The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

by Arthur Conan Doyle

Contents

I. A Scandal in Bohemia
II. The Red-Headed League
III. A Case of Identity
IV. The Boscombe Valley Mystery
V. The Five Orange Pips
VI. The Man with the Twisted Lip
VII. The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle
VIII. The Adventure of the Speckled Band
IX. The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb
X. The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor
XI. The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
XII. The Adventure of the Copper Beeches

I. A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA

I.

To Sherlock Holmes, she is always the woman. I have hardly ever heard him call her anything else. In his eyes, she outshines every other woman there is. This wasn't because he loved Irene Adler. In fact, Holmes considered all strong feelings—especially love—to be beneath his cold, exact, and perfectly balanced mind. I believe he was the most flawless thinking-and-observing machine the world has ever known. But as a lover, he would have felt awkward and out of place. He never spoke of romance except to mock it. Emotions were useful to study—they were great for understanding why people acted the way they did. But for a man who prized pure logic, allowing such feelings into his own carefully tuned mind would only mess up his thinking. To him, a strong emotion was like sand thrown into a delicate machine, or a crack in one of his powerful lenses—something that would throw off all his careful work. And yet, there was one woman who stood out to him above all others: the late Irene Adler, a woman of questionable reputation.

I hadn't seen much of Holmes recently. My marriage had pulled us apart. My own happiness, along with the responsibilities of running my own home for the first time, took up all my attention. Meanwhile, Holmes—who hated society with his whole free-spirited soul—stayed in our old rooms on Baker Street, surrounded by his books. He swung back and forth between using cocaine and chasing his ambitions, between the drowsy haze of the drug and the intense energy of his sharp mind. He was still fascinated by the study of crime, using his amazing skills of observation to solve mysteries that the police had given up on. Now and then, I'd hear bits of news about what he was doing: how he was called to Odessa for the Trepoff murder case, how he solved the strange tragedy of the Atkinson brothers in Trincomalee, and finally, how he successfully completed a very delicate mission for the royal family of Holland. Besides these small updates—which I read about in the newspapers just like everyone else—I knew little about my old friend and former roommate.

One night—March 20th, 1888—I was coming back from visiting a patient (since I had gone back to working as a regular doctor) when my path took me down Baker Street. As I walked past the familiar door—a door I would always connect with my courtship and with the dark events of A Study in Scarlet—I suddenly felt a strong urge to see Holmes again and find out what he'd been working on. His windows were brightly lit, and as I looked up, I saw his tall, thin shape pass by twice, like a dark shadow against the blind. He was pacing quickly and eagerly, his head down and his hands clasped behind his back. Since I knew his habits and moods so well, I could tell right away what this meant: he was working on a case again. He had shaken off the fog of the drug and was now excitedly chasing some new mystery. I rang the bell and was led up to the room that used to be partly mine, too.

Holmes wasn't the type to gush with excitement, and he didn't this time either—but I think he was happy to see me. Without saying much, but with a warm look in his eye, he waved me toward an armchair, tossed me his box of cigars, and pointed to a drink cabinet and soda machine in the corner. Then he stood by the fire and studied me carefully, the way he always did.

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

"Seven!" I replied.

"Really, I would have guessed a bit more. Just a little more, Watson. And I see you're back in medical practice. You didn't mention you were planning to go back to work."

"Then how do you know?"

"I see it—I figure it out. How do I know you've been getting soaked lately, and that you have a very clumsy, careless maid?"

"My dear Holmes," I said, "this is too much. A few centuries ago, you would have been burned as a witch for this. It's true I went for a walk in the country on Thursday and came home a complete mess, but I've changed clothes since then, so I have no idea how you figured that out. And yes, Mary Jane is hopeless, and my wife has already let her go—but again, I don't see how you worked that out."

He chuckled and rubbed his long, restless hands together.

"It's simple," he said. "My eyes tell me that on the inside of your left shoe, right where the firelight hits it, the leather has six almost parallel scratches. These were clearly made by someone who carelessly scraped mud off the edges of the sole. So, I can tell two things: you were out in terrible weather, and you have a maid who is especially rough on shoes. As for your medical practice—if a gentleman walks into my room smelling like iodoform (a medical disinfectant), with a black mark from silver nitrate on his right index finger, and a bump on the right side of his top hat where he's hidden his stethoscope, I'd have to be pretty dull not to guess he's an active doctor."

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

"Exactly," he said, lighting a cigarette and settling into an armchair. "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, exactly?"

"Well, hundreds, probably."

"Then how many steps are there?"

"How many? I have no idea."

"Exactly! You've seen them, but you never observed them. That's my whole point. I, on the other hand, know there are seventeen steps, because I both see and observe. By the way, since you're interested in these little puzzles, and since you're kind enough to write down some of my cases, you might find this interesting." He handed me a sheet of thick, pink-tinted notepaper that had been sitting open on the table. "It came in the last mail delivery," he said. "Read it out loud."

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

"A gentleman will visit you tonight at a quarter to eight," it read. "He wishes to discuss a matter of the utmost importance. Your recent work for one of Europe's royal families proves that you can be trusted with matters of great significance. We have heard this about you from many sources. Please be in your room at that time, and do not be offended if your visitor wears a mask."

"This is quite the mystery," I said. "What do you think it means?"

"I don't have enough information yet. It's a serious mistake to form theories before you have facts. Without meaning to, you start twisting the facts to match your theory, instead of shaping your theory around the facts. But let's look at the note itself. What do you make of it?"

I examined the handwriting and the paper carefully.

"The writer is probably wealthy," I said, trying to copy Holmes's method. "This paper couldn't have cost less than two shillings sixpence a pack. 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 a large "E" with a small "g," a "P," and a large "G" with a small "t," all woven into the texture of the paper.

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

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

"Not quite. The 'G' with the small 't' stands for 'Gesellschaft'—German for 'Company.' It's a common shorthand, just like our 'Co.' The 'P' stands for 'Papier,' meaning 'paper.' Now, for the 'Eg'—let's check our atlas of Europe." He pulled down a thick brown book from the shelf. "Eglow, Eglonitz... here it is: Egria. It's in a German-speaking area—in Bohemia, close to Carlsbad. Notable as the place where Wallenstein died, and known for its glass factories and paper mills.' Ha! So, my friend, what do you make of that?" His eyes lit up, and he blew a triumphant cloud of smoke into the air.

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

"Exactly. And the man who wrote this note is German. Notice the strange sentence structure—'This account of you we have from all quarters received.' No Frenchman or Russian would write it that way. Germans often twist their sentences like that. So now we just need to find out what this German man wants—the one who writes on Bohemian paper and prefers hiding his face behind a mask. And here he comes now, unless I'm mistaken, to answer all our questions."

Just then, we heard the sharp clatter of horse hooves and the scrape of wheels against the curb, followed by a firm ring of the doorbell. Holmes let out a low whistle.

"Sounds like two horses," he said. Then, glancing out the window, he added, "Yes—a nice little carriage, and a beautiful pair of horses. Worth about a hundred and fifty guineas each. There's money involved in this case, Watson, if nothing else."

"I think I should go, Holmes."

"Not at all, Doctor. Stay right where you are. I'm lost without my biographer. This is turning out to 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 so might he. Here he comes now. Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and pay close attention."

Slow, heavy footsteps that had been climbing the stairs and crossing the hallway stopped right outside the door. Then came a loud, commanding knock.

"Come in!" called Holmes.

A man entered who must have stood at least six feet six inches tall, with the broad chest and powerful limbs of a bodybuilder. His clothing was so richly decorated that, in England, it might have been seen as showing off. Thick bands of expensive fur ran across the sleeves and front of his double-breasted coat, and the deep blue cloak draped over his shoulders was lined with fiery orange silk, fastened at the neck with a brooch holding a single glowing gemstone. His boots reached halfway up his calves and were trimmed at the top with rich brown fur, completing the look of wild, over-the-top wealth suggested by his entire outfit. He held a wide-brimmed hat in one hand, and across the upper half of his face—covering down past his cheekbones—he wore a black mask, which he seemed to have just adjusted, since his hand was still raised to it as he walked in. Based on the visible lower part of his face, he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick, heavy lip and a long, straight chin suggest—