Chapter I
Mr. Sherlock Holmes
In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to take the course for surgeons in the army. I completed my studies there, and became Assistant Surgeon[1]. I came to the Berkshires[2], with whom I served at the fatal battle. There I was struck on the shoulder[3] by a bullet, which shattered the bone. I was so weak that they sent me back to England.
I had neither friends nor relatives in England. I came to London. There I stayed for some time at a private hotel. One day I was at a bar, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned round and recognized Stamford. The sight of a friendly face in London is a pleasant thing to a lonely man. I asked him to lunch with me, and we went together in a hansom.
“Whatever are you doing, Watson?” he asked, as we rattled through the London streets. “You are as thin as a lath.”
“Looking for lodgings.” I answered. “I want to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price.”
“That’s strange,” remarked my companion; “you are the second man today who says so.”
“And who is the first?” I asked.
“A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory. He cannot get someone for the nice rooms which he found, and which were too much for his purse.”
“Oh!” I cried, “if he really wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, I can be his partner.”
Stamford looked at me.
“You don’t know Sherlock Holmes yet,” he said.
“What is there against him?”
“Oh, I didn’t say there was anything against him. But he is an enthusiast in some branches of science. Anyway, he is a decent fellow enough.”
“I want to meet him,” I said. “How can I meet this friend of yours?”
“He is at the laboratory, I think” said my companion. “If you like, we can meet him after luncheon.”
“Certainly,” I answered.
We turned down a narrow lane and passed through a small side-door. Then we ascended the bleak stone staircase. Near the further end a passage led to the chemical laboratory.
This was a lofty chamber with countless bottles. Broad, low tables were scattered about. There was only one man in the room, who was bending over a table. He was absorbed in his work. Suddenly he sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure.
“Great!” he shouted to my companion. “Look! It is a re-agent which is precipitated by hemoglobin[4], and by nothing else.”
“Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Stamford.
“How are you?” he said cordially. “You visited Afghanistan, I see.”
“How did you know that?” I asked in astonishment.
“Never mind,” said he, chuckling to himself. “The question now is about hemoglobin. Do you see the significance of this discovery?”
“It is interesting, no doubt,” I answered, “but practically…”
“It is the most practical discovery for years. It gives us an infallible test for blood stains. Come over here now!” He drew me over to the table. “Let us have some fresh blood,” he said. He dug a long bodkin into his finger, and drew off the drop of blood in a chemical pipette. “Now, I add this small quantity of blood to water. You perceive that the mixture has the appearance of pure water. The proportion of blood is one in a million. However, we shall be able to obtain the characteristic reaction.”
He threw into the vessel a few white crystals, and then added some drops of a transparent fluid. In an instant the contents changed its colour.
“Ha! ha!” he cried. He was as delighted as a child with a new toy. “What do you think of that? It acts as well whether the blood is old or new. Hundreds of criminals will pay the penalty of their crimes.”
“Indeed!” I murmured.
“For example, we see brownish stains upon the criminal’s clothes. Are they blood stains, or mud stains, or rust stains, or fruit stains, or what are they? That is a question which puzzles many experts, and why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have the Sherlock Holmes’ test!”
His eyes glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over his heart and bowed.
“Congratulations,” I remarked. I was surprised at his enthusiasm.
“I can name many cases in which this test will be decisive.”
“We came here on business[5],” said Stamford. He sat down on a high three-legged stool, and pushed another one in my direction with his foot. “My friend is looking for a room, and you were complaining that you could get no one to share expenses with you. So, I bring you together.”
Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted.
“I know a good suite in Baker Street,” he said. “You don’t mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?”
“I smoke myself,” I answered.
“That’s good. I have chemicals, and occasionally do experiments. Will that annoy you?”
“By no means.”
“Moreover, at times I don’t open my mouth for days. You must not think I am sulky when I do that. And what about you? It’s better for two fellows to know one another before they begin to live together.”
I laughed.
“I have a bull pup[6],” I said, “I hate noise, and I am extremely lazy. I have other vices, but those are the principal ones.”
