I was accustomed to coming to Baker Street and hearing the sweet serenade of violin music. When Sherlock Holmes was busy on a case, his playing was an important part of his thought process. When he was not working, his violin served to while away the time and to alleviate the boredom between cases. This time, however, in the fall of 1896, as I climbed the steps to the sitting room, there was something else in addition: the clear, beautiful voice of a flute to Holmes' accompaniment. So as to not disturb them, I waited until the end of the piece to enter the sitting room.
"Emily?" I asked as I opened the door.
"Hello, John," said she as she began to dismantle her horn. Holmes shook my hand warmly after he had set his own instrument on its stand by the hearth.
"What was that?" I asked. "It was lovely."
"It was our own variation of one of the 'Sonotas for Violin or Flute' by Jean-Marie Leclair," said Emily.
"Play it again!" I pleaded.
"Watson, you know what a serious musician I am, as is Emily," said Holmes, "but there are more important things at hand. Read this." He snatched up from the table a telegram, which he tossed to me. It ran:
Mr. Holmes -- I must consult you upon an urgent matter of great
importance. The police do not understand. I will call at 10:30, and
I beg you to see me.
Nathaniel West
"His name sounds familiar," said I. "Do you know him?"
"I've never heard of him," Holmes answered, "but, unless I am very much mistaken, we shall all soon meet him, for that is his knock." A moment later, Mrs. Hudson appeared with her salver in the doorway. "Nathaniel West to see us?" Holmes asked.
"My duties with you are so easy, Mr. Holmes," said she. "Shall I send him in?" Holmes nodded.
Our visitor was a man of medium height and build. He had rather tan skin, such as the English sun does not produce -- the kind of coloring that would usually prompt Holmes to say that he had served in India in her Majesty's army, if coupled with a military air, which this man did not possess: he was a civilian. He had dark hair and black eyes that seemed to overpower the remainder of his face. He was clean-shaven, except for a large, well-groomed moustache. He was elegantly dressed and also, I noticed, in mourning. Holmes addressed him.
"Mr. West," said he, extending his hand, "who are you and how may I help you?"
"You have not heard of me?" said West, obviously surprised as he shook my friend's hand.
"Besides that facts," Holmes began, "that you have spent a great deal of time in America, play the French horn, and have recently lost a loved one -- "
"Recently widowed," interrupted Emily, gazing downward. She looked as if she were studying the carpeting, but she was apparently paying close attention.
"-- I know nothing of you," said Holmes.
"That is truly amazing, Mr. Holmes," said our guest. "I have heard rumours as to your abilities, but now I am certain that they quite were true. How did you know all those things?" he asked.
"I knew I'd heard of you!" I shouted, finally recognizing our guest. "He's a famous musician, Holmes, formerly of America, now of London."
"Thank you for the introduction, Mr. -- "
"Dr. Watson," said I, "and this is Miss Chrane." As I said her name, Emily seemed to jolt awake, but she then calmly rose and greeted Mr. West.
"I really must know how you know so much about me," the man insisted. "Have you been spying on me?"
"In a manner of speaking," Holmes replied, "but we began spying from the moment you entered this room and not a second before. When we shook hands, I had occasion to observe your left hand and noticed your flattened fingertips. Most players of brass instruments, bar the trombone, have this type of spatulate fingerend, but only those who play the French horn have them on the left hand. Anyone could have seen that you are in mourning, and we offer our deepest sympathies. The back of your hand was turned away from my view; however, I have since noticed the lighter patch where your wedding ring had been. Your American accent is plain enough: New York, I believe. I apologize for not having heard of you. Miss Chrane and I are avid musicians as well, but we follow only the flute and violin, respectively. Now, please sit and, pray, tell us your tale in extenso." Holmes seated himself beside Emily on the settee, and motioned West to the chair opposite them.
"My problem," he began, "concerns my late wife. She has been deceased two days now. Her name prior to our marriage was Jane Privett, and she had lived in London almost all of her life, yet we met in America."
"How is that?" Holmes asked, leaning back, assuming a judicial pose, and placing his fingertips together.
"Her parents felt that she needed a holiday. She had been through some trying times."
"Of what sort?" Emily inquired.
"Is that important?" he asked, seemingly uneasy.
"Does it have any bearing on your case?" Holmes queried.
"I suppose it does," he replied.
"Then I'm afraid that you must enlighten us. I see," said Holmes, "that you are hesitant to declare it with my friends present. You can say anything to my colleagues that you would disclose to me. They are both detectives and would never break a professional confidence." I was honored by this compliment. That Holmes should call me a detective was an unparalleled homage!
"It is a very long story," West said.
"We have all the time in the world," said Holmes. "Tell us all, for you may think a detail insignificant when the entirety of the case hinges upon it. We shall decide what is irrelevant."
"Very well. Several years ago," our client began, "my late wife was engaged to be married to an Englishman, but she discovered a dark secret of his, his occupation, which made her spring from him and call off the wedding."
"And the man's name is -- ?" Holmes asked.
"Joseph Ringer."
"The mercenary?" Holmes cried as he sat bolt upright. Emily, too, appeared startled. "Now that is a name that is all too familiar to me! This is becoming very interesting. Please go on!"
"A designing woman from his past informed her of that fact," said the American. "The wretch accosted her on the street one day, yelling that she was about to marry a bounty hunter and a hired killer. Up to that time, Jane had believed he was an honorable soldier. Jane was always practical; she was not so blinded by love that she could not see the truth. She had always regarded his excuses concerning his career to be feeble. She naturally confronted him with this information and, naturally, he denied it, but she did not believe him. One day, when she was visiting his house, he left her to conduct some business. While she was waiting, she went through his papers. What she found convinced her without a doubt."
"What exactly did she find?" Emily asked.
"She found some photographs," said he. "Each was a picture of a single person or a group of people with a certain face circled. Some of them had a cross drawn through the face, and she recognized a few of those faces from the newspapers as men who had died mysteriously. She confronted him again with the photographs and, without admitting or denying it, he tried to cajole her into marrying him notwithstanding. She refused him vehemently and stormed out of his home. He followed, threatening her. As she boarded the cab she had sent for, she heard him yell, 'If you are not mine, you will be no one's. I will make certain of that!' "
"The mantra of the insanely jealous," said Holmes. "How often do those words figure into murder cases?"
"Jane never looked back," said West.
"How do you know all these particulars if this transpired before you both met?" I asked.
"Jane proclaimed all to me when we received his dinner invitation," he replied. "But that occurred later. After this trying experience, Jane's parents insisted that she accompany them on their holiday to New York, fearing for her state of mind, not to mention any physical harm that might befall her. They decided to extend their summer holiday into a two-year stay. Being safely in America, she did her best to forget her ordeal and, when we met, we fell quickly in love. At the end of a year, with her parents' delighted approval, we were married and, for the next four and one-half years, we lived in utter bliss. At that time, my contract with the New York Symphony was complete, and I was commissioned by the Old Imperial Orchestra here in London, so she and I returned to England. The next six months we spent adjusting to our new life together in London, and we were not seen much socially until it was almost our anniversary.
"Jane's parents had our impending anniversary announced in the all the society papers. They had never had the chance to celebrate our wedding in the London social circles, so they were anxious to present us to their friends. A few days later, we had an invitation to a dinner party in our honour from Ringer. This is when she related her experience to me. I did not blame her for withholding such information, since we only met because she was trying to forget that it had ever happened. Jane was hesitant, but both her parents and I insisted that she and I go. I assured her that no harm would come to her and that I should protect her! Oh, Lord!" He broke down completely into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing. Emily went to him and tried to comfort him, to some avail.
"There, there, Mr. West," said she. "Please try to continue."
He repressed his sobs with difficulty, and resumed his narrative. "It was a lovely party: cocktails, and conversation, and dancing. Ringer was, in fact, a most charming host. Through the course of the evening, I even began to think that perhaps Jane had been wrong about the man."
"How many others were there?" Emily asked.
"Five other couples and Ringer made it thirteen. Do you need the other guests' names?" he asked.
"I don't think that will be necessary at this particular time," Holmes answered. "What happened at dinner?"
"The soup had just been served," said he. "The dining room window was open, for there was a pleasant evening breeze, and the wind blew the candles out."
"The servants relit them, of course?" Holmes asked.
"No, Ringer lit the candelabra nearest himself almost immediately."
"Did he light them before dinner?"
"No, the servants lit them while all the guests were still having cocktails."
"Did you happen to notice if Ringer smoked much that evening?"
"I did notice, Mr. Holmes. Ringer did not smoke himself, nor would he allow the other guests to do so. It was bad for the bird, he said."
"The bird?"
"Yes, he has a pet macaw named -- " he cringed as he said the word " -- Jane."
"So he did not smoke, and did not allow his guests to do so?"
"That is correct."
"And yet he seems to have had matches in his pocket."
"How do you know that?"
"Because you said he relit the candles almost immediately. In other words, he did not rush across the room to rummage through some drawer or cabinet looking for the matches. Conveniently, he had matches on his person."
"That is suggestive," said Emily.
"I fear that I do not follow you," said West. "Suggestive of what?"
"Only that he anticipated, or in all likelihood planned on, the candles' blowing out."
"To what purpose?"
"We do not have enough data yet," said Holmes, "to come to any valuable conclusion. It is a grave error to form suppositions before one has all the facts. Pray continue with your narrative."
"Before the candles were relit, Ringer's macaw flew across the room to its master. He explained as he lit the candles that the dark frightened his bird. Jane was startled of course, and I refilled her glass of burgundy. I thought a drink might do her some good. A few minutes later, Jane went limp as a rag. She began to turn blue, and was soon dead. The police have analyzed the contents of her food, but they found no evidence of poison."
"Was Ringer arrested?" Holmes asked.
"They did arrest him, Mr. Holmes," said West, "but there are eleven witnesses willing to swear that Ringer did not tamper with her soup in any way."
"Eleven?"
"Unfortunately, Mr. Holmes, I had to concur. Ringer did not move a muscle, except to light the candles. And he was on the other side of the room. He didn't even approach our side of the table to light the second candelabra. He threw matches to me, and I lit the candles myself. Still, I know that he is somehow responsible for my wife's death. They released him this morning, despite my protests."
"Had your wife eaten any of the soup before the candles went out?" Holmes asked.
"Not more than a few spoonfuls," he replied, "but she was engrossed in conversation."
"And after the light was restored?"
"Not much more. Her bowl was still almost half full when she died."
"Well," said Holmes when West had finished speaking, "yours is a most singular tale, but I think we may be able help you. We shall, however, need to make an inspection of the scene. We shall meet you at Ringer's in a quarter of an hour."
"You know where he lives?" West asked. He was surprised: I was not.
"Oh, yes. I know a great deal about Joseph Ringer of Regent Street," said Holmes. Our visitor left, marveling. "Watson," Holmes then directed at me, "I see that you are inquisitive about our antagonist, Mr. Ringer. You may help yourself to my index of biographies."
I retrieved the "Q-R" volume and this is what I found:
Ringer, Joseph Charles. Professional killer, bounty hunter, mercenary.
Born: Manchester, 1852. Son of Charles Ringer, Manchester gunsmith.
Educated: University of London. Address: Regent Street. Formerly of
South America (mostly Brazil, until 1886) and Africa (Sudan, until
1881). Called "the Black Mamba."
Written in the margin was: "Has killed 50 or more men, but police can lay none to his charge."
"He has quite a past, Watson, does he not?" Holmes asked, smiling at my growing alarm over what I had just read. "Apart from his entry, that volume is almost devoid of interest. When he was 23, he went to Sudan to find heavy game, but lions and rhinos were not all that he hunted. In Africa, there were many unexplained deaths surrounding him, which is why he earned that charming epithet. He evaded the local police, and went to South America where he did much the same thing. I believe he only returned to England because no other place would have him. It is fortuitous that he never joined up with James Moriarty; they would have made a formidable pair. I asked West for the quarter-hour for I wanted to satisfy your obvious curiosity. But enough about Ringer! We must now prepare to leave."
"So, Emily," I asked on the way to Ringer's home, "Edinburgh's criminal cases are very slack, eh?" She had once commented that her and Holmes' visits to one another corresponded to a lull in criminal activity in Edinburgh, where she lived, or in London. This visit, however, as I was soon to learn, did not conform.
"No, Edinburgh's load of cases is very dense," she answered.
"Then why are you not there?" I asked.
"I've been sacked, John," she replied, not seeming upset at all.
"Why?" I inquired.
She and Holmes began to laugh without restraint, and they simultaneously exclaimed: "Insubordination!"
"Why is that humorous?" I asked. "That is a very serious charge. Were you insubordinate?"
"Yes, I was," she answered, curbing her laughter to a beaming smile. "I was only dismissed because, when I was insubordinate, my superiors in the department were wrong and I was right. However, it is of no matter to me."
"But Edinburgh needs you!" I protested.
"Yes, John, but she doesn't want me. She has proved it time and time again! Besides, official police work is so tedious: writing reports to one's superiors in triplicate, being able to question witnesses according to certain procedures only, and so forth. It was not for me. I know you tried to tell me that, Sherlock, but I was too obstinate to listen. Perhaps I'll open my own consulting practice presently. Now, however, I can spend more time with Sherlock and have more freedom in solving cases."
When we arrived at Regent Street, Inspector Lestrade was there, looking pale and haggard. This investigation was evidently taking a toll on him. He was both startled and happy to see us. Holmes stepped forward to introduce Emily as his step-sister, after which she said: "Inspector, you've had that friendly orange cat of yours for a long time, I fancy?"
"By George!" he exclaimed. "She can do it too! I've had him four years. How did you know?"
"There really is no mystery in it: there are several light orange hairs about two inches long on your coat," Emily began. "They most likely belong to a pet. The tickling sensation in my nose tells me that it is a cat, since they always make me sneeze. I know that he is friendly because he rubs all over you, scattering loose sections of his pelt on your clothes. Since you've had the animal for such a time, you no longer bother to remove them."
"How simple! I'm surprised that I did not think of it myself," said he, absentmindedly brushing his coat. "Well, Mr. Holmes, what is your clever brood doing here?"
"We are acting on behalf of Mr. Nathaniel West," Holmes answered.
"Ah, the unfortunate husband."
"He came to see us this morning."
"Well, the dining room is this way," said Lestrade, leading us toward the left side of the house. "Nothing has been removed except the body." As we filed into the room, he said, "We arrested Ringer yesterday, but haven't been able to hold him longer thana day with what we have."
"Which is?" Holmes asked.
"Practically nothing," Lestrade replied. "There will be an autopsy in half an hour. Hopefully that will turn up more evidence. I know he's guilty: I can feel it in my bones."
"Your intuition serves you well, Lestrade," said Holmes. "His guilt is evidenced by the fact that he took so many pains to assure that eleven witnesses saw him do absolutely nothing. May we observe the autopsy?" My friend's request was not unduly shocking to Lestrade, but the woman's husband was appalled.
"It is not pleasant, Mr. West," said Emily after Lestrade had given his permission, "but it is necessary."
At that instant, Joseph Ringer entered the room. He was a short, stocky man, burly and burlesque. He had a wide face, but it was almost completely hidden by his beard and bushy eyebrows. His beady eyes and jagged teeth made him quite the embodiment of evil. His appearance was barbaric and frightening, yet he assumed a very gentlemanly manner in our presence. Judging from his occupation and the title Holmes had given him, I concluded that his demeanor was indeed assumed.
"I hear that you have a pet bird, Mr. Ringer," Emily said to him.
"I do -- a hyacinthine macaw. Would you like to see her?"
"Yes, very much," Emily said.
Ringer left the room and returned shortly with a deep blue bird that had a yellow eye-ring and bill-base. She was a very majestic-looking specimen. It was unlike Emily to go off on such a tangent. I had noticed that she was an animal enthusiast, however, and I thought this might prompt her to ask to see Ringer's feathered companion.
"She's very clever," said Ringer. "One can teach her almost anything. It gave her quite a scare though, when the wind blew the candles out the night of the party. She flew straight to her beloved master."
Emily thanked him as he handed her the bird, which settled peacefully on her shoulder. "You're a beautiful bird, Jane," said Emily.
"Thank you," the bird replied.
Emily placed the avian on her stand in the corner of the room. The room was situated as thus: the table was in the exact middle. It was a long rectangular table of dark and heavy oak wood and it was covered with a light lace tablecloth. The window of which West spoke was the only one, and it was opposite the door. The sideboard below the window was a smaller replica of the table. Holmes began to scrutinize the table with his glass, then he took two samples of soup, one from Mrs. West's bowl and one from that of another guest. He similarly took two samples of the burgundy.
"Well, I think we have seen enough," said Holmes. He and Emily walked out of the house, with West and I following.
"Are you giving up so soon, Mr. Holmes?" West asked.
"On the contrary, Mr. West," said Holmes. "I believe that we have five promising clues, but we cannot test the most important of these until this evening. We shall, therefore, spend the afternoon concentrating our efforts upon the others. Trust in this: we want to catch this fiend as much as, or possibly even more than, you do. Please rejoin us here tonight after seven." When West had left, he turned to me. "Watson, you are the medical man: observe the autopsy carefully."
"Surely Emily is more qualified than I?"
"Self-deprecation does not become you, John," said she. "You are more than qualified. Your medical mind has developed a turn for forensics, if from nothing more than your association with Sherlock. Have a little confidence in yourself. Regardless of how qualified I may be, however, I fear that my recent dismissal would make my presence awkward at best."
"Still, Emily is well versed in chemistry, as I am," Holmes added, "so we shall be at Baker Street conducting our own experiments. Do you have your notebook?" I nodded. "Good! Take exact notes of the examination, recording the police surgeon's thoughts as well as your own. Your conjectures in this area are most valuable. Most importantly, if your conclusions differ from the surgeon's in any way, record both to the letter!"
I did just as Holmes instructed during the autopsy, and returned to Regent Street that evening. Holmes and Emily were already there, and motioned me aside to confer.
"What did the police surgeon find?" Holmes asked. "Cause of death?"
"Suffocation," I replied, "caused by respiratory paralysis." Holmes took my notebook and began to read it. "What did you find?"
Holmes looked up from my book momentarily and said, "Curare and gelatin." He began to read again.
"Why did the police not find that?" I asked.
"They did not test her drink carefully enough," Emily answered. "We, however, were looking for anything that Mrs. West may have ingested that the other guests did not."
"Watson, you write exquisitely!" Holmes exclaimed, as he snapped my notebook closed. "It is no wonder that your yarns about my work sell so well. Undoubtedly, this conclusion is correct. It all fits neatly together. Inspector Lestrade!" Holmes called as we moved toward the dining room.
Lestrade joined us presently. "You've found something, Mr. Holmes?"
"It won't do, Lestrade," Holmes chided. "You did not have your experts perform a meticulous analysis of Mrs. West's burgundy. You will observe that there are spots of burgundy here on the tablecloth."
"We thought that it had just spilled when her glass was refilled," Lestrade replied.
"No," Holmes stated, "but that is what we were meant to believe."
"They did test the burgundy," Lestrade maintained.
"They didn't test it carefully enough, then. I doubt they were sufficiently objective to run their tests against a control: a sample of the untainted burgundy?"
"Well, no," he answered. "They assumed that any poison would be evident."
"It was no normal poison," Holmes replied.
"What then?"
"Curare," said he. "It is a vegetable alkaloid used by South American natives on blow gun darts. You have read Claude Bernard's work on the subject?" Lestrade shook his head. "That is a pity. Well, you really should -- it may come in handy in your line of work."
"How did it get into the burgundy?" he asked.
"The lady began to fall ill only a few minutes after the lights came up. I propose that the poison was placed into the drink while the lights were out. Mr. West testified that he filled her glass shortly afterward, because she was startled. That is why she did not notice the foreign object in her glass before drinking it."
"But, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade maintained, "no one moved while the lights were out, except Mr. Ringer when he lit the candles and he was at the opposite end of the table. All of the guests testify as to that fact. The moon was full and they could see almost everything."
"The word 'almost' is the clue there, Inspector Lestrade," said Emily. "The bird flew overhead, however. Mr. Ringer has said as much himself."
"Are you suggesting that the bird is the murderer, Miss Chrane?" he asked insolently.
"Not intentionally, but yes," she replied. "Jane was only doing what her master taught her."
"What? That is absurd!" Ringer shouted.
"It was not impossible for you put the substance into the drink yourself," said Emily, "so the only other means of the poison getting into the drink was that the bird dropped it into the glass as she flew overhead." Ringer rolled his eyes mockingly. "Oh, come now, Mr. Ringer," she continued. "You did say she could be taught anything, even murder?"
"This is preposterous!" he clamored.
"Is it now?" Emily queried. "Let us see about that. Mrs. West was sitting here at dinner." She took an empty wineglass and placed it on the table. She then went to the corner where the bird was perched and pulled a coin from her purse. Emily handed the coin to the bird, and Jane took it from her in her beak. "Now, let's extinguish these lights." She and Holmes blew out the candles on the two candlelabras in a concerted motion. After they had done so, the bird flew across the room. There was a clink as the coin hit the glass. The moon had risen and shone brightly through the window so that one could tell that no one had moved save the avian. Holmes lit the candles and the coin was lying in the wineglass. "Excellently done, Jane," Emily commented.
"Thank you," the bird replied.
"The moon provided enough light to show that no person had moved," said Emily, "giving witnesses that Ringer himself had put nothing into the lady's drink. The bird's flying overhead, as she was trained to do when the lights were put out, distracted everyone's attention from the substance falling into Mrs. West's glass."
"Why did he not train the bird to put it into her soup?" Lestrade asked. "The soup bowl would be a much larger target."
"The curare would not dissolve in the soup quite so well," Holmes said. "It is an organic chemical, and it needs an organic medium in which to dissolve, such as the ehtyl alcohol in the burgundy. Also, curare is a dark, tar-like substance. It would not be easily distinguished in a glass of burgundy. However, the bird's aim does not seem to be a problem."
"Why would it not have killed the bird?" he asked.
"I imagine it was encased in a gelatin capsule. We also found traces of gelatin in her drink. Luckily for the bird, she did not mistake it for a grape."
"Her food was always kept in a dish, Mr. Holmes," Ringer volunteered. "I taught her many tricks, picking up little trinkets and such, so she had learned not to eat any object I handed her. And parrots have excellent eyesight."
"Quite so, Mr. Ringer," said Holmes. "Quite so."
"Joseph Ringer," Lestrade said, "I arrest you in the name of her Majesty for the willful murder of Mrs. Jane West."
"Yes, I know the routine, Inspector," said he and turning to my friends, "Miss Chrane, Mr. Holmes -- you are omniscient."
"No, Mr. Ringer," Holmes replied, "not omniscient, only observant."
"He might have gotten away with it, had you not been here," Lestrade said. "Well, Ringer, why did you do it? Come clean, man!"
"Why should I?" he asked. "I seriously doubt that it will lessen my sentence."
"Your fame will certainly spread, Lestrade," said Holmes, "when people come to know what an infamous assassin you've caught."
"He's an assassin?" Lestrade gaped.
"He is," Holmes continued, "and one you've wanted to get your hands on for a long time, I expect." He gave the Inspector a slip of paper. "Here is a list of a few of the men he has killed in this area. I expect you know him better as the 'Black Mamba'. You will probably be able to find corroborating evidence among his papers, if you look. Some suspiciously marked photographs."
"It is a good dishonest profession, Mr. Holmes," Ringer said.
"It matters not to me," Holmes professed, "for which of his atrocities he swings, yet I for one would like to hear his tale."
"Very well," Ringer began. "I killed her. No one spurns Joseph Ringer and gets away with it!" He paused and the hatred on his face turned to a softer look, almost gentleness. " . . . I did love her . . . and she loved me once, you know, but when she learned what I was, she refused me. I started to plot my revenge, but she fled the country. Almost seven years later, I read the announcement of her fifth wedding anniversary in the papers. That was extremely auspicious, for it not only let me know she was back in the country, but it also gave me a pretext on which to invite her to a dinner party. In addition, I made the gathering in the couple's honour to show that there were no hard feelings," he said in a sardonic tone.
"How could you be sure the candles would go out?" I asked when he had finished.
"I could not be sure, Dr. Watson, but it was likely. I strategically placed the furniture in the room so that the candelabras were in the path of wind. I taught Jane, as you have seen, to drop whatever object I gave her in the wineglass at that very spot. If the lady survived the first attempt, she would be more likely to accept a second invitation. And I knew she had a fondness for burgundy. Eventually, I would have gotten her." They began then to lead Ringer away.
West's emotions overcame him. Truth be told, if the woman had been my wife, I do not think that I could have contained myself as long as he had. "Ringer!" he yelled.
"Mr. West?" the murderer of his beloved wife answered coolly.
"I am glad of the fact that you will hang," he pronounced through gritted teeth, "but I wish I could kill you myself!"
Ringer bowed mockingly and was then led away. Afterwards, Holmes, Emily and I returned to Baker Street where replayed that baroque piece for me.
The next day, West called at 221B to thank Holmes and Emily for giving him justice. As far as I know, he never remarried. Ringer was hanged two weeks later after a speedy trial. Upon the occasion of his execution, his final request was that the woman who had sent him to gallows should receive his favorite pet: Emily took possession, quite willingly I might add, of his bird.