It was a rather cool, wet day in the autumn of 1882. My past time spent in
India had made me more adapted for the heat than the cold, so on this
particular morning I was huddled with a blanket and the paper in front of
the hearth fire. Holmes was in his room. He had been up the whole night
before working on some complicated experiments with the purpose of
discovering the most effecting way to obtain samples of fingerprints. The
occasional tinkle of glass or step of a foot was all I had heard from his
room since eleven o-clock the previous evening. Therefore, it came as a
great shock to me when he suddenly came bursting out of his chamber.
"Watson, do be a good fellow and ring for Mrs. Hudson to bring me some breakfast. I really am famished," Holmes cried. I had not lived with Holmes for very long at this point, so I was still getting used to his odd habits and eccentricities. However, even with this little knowledge of him I could see that his work had gone well. The sparkling eyes and taut lips were a large contrast from Holmes' slack, dull demeanor when he was not engaged with a project. Holmes was too often idle in his early days of practice, and this fact made him turn often to the dreaded seven percent solution, despite my many warnings against the evils of cocaine.
As it happened, Holmes was about to be engaged in a fascinating case that would leave him no time for such idle pursuits. He was just finishing breakfast when a calling card was brought up by a page, reading,
Mrs. John Cadge
Seamstress
Fine Dress for Ladies and Men
Almost at once, we heard the steps of the lady in question coming quickly up the stairs. Holmes answered the knock, and a second later, Mrs. John Cadge stood in our parlor. She was a large woman, late middle age, with grizzled and graying brown hair done up in a severe bun. The hair framed an intelligent yet careworn face, with a sharp nose and rather squinty eyes. Her dress was done in a popular style, but was made with cheap cloth. That fact, as well as the battered and stained handbag she carried, was evidence to this woman's apparent poverty. Aside from these observations , the woman seemed to me to be much like any other lower middle-class working woman residing in London. However, when I looked at Holmes, he was observing her as keenly as if she had been a famous painting.
"Madame," said Holmes politely, bowing slightly, "I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes. May I ask what your business is with me?"
"You are the private detective, are you not?" the woman asked sharply. " I have come to you to engage your help in a delicate matter. Will you take the job?"
"Perhaps, Mrs. John Cadge, you will allow me to give you an answer to that question after I have heard the circumstances of the case. Pray tell me, and my trustworthy confederate Dr. Watson here, your story. You may omit the obvious facts, however, that your husband was a druggist, and also that he died within the past three years."
"Mr. Holmes!" the lady exclaimed. "How on earth did you know about my John?"
"It is a simple matter," Holmes replied, "Hardly worthy of your astonishment. The first fact was gathered by a close examination of your handbag. One can observe a queer orange stain on the bottom of it, a stain that is characteristic of alpha-hydro amine, a common ingredient in many tonics and pills. In order for you to be in contact with the substance in its unprocessed form would require someone close to you to be a druggist, obviously the most likely being your husband. As to this man's unfortunate death, I examined your black gloves, which are rather imperfectly sewn. Compared to the impeccable stitching on your dress, and the fact that you are a seamstress, I surmise that the gloves were sewn in a time of deep distraction or mourning. As the gloves are still fairly new looking, they cannot be more that three years old. Add this to the fact that you have no recent chemical stains on any of your possessions, and I come to the conjecture that your husband has died fairly recently. Now, may we please get past these trivialities, and proceed with the story."
Mrs. Cadge looked fairly put out by this long and impatient speech. She glanced around nervously, a reaction often shown when Holmes demonstrated his incredible powers. However, she lifted her head resolutely, and began to relate the reason she had come.
"All that you say is true, Mr. Holmes. When John died, he left me with three children to support. It is about the oldest of these, Etta, which I have come to you today.
I did not want to go to the police, because all I have are small suspicions and vague clues, and I probably would be laughed out of the station. But there are so many small things, Mr. Holmes; small things that make me suspect he is a rat. But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me relate my story to you from beginning to end."
At this point, the lady sat up and rummaged through her large handbag, apparently looking for something connected with the case at hand. This break in the dialogue gave me a chance to observe my companion. So far, there had been nothing in the ladies words to excite the smallest flicker of his interest. However, this would change as the lady drew a small, formal photographic portrait out of her bag depicting a handsome young couple.
The woman pointed to the small, dark young woman on the right.
"This is the daughter that I mentioned to you earlier, Etta. She is only nineteen years old, and I fear that she is being led astray. The man in the picture is her fiancé. As you can see, he is very handsome, and I am afraid that this fact, combined with his charm, is deceiving Etta to his character."
Mrs. Cadge handed the picture over to Holmes, and I could see over his shoulder the blond, clean-shaven fiancé. He was indeed handsome and well groomed, and I could see how he could be very charming. Holmes handed the picture back and bid the lady to continue with her story.
"The man's name is Mr. Henry MacLean, and he is a rising young barrister in London's courts. He has no lack of money, and on the surface he seems to be the perfect match for my Etta. At first, I greatly encouraged the engagement. However, as I got to know Mr. MacLean better through his many visits to our modest house, I began to have my doubts about his character.
My first suspicionswas aroused fairly soon after Etta met Mr. MacLean.
"Watson, do be a good fellow and ring for Mrs. Hudson to bring me some breakfast. I really am famished," Holmes cried. I had not lived with Holmes for very long at this point, so I was still getting used to his odd habits and eccentricities. However, even with this little knowledge of him I could see that his work had gone well. The sparkling eyes and taut lips were a large contrast from Holmes' slack, dull demeanor when he was not engaged with a project. Holmes was too often idle in his early days of practice, and this fact made him turn often to the dreaded seven percent solution, despite my many warnings against the evils of cocaine.
As it happened, Holmes was about to be engaged in a fascinating case that would leave him no time for such idle pursuits. He was just finishing breakfast when a calling card was brought up by a page, reading,
Mrs. John Cadge
Seamstress
Fine Dress for Ladies and Men
Almost at once, we heard the steps of the lady in question coming quickly up the stairs. Holmes answered the knock, and a second later, Mrs. John Cadge stood in our parlor. She was a large woman, late middle age, with grizzled and graying brown hair done up in a severe bun. The hair framed an intelligent yet careworn face, with a sharp nose and rather squinty eyes. Her dress was done in a popular style, but was made with cheap cloth. That fact, as well as the battered and stained handbag she carried, was evidence to this woman's apparent poverty. Aside from these observations , the woman seemed to me to be much like any other lower middle-class working woman residing in London. However, when I looked at Holmes, he was observing her as keenly as if she had been a famous painting.
"Madame," said Holmes politely, bowing slightly, "I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes. May I ask what your business is with me?"
"You are the private detective, are you not?" the woman asked sharply. " I have come to you to engage your help in a delicate matter. Will you take the job?"
"Perhaps, Mrs. John Cadge, you will allow me to give you an answer to that question after I have heard the circumstances of the case. Pray tell me, and my trustworthy confederate Dr. Watson here, your story. You may omit the obvious facts, however, that your husband was a druggist, and also that he died within the past three years."
"Mr. Holmes!" the lady exclaimed. "How on earth did you know about my John?"
"It is a simple matter," Holmes replied, "Hardly worthy of your astonishment. The first fact was gathered by a close examination of your handbag. One can observe a queer orange stain on the bottom of it, a stain that is characteristic of alpha-hydro amine, a common ingredient in many tonics and pills. In order for you to be in contact with the substance in its unprocessed form would require someone close to you to be a druggist, obviously the most likely being your husband. As to this man's unfortunate death, I examined your black gloves, which are rather imperfectly sewn. Compared to the impeccable stitching on your dress, and the fact that you are a seamstress, I surmise that the gloves were sewn in a time of deep distraction or mourning. As the gloves are still fairly new looking, they cannot be more that three years old. Add this to the fact that you have no recent chemical stains on any of your possessions, and I come to the conjecture that your husband has died fairly recently. Now, may we please get past these trivialities, and proceed with the story."
Mrs. Cadge looked fairly put out by this long and impatient speech. She glanced around nervously, a reaction often shown when Holmes demonstrated his incredible powers. However, she lifted her head resolutely, and began to relate the reason she had come.
"All that you say is true, Mr. Holmes. When John died, he left me with three children to support. It is about the oldest of these, Etta, which I have come to you today.
I did not want to go to the police, because all I have are small suspicions and vague clues, and I probably would be laughed out of the station. But there are so many small things, Mr. Holmes; small things that make me suspect he is a rat. But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me relate my story to you from beginning to end."
At this point, the lady sat up and rummaged through her large handbag, apparently looking for something connected with the case at hand. This break in the dialogue gave me a chance to observe my companion. So far, there had been nothing in the ladies words to excite the smallest flicker of his interest. However, this would change as the lady drew a small, formal photographic portrait out of her bag depicting a handsome young couple.
The woman pointed to the small, dark young woman on the right.
"This is the daughter that I mentioned to you earlier, Etta. She is only nineteen years old, and I fear that she is being led astray. The man in the picture is her fiancé. As you can see, he is very handsome, and I am afraid that this fact, combined with his charm, is deceiving Etta to his character."
Mrs. Cadge handed the picture over to Holmes, and I could see over his shoulder the blond, clean-shaven fiancé. He was indeed handsome and well groomed, and I could see how he could be very charming. Holmes handed the picture back and bid the lady to continue with her story.
"The man's name is Mr. Henry MacLean, and he is a rising young barrister in London's courts. He has no lack of money, and on the surface he seems to be the perfect match for my Etta. At first, I greatly encouraged the engagement. However, as I got to know Mr. MacLean better through his many visits to our modest house, I began to have my doubts about his character.
My first suspicionswas aroused fairly soon after Etta met Mr. MacLean.