Chapter 1. Mr. Sherlock Holmes

Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not

infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table. I stood

upon the hearth-rug and picked up the stick which our visitor had left behind him the

night before. It was a fine, thick piece of wood, bulbous-headed, of the sort which is

known as a "Penang lawyer." Just under the head was a broad silver band nearly an inch

across. "To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.," was engraved

upon it, with the date "1884." It was just such a stick as the old-fashioned family

practitioner used to carry—dignified, solid, and reassuring.

"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"

Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no sign of my occupation.

"How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the back of your

head."

"I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in front of me," said he. "But,

tell me, Watson, what do you make of our visitor's stick? Since we have been so

unfortunate as to miss him and have no notion of his errand, this accidental souvenir

becomes of importance. Let me hear you reconstruct the man by an examination of it."

"I think," said I, following as far as I could the methods of my companion, "that Dr.

Mortimer is a successful, elderly medical man, well-esteemed since those who know

him give him this mark of their appreciation."

"Good!" said Holmes. "Excellent!"

"I think also that the probability is in favour of his being a country practitioner who

does a great deal of his visiting on foot."

"Why so?"

"Because this stick, though originally a very handsome one has been so knocked about

that I can hardly imagine a town practitioner carrying it. The thick-iron ferrule is worn

down, so it is evident that he has done a great amount of walking with it."

"Perfectly sound!" said Holmes.

"And then again, there is the 'friends of the C.C.H.' I should guess that to be the

Something Hunt, the local hunt to whose members he has possibly given some surgical

assistance, and which has made him a small presentation in return."

"Really, Watson, you excel yourself," said Holmes, pushing back his chair and lighting

a cigarette. "I am bound to say that in all the accounts which you have been so good as

to give of my own small achievements you have habitually underrated your own

abilities. It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light.

Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it. I

confess, my dear fellow, that I am very much in your debt."

He had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words gave me keen

pleasure, for I had often been piqued by his indifference to my admiration and to the

attempts which I had made to give publicity to his methods. I was proud, too, to think

that I had so far mastered his system as to apply it in a way which earned his approval.

He now took the stick from my hands and examined it for a few minutes with his *****

eyes. Then with an expression of interest he laid down his cigarette, and carrying the

cane to the window, he looked over it again with a convex lens.

"Interesting, though elementary," said he as he returned to his favourite corner of the

settee. "There are certainly one or two indications upon the stick. It gives us the basis

for several deductions."

"Has anything escaped me?" I asked with some self-importance. "I trust that there is

nothing of consequence which I have overlooked?"

"I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were erroneous. When I

said that you stimulated me I meant, to be frank, that in noting your fallacies I was

occasionally guided towards the truth. Not that you are entirely wrong in this instance.

The man is certainly a country practitioner. And he walks a good deal."

"Then I was right."

"To that extent."

"But that was all."

"No, no, my dear Watson, not all—by no means all. I would suggest, for example, that a

presentation to a doctor is more likely to come from a hospital than from a hunt, and

that when the initials 'C.C.' are placed before that hospital the words 'Charing Cross'

very naturally suggest themselves."

"You may be right."

"The probability lies in that direction. And if we take this as a working hypothesis we

have a fresh basis from which to start our construction of this unknown visitor."

"Well, then, supposing that 'C.C.H.' does stand for 'Charing Cross Hospital,' what

further inferences may we draw?"

"Do none suggest themselves? You know my methods. Apply them!"

"I can only think of the obvious conclusion that the man has practised in town before

going to the country."

"I think that we might venture a little farther than this. Look at it in this light. On what

occasion would it be most probable that such a presentation would be made? When

would his friends unite to give him a pledge of their good will? Obviously at the

moment when Dr. Mortimer withdrew from the service of the hospital in order to start a

practice for himself. We know there has been a presentation. We believe there has been

a change from a town hospital to a country practice. Is it, then, stretching our inference

too far to say that the presentation was on the occasion of the change?"

"It certainly seems probable."

"Now, you will observe that he could not have been on the staff of the hospital, since

only a man well-established in a London practice could hold such a position, and such a

one would not drift into the country. What was he, then? If he was in the hospital and

yet not on the staff he could only have been a house-surgeon or a house-physician—

little more than a senior student. And he left five years ago—the date is on the stick. So

your grave, middle-aged family practitioner vanishes into thin air, my dear Watson, and

there emerges a young fellow under thirty, amiable, unambitious, absent-minded, and

the possessor of a favourite dog, which I should describe roughly as being larger than a

terrier and smaller than a mastiff."

I laughed incredulously as Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his settee and blew little

wavering rings of smoke up to the ceiling.

"As to the latter part, I have no means of checking you," said I, "but at least it is not

difficult to find out a few particulars about the man's age and professional career." From

my small medical shelf I took down the Medical Directory and turned up the name.

There were several Mortimers, but only one who could be our visitor. I read his record

aloud.

"Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon.

House-surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing Cross Hospital.

Winner of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology,

with essay entitled 'Is Disease a Reversion?' Corresponding

member of the Swedish Pathological Society. Author of

'Some Freaks of Atavism' (Lancet 1882). 'Do We Progress?'

(Journal of Psychology, March, 1883). Medical Officer

for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow."

"No mention of that local hunt, Watson," said Holmes with a mischievous smile, "but a

country doctor, as you very astutely observed. I think that I am fairly justified in my

inferences. As to the adjectives, I said, if I remember right, amiable, unambitious, and

absent-minded. It is my experience that it is only an amiable man in this world who

receives testimonials, only an unambitious one who abandons a London career for the

country, and only an absent-minded one who leaves his stick and not his visiting-card

after waiting an hour in your room."

"And the dog?"

"Has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his master. Being a heavy stick the

dog has held it tightly by the middle, and the marks of his teeth are very plainly visible.

The dog's jaw, as shown in the space between these marks, is too broad in my opinion

for a terrier and not broad enough for a mastiff. It may have been—yes, by Jove, it is a

curly-haired spaniel."

He had risen and paced the room as he spoke. Now he halted in the recess of the

window. There was such a ring of conviction in his voice that I glanced up in surprise.

"My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?"

"For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on our very door-step, and there is

the ring of its owner. Don't move, I beg you, Watson. He is a professional brother of

yours, and your presence may be of assistance to me. Now is the dramatic moment of

fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and

you know not whether for good or ill. What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man of

science, ask of Sherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime? Come in!"

The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I had expected a typical

country practitioner. He was a very tall, thin man, with a long nose like a beak, which

jutted out between two keen, gray eyes, set closely together and sparkling brightly from

behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a professional but rather slovenly

fashion, for his frock-coat was dingy and his trousers frayed. Though young, his long

back was already bowed, and he walked with a forward ****** of his head and a general

air of peering benevolence. As he entered his eyes fell upon the stick in Holmes's hand,

and he ran towards it with an exclamation of joy. "I am so very glad," said he. "I was

not sure whether I had left it here or in the Shipping Office. I would not lose that stick

for the world."

"A presentation, I see," said Holmes.

"Yes, sir."

"From Charing Cross Hospital?"

"From one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage."

"Dear, dear, that's bad!" said Holmes, shaking his head.

Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment. "Why was it bad?"

"Only that you have disarranged our little deductions. Your marriage, you say?"

"Yes, sir. I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all hopes of a consulting

practice. It was necessary to make a home of my own."

"Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all," said Holmes. "And now, Dr. James

Mortimer—"

"Mister, sir, Mister—a humble M.R.C.S."

"And a man of precise mind, evidently."

"A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells on the shores of the great

unknown ocean. I presume that it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes whom I am addressing and

not—"

"No, this is my friend Dr. Watson."

"Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned in connection with that of

your friend. You interest me very much, Mr. Holmes. I had hardly expected so

dolichocephalic a skull or such well-marked supra-orbital development. Would you

have any objection to my running my finger along your parietal fissure? A cast of your

skull, sir, until the original is available, would be an ornament to any anthropological

museum. It is not my intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet your skull."

Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. "You are an enthusiast in your

line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am in mine," said he. "I observe from your forefinger

that you make your own cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one."

The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up in the other with surprising

dexterity. He had long, quivering fingers as agile and restless as the antennae of an

insect.

Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me the interest which he took in

our curious companion. "I presume, sir," said he at last, "that it was not merely for the

purpose of examining my skull that you have done me the honour to call here last night

and again today?"

"No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunity of doing that as well. I

came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I recognized that I am myself an unpractical man and

because I am suddenly confronted with a most serious and extraordinary problem.

Recognising, as I do, that you are the second highest expert in Europe—"

"Indeed, sir! May I inquirer who has the honour to be the first?" asked Holmes with

some asperity.

"To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of Monsieur Bertillon must always

appeal strongly."

"Then had you not better consult him?"

"I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a practical man of affairs it is

acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust, sir, that I have not inadvertently—"

"Just a little," said Holmes. "I think, Dr. Mortimer, you would do wisely if without more

ado you would kindly tell me plainly what the exact nature of the problem is in which

you demand my assistance."

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