Literary and Classical Culture

THE ADVENTURES OF THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

09 May 2020
Author's Name: SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
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A CRIME STORY BY SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

[Sir Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle (22 May 1859 – 7 July 1930) was a British writer and medical doctor- his crime stories of Sherlock Holmes are unparalleled in the field of crime fiction in English Literature.]

Author's Name: SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
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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 watchchain, 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 employè 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.’
“‘Not so many as you might think,’ he answered. ‘You see it is really confined to
Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started from London when he was young,
and he wanted to do the old town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your
applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red.
Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be
worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.’
“Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my hair is of a very full
and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if there was to be any competition in the matter
I stood as good a chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to
know so much about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered him to put
up the shutters for the day and to come right away with me. He was very willing to have a
holiday, so we shut the business up and started off for the address that was given us in the
advertisement.
“I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From north, south, east,
and west every man who had a shade of red in his hair had tramped into the city to answer
the advertisement. Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope’s Court looked
like a coster’s orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so many in the whole
country as were brought together by that single advertisement. Every shade of colour they
were—straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were
not many who had the real vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I
would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear of it. How he did it I could
not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and
right up to the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream upon the stair, some
going up in hope, and some coming back dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could
and soon found ourselves in the office.”
“Your experience has been a most entertaining one,” remarked Holmes as his client
paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff. “Pray continue your very
interesting statement.”
“There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a deal table,
behind which sat a small man with a head that was even redder than mine. He said a few
words to each candidate as he came up, and then he always managed to find some fault in
them which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy
matter, after all. However, when our turn came the little man was much more favourable to
me than to any of the others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he might have a
private word with us.
“‘This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,’ said my assistant, ‘and he is willing to fill a vacancy in the
League.’
“‘And he is admirably suited for it,’ the other answered. ‘He has every requirement.
I cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine.’ He took a step backward, cocked his
head on one side, and gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged
forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on my success.
“‘It would be injustice to hesitate,’ said he. ‘You will, however, I am sure, excuse me
for taking an obvious precaution.’ With that he seized my hair in both his hands, and
tugged until I yelled with the pain. ‘There is water in your eyes,’ said he as he released
me. ‘I perceive that all is as it should be. But we have to be careful, for we have twice been
deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler’s wax which would
disgust you with human nature.’ He stepped over to the window and shouted through it at
the top of his voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from
below, and the folk all trooped away in different directions until there was not a red-head to
be seen except my own and that of the manager.
“‘My name,’ said he, ‘is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the pensioners upon
the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a
family?’
“I answered that I had not.
“His face fell immediately.
“‘Dear me!’ he said gravely, ‘that is very serious indeed! I am sorry to hear you say that.
The fund was, of course, for the propagation and spread of the red-heads as well as for
their maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor.’
“My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not to have the
vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for a few minutes he said that it would be all
right.
“‘In the case of another,’ said he, ‘the objection might be fatal, but we must stretch a
point in favour of a man with such a head of hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter
upon your new duties?’
“‘Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,’ said I.
“‘Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!’ said Vincent Spaulding. ‘I should be able to
look after that for you.’
“‘What would be the hours?’ I asked.
“‘Ten to two.’
“Now a pawnbroker’s business is mostly done of an evening, Mr. Holmes, especially
Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before pay-day; so it would suit me very well to
earn a little in the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that he
would see to anything that turned up.
“‘That would suit me very well,’ said I. ‘And the pay?’
“‘Is 4 pounds a week.’
“‘And the work?’
“‘Is purely nominal.’
“‘What do you call purely nominal?’
“‘Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building, the whole time.
If you leave, you forfeit your whole position forever. The will is very clear upon that
point. You don’t comply with the conditions if you budge from the office during that
time.’
“‘It’s only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,’ said I.
“‘No excuse will avail,’ said Mr. Duncan Ross; ‘neither sickness nor business nor
anything else. There you must stay, or you lose your billet.’
“‘And the work?’
“‘Is to copy out the “Encyclopaedia Britannica.” There is the first volume of it in that
press. You must find your own ink, pens, and blotting-paper, but we provide this table and
chair. Will you be ready to-morrow?’
“‘Certainly,’ I answered.
“‘Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once more on the
important position which you have been fortunate enough to gain.’ He bowed me out of
the room and I went home with my assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so
pleased at my own good fortune.
“Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low spirits again;
for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole affair must be some great hoax or
fraud, though what its object might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past
belief that anyone could make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing
anything so simple as copying out the ‘Encyclopaedia Britannica.’ Vincent Spaulding
did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the
whole thing. However, in the morning I determined to have a look at it anyhow, so I
bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I
started off for Pope’s Court.
“Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as possible. The table
was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to see that I got fairly to
work. He started me off upon the letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in
from time to time to see that all was right with me. At two o’clock he bade me good day,

complimented me upon the amount that I had written, and locked the door of the
office after me.
“This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager came in and
planked down four golden sovereigns for my week’s work. It was the same next week, and
the same the week after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at
two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then,
after a time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to leave the room for
an instant, for I was not sure when he might come, and the billet was such a good one,
and suited me so well, that I would not risk the loss of it.
“Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots and Archery and
Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with diligence that I might get on to the
B’s before very long. It cost me something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf
with my writings. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end.”
“To an end?”
“Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual at ten o’clock, but
the door was shut and locked, with a little square of cardboard hammered on to the middle
of the panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself.”
He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of note-paper. It read
in this fashion:
THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE
IS
DISSOLVED.
October 9, 1890.
Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful face behind it,
until the comical side of the affair so completely overtopped every other consideration that
we both burst out into a roar of laughter.
“I cannot see that there is anything very funny,” cried our client, flushing up to the roots
of his flaming head. “If you can do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere.”
“No, no,” cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he had half risen.
“I really wouldn’t miss your case for the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is,
if you will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps did
you take when you found the card upon the door?”
“I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at the offices round, but
none of them seemed to know anything about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an
accountant living on the ground-floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become
of the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such body. Then I
asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the name was new to him.
“‘Well,’ said I, ‘the gentleman at No. 4.’
“‘What, the red-headed man?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Oh,’ said he, ‘his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor and was using my
room as a temporary convenience until his new premises were ready. He moved out
yesterday.’
“‘Where could I find him?’
“‘Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near
St. Paul’s.’
“I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a manufactory of
artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr.
Duncan Ross.”
“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.
“I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my assistant. But he
could not help me in any way. He could only say that if I waited I should hear by post. But
that was not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a
struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor folk who were
in need of it, I came right away to you.”
“And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your case is an exceedingly remarkable one,
and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you have told me I think that it is possible
that graver issues hang from it than might at first sight appear.”
“Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “Why, I have lost four pound a week.”
“As far as you are personally concerned,” remarked Holmes, “I do not see that you have
any grievance against this extraordinary league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand,
richer by some 30 pounds, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained
on every subject which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them.”
“No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what their object
was in playing this prank—if it was a prank—upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for
them, for it cost them two and thirty pounds.”
“We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first, one or two questions,
Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called your attention to the advertisement—
how long had he been with you?”
“About a month then.”
“How did he come?”
“In answer to an advertisement.”
“Was he the only applicant?”
“No, I had a dozen.”
“Why did you pick him?”
“Because he was handy and would come cheap.”
“At half-wages, in fact.”
“Yes.”
“What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?”
“Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face, though he’s not short of
thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his forehead.”
Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. “I thought as much,” said he.
“Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for earrings?”
“Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he was a lad.”
“Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. “He is still with you?”
“Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.”
“And has your business been attended to in your absence?”
“Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s never very much to do of a morning.”
“That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the subject in
the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to
a conclusion.”
“Well, Watson,” said Holmes when our visitor had left us, “what do you make of it all?”
“I make nothing of it,” I answered frankly. “It is a most mysterious business.”
“As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be.
It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace
face is the most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter.”
“What are you going to do, then?” I asked.
“To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg that you won’t
speak to me for fifty minutes.” He curled himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn
up to his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe
thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion that he had
dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair
with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind and put his pipe down upon the
mantelpiece.
“Sarasate plays at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he remarked. “What do you
think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few hours?”
“I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing.”
“Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first, and we can
have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal of German music on the
programme, which is rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is introspective, and
I want to introspect. Come along!”
We traveled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk took us to SaxeCoburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we had listened to in the morning.
It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick
houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few
clumps of faded laurel-bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and uncongenial
atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with “JABEZ WILSON” in white letters,
upon a corner house, announced the place where our red-headed client carried on his
business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side and looked it
all over, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up
the street, and then down again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally he
returned to the pawnbroker’s, and, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his
stick two or three times, he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a
bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step in.
“Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how you would go from here to
the Strand.”
“Third right, fourth left,” answered the assistant promptly, closing the door.
“Smart fellow, that,” observed Holmes as we walked away. “He is, in my judgment, the
fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am not sure that he has not a claim to be
third. I have known something of him before.”
“Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts for a good deal in this mystery of the
Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired your way merely in order that you might
see him.”
“Not him.”
“What then?”
“The knees of his trousers.”
“And what did you see?”
“What I expected to see.”
“Why did you beat the pavement?”
“My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in an enemy’s
country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us now explore the parts which
lie behind it.”
The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from the retired SaxeCoburg Square presented as great a contrast to it as the front of a picture does to the back. It
was one of the main arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and west. The
roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward
and outward, while the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was
difficult to realise as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately business premises that they
really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant square which we had just quitted.
“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along the line, “I
should like just to remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have
an exact knowledge of London. There is Mortimer’s, the tobacconist, the little newspaper
shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and
McFarlane’s carriage-building depot. That carries us right on to the other block. And now,
Doctor, we’ve done our work, so it’s time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee,
and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are
no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums.”
My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very capable performer
but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the
most perfect happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his
gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuthhound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to
conceive. In his singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and his extreme
exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction against the poetic
and contemplative mood which occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature
took him from extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never so
truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in his armchair amid his
improvisations and his black-letter editions. Then it was that the lust of the chase would
suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the level of
intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his methods would look askance at him as
on a man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so
enwrapped in the music at St. James’s Hall I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those
whom he had set himself to hunt down.
“You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,” he remarked as we emerged.
“Yes, it would be as well.”
“And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This business at Coburg
Square is serious.”
“Why serious?”
“A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to believe that we shall
be in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your
help to-night.”
“At what time?”
“Ten will be early enough.”
“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”
“Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so kindly put your army
revolver in your pocket.” He waved his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an
instant among the crowd.
I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always oppressed
with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard
what he had heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident
that he saw clearly not only what had happened but what was about to happen, while to
me the whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I drove home to my house in
Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of
the “Encyclopaedia” down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with
which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go
armed? Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes that
this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant was a formidable man—a man who might play a
deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set the matter aside until
night should bring an explanation.
It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way across the Park,
and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door, and
as I entered the passage I heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room I
found Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognised as Peter
Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very
shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat.
“Ha! Our party is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket and taking
his heavy hunting crop from the rack. “Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland
Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night’s
adventure.”
“We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,” said Jones in his consequential way.
“Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help
him to do the running down.”
“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,” observed Mr.
Merryweather gloomily.
“You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,” said the police agent
loftily. “He has his own little methods, which are, if he won’t mind my saying so, just a
little too theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not
too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the Agra
treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the official force.”
“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the stranger with deference. “Still, I
confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I
have not had my rubber.”
“I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will play for a higher stake
to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr.
Merryweather, the stake will be some 30,000 pounds; and for you, Jones, it will be the man
upon whom you wish to lay your hands.”
“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a young man, Mr.
Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would rather have my bracelets
on him than on any criminal in London. He’s a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His
grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is
as cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know
where to find the man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising
money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next. I’ve been on his track for years and
have never set eyes on him yet.”
“I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I’ve had one or
two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the head of his
profession. It is past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If you two will take the
first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second.”
Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and lay back in the
cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon. We rattled through an endless
labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into Farrington Street.
“We are close there now,” my friend remarked. “This fellow Merryweather is a bank
director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with
us also. He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one
positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws
upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for us.”
We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found ourselves in
the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather,
we passed down a narrow passage and through a side door, which he opened for us. Within
there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was opened,
and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate.
Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earthsmelling passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was
piled all round with crates and massive boxes.
“You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes remarked as he held up the lantern
and gazed about him.
“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the flags which lined
the floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!” he remarked, looking up in surprise.
“I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!” said Holmes severely. “You have
already imperilled the whole success of our expedition. Might I beg that you would have the
goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?”
The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very injured
expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon the floor and, with the
lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones.
A few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his glass in his
pocket.
“We have at least an hour before us,” he remarked, “for they can hardly take any
steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they will not lose a minute, for
the sooner they do their work the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at
present, Doctor—as no doubt you have divined—in the cellar of the City branch of one
of the principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will
explain to you that there are reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take
a considerable interest in this cellar at present.”
“It is our French gold,” whispered the director. “We have had several warnings that an
attempt might be made upon it.”
“Your French gold?”
“Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and borrowed for
that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France. It has become known that we have
never had occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate
upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil. Our reserve
of bullion is much larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch office, and the
directors have had misgivings upon the subject.”
“Which were very well justified,” observed Holmes. “And now it is time that we
arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour matters will come to a head. In the
meantime Mr. Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark lantern.”
“And sit in the dark?”
“I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I thought that, as
we were a partiecarrèe, you might have your rubber after all. But I see that the enemy’s
preparations have gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all,
we must choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall take them at a
disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this
crate, and you conceal yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close
in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down.”
I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind which I
crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his lantern and left us in pitch
darkness—such an absolute darkness as I have never before experienced. The smell of hot
metal remained to assure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at a moment’s
notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something
depressing and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold dank air of the vault.
“They have but one retreat,” whispered Holmes. “That is back through the house into
Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I asked you, Jones?”
“I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.”
“Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and wait.”
What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an hour and
a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have almost gone and the dawn be
breaking above us. My limbs were weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet
my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute that
I could not only hear the gentle breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the
deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director.
From my position I could look over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes
caught the glint of a light.
At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it lengthened out until it
became a yellow line, and then, without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and
a hand appeared, a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little
area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the
floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again save the
single lurid spark which marked a chink between the stones.
Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing sound, one
of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side and left a square, gaping hole, through
which streamed the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face,
which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew
itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge. In another instant
he stood at the side of the hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like
himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair.
“It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have you the chisel and the bags? Great Scott! Jump,
Archie, jump, and I’ll swing for it!”
Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar. The other dived
down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The
light flashed upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes’ hunting crop came down on the
man’s wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor.
“It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes blandly. “You have no chance at all.”
“So I see,” the other answered with the utmost coolness. “I fancy that my pal is all right,
though I see you have got his coat-tails.”
“There are three men waiting for him at the door,” said Holmes.
“Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must compliment you.”
“And I you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was very new and effective.”
“You’ll see your pal again presently,” said Jones. “He’s quicker at climbing down holes
than I am. Just hold out while I fix the derbies.”
“I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,” remarked our prisoner as the
handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. “You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my
veins. Have the goodness, also, when you address me always to say ‘sir’ and ‘please.’”
“All right,” said Jones with a stare and a snigger. “Well, would you please, sir, march
upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your Highness to the police-station?”
“That is better,” said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to the three of us
and walked quietly off in the custody of the detective.
“Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from the cellar, “I
do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you. There is no doubt that you have
detected and defeated in the most complete manner one of the most determined attempts
at bank robbery that have ever come within my experience.”
“I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John Clay,” said
Holmes. “I have been at some small expense over this matter, which I shall expect the bank
to refund, but beyond that I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many
ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the Red-headed League.”
“You see, Watson,” he explained in the early hours of the morning as we sat over a
glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, “it was perfectly obvious from the first that the
only possible object of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the League,
and the copying of the ‘Encyclopaedia,’ must be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker
out of the way for a number of hours every day. It was a curious way of managing it, but,
really, it would be difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to Clay’s
ingenious mind by the colour of his accomplice’s hair. The 4 pounds a week was a lure
which must draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands? They put
in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other rogue incites the man
to apply for it, and together they manage to secure his absence every morning in the week.
From the time that I heard of the assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to me
that he had some strong motive for securing the situation.”
“But how could you guess what the motive was?”
“Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere vulgar intrigue.
That, however, was out of the question. The man’s business was a small one, and there
was nothing in his house which could account for such elaborate preparations, and such an
expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the house. What could it
be? I thought of the assistant’s fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the
cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this
mysterious assistant and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring
criminals in London. He was doing something in the cellar—something which took many
hours a day for months on end. What could it be, once more? I could think of nothing save
that he was running a tunnel to some other building.
“So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I surprised you by beating
upon the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in
front or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant
answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes upon each other
before. I hardly looked at his face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself
have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of
burrowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I walked round
the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend’s premises, and felt that
I had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland
Yard and upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have seen.”
“And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?” I asked.
“Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that they cared no longer
about Mr. Jabez Wilson’s presence—in other words, that they had completed their tunnel.
But it was essential that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion
might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it would give
them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I expected them to come to-night.

***