Sherlock Holmes Gives a Demonstration

“Now, Watson,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands, “we have half an hour to
ourselves. 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.”
“Simple!” I ejaculated.
“Surely,” said he, with something of the air of a clinical professor
expounding to his class. “Just sit in the corner there, that your
footprints may not complicate matters. 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?” He carried the lamp
across to it, muttering his observations aloud the while, but
addressing them to himself rather than to me. “Window is snibbed on
the inner side. 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. “This is not a
footmark,” said I.
“It is something much more valuable to us. 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.”
“It is the wooden-legged man.”
“Quite so. 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.
“It is absolutely impossible,” I answered.
“Without aid it is so. 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. As a minor point it
may be noted,” he continued, fingering the rope, “that our
wooden-legged friend, though a fair climber, was not a professional
sailor. 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.”
“This is all very well,” said I, “but the thing becomes more
unintelligible than ever. How about this mysterious ally? How came he
into the room?”
“Yes, the ally!” repeated Holmes, pensively. “There are features of
interest about this ally. 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.”
“How came he, then?” I reiterated. “The door is locked, the window is
inaccessible. Was it through the chimney?”
“The grate is much too small,” he answered. “I had already considered
that possibility.”
“How then?” I persisted.
“You will not apply my precept,” he said, shaking his head. “How often
have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible
whatever remains, HOWEVER IMPROBABLE, must be the truth? 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 came through the hole in the roof,” I cried.
“Of course he did. 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.
“Here you are, you see,” said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against
the sloping wall. “This is a trap-door which leads out on to the roof.
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.
“Holmes,” I said, in a whisper, “a child has done the horrid thing.”
He had recovered his self-possession in an instant. “I was staggered
for the moment,” he said, “but the thing is quite natural. 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.”
“What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?” I asked, eagerly,
when we had regained the lower room once more.
“My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself,” said he, with a touch
of impatience. “You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be
instructive to compare results.”
“I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts,” I answered.
“It will be clear enough to you soon,” he said, in an off-hand way. “I
think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look.”
He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about the room
on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long thin nose
only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and
deep-set like those of a bird. 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 defense. As he hunted about, he kept muttering to
himself, and finally he broke out into a loud crow of delight.
“We are certainly in luck,” said he. “We ought to have very little
trouble now. 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.”
“What then?” I asked.
“Why, we have got him, that’s all,” said he. “I know a dog that would
follow that scent to the world’s end. 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 halloo! here are the accredited
representatives of the law.”
Heavy steps and the clamor of loud voices were audible from below, and
the hall door shut with a loud crash.
“Before they come,” said Holmes, “just put your hand here on this poor
fellow’s arm, and here on his leg. What do you feel?”
“The muscles are as hard as a board,” I answered.
“Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding
the usual rigor mortis. Coupled with this distortion of the face, this
Hippocratic smile, or ‘risus sardonicus,’ as the old writers called it,
what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?”
“Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid,” I answered,–“some
strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus.”
“That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn
muscles of the face. 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.
“Is that an English thorn?” he asked.
“No, it certainly is not.”
“With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference.
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 gray 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.
“Here’s a business!” he cried, in a muffled, husky voice. “Here’s a
pretty business! But who are all these? Why, the house seems to be as
full as a rabbit-warren!”
“I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones,” said Holmes,
“Why, of course I do!” he wheezed. “It’s Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the
theorist. Remember you! I’ll never forget how you lectured us all on
causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case. It’s
true you set us on the right track; but you’ll own now that it was more
by good luck than good guidance.”
“It was a piece of very simple reasoning.”
“Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to own up. But what is all
this? Bad business! 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. What d’you think
the man died of?”
“Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorize over,” said Holmes, dryly.
“No, no. Still, we can’t deny that you hit the nail on the head
sometimes. Dear me! Door locked, I understand. Jewels worth half a
million missing. How was the window?”
“Fastened; but there are steps on the sill.”
“Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could have nothing to do with
the matter. That’s common sense. Man might have died in a fit; but
then the jewels are missing. Ha! I have a theory. These flashes come
upon me at times.–Just step outside, sergeant, and you, Mr. Sholto.
Your friend can remain.–What do you think of this, Holmes? 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. How’s
“On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked the door on
the inside.”
“Hum! There’s a flaw there. 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.”
“You are not quite in possession of the facts yet,” said Holmes. “This
splinter of wood, which I have every reason to believe to be poisoned,
was in the man’s scalp where you still see the mark; this card,
inscribed as you see it, was on the table; and beside it lay this
rather curious stone-headed instrument. How does all that fit into
your theory?”
“Confirms it in every respect,” said the fat detective, pompously.
“House is full of Indian curiosities. 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.” With great activity, considering his
bulk, he sprang up the steps and squeezed through into the garret, and
immediately afterwards we heard his exulting voice proclaiming that he
had found the trap-door.
“He can find something,” remarked Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. “He
has occasional glimmerings of reason. _Il n’y a pas des sots si
incommodes que ceux qui ont de l’esprit!_”
“You see!” said Athelney Jones, reappearing down the steps again.
“Facts are better than mere theories, after all. My view of the case
is confirmed. There is a trap-door communicating with the roof, and it
is partly open.”
“It was I who opened it.”
“Oh, indeed! You did notice it, then?” He seemed a little crestfallen
at the discovery. “Well, whoever noticed it, it shows how our
gentleman got away. Inspector!”
“Yes, sir,” from the passage.
“Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way.–Mr. Sholto, it is my duty to inform
you that anything which you may say will be used against you. I arrest
you in the queen’s name as being concerned in the death of your
“There, now! Didn’t I tell you!” cried the poor little man, throwing
out his hands, and looking from one to the other of us.
“Don’t trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto,” said Holmes. “I think
that I can engage to clear you of the charge.”

“Don’t promise too much, Mr. Theorist,–don’t promise too much!”
snapped the detective. “You may find it a harder matter than you
“Not only will I clear him, Mr. 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. The other man–”
“Ah! the other man–?” asked Athelney Jones, in a sneering voice, but
impressed none the less, as I could easily see, by the precision of the
other’s manner.
“Is a rather curious person,” said Sherlock Holmes, turning upon his
heel. “I hope before very long to be able to introduce you to the pair
of them.–A word with you, Watson.”
He led me out to the head of the stair. “This unexpected occurrence,”
he said, “has caused us rather to lose sight of the original purpose of
our journey.”
“I have just been thinking so,” I answered. “It is not right that Miss
Morstan should remain in this stricken house.”
“No. 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?”
“By no means. I don’t think I could rest until I know more of this
fantastic business. 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.”
“Your presence will be of great service to me,” he answered. “We shall
work the case out independently, and leave this fellow Jones to exult
over any mare’s-nest which he may choose to construct. When you have
dropped Miss Morstan I wish you to go on to No. 3 Pinchin Lane, down
near the water’s edge at Lambeth. The third house on the right-hand
side is a bird-stuffer’s: Sherman is the name. 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.”
“A dog, I suppose.”
“Yes,–a queer mongrel, with a most amazing power of scent. I would
rather have Toby’s help than that of the whole detective force of
“I shall bring him, then,” said I. “It is one now. I ought to be back
before three, if I can get a fresh horse.”
“And I,” said Holmes, “shall see what I can learn from Mrs. Bernstone,
and from the Indian servant, who, Mr. Thaddeus tell me, sleeps in the
next garret. Then I shall study the great Jones’s methods and listen
to his not too delicate sarcasms. ‘Wir sind gewohnt das die Menschen
verhoehnen was sie nicht verstehen.’ Goethe is always pithy.”