1 A case of Identity

my dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes as

we sat on either side of the fire in his

lodgings at Baker Street, "life is infinitely

stranger than anything which the mind

of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive

the things which are really mere commonplaces of

existence. If we could fly out of that window hand

in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove

the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are

going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings,

the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events,

working through generations, and leading to the

most outre results, it would make all fiction with ´

its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most

stale and unprofitable."

"And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered.

"The cases which come to light in the papers are, as

a rule, bald enough, and vulgar enough. We have

in our police reports realism pushed to its extreme

limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed,

neither fascinating nor artistic."

"A certain selection and discretion must be used

in producing a realistic effect," remarked Holmes.

"This is wanting in the police report, where more

stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of the

magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain the vital essence of the whole matter.

Depend upon it, there is nothing so unnatural as

the commonplace."

I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite understand your thinking so." I said. "Of course, in

your position of unofficial adviser and helper to

everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout

three continents, you are brought in contact with

all that is strange and bizarre. But here"—I picked

up the morning paper from the ground—"let us

put it to a practical test. Here is the first heading

upon which I come. 'A husband's cruelty to his

wife.' There is half a column of print, but I know

without reading it that it is all perfectly familiar to

me. There is, of course, the other woman, the drink,

the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of writers could invent

nothing more crude."

"Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one

for your argument," said Holmes, taking the paper

and glancing his eye down it. "This is the Dundas

separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged

in clearing up some small points in connection with

it. The husband was a teetotaler, there was no other

woman, and the conduct complained of was that he

had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal

by taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his

wife, which, you will allow, is not an action likely tooccur to the imagination of the average story-teller.

Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge

that I have scored over you in your example."

He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a

great amethyst in the centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his homely ways and

simple life that I could not help commenting upon

it.

"Ah," said he, "I forgot that I had not seen you

for some weeks. It is a little souvenir from the King

of Bohemia in return for my assistance in the case

of the Irene Adler papers."

"And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which sparkled upon his finger.

"It was from the reigning family of Holland,

though the matter in which I served them was of

such delicacy that I cannot confide it even to you,

who have been good enough to chronicle one or

two of my little problems."

"And have you any on hand just now?" I asked

with interest.

"Some ten or twelve, but none which present

any feature of interest. They are important, you

understand, without being interesting. Indeed, I

have found that it is usually in unimportant matters that there is a field for the observation, and for

the quick analysis of cause and effect which gives

the charm to an investigation. The larger crimes

are apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime

the more obvious, as a rule, is the motive. In these

cases, save for one rather intricate matter which

has been referred to me from Marseilles, there is

nothing which presents any features of interest. It

is possible, however, that I may have something

better before very many minutes are over, for this

is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken."

He had risen from his chair and was standing

between the parted blinds gazing down into the

dull neutral-tinted London street. Looking over

his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite

there stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa

round her neck, and a large curling red feather in

a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted in a coquettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her ear.

From under this great panoply she peeped up in a

nervous, hesitating fashion at our windows, while

her body oscillated backward and forward, and her

fingers fidgeted with her glove buttons. Suddenly,

with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves the

bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard

the sharp clang of the bell.

"I have seen those symptoms before," said

Holmes, throwing his cigarette into the fire. "Oscillation upon the pavement always means an affaire

de coeur. She would like advice, but is not sure that

the matter is not too delicate for communication.

And yet even here we may discriminate. When a

woman has been seriously wronged by a man she

no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom is a

broken bell wire. Here we may take it that there is

a love matter, but that the maiden is not so much

angry as perplexed, or grieved. But here she comes

in person to resolve our doubts."

As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and

the boy in buttons entered to announce Miss Mary

Sutherland, while the lady herself loomed behind

his small black figure like a full-sailed merchantman behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes

welcomed her with the easy courtesy for which he

was remarkable, and, having closed the door and

bowed her into an armchair, he looked her over in

the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was

peculiar to him.

"Do you not find," he said, "that with your short

sight it is a little trying to do so much typewriting?"

"I did at first," she answered, "but now I know

where the letters are without looking." Then, suddenly realising the full purport of his words, she

gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face.

"You've heard about me, Mr. Holmes," she cried,

"else how could you know all that?"

"Never mind," said Holmes, laughing; "it is my

business to know things. Perhaps I have trained

myself to see what others overlook. If not, why

should you come to consult me?"

"I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from

Mrs. Etherege, whose husband you found so easy

when the police and everyone had given him up

for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do

as much for me. I'm not rich, but still I have a

hundred a year in my own right, besides the little

that I make by the machine, and I would give it all

to know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel."

"Why did you come away to consult me in such

a hurry?" asked Sherlock Holmes, with his fingertips together and his eyes to the ceiling.

Again a startled look came over the somewhat

vacuous face of Miss Mary Sutherland. "Yes,

I did bang out of the house," she said, "for it

made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr.

Windibank—that is, my father—took it all. He

would not go to the police, and he would not go

to you, and so at last, as he would do nothing and

kept on saying that there was no harm done, it

made me mad, and I just on with my things and

came right away to you."