This ebook has been designed and formatted to the highest digital standards and adjusted for readability on all devices. Sherlock Holmes is a "consulting detective" known for his proficiency with observation, forensic science, and logical reasoning that borders on the fantastic, which he employs when investigating cases for a wide variety of clients, including Scotland Yard.
The Sherlock Holmes stories are generally considered milestones in the field of crime fiction. Book Summary: Sherlock Holmes: The Hero With a Thousand Faces ambitiously takes on the task of explaining the continued popularity of Arthur Conan Doyle's famous detective over the course of three centuries. In plays, films, TV shows, and other media, one generation after another has reimagined Holmes as a romantic hero, action hero, gentleman hero, recovering drug addict, weeping social crusader, high-functioning sociopath, and so on.
In essence, Sherlock Holmes has become the blank slate upon which we write the heroic formula that best suits our time and place. Volume One looks at the social and cultural environment in which Sherlock Holmes came to fame.
Victorian novelists like Anthony Trollope and William Thackeray had pointedly written "novels without a hero," because in their minds any well-ordered and well-mannered society would have no need for heroes or heroic behavior. Unfortunately, this was at odds with a reality in which criminals like Jack the Ripper stalked the streets and people didn't trust the police, who were generally regarded as corrupt and incompetent. Into this gap stepped the world's first consulting detective, an amateur reasoner of some repute by the name of Sherlock Holmes, who shot to fame in the pages of The Strand Magazine in When Conan Doyle proceeded to kill Holmes off in , it was American playwright, director, and actor William Gillette who brought the character back to life in his play Sherlock Holmes, creating a sensation on both sides of the Atlantic with his romantic version of Holmes, and cementing his place as the definitive Sherlock Holmes until the late s.
By that point, Sherlock Holmes had developed a cult following who facetiously maintained that Holmes was a real person, formed clubs like The Baker Street Irregulars, and introduced the idea of cosplay to the embryonic world of fandom. These well-educated fanboys subsequently became the self-assigned protectors of Sherlock Holmes, anxious that their version of the character not be besmirched or defamed in any way. In spite of this, there was considerable besmirching and defaming to be seen in the early silent films featuring Sherlock Holmes, which effectively turned him into an action hero due to the lack of sound.
When sound films took the industry by storm in the late s, there were a numbers of pretenders who reached for the Sherlock Holmes crown, including Clive Brook, Reginald Owen, and Raymond Massey, but it took more than a decade before a new definitive Sherlock Holmes would be crowned in in the person of Basil Rathbone.
Book Summary: Sherlock Holmes: Volume 1 is a great introduction to the world's most famous pipe-smoking detective, Holmes himself. Experience two complete novels and two collections of short stories now! Sherlock Holmes, Volume 1 is a great introduction to the series which features the early works written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Watson, employs his mastery of deductive reasoning and expert sleuthing to solve an arraying of complex and harrowing cases, baffling the police and becoming internationally renowned for his remarkable observations and even more eccentric habits.
Complete and unabridged, this elegantly designed, clothbound edition features an elastic closure and a new introduction by Roger Boylan. See the world's greatest detective in action!
The Knickerbocker Classics bring together the works of classic authors from around the world in stunning gift editions to be collected and enjoyed. Complete and unabridged, these elegantly designed cloth-bound hardcovers feature a slipcase and ribbon marker, as well as a comprehensive introduction providing the reader with enlightening information on the author's life and works. These twenty-two stories show Holmes at his brilliant best. You surprise me!
I told my brother last night that I should bring some friends. Thaddeus, and I have no orders. You know very well that I must stick to regulations. I can let you in, but your friends must just stop where they are. This was an unexpected obstacle. Thaddeus Sholto looked about him in a perplexed and helpless manner.
There is the young lady, too. She cannot wait on the public road at this hour. Sherlock Holmes! You might have aimed high, if you had joined the fancy.
Thaddeus, but orders are very strict. Had to be certain of your friends before I let them in. Inside, a gravel path wound through desolate grounds to a huge clump of a house, square and prosaic, all plunged in shadow save where a moonbeam struck one corner and glimmered in a garret window. The vast size of the building, with its gloom and its deathly silence, struck a chill to the heart.
Even Thaddeus Sholto seemed ill at ease, and the lantern quivered and rattled in his hand. I distinctly told Bartholomew that we should be here, and yet there is no light in his window. I do not know what to make of it. He was the favourite son, you know, and I sometimes think that my father may have told him more than he ever told me. It is quite bright, but there is no light from within, I think.
That is where old Mrs. Bernstone sits. She can tell us all about it. But perhaps you would not mind waiting here for a minute or two, for if we all go in together and she has no word of our coming she may be alarmed.
But hush! He held up the lantern, and his hand shook until the circles of light flickered and wavered all round us. Miss Morstan seized my wrist, and we all stood with thumping hearts, straining our ears. From the great black house there sounded through the silent night the saddest and most pitiful of sounds,—the shrill, broken whimpering of a frightened woman. Wait here. I shall be back in a moment. We could see a tall old woman admit him, and sway with pleasure at the very sight of him.
Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have come! I am so glad you have come, Mr. Thaddeus, sir! Our guide had left us the lantern. Holmes swung it slowly round, and peered keenly at the house, and at the great rubbish-heaps which cumbered the grounds. Miss Morstan and I stood together, and her hand was in mine. A wondrous subtle thing is love, for here were we two who had never seen each other before that day, between whom no word or even look of affection had ever passed, and yet now in an hour of trouble our hands instinctively sought for each other.
I have marvelled at it since, but at the time it seemed the most natural thing that I should go out to her so, and, as she has often told me, there was in her also the instinct to turn to me for comfort and protection.
So we stood hand in hand, like two children, and there was peace in our hearts for all the dark things that surrounded us. I have seen something of the sort on the side of a hill near Ballarat, where the prospectors had been at work. You must remember that they were six years looking for it.
No wonder that the grounds look like a gravel-pit. At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thaddeus Sholto came running out, with his hands thrown forward and terror in his eyes. My nerves cannot stand it. The old woman was pacing up and down with a scared look and restless picking fingers, but the sight of Miss Morstan appeared to have a soothing effect upon her. Oh, but I have been sorely tried this day! You must go up, Mr. Thaddeus,—you must go up and look for yourself. I have seen Mr.
Bartholomew Sholto in joy and in sorrow for ten long years, but I never saw him with such a face on him as that. So shaken was he that I had to pass my hand under his arm as we went up the stairs, for his knees were trembling under him. Twice as we ascended Holmes whipped his lens out of his pocket and carefully examined marks which appeared to me to be mere shapeless smudges of dust upon the cocoa-nut matting which served as a stair-carpet.
He walked slowly from step to step, holding the lamp, and shooting keen glances to right and left. Miss Morstan had remained behind with the frightened housekeeper. The third flight of stairs ended in a straight passage of some length, with a great picture in Indian tapestry upon the right of it and three doors upon the left. Holmes advanced along it in the same slow and methodical way, while we kept close at his heels, with our long black shadows streaming backwards down the corridor.
The third door was that which we were seeking. Holmes knocked without receiving any answer, and then tried to turn the handle and force it open. It was locked on the inside, however, and by a broad and powerful bolt, as we could see when we set our lamp up against it. The key being turned, however, the hole was not entirely closed. Sherlock Holmes bent down to it, and instantly rose again with a sharp intaking of the breath.
I stooped to the hole, and recoiled in horror. Moonlight was streaming into the room, and it was bright with a vague and shifty radiance. Looking straight at me, and suspended, as it were, in the air, for all beneath was in shadow, there hung a face,—the very face of our companion Thaddeus. There was the same high, shining head, the same circular bristle of red hair, the same bloodless countenance.
The features were set, however, in a horrible smile, a fixed and unnatural grin, which in that still and moonlit room was more jarring to the nerves than any scowl or contortion. So like was the face to that of our little friend that I looked round at him to make sure that he was indeed with us.
Then I recalled to mind that he had mentioned to us that his brother and he were twins. It creaked and groaned, but did not yield. It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical laboratory. A double line of glass-stoppered bottles was drawn up upon the wall opposite the door, and the table was littered over with Bunsen burners, test-tubes, and retorts.
In the corners stood carboys of acid in wicker baskets. One of these appeared to leak or to have been broken, for a stream of dark-coloured liquid had trickled out from it, and the air was heavy with a peculiarly pungent, tar-like odour. A set of steps stood at one side of the room, in the midst of a litter of lath and plaster, and above them there was an opening in the ceiling large enough for a man to pass through.
At the foot of the steps a long coil of rope was thrown carelessly together. By the table, in a wooden arm-chair, the master of the house was seated all in a heap, with his head sunk upon his left shoulder, and that ghastly, inscrutable smile upon his face. He was stiff and cold, and had clearly been dead many hours. It seemed to me that not only his features but all his limbs were twisted and turned in the most fantastic fashion. By his hand upon the table there lay a peculiar instrument,—a brown, close-grained stick, with a stone head like a hammer, rudely lashed on with coarse twine.
Beside it was a torn sheet of note-paper with some words scrawled upon it. Holmes glanced at it, and then handed it to me. Look here! I took it up between my finger and thumb. It came away from the skin so readily that hardly any mark was left behind. One tiny speck of blood showed where the puncture had been. I only require a few missing links to have an entirely connected case. He was still standing in the doorway, the very picture of terror, wringing his hands and moaning to himself.
Suddenly, however, he broke out into a sharp, querulous cry. There is the hole through which we lowered it. I helped him to do it! I was the last person who saw him! I left him here last night, and I heard him lock the door as I came downstairs. And now he is dead, and the police will be called in, and I shall be suspected of having had a hand in it. Oh, yes, I am sure I shall. Is it likely that I would have brought you here if it were I?
Oh, dear! I know that I shall go mad! Offer to assist them in every way. We shall wait here until your return. The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fashion, and we heard him stumbling down the stairs in the dark.
Let us make good use of it. My case is, as I have told you, almost complete; but we must not err on the side of over-confidence. Simple as the case seems now, there may be something deeper underlying it. Now to work! In the first place, how did these folk come, and how did they go? The door has not been opened since last night. How of the window? Framework is solid. No hinges at the side. Let us open it. No water-pipe near. Roof quite out of reach. Yet a man has mounted by the window.
It rained a little last night. Here is the print of a foot in mould upon the sill. And here is a circular muddy mark, and here again upon the floor, and here again by the table. See here, Watson! This is really a very pretty demonstration. I looked at the round, well-defined muddy discs. It is the impression of a wooden stump. You see here on the sill is the boot-mark, a heavy boot with the broad metal heel, and beside it is the mark of the timber-toe.
But there has been some one else,—a very able and efficient ally. Could you scale that wall, doctor? I looked out of the open window. The moon still shone brightly on that angle of the house. We were a good sixty feet from the ground, and, look where I would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a crevice in the brick-work. But suppose you had a friend up here who lowered you this good stout rope which I see in the corner, securing one end of it to this great hook in the wall. Then, I think, if you were an active man, You might swarm up, wooden leg and all.
You would depart, of course, in the same fashion, and your ally would draw up the rope, untie it from the hook, shut the window, snib it on the inside, and get away in the way that he originally came. His hands were far from horny. My lens discloses more than one blood-mark, especially towards the end of the rope, from which I gather that he slipped down with such velocity that he took the skin off his hand.
How about this mysterious ally? How came he into the room? He lifts the case from the regions of the commonplace. I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the annals of crime in this country,—though parallel cases suggest themselves from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia. Was it through the chimney? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney.
We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come? He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above,—the secret room in which the treasure was found. He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung himself up into the garret.
Then, lying on his face, he reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him. The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor.
I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One entered. Let us see if we can find any other traces of his individuality. He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face.
For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot,—clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man. He had recovered his self-possession in an instant.
My memory failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down. Apply them, and it will be instructive to compare results. So swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like those of a trained blood-hound picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a terrible criminal he would have made had he turned his energy and sagacity against the law, instead of exerting them in its defence.
As he hunted about, he kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out into a loud crow of delight. Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here at the side of this evil-smelling mess.
The carboy has been cracked, You see, and the stuff has leaked out. If a pack can track a trailed herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow so pungent a smell as this?
It sounds like a sum in the rule of three. The answer should give us the—But halloa! Heavy steps and the clamour of loud voices were audible from below, and the hall door shut with a loud crash. What do you feel? They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding the usual rigor mortis.
On getting into the room I at once looked for the means by which the poison had entered the system. As you saw, I discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with no great force into the scalp. You observe that the part struck was that which would be turned towards the hole in the ceiling if the man were erect in his chair. Now examine the thorn. I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern.
It was long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point as though some gummy substance had dried upon it. The blunt end had been trimmed and rounded off with a knife. But here are the regulars; so the auxiliary forces may beat a retreat.
As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly on the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a grey suit strode heavily into the room. He was red-faced, burly and plethoric, with a pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly out from between swollen and puffy pouches.
He was closely followed by an inspector in uniform, and by the still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto. But who are all these? Why, the house seems to be as full as a rabbit-warren! Sherlock Holmes, the theorist. Remember you! Never be ashamed to own up. But what is all this?
Bad business! Stern facts here,—no room for theories. How lucky that I happened to be out at Norwood over another case! I was at the station when the message arrived. Dear me! Door locked, I understand. Jewels worth half a million missing. How was the window? Man might have died in a fit; but then the jewels are missing. I have a theory. These flashes come upon me at times.
Your friend can remain. Sholto was, on his own confession, with his brother last night. The brother died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off with the treasure. Let us apply common sense to the matter. This Thaddeus Sholto was with his brother; there was a quarrel; so much we know. The brother is dead and the jewels are gone.
So much also we know. No one saw the brother from the time Thaddeus left him. His bed had not been slept in. Thaddeus is evidently in a most disturbed state of mind. His appearance is—well, not attractive. You see that I am weaving my web round Thaddeus. The net begins to close upon him. How does all that fit into your theory? Thaddeus brought this up, and if this splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may as well have made murderous use of it as any other man. The card is some hocus-pocus,—a blind, as like as not.
The only question is, how did he depart? Ah, of course, here is a hole in the roof. My view of the case is confirmed. There is a trap-door communicating with the roof, and it is partly open. You did notice it, then? Sholto to step this way. Sholto, it is my duty to inform you that anything which you may say will be used against you.
Jones, but I will make you a free present of the name and description of one of the two people who were in this room last night. His name, I have every reason to believe, is Jonathan Small. He is a poorly-educated man, small, active, with his right leg off, and wearing a wooden stump which is worn away upon the inner side.
His left boot has a coarse, square-toed sole, with an iron band round the heel. He is a middle-aged man, much sunburned, and has been a convict. These few indications may be of some assistance to you, coupled with the fact that there is a good deal of skin missing from the palm of his hand. He led me out to the head of the stair.
You must escort her home. She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester, in Lower Camberwell: so it is not very far. I will wait for you here if you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?
I have seen something of the rough side of life, but I give you my word that this quick succession of strange surprises to-night has shaken my nerve completely. I should like, however, to see the matter through with you, now that I have got so far. When you have dropped Miss Morstan I wish you to go on to No.
You will see a weasel holding a young rabbit in the window. Knock old Sherman up, and tell him, with my compliments, that I want Toby at once. You will bring Toby back in the cab with you. I ought to be back before three, if I can get a fresh horse. Bernstone, and from the Indian servant, who, Mr. Thaddeus tell me, sleeps in the next garret. The police had brought a cab with them, and in this I escorted Miss Morstan back to her home. After the angelic fashion of women, she had borne trouble with a calm face as long as there was some one weaker than herself to support, and I had found her bright and placid by the side of the frightened housekeeper.
In the cab, however, she first turned faint, and then burst into a passion of weeping,—so sorely had she been tried by the adventures of the night. She has told me since that she thought me cold and distant upon that journey.
She little guessed the struggle within my breast, or the effort of self-restraint which held me back. My sympathies and my love went out to her, even as my hand had in the garden. I felt that years of the conventionalities of life could not teach me to know her sweet, brave nature as had this one day of strange experiences. Yet there were two thoughts which sealed the words of affection upon my lips. She was weak and helpless, shaken in mind and nerve.
It was to take her at a disadvantage to obtrude love upon her at such a time. Worse still, she was rich. Was it fair, was it honourable, that a half-pay surgeon should take such advantage of an intimacy which chance had brought about? Might she not look upon me as a mere vulgar fortune-seeker?
I could not bear to risk that such a thought should cross her mind. This Agra treasure intervened like an impassable barrier between us. The servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs. Forrester had been so interested by the strange message which Miss Morstan had received that she had sat up in the hope of her return.
She was clearly no mere paid dependant, but an honoured friend. I was introduced, and Mrs. Forrester earnestly begged me to step in and tell her our adventures. I explained, however, the importance of my errand, and promised faithfully to call and report any progress which we might make with the case.
As we drove away I stole a glance back, and I still seem to see that little group on the step, the two graceful, clinging figures, the half-opened door, the hall-light shining through stained glass, the barometer, and the bright stair-rods.
It was soothing to catch even that passing glimpse of a tranquil English home in the midst of the wild, dark business which had absorbed us. And the more I thought of what had happened, the wilder and darker it grew. I reviewed the whole extraordinary sequence of events as I rattled on through the silent gas-lit streets.
There was the original problem: that at least was pretty clear now. The death of Captain Morstan, the sending of the pearls, the advertisement, the letter,—we had had light upon all those events. They had only led us, however, to a deeper and far more tragic mystery. Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby two-storied brick houses in the lower quarter of Lambeth. I had to knock for some time at No.
At last, however, there was the glint of a candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at the upper window. Sherman was a lanky, lean old man, with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck, and blue-tinted glasses. Keep clear of the badger; for he bites. Ah, naughty, naughty, would you take a nip at the gentleman?
What was it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes wanted, sir? In the uncertain, shadowy light I could see dimly that there were glancing, glimmering eyes peeping down at us from every cranny and corner. Even the rafters above our heads were lined by solemn fowls, who lazily shifted their weight from one leg to the other as our voices disturbed their slumbers.
Toby proved to be an ugly, long-haired, lop-eared creature, half spaniel and half lurcher, brown-and-white in colour, with a very clumsy waddling gait. It accepted after some hesitation a lump of sugar which the old naturalist handed to me, and, having thus sealed an alliance, it followed me to the cab, and made no difficulties about accompanying me.
It had just struck three on the Palace clock when I found myself back once more at Pondicherry Lodge. The ex-prize-fighter McMurdo had, I found, been arrested as an accessory, and both he and Mr. Sholto had been marched off to the station.
Atheney Jones has gone. We have had an immense display of energy since you left. He has arrested not only friend Thaddeus, but the gatekeeper, the housekeeper, and the Indian servant. We have the place to ourselves, but for a sergeant upstairs. Leave the dog here, and come up. We tied Toby to the hall table, and re-ascended the stairs.
The room was as he had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the central figure. A weary-looking police-sergeant reclined in the corner. Thank you.
Now I must kick off my boots and stockings. I am going to do a little climbing. And dip my handkerchief into the creasote.
That will do. Now come up into the garret with me for a moment. We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more upon the footsteps in the dust. This is the print of a right foot in the dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief difference? The other print has each toe distinctly divided. That is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you kindly step over to that flap-window and smell the edge of the wood-work?
I shall stay here, as I have this handkerchief in my hand. If you can trace him, I should think that Toby will have no difficulty.
Now run downstairs, loose the dog, and look out for Blondin. By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on the roof, and I could see him like an enormous glow-worm crawling very slowly along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack of chimneys, but he presently reappeared, and then vanished once more upon the opposite side.
When I made my way round there I found him seated at one of the corner eaves. I ought to be able to come down where he could climb up. The water-pipe feels pretty firm. Here goes, anyhow. There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come steadily down the side of the wall.
Then with a light spring he came on to the barrel, and from there to the earth. It confirms my diagnosis, as you doctors express it. The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven out of coloured grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it. In shape and size it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were half a dozen spines of dark wood, sharp at one end and rounded at the other, like that which had struck Bartholomew Sholto.
There is the less fear of you or me finding one in our skin before long. I would sooner face a Martini bullet, myself. Are you game for a six-mile trudge, Watson? Good old Toby! Smell it, Toby, smell it!
The creature instantly broke into a succession of high, tremulous yelps, and, with his nose on the ground, and his tail in the air, pattered off upon the trail at a pace which strained his leash and kept us at the top of our speed. The east had been gradually whitening, and we could now see some distance in the cold grey light. The square, massive house, with its black, empty windows and high, bare walls, towered up, sad and forlorn, behind us. Our course led right across the grounds, in and out among the trenches and pits with which they were scarred and intersected.
The whole place, with its scattered dirt-heaps and ill-grown shrubs, had a blighted, ill-omened look which harmonized with the black tragedy which hung over it.
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Loved each and every part of this book. I will definitely recommend this book to classics, mystery lovers.
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