evidence enough to satisfy a jury, even if you are able to
pick a hole in it. Besides, Mr. Holmes, I have laid my
hand upon _my_ man. As to this terrible person of yours,
where is he?"
"I rather fancy that he is on the stair," said Holmes,
serenely. "I think, Watson, that you would do well to put
that revolver where you can reach it." He rose, and laid a
written paper upon a side-table. "Now we are ready," said he.
There had been some talking in gruff voices outside, and
now Mrs. Hudson opened the door to say that there were
three men inquiring for Captain Basil.
"Show them in one by one," said Holmes.
The first who entered was a little ribston-pippin of a man,
with ruddy cheeks and fluffy white side-whiskers. Holmes
had drawn a letter from his pocket.
"What name?" he asked.
"James Lancaster."
"I am sorry, Lancaster, but the berth is full. Here is
half a sovereign for your trouble. Just step into this
room and wait there for a few minutes."
The second man was a long, dried-up creature, with lank
hair and sallow cheeks. His name was Hugh Pattins. He
also received his dismissal, his half-sovereign, and the
order to wait.
The third applicant was a man of remarkable appearance.
A fierce, bull-dog face was framed in a tangle of hair and
beard, and two bold dark eyes gleamed behind the cover of
thick, tufted, overhung eyebrows. He saluted and stood
sailor-fashion, turning his cap round in his hands.
"Your name?" asked Holmes.
"Patrick Cairns."
"Harpooner?"
"Yes, sir. Twenty-six voyages."
"Dundee, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir."
"And ready to start with an exploring ship?"
"Yes, sir."
"What wages?"
"Eight pounds a month."
"Could you start at once?"
"As soon as I get my kit."
"Have you your papers?"
"Yes, sir." He took a sheaf of worn and greasy forms from
his pocket. Holmes glanced over them and returned them.
"You are just the man I want," said he. "Here's the
agreement on the side-table. If you sign it the whole
matter will be settled."
The seaman lurched across the room and took up the pen.
"Shall I sign here?" he asked, stooping over the table.
Holmes leaned over his shoulder and passed both hands over
his neck.
"This will do," said he.
I heard a click of steel and a bellow like an enraged bull.
The next instant Holmes and the seaman were rolling on the
ground together. He was a man of such gigantic strength
that, even with the handcuffs which Holmes had so deftly
fastened upon his wrists, he would have very quickly
overpowered my friend had Hopkins and I not rushed to his
rescue. Only when I pressed the cold muzzle of the
revolver to his temple did he at last understand that
resistance was vain. We lashed his ankles with cord and
rose breathless from the struggle.
"I must really apologize, Hopkins," said Sherlock Holmes;
"I fear that the scrambled eggs are cold. However, you
will enjoy the rest of your breakfast all the better, will
you not, for the thought that you have brought your case to
a triumphant conclusion."
Stanley Hopkins was speechless with amazement.
"I don't know what to say, Mr. Holmes," he blurted out at
last, with a very red face. "It seems to me that I have
been making a fool of myself from the beginning.
I understand now, what I should never have forgotten, that I
am the pupil and you are the master. Even now I see what
you have done, but I don't know how you did it, or what it
signifies."
"Well, well," said Holmes, good-humouredly. "We all learn
by experience, and your lesson this time is that you should
never lose sight of the alternative. You were so absorbed
in young Neligan that you could not spare a thought to
Patrick Cairns, the true murderer of Peter Carey."
The hoarse voice of the seaman broke in on our conversation.
"See here, mister," said he, "I make no complaint of being
man-handled in this fashion, but I would have you call
things by their right names. You say I murdered Peter
Carey; I say I _killed_ Peter Carey, and there's all
the difference. Maybe you don't believe what I say.
Maybe you think I am just slinging you a yarn."
"Not at all," said Holmes. "Let us hear what you have to say."
"It's soon told, and, by the Lord, every word of it is
truth. I knew Black Peter, and when he pulled out his
knife I whipped a harpoon through him sharp, for I knew
that it was him or me. That's how he died. You can call
it murder. Anyhow, I'd as soon die with a rope round my
neck as with Black Peter's knife in my heart."
"How came you there?" asked Holmes.
"I'll tell it you from the beginning. Just sit me up a
little so as I can speak easy. It was in '83 that it
happened -- August of that year. Peter Carey was master of
the _Sea Unicorn_, and I was spare harpooner. We were
coming out of the ice-pack on our way home, with head winds
and a week's southerly gale, when we picked up a little
craft that had been blown north. There was one man on her
-- a landsman. The crew had thought she would founder,
and had made for the Norwegian coast in the dinghy.
I guess they were all drowned. Well, we took him on board,
this man, and he and the skipper had some long talks in the
cabin. All the baggage we took off with him was one tin box.
So far as I know, the man's name was never mentioned,
and on the second night he disappeared as if he had never been.
It was given out that he had either thrown himself
overboard or fallen overboard in the heavy weather that we
were having. Only one man knew what had happened to him,
and that was me, for with my own eyes I saw the skipper tip
up his heels and put him over the rail in the middle watch
of a dark night, two days before we sighted the Shetland lights.
"Well, I kept my knowledge to myself and waited to see what
would come of it. When we got back to Scotland it was
easily hushed up, and nobody asked any questions.
A stranger died by an accident, and it was nobody's business
to inquire. Shortly after Peter Carey gave up the sea,
and it was long years before I could find where he was.
I guessed that he had done the deed for the sake of what
was in that tin box, and that he could afford now to pay me
well for keeping my mouth shut.
"I found out where he was through a sailor man that had met
him in London, and down I went to squeeze him. The first
night he was reasonable enough, and was ready to give me
what would make me free of the sea for life. We were to
fix it all two nights later. When I came I found him three
parts drunk and in a vile temper. We sat down an
d we drank
and we yarned about old times, but the more he drank the
less I liked the look on his face. I spotted that harpoon
upon the wall, and I thought I might need it before I was
through. Then at last he broke out at me, spitting and
cursing, with murder in his eyes and a great clasp-knife in
his hand. He had not time to get it from the sheath before
I had the harpoon through him. Heavens! what a yell he
gave; and his face gets between me and my sleep! I stood
there, with his blood splashing round me, and I waited for
a bit; but all was quiet, so I took heart once more. I
looked round, and there was the tin box on a shelf. I had
as much right to it as Peter Carey, anyhow, so I took it
with me and left the hut. Like a fool I left my
baccy-pouch upon the table.
"Now I'll tell you the queerest part of the whole story.
I had hardly got outside the hut when I heard someone coming,
and I hid among the bushes. A man came slinking along,
went into the hut, gave a cry as if he had seen a ghost,
and legged it as hard as he could run until he was out of
sight. Who he was or what he wanted is more than I can tell.
For my part, I walked ten miles, got a train at Tunbridge Wells,
and so reached London, and no one the wiser.
"Well, when I came to examine the box I found there was no
money in it, and nothing but papers that I would not dare
to sell. I had lost my hold on Black Peter, and was
stranded in London without a shilling. There was only my
trade left. I saw these advertisements about harpooners
and high wages, so I went to the shipping agents, and they
sent me here. That's all I know, and I say again that if
I killed Black Peter the law should give me thanks, for
I saved them the price of a hempen rope."
"A very clear statement," said Holmes, rising and lighting
his pipe. "I think, Hopkins, that you should lose no time
in conveying your prisoner to a place of safety. This room
is not well adapted for a cell, and Mr. Patrick Cairns
occupies too large a proportion of our carpet."
"Mr. Holmes," said Hopkins, "I do not know how to express
my gratitude. Even now I do not understand how you
attained this result."
"Simply by having the good fortune to get the right clue
from the beginning. It is very possible that if I had
known about this note-book it might have led away my
thoughts, as it did yours. But all I heard pointed in the
one direction. The amazing strength, the skill in the use
of the harpoon, the rum and water, the seal-skin
tobacco-pouch, with the coarse tobacco -- all these pointed
to a seaman, and one who had been a whaler. I was
convinced that the initials 'P.C.' upon the pouch were a
coincidence, and not those of Peter Carey, since he seldom
smoked, and no pipe was found in his cabin. You remember
that I asked whether whisky and brandy were in the cabin.
You said they were. How many landsmen are there who would
drink rum when they could get these other spirits?
Yes, I was certain it was a seaman."
"And how did you find him?"
"My dear sir, the problem had become a very simple one.
If it were a seaman, it could only be a seaman who had been
with him on the _Sea Unicorn_. So far as I could learn he
had sailed in no other ship. I spent three days in wiring
to Dundee, and at the end of that time I had ascertained
the names of the crew of the _Sea Unicorn_ in 1883. When I
found Patrick Cairns among the harpooners my research was
nearing its end. I argued that the man was probably in
London, and that he would desire to leave the country for a
time. I therefore spent some days in the East-end, devised
an Arctic expedition, put forward tempting terms for
harpooners who would serve under Captain Basil -- and
behold the result!"
"Wonderful!" cried Hopkins. "Wonderful!"
"You must obtain the release of young Neligan as soon as
possible," said Holmes. "I confess that I think you owe
him some apology. The tin box must be returned to him,
but, of course, the securities which Peter Carey has sold
are lost for ever. There's the cab, Hopkins, and you can
remove your man. If you want me for the trial, my address
and that of Watson will be somewhere in Norway -- I'll send
particulars later."
{---------------------------------------------------------}
{----------------------- End of Text ---------------------}
{---------------------------------------------------------}
{---------------------- Textual Notes --------------------}
{1} {anaemic: the a&e are ligatured}
{-------------------- End Textural Notes -----------------}
{---------------------------------------------------------}
{CHAS, Rev 4, 1/17/96 rms, 4th proofing}
{The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton, Arthur Conan Doyle}
{Source: The Strand Magazine, 27 (April 1904)}
{Etext prepared by Roger Squires
[email protected]}
{Braces({}) in the text indicate textual end-notes}
{Underscores (_) in the text indicate italics}
VII. -- The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton.
IT is years since the incidents of which I speak took
place, and yet it is with diffidence that I allude to them.
For a long time, even with the utmost discretion and
reticence, it would have been impossible to make the facts
public; but now the principal person concerned is beyond
the reach of human law, and with due suppression the story
may be told in such fashion as to injure no one. It
records an absolutely unique experience in the career both
of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and of myself. The reader will
excuse me if I conceal the date or any other fact by which
he might trace the actual occurrence.
We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes and
I, and had returned about six o'clock on a cold, frosty
winter's evening. As Holmes turned up the lamp the light
fell upon a card on the table. He glanced at it, and then,
with an ejaculation of disgust, threw it on the floor.
I picked it up and read:--
CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON,
APPLEDORE TOWERS,
AGENT. HAMPSTEAD.
"Who is he?" I asked.
"The worst man in London," Holmes answered, as he sat down
and stretched his legs before the fire. "Is anything on
the back of the card?"
I turned it over.
"Will call at 6.30 -- C.A.M.," I read.
"Hum! He's about due. Do you feel a creeping, shrinking
sensation, Watson, when you stand before the serpents in
the Zoo and see the slithery, gliding, venomous creatures,
with their deadly eyes and wicked, flattened faces? Well,
that's how Milverton impresses me. I've had to do with
fifty murderers in my career, but the worst of them never
 
; gave me the repulsion which I have for this fellow. And
yet I can't get out of doing business with him -- indeed,
he is here at my invitation."
"But who is he?"
"I'll tell you, Watson. He is the king of all the
blackmailers. Heaven help the man, and still more the
woman, whose secret and reputation come into the power of
Milverton. With a smiling face and a heart of marble he
will squeeze and squeeze until he has drained them dry.
The fellow is a genius in his way, and would have made his
mark in some more savoury trade. His method is as follows:
He allows it to be known that he is prepared to pay very
high sums for letters which compromise people of wealth or
position. He receives these wares not only from
treacherous valets or maids, but frequently from genteel
ruffians who have gained the confidence and affection of
trusting women. He deals with no niggard hand. I happen
to know that he paid seven hundred pounds to a footman for
a note two lines in length, and that the ruin of a noble
family was the result. Everything which is in the market
goes to Milverton, and there are hundreds in this great
city who turn white at his name. No one knows where his
grip may fall, for he is far too rich and far too cunning
to work from hand to mouth. He will hold a card back for
years in order to play it at the moment when the stake is
best worth winning. I have said that he is the worst man
in London, and I would ask you how could one compare the
ruffian who in hot blood bludgeons his mate with this man,
who methodically and at his leisure tortures the soul and
wrings the nerves in order to add to his already swollen
money-bags?"
I had seldom heard my friend speak with such intensity of
feeling.
"But surely," said I, "the fellow must be within the grasp
of the law?"
"Technically, no doubt, but practically not. What would
it profit a woman, for example, to get him a few months'
imprisonment if her own ruin must immediately follow?
His victims dare not hit back. If ever he blackmailed an
innocent person, then, indeed, we should have him; but he
is as cunning as the Evil One. No, no; we must find other
ways to fight him."
"And why is he here?"
"Because an illustrious client has placed her piteous case
in my hands. It is the Lady Eva Brackwell, the most
beautiful _debutante_ {1} of last season. She is to be
married in a fortnight to the Earl of Dovercourt.
This fiend has several imprudent letters -- imprudent, Watson,
nothing worse -- which were written to an impecunious young
squire in the country. They would suffice to break off the
match. Milverton will send the letters to the Earl unless
a large sum of money is paid him. I have been commissioned
to meet him, and -- to make the best terms I can."
At that instant there was a clatter and a rattle in the
street below. Looking down I saw a stately carriage and
pair, the brilliant lamps gleaming on the glossy haunches
of the noble chestnuts. A footman opened the door, and a
small, stout man in a shaggy astrachan overcoat descended.
A minute later he was in the room.
Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty, with a
large, intellectual head, a round, plump, hairless face,
a perpetual frozen smile, and two keen grey eyes, which
gleamed brightly from behind broad, golden-rimmed glasses.
There was something of Mr. Pickwick's benevolence in his
appearance, marred only by the insincerity of the fixed
smile and by the hard glitter of those restless and
penetrating eyes. His voice was as smooth and suave as
his countenance, as he advanced with a plump little hand
extended, murmuring his regret for having missed us at his
first visit. Holmes disregarded the outstretched hand and
looked at him with a face of granite. Milverton's smile
broadened; he shrugged his shoulders, removed his overcoat,
folded it with great deliberation over the back of a chair,