Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes

Conan Doyle Sir Arthur

Description

The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes collects together eleven stories detailing the famous exploits and adventures of Baker Street's greatest detective. Arthur Conan Doyle's compilation was originally published in 1894 and contains these stories: "Silver Blaze", "The Adventure of the Yellow Face", "The Stockbroker's Clerk", "The Gloria Scott", "The Musgrave Ritual", "The Adventure of the Reigate Squire", "The Adventure of the Crooked Man", "The Resident Patient", "The Greek Interpreter", "The Naval Treaty" and "The Final Problem."

Sujets

• Short story

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 janvier 2009
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781877527630
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
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SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
 
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The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes First published in 1894.
ISBN 978-1-877527-63-0
© 2009 THE FLOATING PRESS.
While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike.
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Contents
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Adventure I - Silver Blaze Adventure II - The Yellow Face Adventure III - The Stock-Broker's Clerk Adventure IV - The " Gloria Scott " Adventure V - The Musgrave Ritual Adventure VI - The Reigate Puzzle Adventure VII - The Crooked Man Adventure VIII - The Resident Patient Adventure IX - The Greek Interpreter Adventure X - The Naval Treaty Adventure XI - The Final Problem
Adventure I - Silver Blaze
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"I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go," saidHolmes, as we sat down together to our breakfast onemorning.
"Go! Where to?"
"To Dartmoor; to King's Pyland."
I was not surprised. Indeed, my only wonder was thathe had not already been mixed up in this extraordinarycase, which was the one topic of conversation throughthe length and breadth of England. For a whole day mycompanion had rambled about the room with his chinupon his chest and his brows knitted, charging andrecharging his pipe with the strongest black tobacco,and absolutely deaf to any of my questions or remarks.Fresh editions of every paper had been sent up by ournews agent, only to be glanced over and tossed downinto a corner. Yet, silent as he was, I knewperfectly well what it was over which he was brooding.There was but one problem before the public whichcould challenge his powers of analysis, and that wasthe singular disappearance of the favorite for theWessex Cup, and the tragic murder of its trainer.When, therefore, he suddenly announced his intentionof setting out for the scene of the drama it was onlywhat I had both expected and hoped for.
"I should be most happy to go down with you if Ishould not be in the way," said I.
"My dear Watson, you would confer a great favor uponme by coming. And I think that your time will not bemisspent, for there are points about the case whichpromise to make it an absolutely unique one. We have,I think, just time to catch our train at Paddington,and I will go further into the matter upon ourjourney. You would oblige me by bringing with youyour very excellent field-glass."
And so it happened that an hour or so later I foundmyself in the corner of a first-class carriage flyingalong en route for Exeter, while Sherlock Holmes, withhis sharp, eager face framed in his ear-flappedtravelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle offresh papers which he had procured at Paddington. Wehad left Reading far behind us before he thrust thelast one of them under the seat, and offered me hiscigar-case.
"We are going well," said he, looking out the windowand glancing at his watch. "Our rate at present isfifty-three and a half miles an hour."
"I have not observed the quarter-mile posts," said I.
"Nor have I. But the telegraph posts upon this lineare sixty yards apart, and the calculation is a simpleone. I presume that you have looked into this matterof the murder of John Straker and the disappearance ofSilver Blaze?"
"I have seen what the Telegraph and the Chronicle haveto say."
"It is one of those cases where the art of thereasoner should be used rather for the sifting ofdetails than for the acquiring of fresh evidence. Thetragedy has been so uncommon, so complete and of suchpersonal importance to so many people, that we aresuffering from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, andhypothesis. The difficulty is to detach the frameworkof fact—of absolute undeniable fact—from theembellishments of theorists and reporters. Then,having established ourselves upon this sound basis, itis our duty to see what inferences may be drawn andwhat are the special points upon which the wholemystery turns. On Tuesday evening I receivedtelegrams from both Colonel Ross, the owner of thehorse, and from Inspector Gregory, who is lookingafter the case, inviting my cooperation."
"Tuesday evening!" I exclaimed. "And this is Thursdaymorning. Why didn't you go down yesterday?"
"Because I made a blunder, my dear Watson—which is, Iam afraid, a more common occurrence than any one wouldthink who only knew me through your memoirs. The factis that I could not believe it possible that the mostremarkable horse in England could long remainconcealed, especially in so sparsely inhabited a placeas the north of Dartmoor. From hour to hour yesterdayI expected to hear that he had been found, and thathis abductor was the murderer of John Straker. When,however, another morning had come, and I found thatbeyond the arrest of young Fitzroy Simpson nothing hadbeen done, I felt that it was time for me to takeaction. Yet in some ways I feel that yesterday hasnot been wasted."
"You have formed a theory, then?"
"At least I have got a grip of the essential facts ofthe case. I shall enumerate them to you, for nothingclears up a case so much as stating it to anotherperson, and I can hardly expect your co-operation if Ido not show you the position from which we start."
I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar,while Holmes, leaning forward, with his long, thinforefinger checking off the points upon the palm ofhis left hand, gave me a sketch of the events whichhad led to our journey.
"Silver Blaze," said he, "is from the Somomy stock,and holds as brilliant a record as his famousancestor. He is now in his fifth year, and hasbrought in turn each of the prizes of the turf toColonel Ross, his fortunate owner. Up to the time ofthe catastrophe he was the first favorite for theWessex Cup, the betting being three to one on him. Hehas always, however, been a prime favorite with theracing public, and has never yet disappointed them, sothat even at those odds enormous sums of money havebeen laid upon him. It is obvious, therefore, thatthere were many people who had the strongest interestin preventing Silver Blaze from being there at thefall of the flag next Tuesday.
"The fact was, of course, appreciated at King'sPyland, where the Colonel's training-stable issituated. Every precaution was taken to guard thefavorite. The trainer, John Straker, is a retiredjockey who rode in Colonel Ross's colors before hebecame too heavy for the weighing-chair. He hasserved the Colonel for five years as jockey and forseven as trainer, and has always shown himself to be azealous and honest servant. Under him were threelads; for the establishment was a small one,containing only four horses in all. One of these ladssat up each night in the stable, while the othersslept in the loft. All three bore excellentcharacters. John Straker, who is a married man, livedin a small villa about two hundred yards from thestables. He has no children, keeps one maid-servant,and is comfortably off. The country round is verylonely, but about half a mile to the north there is asmall cluster of villas which have been built by aTavistock contractor for the use of invalids andothers who may wish to enjoy the pure Dartmoor air.Tavistock itself lies two miles to the west, whileacross the moor, also about two miles distant, is thelarger training establishment of Mapleton, whichbelongs to Lord Backwater, and is managed by SilasBrown. In every other direction the moor is acomplete wilderness, inhabited only by a few roaminggypsies. Such was the general situation last Mondaynight when the catastrophe occurred.
"On that evening the horses had been exercised andwatered as usual, and the stables were locked up atnine o'clock. Two of the lads walked up to thetrainer's house, where they had supper in the kitchen,while the third, Ned Hunter, remained on guard. At afew minutes after nine the maid, Edith Baxter, carrieddown to the stables his supper, which consisted of adish of curried mutton. She took no liquid, as therewas a water-tap in the stables, and it was the rulethat the lad on duty should drink nothing else. Themaid carried a lantern with her, as it was very darkand the path ran across the open moor.
"Edith Baxter was within thirty yards of the stables,when a man appeared out of the darkness and called toher to stop. As he stepped into the circle of yellowlight thrown by the lantern she saw that he was aperson of gentlemanly bearing, dressed in a gray suitof tweeds, with a cloth cap. He wore gaiters, andcarried a heavy stick with a knob to it. She was mostimpressed, however, by the extreme pallor of his faceand by the nervousness of his manner. His age, shethought, would be rather over thirty than under it.
"'Can you tell me where I am?' he asked. 'I had almostmade up my mind to sleep on the moor, when I saw thelight of your lantern.'
"'You are close to the King's Pylandtraining-stables,' said she.
"'Oh, indeed! What a stroke of luck!' he cried. 'Iunderstand that a stable-boy sleeps there alone everynight. Perhaps that is his supper which you arecarrying to him. Now I am sure that you would not betoo proud to earn the price of a new dress, wouldyou?' He took a piece of white paper folded up out ofhis waistcoat pocket. 'See that the boy has thisto-night, and you shall have the prettiest frock thatmoney can buy.'
"She was frightened by the earnestness of his manner,and ran past him to the window through which she wasaccustomed to hand the meals. It was already opened,and Hunter was seated at the small table inside. Shehad begun to tell him of what had happened, when thestranger came up again.
"'Good-evening,' said he, looking through the window.'I wanted to have a word with you.' The girl hassworn that as