I. A Scandal in Bohemia

I.

To Sherlock Holmes, she is always the woman. I have almost never heard him call her anything else. To him, she is more amazing than any other woman. But this doesn't mean he loved Irene Adler. Holmes disliked all strong feelings, especially love. His mind was cold, exact, and perfectly balanced, and he wanted to keep it that way. I believe he was the best thinking-and-observing machine the world has ever seen. But if he had ever fallen in love, it would have thrown off his careful balance. He never spoke about love or romance except to make fun of it. He thought feelings like that were great to study—they were perfect for figuring out why people did what they did. But letting those feelings affect his own mind was dangerous. A strong emotion in a man like Holmes would be as troublesome as sand in a delicate machine, or a crack in one of his powerful lenses. Still, there was one woman who stood out to him above all others: the late Irene Adler, a woman with a mysterious and doubtful past.

I hadn't seen much of Holmes lately. Since I got married, we had drifted apart. My happy new life, and the busy job of running my own home, kept me occupied. Meanwhile, Holmes—who hated being around people—stayed in our old rooms on Baker Street. He buried himself in his books, switching between using cocaine (a drug) and chasing his ambitions, between being drowsy from the drug and bursting with wild energy. He still loved studying crime more than anything. He used his amazing brainpower and sharp eyes for detail to solve mysteries the police had given up on. Now and then I'd hear bits of news about him: how he was called to Odessa for a murder case, how he solved a strange tragedy involving two brothers, and how he had quietly helped a royal family in Holland. Besides these small news items—which anyone reading the newspaper could have seen—I knew little about my old friend and roommate.

One night—March 20th, 1888—I was coming home from visiting a patient (I had gone back to working as a doctor) when my path took me down Baker Street. As I walked past the familiar door—the same door tied to memories of falling in love with my wife, and to the dark events of an earlier case—I suddenly wanted very badly to see Holmes again and find out what puzzle he was working on now. His windows were lit up brightly. Looking up, I saw his tall, thin shadow pass twice behind the window shade. He was pacing quickly back and forth, head down, hands clasped behind his back. I knew his habits well enough to understand what this meant: he was working on something. He'd shaken off his drug-induced daydreams and was chasing a new mystery. I rang the doorbell and was led up to the room that used to be partly mine, too.

He didn't greet me with much excitement—he rarely did—but I think he was happy to see me. Without saying much, but with a friendly look in his eye, he waved me toward a chair, tossed me his box of cigars, and pointed to a drink cabinet in the corner. Then he stood by the fireplace and studied me carefully, the way he always did.

"Married life suits you," he said. "I think you've gained about seven and a half pounds since I last saw you, Watson."

"Seven," I answered.

"Really? I would have guessed a bit more. And I see you're back to working as a doctor. You never told me you were going back to work."

"Then how do you know?"

"I can see it—I figured it out. Just like I know you've gotten very wet recently, and that you have a clumsy, careless maid."

"My dear Holmes," I said, "this is too much! A few centuries ago, people would have burned you as a witch for this! It's true I took a walk in the country on Thursday and came home a mess, but I've changed clothes since then, so I don't see how you knew that. And yes, my maid Mary Jane is hopeless, and my wife just fired her—but again, how did you figure that out?"

He laughed quietly and rubbed his long hands together.

"It's very simple," he said. "I can see, by the firelight, six scratches on the inside of your left shoe. Someone scraped mud off it very carelessly, cutting the leather in the process. So, I know two things: you were out in bad weather, and you have a maid who is rough on shoes. As for your medical practice—well, if a man walks in smelling like medicine, with a stain from a chemical called silver nitrate on his finger, and a bulge in his hat where he's hidden his stethoscope, I'd have to be pretty dull not to guess he's a doctor."

I couldn't help laughing at how easily he explained his thinking. "When you explain your reasons," I said, "it always sounds so simple that I feel like I could have figured it out myself. But each time, before you explain, I'm completely stumped. And yet I think my eyesight is just as good as yours."

"That's true," he said, lighting a cigarette and settling into his chair. "You see, but you don't observe. There's a big difference. For example—you've walked up the stairs to this room many times."

"Many times."

"How many?"

"Oh, hundreds, probably."

"Then how many steps are there?"

"How many? I have no idea."

"Exactly! You've seen them, but you never truly observed them. That's my whole point. I happen to know there are seventeen steps, because I've both seen and observed. Speaking of puzzles—since you like writing down some of my little adventures—you might find this interesting." He handed me a sheet of thick, pink notepaper that had been lying open on the table. "This came in the last mail," he said. "Read it out loud."

The note had no date, no signature, and no address.

"A gentleman will visit you tonight at a quarter to eight," it read. "He wishes to discuss a matter of the greatest importance. Your recent work for one of Europe's royal families shows that you can be trusted with serious matters—matters that are almost impossible to overstate. We have heard this about you from many sources. Please be in your room at that time, and don't be offended if your visitor wears a mask."

"This is certainly a mystery," I said. "What do you think it means?"

"I don't have enough information yet. It's a big mistake to guess before you have facts. Without realizing it, people start twisting facts to match their guesses, instead of shaping their guesses around the facts. But let's look at the note itself. What do you notice?"

I studied the handwriting and the paper carefully.

"The writer is probably wealthy," I said, trying to copy Holmes's way of thinking. "Paper like this would cost a lot of money. It's unusually thick and stiff."

"Unusual—that's exactly the right word," said Holmes. "This isn't English paper at all. Hold it up to the light."

I did, and saw letters woven right into the paper itself: a large "E" with a small "g," then a "P," and a large "G" with a small "t."

"What do you make of that?" Holmes asked.

"Probably the papermaker's name, or maybe his initials."

"Not quite. The 'G' with the small 't' stands for the German word 'Gesellschaft,' which means 'Company'—like how we use 'Co.' in English. The 'P' stands for 'Papier,' which is German for 'paper.' Now, let's figure out the 'Eg.' Let's check the map book." He pulled down a thick brown book. "Eglow, Eglonitz—here it is: Egria. It's in a German-speaking area, in Bohemia, near Carlsbad. It's known as the place where a famous general named Wallenstein died, and for its many glass factories and paper mills. Ha! What do you think of that, my friend?" His eyes lit up as he blew out a triumphant puff of smoke.

"The paper was made in Bohemia," I said.

"Exactly. And the person who wrote this note is German. Notice the strange way this sentence is put together: 'This account of you we have from all quarters received.' No Frenchman or Russian would write it that way—only a German would arrange the words like that. So now we just need to find out what this masked German visitor wants. And here he comes now, I believe, to answer all our questions."

Just then, we heard the sharp clip-clop of horses' hooves and the scrape of carriage wheels against the curb, followed by a hard ring of the doorbell. Holmes let out a low whistle.

"Sounds like two horses," he said, glancing out the window. "Yes—a fine little carriage, and two beautiful horses. Worth about 150 gold coins each. There's money involved in this case, Watson, if nothing else."

"I should probably go, Holmes."

"Not at all, Doctor. Stay right there. I need you here to help me remember everything, like always. This looks like it will be interesting—it would be a shame to miss it."

"But what about your client—"

"Don't worry about him. I might need your help, and he might too. Here he comes now. Sit down in that chair, Doctor, and pay close attention."

Slow, heavy footsteps came up the stairs and down the hall, then stopped right outside the door. There was a loud, confident knock.

"Come in!" said Holmes.

A man walked in who must have been at least six and a half feet tall, built like a giant. His clothes were rich—almost too rich, the kind of fancy dress the English would consider poor taste. Thick bands of fur ran across the sleeves and front of his double-breasted coat. A deep blue cloak hung over his shoulders, lined with bright orange-red silk and fastened at the neck with a brooch holding a single glowing gemstone. His tall boots, trimmed with rich brown fur, added to the sense that this man was wildly, almost savagely wealthy. He held a wide-brimmed hat in one hand, and across the upper half of his face—down past his cheekbones—he wore a black mask, which he seemed to have just put on, since his hand was still raised to it as he walked in. From what I could see of his lower face, he looked like a man of strong will, with a thick lower lip and a long, straight chin that suggested...