Sherlock Holmes - Character Illustrations
26/08/09 16:07 Filed in: Character Illustrations
It occurred after my withdrawal to my little Sussex home, when I had given myself up entirely to that soothing life of Nature for which I had so often yearned during the long years spent amid the gloom of London.
It was impossible to work upon so delightful a day, and I strolled out before breakfast to enjoy the exquisite air.
He and I were always friendly from the day I came to the coast, and he was the one man who was on such terms with me that we could drop in on each other in the evenings without an invitation.
Women have seldom been an attraction to me, for my brain has always governed my heart, but I could not look upon her perfect clear-cut face, with all the soft freshness of the downlands in her delicate colouring, without realizing that no young man would cross her path unscathed.
She listened to a short account from my companion, with a composed concentration which showed me that she possessed strong character as well as great beauty. Maud Bellamy will always remain in my memory as a most complete and remarkable woman.
“Thank you,” said I. “I value a woman’s instinct in such matters.
Personally, I had gone over the whole ground again, both physically and mentally, but with no new conclusions. In all my chronicles the reader will find no case which brought me so completely to the limit of my powers. Even my imagination could conceive no solution to the mystery.
“Sad story this, sir, about Mr. McPherson’s dog,” said she one evening.
I do not encourage such conversations, but the words arrested my attention.
For a long time I stood in deep meditation while the shadows grew darker around me. My mind was filled with racing thoughts. You have known what it was to be in a nightmare in which you feel that there is some all-important thing for which you search and which you know is there, though it remains forever just beyond your reach. That was how I felt that evening as I stood alone by that place of death.
I had just reached the top of the path when it came to me. Like a flash, I remembered the thing for which I had so eagerly and vainly grasped. You will know, or Watson has written in vain, that I hold a vast store of out-of-the-way knowledge without scientific system, but very available for the needs of my work. My mind is like a crowded box-room with packets of all sorts stowed away therein — so many that I may well have but a vague perception of what was there. I had known that there was something which might bear upon this matter. It was still vague, but at least I knew how I could make it clear.
“I have examined them very carefully with a lens. They have peculiarities.”
I stepped to my bureau and brought out an enlarged photograph. “This is my method in such cases,” I explained.
“You certainly do things thoroughly, Mr. Holmes.”
“I should hardly be what I am if I did not.”
“I do not care to discuss it until there is something more solid to discuss.”
“No, no, you won’t draw me until I am ready,” said I with a smile.
“It has done mischief enough. Its day is over!” I cried. “Help me, Stackhurst! Let us end the murderer forever.”
“No, Mr. Murdoch. I was already upon the track, and had I been out as early as I intended I might well have saved you from this terrific experience.”
“I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for trifles.”
“Well, you’ve done it!” he cried at last. “I had read of you, but I never believed it. It’s wonderful!”
I was forced to shake my head. To accept such praise was to lower one’s own standards.
“I was slow at the outset — culpably slow.”
“That was where I went astray. Well, well, Inspector, I often ventured to chaff you gentlemen of the police force, but Cyanea capillata very nearly avenged Scotland Yard.”
He and I were always friendly from the day I came to the coast, and he was the one man who was on such terms with me that we could drop in on each other in the evenings without an invitation.
Women have seldom been an attraction to me, for my brain has always governed my heart, but I could not look upon her perfect clear-cut face, with all the soft freshness of the downlands in her delicate colouring, without realizing that no young man would cross her path unscathed.
She listened to a short account from my companion, with a composed concentration which showed me that she possessed strong character as well as great beauty. Maud Bellamy will always remain in my memory as a most complete and remarkable woman.
“Thank you,” said I. “I value a woman’s instinct in such matters.
Personally, I had gone over the whole ground again, both physically and mentally, but with no new conclusions. In all my chronicles the reader will find no case which brought me so completely to the limit of my powers. Even my imagination could conceive no solution to the mystery.
“Sad story this, sir, about Mr. McPherson’s dog,” said she one evening.
I do not encourage such conversations, but the words arrested my attention.
For a long time I stood in deep meditation while the shadows grew darker around me. My mind was filled with racing thoughts. You have known what it was to be in a nightmare in which you feel that there is some all-important thing for which you search and which you know is there, though it remains forever just beyond your reach. That was how I felt that evening as I stood alone by that place of death.
I had just reached the top of the path when it came to me. Like a flash, I remembered the thing for which I had so eagerly and vainly grasped. You will know, or Watson has written in vain, that I hold a vast store of out-of-the-way knowledge without scientific system, but very available for the needs of my work. My mind is like a crowded box-room with packets of all sorts stowed away therein — so many that I may well have but a vague perception of what was there. I had known that there was something which might bear upon this matter. It was still vague, but at least I knew how I could make it clear.
“I have examined them very carefully with a lens. They have peculiarities.”
I stepped to my bureau and brought out an enlarged photograph. “This is my method in such cases,” I explained.
“You certainly do things thoroughly, Mr. Holmes.”
“I should hardly be what I am if I did not.”
“I do not care to discuss it until there is something more solid to discuss.”
“No, no, you won’t draw me until I am ready,” said I with a smile.
“It has done mischief enough. Its day is over!” I cried. “Help me, Stackhurst! Let us end the murderer forever.”
“No, Mr. Murdoch. I was already upon the track, and had I been out as early as I intended I might well have saved you from this terrific experience.”
“I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for trifles.”
“Well, you’ve done it!” he cried at last. “I had read of you, but I never believed it. It’s wonderful!”
I was forced to shake my head. To accept such praise was to lower one’s own standards.
“I was slow at the outset — culpably slow.”
“That was where I went astray. Well, well, Inspector, I often ventured to chaff you gentlemen of the police force, but Cyanea capillata very nearly avenged Scotland Yard.”