The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

Part 2 THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE-1

Part 2

THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the

autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very

stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an

apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes

pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.

"You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear

Watson," he said cordially.

"I was afraid that you were engaged."

"So I am. Very much so."

"Then I can wait in the next room."

"Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and

helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt

that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also."

The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of

greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small

fat-encircled eyes.

"Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and

putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial

moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that

is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of

everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm

which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my

saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little

adventures."

"Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me," I

observed.

"You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we

went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary

Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary combinations

we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any

effort of the imagination."

"A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting."

"You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my

view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you

until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be

right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon

me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one

of the most singular which I have listened to for some time. You

have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things are

very often connected not with the larger but with the smaller

crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt

whether any positive crime has been committed. As far as I have

heard it is impossible for me to say whether the present case is an

instance of crime or not, but the course of events is certainly

among the most singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr.

Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence your

narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has

not heard the opening part but also because the peculiar nature of

the story makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your

lips. As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the

course of events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of

other similar cases which occur to my memory. In the present

instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my

belief, unique."

The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of

some little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from

the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the

advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the paper

flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man and

endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion, to read the

indications which might be presented by his dress or

appearance.

I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor

bore every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman,

obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd's

check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in

the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain,

and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A

frayed top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet

collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether, look as I would,

there was nothing remarkable about the man save his blazing red

head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his

features.

Sherlock Holmes' quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook

his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances. "Beyond

the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that

he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China,

and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can

deduce nothing else."

Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger

upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.

"How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr.

Holmes?" he asked. "How did you know, for example, that I did

manual labour. It's as true as gospel, for I began as a ship's

carpenter."

"Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger

than your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more

developed."

"Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?"

"I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read

that, especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order,

you use an arc-and-compass breastpin."

"Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?"

"What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for

five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow

where you rest it upon the desk?"

"Well, but China?"

"The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right

wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a small study

of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature of the

subject. That trick of staining the fishes' scales of a delicate

pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese

coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter becomes even more

simple."

Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. "Well, I never!" said he. "I

thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see that

there was nothing in it, after all."

"I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, "that I make a mistake

in explaining. 'Omne ignotum pro magnifico,' you know, and my poor

little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so

candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?"

"Yes, I have got it now," he answered with his thick red finger

planted halfway down the column. "Here it is. This is what began it

all. You just read it for yourself, sir."

I took the paper from him and read as follows:

"TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the late

Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now

another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a

salary of 4 pounds a week for purely nominal services. All

red-headed men who are sound in body and mind and above the age of

twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at

eleven o'clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7

Pope's Court, Fleet Street."

"What on earth does this mean?" I ejaculated after I had twice

read over the extraordinary announcement.

Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when

in high spirits. "It is a little off the beaten track, isn't it?"

said he. "And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us

all about yourself, your household, and the effect which this

advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make a note,

Doctor, of the paper and the date."

"It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two months

ago."

"Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?"

"Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock

Holmes," said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; "I have a small

pawnbroker's business at Coburg Square, near the City. It's not a

very large affair, and of late years it has not done more than just

give me a living. I used to be able to keep two assistants, but now

I only keep one; and I would have a job to pay him but that he is

willing to come for half wages so as to learn the business."

"What is the name of this obliging youth?" asked Sherlock

Holmes.

"His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth,

either. It's hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter

assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could better

himself and earn twice what I am able to give him. But, after all,

if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?"

"Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employé who

comes under the full market price. It is not a common experience

among employers in this age. I don't know that your assistant is

not as remarkable as your advertisement."

"Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson. "Never was such a

fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought

to be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like

a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main

fault, but on the whole he's a good worker. There's no vice in

him."

"He is still with you, I presume?"

"Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple

cooking and keeps the place clean—that's all I have in the house,

for I am a widower and never had any family. We live very quietly,

sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our

debts, if we do nothing more.

"The first thing that put us out was that advertisement.

Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight weeks,

with this very paper in his hand, and he says:

"'I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed

man.'

"'Why that?' I asks.

"'Why,' says he, 'here's another vacancy on the League of the

Red-headed Men. It's worth quite a little fortune to any man who

gets it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there

are men, so that the trustees are at their wits' end what to do

with the money. If my hair would only change colour, here's a nice

little crib all ready for me to step into.'

"'Why, what is it, then?' I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a

very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my

having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my

foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn't know much of what was

going on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news.

"'Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?' he

asked with his eyes open.

"'Never.'

"'Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one

of the vacancies.'

"'And what are they worth?' I asked.

"'Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight,

and it need not interfere very much with one's other

occupations.'

"Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears,

for the business has not been over-good for some years, and an

extra couple of hundred would have been very handy.

"'Tell me all about it,' said I.

"'Well,' said he, showing me the advertisement, 'you can see for

yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address

where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out,

the League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins,

who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and

he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so when he died it

was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of

trustees, with instructions to apply the interest to the providing

of easy berths to men whose hair is of that colour. From all I hear

it is splendid pay and very little to do.'

"'But,' said I, 'there would be millions of red-headed men who

would apply.'