Preface
His Last Bow
The friends of Mr. Sherlock Holmes will be glad to learnthat he is still alive and well , though somewhat crippled byoccasional attacks of rheumatism. He has, for many years, livedin a small farm upon the downs five miles from Eastbourne,where his time is divided between philosophy and agriculture.
During this period of rest he has refused the most princely offersto take up various cases, having determined that his retirementwas a permanent one. The approach of the German war causedhim, however, to lay his remarkable combination of intellectualand practical activity at the disposal of the government, withhistorical results which are recounted in His Latst Bow. Severalprevious experiences which have lain long in my portfolio havebeen added to His Last Bow so as to complete the volume.
JOHN H. WATSON. M. D
The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge
1. The Singular Experience of Mr. John Scott EcclesI find it recorded in my notebook that it was a bleak and windyday towards the end of March in the year 1892. Holmes had receiveda telegram while we sat at our lunch, and he had scribbled a reply.
He made no remark, but the matter remained in his thoughts,for he stood in front of the fire afterwards with a thoughtful face,smoking his pipe, and casting an occasional glance at the message.
Suddenly he turned upon me with a mischievous twinkle in hiseyes.
“I suppose, Watson, we must look upon you as a man of letters,”
said he. “How do you define the word ‘grotesque’ ?”
“Strange—remarkable,” I suggested.
He shook his head at my definition.
“There is surely something more than that,” said he; “someunderlying suggestion of the tragic and the terrible. If you castyour mind back to some of those narratives with which you haveafflicted a long-suffering public, you will recognize how often thegrotesque has deepened into the criminal. Think of that littleaffair of the red-headed men. That was grotesque enough in theoutset, and yet it ended in a desperate attempt at robbery. Or,again, there was that most grotesque affair of the five orange pips,which led straight to a murderous conspiracy. The word puts meon the alert.”
“Have you it there?” I asked.
He read the telegram aloud.
“Have just had most incredible and grotesque experience. May Iconsult you?
“Scott Eccles,
“Post Office, Charing Cross.”
“Man or woman?” I asked.
“Oh, man, of course. No woman would ever send a reply-paidtelegram. She would have come.”
“Will you see him?”
“My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been since welocked up Colonel Carruthers. My mind is like a racing engine,tearing itself to pieces because it is not connected up with thework for which it was built. Life is commonplace, the papers aresterile; audacity and romance seem to have passed forever fromthe criminal world. Can you ask me, then, whether I am ready tolook into any new problem, however trivial it may prove? But here,unless I am mistaken, is our client.”
A measured step was heard upon the stairs, and a moment latera stout, tall, gray-whiskered and solemnly respectable person wasushered into the room. His life history was written in his heavyfeatures and pompous manner. From his spats to his gold-rimmedspectacles he was a Conservative, a churchman, a good citizen,orthodox and conventional to the last degree. But some amazingexperience had disturbed his native composure and left its tracesin his bristling hair, his flushed, angry cheeks, and his flurried,excited manner. He plunged instantly into his business.
“I have had a most singular and unpleasant experience, Mr.
Holmes,” said he. “Never in my life have I been placed in such asituation. It is most improper—most outrageous. I must insistupon some explanation.” He swelled and puffed in his anger.
“Pray sit down, Mr. Scott Eccles,” said Holmes in a soothingvoice. “May I ask, in the first place, why you came to me at all?”
“Well, sir, it did not appear to be a matter which concerned thepolice, and yet, when you have heard the facts, you must admitthat I could not leave it where it was. Private detectives are aclass with whom I have absolutely no sympathy, but none the less,having heard your name—”
“Quite so. But, in the second place, why did you not come atonce?”
“What do you mean?”
Holmes glanced at his watch.
“It is a quarter-past two,” he said. “Your telegram was dispatchedabout one. But no one can glance at your toilet and attire withoutseeing that your disturbance dates from the moment of yourwaking.”
Our client smoothed down his unbrushed hair and felt hisunshaven chin.
“You are right, Mr. Holmes. I never gave a thought to my toilet.
I was only too glad to get out of such a house. But I have beenrunning round making inquiries before I came to you. I went tothe house agents, you know, and they said that Mr. Garcia’s rentwas paid up all right and that everything was in order at WisteriaLodge.”
“Come, come, sir,” said Holmes, laughing. “You are like myfriend, Dr. Watson, who has a bad habit of telling his stories wrongend foremost. Please arrange your thoughts and let me know, intheir due sequence, exactly what those events are which have sentyou out unbrushed and unkempt, with dress boots and waistcoatbuttoned awry, in search of advice and assistance.”
Our client looked down with a rueful face at his own unconventionalappearance.
“I’m sure it must look very bad, Mr. Holmes, and I am not awarethat in my whole life such a thing has ever happened before. But Iwill tell you the whole queer business, and when I have done so youwill admit, I am sure, that there has been enough to excuse me.”
But his narrative was nipped in the bud. There was a bustleoutside, and Mrs. Hudson opened the door to usher in two robustand official-looking individuals, one of whom was well known tous as Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard, an energetic, gallant,and, within his limitations, a capable officer. He shook hands withHolmes and introduced his comrade as Inspector Baynes, of theSurrey Constabulary.