DOYLE, Arthur Conan - A Case of Identity

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A CASE OF IDENTITY

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A Case of Identity

By Sherlock Holmwa

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A CASE OF IDENTITY

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"My dear fellow." said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either

side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is infinitely

stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We

would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere

commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window

hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the

roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the

strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the won-

derful chains of events, working through generation, and leading

to the most outre results, it would make all fiction with its

conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprof-

itable. "

"And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered. "The cases

which come to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough,

and vulgar enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed

to its extreme limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed,

neither fascinating nor artistic."

"A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing

a realistic effect," remarked Holmes. "This is wanting in the

police report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the

platitudes of the magistrate than upon the details, which to an

observer contain the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend

upon it, there is nothing so unnatural as the commonplace."

I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite understand your

thinking so." I said. "Of course, in your position of unofficial

adviser and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled,

throughout three continents, you are brought in contact with all

that is strange and bizarre. But here" -- I picked up the morning

paper from the ground -- "let us put it to a practical test. Here is

the first heading upon which I come. 'A husband's cruelty to his

wife.' There is half a column of print, but I know without

reading it that it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is. of

course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the

bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of writers

could invent nothing more crude."

"Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argu-

ment," said Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down

it. "This is the Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was

engaged in clearing up some small points in connection with it.

The husband was a teetotaler, there was no other woman, and

the conduct complained of was that he had drifted into the habit

of winding up every meal by taking out his false teeth and

hurling them at his wife, which, you will allow, is not an action

likely to occur to the imagination of the average story-teller.

Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge that I have

scored over you in your example."

He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in

the centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his

homely ways and simple life that I could not help commenting

upon it.

"Ah," said he, "I forgot that I had not seen you for some

weeks. It is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return

for my assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers."

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"And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant

which sparkled upon his finger.

"It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the

matter in which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot

confide it even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle

one or two of my little problems."

"And have you any on hand just now?" I asked with interest.

"Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of

interest. They are important, you understand, without being

interesting. Indeed, I have found that it is usually in unimportant

matters that there is a field for the observation, and for the quick

analysis of cause and effect which gives the charm to an investi-

gation. The larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for the

bigger the crime thc more obvious, as a rule, is the motive. In

these cases, save for one rather intricate matter which has been

referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing which presents

any features of interest. It is possible, however, that I may have

something better before very many minutes are over, for this is

one of my clients, or I am much mistaken."

He had risen from his chair and was standing between the

parted blinds gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London

street. Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement

opposite there stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round

her neck, and a large curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat

which was tilted in a coquettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion

over her ear. From under this great panoply she peeped up in a

nervous, hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body

oscillated backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with

her glove buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer

who leaves the bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard

the sharp clang of the bell.

"I have seen those symptoms before," said Holmes, throwing

his cigarette into the fire. "Oscillation upon the pavement al-

ways means an affaire de coeur. She would like advice, but is

not sure that the matter is not too delicate for communication.

And yet even here we may discriminate. When a woman has

been seriously wronged by a man she no longer oscillates, and

the usual symptom is a broken bell wire. Here we may take it

that there is a love matter, but that the maiden is not so much

angry as perplexed, or grieved. But here she comes in person to

resolve our doubts."

As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons.

entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady her-

self loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed

merchant-man behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes wel-

comed her with the easy courtesy for which he was remarkable,

and, having closed the door and bowed her into an armchair, he

looked her over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which

was peculiar to him.

"Do you not find," he said, "that with your short sight it is a

little trying to do so much typewriting?"

"I did at first," she answered, "but now I know where the

letters are without looking." Then, suddenly realizing the full

purport of his words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with

fear and astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face.

"You've heard about me, Mr. Holmes," she cried, "else how

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could you know all that?"

"Never mind," said Holmes, laughing; "it is my business to

know things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others

overlook. If not, why should you come to consult me?"

"I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs.

Etherege, whose husband you found so easy when the police and

everyone had given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish

you would do as much for me. I'm not rich, but still I have a

hundred a year in my own right, besides the little that I make by

the machine, and I would give it all to know what has become of

Mr. Hosmer Angel."

"Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?"

asked Sherlock Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his

eyes to the ceiling.

Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of

Miss Mary Sutherland. "Yes, I did bang out of the house," she

said, "for it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr.

Windibank -- that is, my father -- took it all. He would not go to

the police, and he would not go to you, and so at last, as he

would do nothing and kept on saying that there was no harm

done, it made me mad, and I just on with my things and came

right away to you."

"Your father," said Holmes, "your stepfather, surely, since

the name is different."

"Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds

funny, too, for he is only five years and two months older than

myself. "

"And your mother is alive?"

"Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn't best pleased, Mr.

Holmes, when she married again so soon after father's death,

and a man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself.

Father was a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a

tidy business behind him, which mother carried on with Mr.

Hardy, the foreman; but when Mr. Windibank came he made her

sell the business, for he was very superior, being a traveller in

wines. They got 4700 pounds for the goodwill and interest, which

wasn't near as much as father could have got if he had been

alive."

I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this

rambling and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary he

had listened with the greatest concentration of attention.

"Your own little income," he asked, "does it come out of the

business?"

"Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle

Ned in Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4 1/2 per

cent. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I

can only touch the interest."

"You interest me extremely," said Holmes. "And since you

draw so large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into

the bargain, you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in

every way. I believe that a single lady can get on very nicely

upon an income of about 60 pounds."

"I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you

understand that as long as I live at home I don't wish to be a

burden to them, and so they have the use of the money just while

I am staying with them. Of course, that is only just for the time.

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Mr. Windibank draws my interest every quarter and pays it over

to mother, and I find that I can do pretty well with what I earn at

typewriting. It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can often do

from fifteen to twenty sheets in a-day."

"You have made your position very clear to me," said Holmes.

"This is my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as

freely as before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your

connection with Mr. Hosmer Angel."

A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, and she picked

nervously at the fringe of her jacket. "I met him first at the

gasfitters' ball," she said. "They used to send father tickets

when he was alive, and then afterwards they remembered us, and

sent them to mother. Mr. Windibank did not wish us to go. He

never did wish us to go anywhere. He would get quite mad if I

wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school treat. But this time I

was set on going, and I would go; for what right had he to

prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to know, when all

father's friends were to be there. And he said that I had nothing

fit to wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never so much

as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would do,

he went off to France upon the business of the firm, but we

went, mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our

foreman, and it was there I met Mr. Hosmer Angel."

"I suppose," said Holmes, "that when Mr. Windibank came

back from France he was very annoyed at your having gone to

the ball."

"Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remem-

ber, and shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use

denying anything to a woman, for she would have her way."

"I see. Then at the gasfitters' ball you met, as I understand, a

gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel."

"Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask

if we had got home all safe, and after that we met him -- that is to

say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father

came back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the

house any more."

"No?"

"Well, you know father didn't like anything of the sort. He

wouldn't have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to say

that a woman should be happy in her own family circle. But

then, as I used to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle

to begin with, and I had not got mine yet."

"But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt

to see you?"

"Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and

Hosmer wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to

see each other until he had gone. We could write in the mean-

time, and he used to write every day. I took the letters in in the

morning, so there was no need for father to know."

"Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk

that we took. Hosmer -- Mr. Angel -- was a cashier in an office in

Leadenhall Street -- and --"

"What office?"

"That's the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don't know."

"Where did he live, then?"

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"He slept on the premises."

"And you don't know his address?''

"No -- except that it was Leadenhall Street."

"Where did you address your letters, then?"

"To the Leadenhall Street Post-Office, to be left till called

for. He said that if they were sent to the office he would be

chaffed by all the other clerks about having letters from a lady,

so I offered to typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn't

have that, for he said that when I wrote them they seemed to

come from me, but when they were typewritten he always felt

that the machine had come between us. That will just show you

how fond he was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little things that he

would think of."

"It was most suggestive," said Holmes. "It has long been an

axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most impor-

tant. Can you remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer

Angel?"

"He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk

with me in the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he

hated to be conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was.

Even his voice was gentle. He'd had the quinsy and swollen

glands when he was young, he told me, and it had left him with

a weak throat, and a hesitating, whispering fashion of speech.

He was always well dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes

were weak, just as mine are, and he wore tinted glasses against

the glare."

"Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfa-

ther, returned to France?"

"Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed

that we should marry before father came back. He was in

dreadful earnest and made me swear, with my hands on the

Testament, that whatever happened I would always be true to

him. Mother said he was quite right to make me swear, and that

it was a sign of his passion. Mother was all in his favour from

the first and was even fonder of him than I was. Then, when

they talked of marrying within the week, I began to ask about

father; but they both said never to mind about father, but just to

tell him afterwards, and mother said she would make it all right

with him. I didn't quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny

that I should ask his leave, as he was only a few years older than

me; but I didn't want to do anything on the sly, so l wrote to

father at Bordeaux, where the company has its French offices,

but the letter came back to me on the very morning of the

wedding."

"It missed him, then?"

"Yes, sir; for he had started to England just before it arrived."

"Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then,

for the Friday. Was it to be in church?"

"Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour's, near

King's Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the

St. Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there

were two of us he put us both into it and stepped himself into a

four-wheeler, which happened to be the only other cab in the

street. We got to the church first, and when the four-wheeler

drove up we waited for him to step out, but he never did, and

when the cabman got down from the box and looked there was

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no one there! The cabman said that he couid not imagine what

had become of him, for he had seen him get in with his own

eyes. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen

or heard anything since then to throw any light upon what

became of him."

"It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated,"

said Holmes.

"Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why,

all the morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I

was to be true; and that even if something quite unforeseen

occurred to separate us, I was always to remember that I was

pledged to him, and that he would claim his pledge sooner or

later. It seemed strange talk for a wedding-morning, but what

has happened since gives a meaning to it."

"Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some

unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?"

"Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he

would not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw

happened."

"But you have no notion as to what it could have been?"

"None."

"One more question. How did your mother take the matter?"

"She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the

matter again."

"And your father? Did you tell him?"

"Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that something had

happened, and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said,

what interest could anyone have in bringing me to the doors of

the church, and then leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my

money, or if he had married me and got my money settled on

him, there might be some reason, but Hosmer was very indepen-

dent about money and never would look at a shilling of mine.

And yet, what could have happened? And why could he not

write? Oh, it drives me half-mad to think of it, and I can't sleep

a wink at night." She pulled a little handkerchief out of her muff

and began to sob heavily into it.

"I shall glance into the case for you," said Holmes, rising,

"and I have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result.

Let the weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let

your mind dwell upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr.

Hosmer Angel vanish from your memory, as he has done from

your life."

"Then you don't think I'll see him again?"

"l fear not."

"Then what has happened to him?"

"You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an

accurate description of him and any letters of his which you can

spare."

"I advertised for him in last Saturday's Chronicle," said she.

"Here is the slip and here are four letters from him."

"Thank you. And your address?"

"No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell."

"Mr. Angel's address you never had, I understand. Where is

your father's place of business?"

"He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret im-

porters of Fenchurch Street."

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"Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly.

You will leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I

have given you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do

not allow it to affect your life."

"You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall

be true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes

back."

For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was

something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which com-

pelled our respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon the

table and went her way, with a promise to come again whenever

she might be summoned.

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his finger-

tips still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him,

and his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down

from the rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a

counsellor, and, having lit it, he leaned back in his chair, with

the thick blue cloud-wreaths spinning up from him, and a look of

infinite languor in his face.

"Quite an interesting study, that maiden," he observed. "I

found her more interesting than her little problem, which, by the

way, is rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you

consult my index, in Andover in '77, and there was something of

the sort at The Hague last year. Old as is the idea, however,

there were one or two details which were new to me. But the

maiden herself was most instructive."

"You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite

invisible to me," I remarked.

"Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know

where to look, and so you missed all that was important. I can

never bring you to realize the importance of sleeves, the sugges-

tiveness of thumb-nails, or the great issues that may hang from a

boot-lace. Now, what did you gather from that woman's appear-

ance? Describe it."

"Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat,

with a feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black

beads sewn upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments.

Her dress was brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a

little purple plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were

grayish and were worn through at the right forefinger. Her boots

I didn't observe. She had small round, hanging gold earrings,

and a general air of being fairly well-to-do in a vulgar, comfort-

able, easy-going way."

Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.

" 'Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully.

You have really done very well indeed. It is true that you have

missed everything of importance, but you have hit upon the

method, and you have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to

general impressions, my boy, but concentrate yourself upon

details. My first glance is always at a woman's sleeve. In a man

it is perhaps better first to take the knee of the trouser. As you

observe, this woman had plush upon her sleeves, which is a most

useful material for showing traces. The double line a little above

the wrist, where the typewritist presses against the table, was

beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of the hand type, leaves

a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side of it

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farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the broad-

est part, as this was. I then glanced at her face, and, observing

the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I ventured a

remark upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to sur-

prise her."

"It surprised me."

"But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and

interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots

which she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were

really odd ones; the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and

the other a plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower

buttons out of five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth.

Now, when you see that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed,

has come away from home with odd boots, half-buttoned, it is

no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry."

"And what else?" I asked, keenly interested, as I always was,

by my friend's incisive reasoning.

"I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving

home but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right

glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see

that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had

written in a hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have

been this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the

finger. All this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must

go back to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the

advertised description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?"

I held the little printed slip to the light.

"Missing [it said] on the morning of the fourteenth. a

gentleman named Hosmer Angel. About five feet seven

inches in height; strongly built, sallow complexion, black

hair, a little bald in the centre, bushy, black side-whiskers

and moustache; tinted glasses, slight infirmity of speech.

Was dressed, when last seen, in black frock-coat faced with

silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and gray Harris

tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots.

Known to have been employed in an office in Leadenhall

Street. Anybody bringing --"

"That will do," said Holmes. "As to the letters," he contin-

ued, glancing over them, "they are very commonplace. Abso-

lutely no clue in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac

once. There is one remarkable point, however, which will no

doubt strike you."

"They are typewritten," I remarked.

"Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the

neat little 'Hosmer Angel' at the bottom. There is a date, you

see, but no superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is

rather vague. The point about the signature is very suggestive -- in

fact, we may call it conclusive."

"Of what?"

"My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it

bears upon the case?"

"I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished to be able

to deny his signature if an action for breach of promise were

instituted."

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"No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two

letters, which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the

City, the other is to the young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windibank,

asking him whether he could meet us here at six o'clock to-

morrow evening. It is just as well that we should do business

with the male relatives. And now, Doctor, we can do nothing

until the answers to those letters come, so we may put our little

problem upon the shelf for the interim."

I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend's subtle

powers of reasoning and extraordinary energy in action that I felt

that he must have some solid grounds for the assured and easy

demeanour with which he treated the singular mystery which he

had been called upon to fathom. Once only had I known him to

fail, in the case of the King of Bohemia and of the Irene Adler

photograph; but when I looked back to the weird business of

'The Sign of Four', and the extraordinary circumstances con-

nected with 'A Study in Scarlet', I felt that it would be a strange

tangle indeed which he could not unravel.

I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the

conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would

find that he held in his hands all the clues which would lead up

to the identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary

Sutherland.

A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own

attention at the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the

bedside of the sufferer. It was not until close upon six o'clock

that I found myself free and was able to spring into a hansom

and drive to Baker Street, half afraid that I might be too late to

assist at the denouement of the little mystery. I found Sherlock

Holmes alone, however, half asleep, with his long, thin form

curled up in the recesses of his armchair. A formidable array of

bottles and test-tubes, with the pungent cleanly smell of hydro-

chloric acid, told me that he had spent his day in the chemical

work which was so dear to him.

"Well, have you solved it?" I asked as I entered.

"Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta."

"No, no, the mystery!" I cried.

"Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon.

There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said

yesterday, some of the details are of interest. The only drawback

is that there is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel."

"Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss

Sutherland?"

The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had

not yet opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall

in the passage and a tap at the door.

"This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windibank," said

Holmes. "He has written to me to say that he would be here at

six. Come in!"

The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some

thirty years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a

bland, insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and

penetrating gray eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of

us, placed his shiny top-hat upon the sideboard, and with a slight

bow sidled down into the nearest chair.

"Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes. "I

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DOYLE, Arthur Conan - A Case of Identity

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