty one suspected that something was a miss. He found the door open and in the front room which is bare of furniture to discover the body of a gentleman well-dressed and having cards in his pocket bearing the name of Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio, USA. There had been no robbery nor is there any evidence as to how the man met his death. There are marks of blood in the room but there is no wound upon his person. We are at a loss

as to how he came into the empty house, indeed, the whole affair is a puzzler. If you can come round to the house any time before 12, you will find me there. I have left everything in statue quo until I hear from you. If you are unable to come, I shall give you fuller details

“and would esteem it a great kindness if you would favor me with your opinion. Your faithfully”

to buy us Griggson. Griggson is the smartest of these Scotland Yarders, my friend remarked. He and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick and energetic but conventional shockingly so. They have their knives into one another too. They are as jealous as a pair of professional beauties. There will be some fun over this case if they are both put upon the scent. I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled on. Surely there is not a moment to be lost,

I cried. Shall I go and order you a cap? I am not sure about whether I shall go. I am the most incurably lazy devil that ever stood in shoo leather. That is when the fit is on me, for I can be spry enough at times. Why it is just such a chance as you have been longing for. My dear fellow, what does it matter to me? Supposing I unravel the whole matter, you may be sure that Griggson, the Strad and Co will pocket all the credit. That comes of being an unofficial

personage. But he begs you to help him. Yes? He knows that I am his superior and acknowledges

it to me, but he would cut his tongue out before he would own it to any third person.

However, we may as well go and have a look. I shall work it out on my own hook. I may have a laugh at them if I have nothing else. Come on, he hustled on his overcoat and bustled about in a way that showed that an energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one. "Get your hat," he said. You wish Rita come. Yes, if you have nothing better to do. A minute later, we were both in a handsome, driving furiously for the Brickston road.

Next time in a study in Scarlett, homes and Watson embark on their first case together. The great detective makes a meticulous study of the crime scene where he finds a sinister message scrolled in blood. And a witness who unknowingly encountered the murderer sheds new light on the investigation. That's next time. Can't wait until the next episode? Well, listen to it right away by subscribing to Neuser Plus.

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