The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes / Приключения Шерлока Холмса

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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, elderly gentleman, with fiery red hair. 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.”

The stout gentleman rose from his chair, and greeted me, with a quick little questioning glance from his small eyes.

Putting his fingertips together, Holmes said:

“Listen, my dear Watson. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this morning, and to tell a wonderful story. Mr. Wilson, please, repeat it for our friend. As a rule, when I hear such stories, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I admit that the facts are unique.”

The client pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his coat. I took a good look at the man. But I did not gain very much, however. Our visitor seemed to be an average commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy gray trousers, a black frockcoat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy 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. There was nothing remarkable about the man, but he had а blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and discontent.

Sherlock Holmes 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 eyes upon my companion.

“How did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “How did you know, for example, that I did manual labour? It’s true, 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?”

“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 which you have tattooed above your right wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo marks. And, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain.”

Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I never!” said he. “I see that this is quite simple!”

“I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I make a mistake in explaining. My poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid. Have you found the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”

“Yes, I have got it now,” he answered. “Here it is. 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, Penn., U.S.A., there is now another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a salary of four 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 does this mean?” I cried, after I had twice read over the extraordinary announcement.

Holmes chuckled, and wriggled in his chair.

“A strange advertisement, isn’t it?” said he. “And now, Mr. Wilson, please, tell us all about yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had upon your life. 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, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead, “I have a small pawnbroker’s business at Coburg Square, near the City. I used to keep two assistants, but now I only keep one; and he is willing to come for half wages, so as to learn the business.”

“What is the name of this youth?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

“His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not such a youth either. It’s hard to say his age. Mr. Holmes, I know very well that he could earn twice what I am able to give him. But after all, if he is satisfied, why should I put these ideas in his head?”

“Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate. It is not a common experience among employers in this age. Your assistant is as remarkable as your advertisement.”

“Oh, he has his faults, too,” said Mr. Wilson. “The fellow adores photography. He is taking pictures all the time, 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 simple cooking, and keeps the place clean-that’s all I have in the house, for I am a widower, and never had any children. We live very quietly, sir, the three of us; and we pay our debts, nothing more.

“But that advertisement! Eight weeks ago Spaulding came into the office with this paper in his hand, and he said: —

“’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 very profitable and gives a lot of money. If my hair would only change colour!’

“’Why, what is it, then?’ I asked.

“You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a stay-at-home man. So I didn’t know much of what was going on outside, and I was always glad to hear some 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, my business has not been very 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 could apply for particulars. The League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar. 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 help the men whose hair is of that colour.’

“’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 was born in London, and he wanted to do something for his town. 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 for the sake of a few hundred pounds… I don’t know.’

“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 I had a chance. So I ordered Vincent Spaulding to take me to the office. He was very happy to have a holiday, so we started off for the address that was given us in the advertisement.

“Mr. Holmes! From north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his hair had come into the City to answer the advertisement. Pope’s Court looked like a coster’s orange barrow. Every shade of colour they were-straw, lemon, orange, brick, 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. Soon we 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. “Please, continue your very interesting story.”

“There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a 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.

“’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 backwards 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.

“’Excuse me,’ said he. ’But we have to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint.’

“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 fellows went 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. 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.

“’Don’t worry,’ said he, ’a man with such a head of hair as yours… When will 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.’

“It would suit me very well to earn a little in the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man.

“’That would suit me very well,’ said I. ’And the pay?’

“’Is four 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.’

“’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 everything.’

“’And the work?’

“’Is to copy out the “Encyclopaedia Britannica.” This is the first volume of it. You must find your own ink, pens, and paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be ready tomorrow?’

“’Certainly,’ I answered.

“’Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once more on your important position.’

“I went home with my assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at my own good fortune.

“In the morning I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a quill pen, and seven sheets of 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 am ready to work. 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 locked the door of the office after me.

“This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager came in and gave me 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. Of course, I never dared to leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come.

“Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots, and Archery, and Armour, and Architecture, and Attica. 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 notepaper. It read in this fashion: —

“The Red-headed League is dissolved. Oct. 9, 1890.”

Sherlock Holmes and I burst out into a roar of laughter.

“I cannot see that there is anything very funny,” cried our client. “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. “There is, if you will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it. 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 was 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 it. 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 he moved out yesterday.’

“’Where could I find him?’

“’Oh, at his new offices. He told me the address. Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul’s.’

“I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address, no one there had ever heard of either Mr. William Morris, or Mr. Duncan Ross.”

“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.

“I went home. But my assistant could not help me in any way. But 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 people, I came right away to you.”

“And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your case is a remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. But as far as you are personally concerned, I do not see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some thirty 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 try 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, no hair on his face, though he’s about thirty. He 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 gypsy 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.”

“So, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. Today 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 think?”

“Nothing,” 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. 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. 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[1] 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 today.”

“Then, put on your hat, and come. I am going through the City first, and we can have some lunch on the way.”

Coburg Square was a poky, little place with four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses, a lawn of weedy grass, and a few clumps of faded laurel bushes. 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. 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,” observed Holmes, as we walked away. “He is, in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London. I have known something of him before.”

“Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant played his role 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. Let us now explore the area.”

The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner, was one of the main arteries which convey the traffic of the City to the north and west. There was the line of beautiful shops and stately business premises.

“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner, and glancing along the line, “I want to remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant. That carries us right on to the other block. And now, Doctor, we’ve done our work. 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.”

My friend was an enthusiastic musician, not only a very capable performer, but a composer.

“You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,” he remarked, as the concert was over.

“Yes.”

“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. And I shall want your help tonight.”

“At what time?”

“At ten.”

“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”

“Very well. And, I say, Doctor! There may be some little danger, so kindly put your revolver in your pocket.”

He waved his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.

As I drove home to my house I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the “Encyclopaedia” down to the visit to Coburg Square. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed? Where were we going, and what were we to do? I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair.

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. As I entered the passage, I heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room, I found Holmes talking to two men, one of whom I recognized 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, 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.”

I looked at the men.