“A very clear statement said Holmes,” rising and lighting hispipe. “I think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time in conveyingyour prisoner to a place of safety. This room is not well adaptedfor a cell, and Mr. Patrick Cairns occupies too large a proportionof our carpet.”
“Mr. Holmes,” said Hopkins, “I do not know how to express mygratitude. Even now I do not understand how you attained thisresult.”
“Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue fromthe beginning. It is very possible if I had known about thisnotebook it might have led away my thoughts, as it did yours. Butall I heard pointed in the one direction. The amazing strength,the skill in the use of the harpoon, the rum and water, the sealskintobacco-pouch with the coarse tobacco—all these pointed to aseaman, and one who had been a whaler. I was convinced that theinitials ‘P.C.’ upon the pouch were a coincidence, and not thoseof Peter Carey, since he seldom smoked, and no pipe was found inhis cabin. You remember that I asked whether whisky and brandywere in the cabin. You said they were. How many landsmen arethere who would drink rum when they could get these otherspirits? Yes, I was certain it was a seaman.”
“And how did you find him?”
“My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one. If itwere a seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been with himon the SEA UNICORN. So far as I could learn he had sailed inno other ship. I spent three days in wiring to Dundee, and at theend of that time I had ascertained the names of the crew of theSEA UNICORN in 1883. When I found Patrick Cairns amongthe harpooners, my research was nearing its end. I argued that theman was probably in London, and that he would desire to leavethe country for a time. I therefore spent some days in the EastEnd, devised an Arctic expedition, put forth tempting terms forharpooners who would serve under Captain Basil—and behold theresult!”
“Wonderful!” cried Hopkins. “Wonderful!”
“You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon aspossible,” said Holmes. “I confess that I think you owe him someapology. The tin box must be returned to him, but, of course, thesecurities which Peter Carey has sold are lost forever. There’s thecab, Hopkins, and you can remove your man. If you want me forthe trial, my address and that of Watson will be somewhere inNorway—I’ll send particulars later.”
The Adventure of
Charles Augustus Milverton
It is years since the incidents of which I speak took place, andyet it is with diffidence that I allude to them. For a long time,even with the utmost discretion and reticence, it would havebeen impossible to make the facts public, but now the principalperson concerned is beyond the reach of human law, and with duesuppression the story may be told in such fashion as to injure noone. It records an absolutely unique experience in the career bothof Mr. Sherlock Holmes and of myself. The reader will excuse meif I conceal the date or any other fact by which he might trace theactual occurrence.
We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes andI, and had returned about six o’clock on a cold, frosty winter’sevening. As Holmes turned up the lamp the light fell upon a cardon the table. He glanced at it, and then, with an ejaculation ofdisgust, threw it on the floor. I picked it up and read:
CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON,
APPLEDORE TOWERS,
HAMPSTEAD.
Agent.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“The worst man in London,” Holmes answered, as he sat downand stretched his legs before the fire. “Is anything on the back ofthe card?”
I turned it over.
“Will call at 6:30—C.A.M.,” I read.
“Hum! He’s about due. Do you feel a creeping, shrinkingsensation, Watson, when you stand before the serpents in the Zoo,and see the slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with their deadlyeyes and wicked, flattened faces? Well, that’s how Milvertonimpresses me. I’ve had to do with fifty murderers in my career, butthe worst of them never gave me the repulsion which I have forthis fellow. And yet I can’t get out of doing business with him—indeed, he is here at my invitation.”
“But who is he?”
“I’ll tell you, Watson. He is the king of all the blackmailers.
Heaven help the man, and still more the woman, whose secretand reputation come into the power of Milverton! With a smilingface and a heart of marble, he will squeeze and squeeze until hehas drained them dry. The fellow is a genius in his way, and wouldhave made his mark in some more savoury trade. His method isas follows: He allows it to be known that he is prepared to payvery high sums for letters which compromise people of wealth andposition. He receives these wares not only from treacherous valetsor maids, but frequently from genteel ruffians, who have gainedthe confidence and affection of trusting women. He deals withno niggard hand. I happen to know that he paid seven hundredpounds to a footman for a note two lines in length, and that theruin of a noble family was the result. Everything which is in themarket goes to Milverton, and there are hundreds in this great citywho turn white at his name. No one knows where his grip mayfall, for he is far too rich and far too cunning to work from hand tomouth. He will hold a card back for years in order to play it at themoment when the stake is best worth winning. I have said that heis the worst man in London, and I would ask you how could onecompare the ruffian, who in hot blood bludgeons his mate, withthis man, who methodically and at his leisure tortures the soul andwrings the nerves in order to add to his already swollen moneybags?”
I had seldom heard my friend speak with such intensity offeeling.
“But surely,” said I, “the fellow must be within the grasp of thelaw?”
“Technically, no doubt, but practically not. What would it profit awoman, for example, to get him a few months’ imprisonment if herown ruin must immediately follow? His victims dare not hit back. Ifever he blackmailed an innocent person, then indeed we should havehim, but he is as cunning as the Evil One. No, no, we must find otherways to fight him.”
“And why is he here?”
