A STUDY IN SCARLET Simplified Edition

Chapter 5 - OUR ADVERTISEMENT BRINGS A VISITOR

Chapter - 5

OUR ADVERTISEMENT BRINGS A VISITOR

Our morning’s activities had been too much for my weak health, and I was exhausted by the afternoon. After Holmes left for the concert, I lay down on the sofa, trying to get a couple of hours of sleep. But it was a hopeless attempt. My mind was too stirred up by everything that had happened, and strange thoughts kept crowding in.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the twisted, baboon-like face of the murdered man. The impression it left on me was so disturbing that I almost felt thankful to whoever had removed him from the world. If ever a face showed deep evil, it was certainly that of Enoch J. Drebber from Cleveland. Still, I knew justice had to be served, and the victim’s depravity did not change the law’s demands.

The more I thought about it, the stranger Holmes’ idea seemed that the man had been poisoned. I remembered how he had sniffed his lips and thought he must have detected something. But if it wasn’t poison, what caused the man’s death? There were no wounds or signs of strangulation. And what about the blood on the floor? There were no signs of a struggle, and the victim had no weapon.

As long as these questions remained unanswered, neither Holmes nor I could sleep easily. His calm, confident manner made me think he had already formed a theory that explained everything, but I couldn’t guess what it was.

He returned very late—so late that the concert couldn’t have kept him. Dinner was already on the table when he arrived.

“It was magnificent,” he said as he sat down. “Do you remember what Darwin said about music? He claimed that our ability to create and enjoy music existed long before we could speak. Maybe that’s why it affects us so deeply. We might have memories from the early days of the world.”

“That’s quite a broad idea,” I said.

“One’s ideas must be as broad as Nature to understand Nature,” he replied. “What’s wrong? You don’t look yourself. This Brixton Road case has upset you.”

“Actually, it has,” I admitted. “I should be tougher after my experiences in Afghanistan. I saw my comrades cut to pieces at Maiwand without losing my nerve.”

“I understand. There’s something about this case that stirs the imagination; where there’s no imagination, there’s no horror. Have you seen the evening paper?”

“No.”

“It gives a good account of the case. It doesn’t mention that a woman’s wedding ring fell from the man when he was lifted. It’s probably best it doesn’t.”

“Why?”

“Look at this ad,” he said, handing me the paper. “I placed one in every paper this morning right after the incident.”

I glanced at the ad he pointed to in the “Found” column. It read, “In Brixton Road, this morning, a plain gold wedding ring found in the roadway between the White Hart Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr. Watson, 221B Baker Street, between eight and nine this evening.”

“Sorry for using your name,” he said. “If I used mine, some idiots would recognize it and meddle in the case.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “But what if someone comes? I don’t have the ring.”

“Oh yes, you do,” he replied, handing me a similar ring. “This will do just fine.”

“And who do you expect to respond to the ad?”

“The man in the brown coat—our friend with the square toes. If he doesn’t come himself, he’ll send an accomplice.”

“Won’t he think it’s too risky?”