Mr. Sherlock Holmes
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 sur-
geons in the army. Having completed my studies
there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumber-
land Fusiliers 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 corps
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 Can-
dahar 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 Berkshires, with whom I served at
the fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on
the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the
bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I should
have fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis
had it not been for the devotion and courage shown
by Murray, my orderly, who threw me across a
pack-horse, 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 al-
ready improved so far as to be able to walk about
the wards, and even to bask a little upon the veran-
dah, when I was struck down by enteric fever, that
curse of our Indian possessions. For months my life
was despaired of, and when at last I came to myself
and became convalescent, I was so weak and emaci-
ated 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 Orontes,
and landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, 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 eleven shillings and sixpence a day will permit
a man to be. Under such circumstances, I natu-
rally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into
which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are
irresistibly drained. 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, that
I soon realized that I must either leave the metropo-
lis 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 con-
clusion, I was standing at the Criterion Bar, when
some one tapped me on the shoulder, and turning
round I recognized young Stamford, who had been
a dresser under me at Bart’s. The sight of a friendly
face in 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 exuber-
ance of my joy, I asked him to lunch with me at the
Holborn, and we started off together in a hansom.
“Whatever have you been doing with yourself,
Watson?” he asked in undisguised wonder, as we
rattled through the crowded London streets. “You
are as thin as a lath 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.
“Poor 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 compan-
ion; “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 labora-
tory 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.”
“A 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 desultory 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 seizes him.”
“I should like to meet him,” I said. “If I am to
lodge with anyone, I should prefer a man of stu-
dious 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?”
“He is sure to be at the laboratory,” returned
my companion. “He either avoids the place for
weeks, or else he works there from morning to
night. If you like, we shall drive round together
after luncheon.”
“Certainly,” I answered, and the conversation
drifted away into other channels.
As we made our way to the hospital after leav-
ing the Holborn, Stamford gave me a few more
particulars about the gentleman whom I proposed
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 proposed this arrangement, so you
must not hold me responsible.”
“If we don’t get on it will be easy to part com-
pany,” I answered. “It seems to me, Stamford,” I
added, looking hard at my companion, “that you
have some reason for washing your hands of the
matter. Is this fellow’s temper so formidable, or
what is it? Don’t be mealy-mouthed about it.”
“It is not easy to express the inexpressible,”
he answered with a laugh. “Holmes is a little
too scientific for my tastes—it approaches to cold-
bloodedness. I could imagine his 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 with 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 subjects!”
“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 whitewashed wall and
dun-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 scat-
tered about, which bristled with retorts, test-tubes,
and little Bunsen 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.
“I’ve found it! I’ve found it,” he shouted to my
companion, running towards us with a test-tube in
his hand. “I have found a re-agent which is precip-
itated by hœmoglobin, and by nothing else.” Had
he discovered a gold mine, greater delight could
not have shone upon his features.
“Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Stam-
ford, introducing us.
“How are you?” he said cordially, gripping
my hand with a strength for which I should
hardly have given him credit. “You have been in
Afghanistan, I perceive.”
“How on earth did you know that?” I asked in
astonishment.
“Never mind,” said he, chuckling to himself.
“The question now is about hœmoglobin. No doubt
you see the significance of this discovery of mine?”
“It is interesting, chemically, no doubt,” I an-
swered, “but practically—”
“Why, man, it is the most practical medico-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 ea-
gerness, and drew me over to the table at which
he had been working. “Let us have some fresh
blood,” he said, digging a long bodkin into his fin-
ger, and drawing off the resulting drop of blood in
a chemical pipette. “Now, I add this small quantity
of blood to a litre 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 trans-
parent fluid. In an instant the contents assumed a
dull mahogany colour, and a brownish dust was
precipitated to the bottom of the glass jar.
“Ha! ha!” 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.
“Beautiful! beautiful! The old Guiacum test was
very clumsy and uncertain. So is the microscopic
examination for blood corpuscles. The latter is val-
ueless if the stains are a few hours old. Now, this
appears to act as well whether the blood is old or
new. Had this test been invented, there are hun-
dreds 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
months 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, con-
siderably surprised at his enthusiasm.
“There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort
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 Lefevre
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 a 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
discoloured with strong acids.
“We came here on business,” said Stamford, sit-
ting down on a high three-legged stool, and push-
ing 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 had better bring you
together.”
Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea
of sharing his rooms with me. “I have my eye on a
suite in Baker Street,” he said, “which would suit
us down to the ground. You don’t mind the smell
of strong tobacco, I hope?”
“I always smoke ‘ship’s’ myself,” I answered.
“That’s good enough. I generally have chemi-
cals about, and occasionally do experiments. Would
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
sulky 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
bull pup,” I said, “and I object to rows 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 rows?” he asked, anxiously.
“It depends on the player,” I answered. “A well-
played violin is a treat for the gods—a badly-played
one—”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he cried, with a merry
laugh. “I think we may consider the thing as set-
tled—that is, if the rooms are agreeable to you.”
“When shall we see them?”
“Call for me here at noon to-morrow, 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 Stamford, “how the deuce did he
know that I had come from Afghanistan?”
My companion smiled an 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 is it?” I cried, rubbing my hands.
“This is very piquant. I am much obliged to you for
bringing us together. ‘The proper study of mankind
is man,’ you know.”
“You must study him, then,” Stamford said, as
he bade me good-bye. “You’ll find him a knotty
problem, though. I’ll wager he learns more about
you than you about him. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” I answered, and strolled on to my
hotel, considerably interested in my new acquain-
tance.
