subject. Turn over those papers, and arrange the extracts in their
order of time, while I take a glance as to who our client is.” He
picked a red-covered volume from a line of books of reference beside
the mantel-piece. “Here he is,” said he, sitting down and flattening it
out upon his knee. “Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon, second
son of the Duke of Balmoral—Hum! Arms: Azure, three caltrops in chief
over a fess sable. Born in 1846. He’s forty-one years of age, which
is mature for marriage. Was Undersecretary for the Colonies in a late
Administration. The Duke, his father, was at one time Secretary for
Foreign Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet blood by direct descent, and
Tudor on the distaff side. Ha! Well, there is nothing very instructive
in all this. I think that I must turn to you, Watson, for something
more solid.”
“I have very little difficulty in finding what I want,” said I, “for
the facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as remarkable. I
feared to refer them to you, however, as I knew that you had an inquiry
on hand, and that you disliked the intrusion of other matters.”
“Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square furniture
van. That is quite cleared up now—though, indeed, it was obvious from
the first. Pray give me the results of your newspaper selections.”
“Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal
column of _The Morning Post_, and dates, as you see, some weeks back.
‘A marriage has been arranged,’ it says, ‘and will, if rumor is
correct, very shortly take place, between Lord Robert St. Simon, second
son of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty Doran, the only daughter of
Aloysius Doran, Esq., of San Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.’ That is all.”
“Terse and to the point,” remarked Holmes, stretching his long, thin
legs towards the fire.
“There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society papers
of the same week. Ah, here it is. ‘There will soon be a call for
protection in the marriage market, for the present free-trade principle
appears to tell heavily against our home product. One by one the
management of the noble houses of Great Britain is passing into the
hands of our fair cousins from across the Atlantic. An important
addition has been made during the last week to the list of the prizes
which have been borne away by these charming invaders. Lord St. Simon,
who has shown himself for over twenty years proof against the little
god’s arrows, has now definitely announced his approaching marriage
with Miss Hatty Doran, the fascinating daughter of a California
millionaire. Miss Doran, whose graceful figure and striking face
attracted much attention at the Westbury House festivities, is an
only child, and it is currently reported that her dowry will run to
considerably over the six figures, with expectancies for the future.
As it is an open secret that the Duke of Balmoral has been compelled
to sell his pictures within the last few years, and as Lord St. Simon
has no property of his own, save the small estate of Birchmoor, it
is obvious that the Californian heiress is not the only gainer by an
alliance which will enable her to make the easy and common transition
from a Republican lady to a British peeress.’”
“Anything else?” asked Holmes, yawning.
“Oh yes; plenty. Then there is another note in _The Morning Post_ to
say that the marriage would be an absolutely quiet one, that it would
be at St. George’s, Hanover Square, that only half a dozen intimate
friends would be invited, and that the party would return to the
furnished house at Lancaster Gate which has been taken by Mr. Aloysius
Doran. Two days later—that is, on Wednesday last—there is a curt
announcement that the wedding had taken place, and that the honey-moon
would be passed at Lord Backwater’s place, near Petersfield. Those are
all the notices which appeared before the disappearance of the bride.”
“Before the what?” asked Holmes, with a start.
“The vanishing of the lady.”
“When did she vanish, then?”
“At the wedding breakfast.”
“Indeed. This is more interesting than it promised to be; quite
dramatic, in fact.”
“Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the common.”
“They often vanish before the ceremony, and occasionally during the
honey-moon; but I cannot call to mind anything quite so prompt as this.
Pray let me have the details.”
“I warn you that they are very incomplete.”
“Perhaps we may make them less so.”
“Such as they are, they are set forth in a single article of a morning
paper of yesterday, which I will read to you. It is headed, ‘Singular
Occurrence at a Fashionable Wedding’:
“‘The family of Lord Robert St. Simon has been thrown into the
greatest consternation by the strange and painful episodes which have
taken place in connection with his wedding. The ceremony, as shortly
announced in the papers of yesterday, occurred on the previous morning;
but it is only now that it has been possible to confirm the strange
rumors which have been so persistently floating about. In spite of
the attempts of the friends to hush the matter up, so much public
attention has now been drawn to it that no good purpose can be served
by affecting to disregard what is a common subject for conversation.
“‘The ceremony, which was performed at St. George’s, Hanover Square,
was a very quiet one, no one being present save the father of the
bride, Mr. Aloysius Doran, the Duchess of Balmoral, Lord Backwater,
Lord Eustace, and Lady Clara St. Simon (the younger brother and sister
of the bridegroom), and Lady Alicia Whittington. The whole party
proceeded afterwards to the house of Mr. Aloysius Doran, at Lancaster
Gate, where breakfast had been prepared. It appears that some little
trouble was caused by a woman, whose name has not been ascertained,
who endeavored to force her way into the house after the bridal party,
alleging that she had some claim upon Lord St. Simon. It was only after
a painful and prolonged scene that she was ejected by the butler and
the footman. The bride, who had fortunately entered the house before
this unpleasant interruption, had sat down to breakfast with the rest,
when she complained of a sudden indisposition, and retired to her room.
Her prolonged absence having caused some comment, her father followed
her, but learned from her maid that she had only come up to her chamber
for an instant, caught up an ulster and bonnet, and hurried down to
the passage. One of the footmen declared that he had seen a lady leave
the house thus apparelled, but had refused to credit that it was his
mistress, believing her to be with the company. On ascertaining that
his daughter had disappeared, Mr. Aloysius Doran, in conjunction with
the bridegroom, instantly put themselves into communication with
the police, and very energetic inquiries are being made, which will
probably result in a speedy clearing up of this very singular business.
Up to a late hour last night, however, nothing had transpired as to
the whereabouts of the missing lady. There are rumors of foul play in
the matter, and it is said that the police have caused the arrest of
the woman who had caused the original disturbance, in the belief that,
from jealousy or some other motive, she may have been concerned in the
strange disappearance of the bride.’”
“And is that all?”
“Only one little item in another of the morning papers, but it is a
suggestive one.”
“And it is—”
“That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused the disturbance, has
actually been arrested. It appears that she was formerly a _danseuse_
at the ‘Allegro,’ and that she has known the bridegroom for some years.
There are no further particulars, and the whole case is in your hands
now—so far as it has been set forth in the public press.”
“And an exceedingly interesting case it appears to be. I would not have
missed it for worlds. But there is a ring at the bell, Watson, and as
the clock makes it a few minutes after four, I have no doubt that this
will prove to be our noble client. Do not dream of going, Watson, for I
very much prefer having a witness, if only as a check to my own memory.”
“Lord Robert St. Simon,” announced our page-boy, throwing open the
door. A gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured face, high-nosed
and pale, with something perhaps of petulance about the mouth, and
with the steady, well-opened eye of a man whose pleasant lot it had
ever been to command and to be obeyed. His manner was brisk, and yet
his general appearance gave an undue impression of age, for he had a
slight forward stoop and a little bend of the knees as he walked. His
hair, too, as he swept off his very curly-brimmed hat, was grizzled
round the edges and thin upon the top. As to his dress, it was careful
to the verge of foppishness, with high collar, black frock-coat, white
waistcoat, yellow gloves, patent-leather shoes, and light-colored
gaiters. He advanced slowly into the room, turning his head from left
to right, and swinging in his right hand the cord which held his golden
eye-glasses.
“Good-day, Lord St. Simon,” said Holmes, rising and bowing. “Pray take
the basket-chair. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. Draw up
a little to the fire, and we will talk this matter over.”
“A most painful matter to me, as you can most readily imagine, Mr.
Holmes. I have been cut to the quick. I understand that you have
already managed several delicate cases of this sort, sir, though I
presume that they were hardly from the same class of society.”
“No, I am descending.”
“I beg pardon.”
“My last client of the sort was a king.”
“Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king?”
“The King of Scandinavia.”
“What! Had he lost his wife?”
“You can understand,” said Holmes, suavely, “that I extend to the
affairs of my other clients the same secrecy which I promise to you in
yours.”
“Of course! Very right! very right! I’m sure I beg pardon. As to my own
case, I am ready to give you any information which may assist you in
forming an opinion.”
“Thank you. I have already learned all that is in the public prints,
nothing more. I presume that I may take it as correct—this article,
for example, as to the disappearance of the bride.”
Lord St. Simon glanced over it. “Yes, it is correct, as far as it goes.”
“But it needs a great deal of supplementing before any one could offer
an opinion. I think that I may arrive at my facts most directly by
questioning you.”
“Pray do so.”
“When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?”
“In San Francisco, a year ago.”
“You were travelling in the States?”
“Yes.”
“Did you become engaged then?”
“No.”
“But you were on a friendly footing?”
“I was amused by her society, and she could see that I was amused.”
“Her father is very rich?”
“He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific slope.”
“And how did he make his money?”
“In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then he struck gold,
invested it, and came up by leaps and bounds.”
“Now, what is your own impression as to the young lady’s—your wife’s
character?”
The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and stared down into the
fire. “You see, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “my wife was twenty before her
father became a rich man. During that time she ran free in a mining
camp, and wandered through woods or mountains, so that her education
has come from Nature rather than from the school-master. She is what
we call in England a tomboy, with a strong nature, wild and free,
unfettered by any sort of traditions. She is impetuous—volcanic, I
was about to say. She is swift in making up her mind, and fearless
in carrying out her resolutions. On the other hand, I would not have
given her the name which I have the honor to bear”—he gave a little
stately cough—“had not I thought her to be at bottom a noble woman. I
believe that she is capable of heroic self-sacrifice, and that anything
dishonorable would be repugnant to her.”
“Have you her photograph?”
“I brought this with me.” He opened a locket, and showed us the full
face of a very lovely woman. It was not a photograph, but an ivory
miniature, and the artist had brought out the full effect of the
lustrous black hair, the large dark eyes, and the exquisite mouth.
Holmes gazed long and earnestly at it. Then he closed the locket and
handed it back to Lord St. Simon.
“The young lady came to London, then, and you renewed your
acquaintance?”
“Yes, her father brought her over for this last London season. I met
her several times, became engaged to her, and have now married her.”
“She brought, I understand, a considerable dowry?”
“A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my family.”
“And this, of course, remains to you, since the marriage is a _fait
accompli_?”
“I really have made no inquiries on the subject.”
“Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran on the day before the
wedding?”
“Yes.”
“Was she in good spirits?”
“Never better. She kept talking of what we should do in our future
lives.”
“Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the morning of the wedding?”
“She was as bright as possible—at least, until after the ceremony.”
“And did you observe any change in her then?”
“Well, to tell the truth, I saw then the first signs that I had ever
seen that her temper was just a little sharp. The incident, however,
was too trivial to relate, and can have no possible bearing upon the
case.”
“Pray let us have it, for all that.”
“Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet as we went towards the
vestry. She was passing the front pew at the time, and it fell over
into the pew. There was a moment’s delay, but the gentleman in the
pew handed it up to her again, and it did not appear to be the worse
for the fall. Yet, when I spoke to her of the matter, she answered me
abruptly; and in the carriage, on our way home, she seemed absurdly
agitated over this trifling cause.”
“Indeed! You say that there was a gentleman in the pew. Some of the
general public were present, then?”
“Oh yes. It is impossible to exclude them when the church is open.”
“This gentleman was not one of your wife’s friends?”
“No, no; I call him a gentleman by courtesy, but he was quite a
common-looking person. I hardly noticed his appearance. But really I
think that we are wandering rather far from the point.”
“Lady St. Simon, then, returned from the wedding in a less cheerful
frame of mind than she had gone to it. What did she do on re-entering
her father’s house?”
“I saw her in conversation with her maid.”
“And who is her maid?”
“Alice is her name. She is an American, and came from California with
her.”
“A confidential servant?”
“A little too much so. It seemed to me that her mistress allowed her to
take great liberties. Still, of course, in America they look upon these
things in a different way.”
“How long did she speak to this Alice?”
“Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to think of.”
“You did not overhear what they said?”
“Lady St. Simon said something about ‘jumping a claim.’ She was
accustomed to use slang of the kind. I have no idea what she meant.”
“American slang is very expressive sometimes. And what did your wife do
when she finished speaking to her maid?”
“She walked into the breakfast-room.”
“On your arm?”
“No, alone. She was very independent in little matters like that.
Then, after we had sat down for ten minutes or so, she rose hurriedly,
muttered some words of apology, and left the room. She never came back.”
“But this maid, Alice, as I understand, deposes that she went to her
room, covered her bride’s dress with a long ulster, put on a bonnet,
and went out.”
“Quite so. And she was afterwards seen walking into Hyde Park in
company with Flora Millar, a woman who is now in custody, and who had
already made a disturbance at Mr. Doran’s house that morning.”
“Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars as to this young lady, and
your relations to her.”
Lord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. “We
have been on a friendly footing for some years—I may say on a _very_
friendly footing. She used to be at the ‘Allegro.’ I have not treated
her ungenerously, and she has no just cause of complaint against me;
but you know what women are, Mr. Holmes. Flora was a dear little thing,
but exceedingly hot-headed, and devotedly attached to me. She wrote me
dreadful letters when she heard that I was about to be married; and, to
tell the truth, the reason why I had the marriage celebrated so quietly
was that I feared lest there might be a scandal in the church. She came
to Mr. Doran’s door just after we returned, and she endeavored to push
her way in, uttering very abusive expressions towards my wife, and even
threatening her, but I had foreseen the possibility of something of the
sort, and I had two police fellows there in private clothes, who soon
pushed her out again. She was quiet when she saw that there was no good
in making a row.”
“Did your wife hear all this?”
“No, thank goodness, she did not.”
“And she was seen walking with this very woman afterwards?”
“Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, looks upon as so
serious. It is thought that Flora decoyed my wife out, and laid some
terrible trap for her.”
“Well, it is a possible supposition.”
“You think so, too?”
“I did not say a probable one. But you do not yourself look upon this
as likely?”
“I do not think Flora would hurt a fly.”
“Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of characters. Pray what is
your own theory as to what took place?”
“Well, really, I came to seek a theory, not to propound one. I have
given you all the facts. Since you ask me, however, I may say that it
has occurred to me as possible that the excitement of this affair, the
consciousness that she had made so immense a social stride, had the
effect of causing some little nervous disturbance in my wife.”
“In short, that she had become suddenly deranged?”
“Well, really, when I consider that she has turned her back—I will
not say upon me, but upon so much that many have aspired to without
success—I can hardly explain it in any other fashion.”
“Well, certainly that is also a conceivable hypothesis,” said Holmes,
smiling. “And now, Lord St. Simon, I think that I have nearly all my
data. May I ask whether you were seated at the breakfast-table so that
you could see out of the window?”
“We could see the other side of the road and the Park.”
“Quite so. Then I do not think that I need to detain you longer. I
shall communicate with you.”
“Should you be fortunate enough to solve this problem,” said our
client, rising.
“I have solved it.”
“Eh? What was that?”
“I say that I have solved it.”
“Where, then, is my wife?”
“That is a detail which I shall speedily supply.”
Lord St. Simon shook his head. “I am afraid that it will take wiser
heads than yours or mine,” he remarked, and bowing in a stately,
old-fashioned manner, he departed.
“It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honor my head by putting it
on a level with his own,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “I think
that I shall have a whiskey-and-soda and a cigar after all this
cross-questioning. I had formed my conclusions as to the case before
our client came into the room.”
“My dear Holmes!”
“I have notes of several similar cases, though none, as I remarked
before, which were quite as prompt. My whole examination served to
turn my conjecture into a certainty. Circumstantial evidence is
occasionally very convincing, as when you find a trout in the milk, to
quote Thoreau’s example.”
“But I have heard all that you have heard.”
“Without, however, the knowledge of pre-existing cases which serves me
so well. There was a parallel instance in Aberdeen some years back,
and something on very much the same lines at Munich the year after the
Franco-Prussian war. It is one of these cases—but, hello, here is
Lestrade! Good-afternoon, Lestrade! You will find an extra tumbler upon
the sideboard, and there are cigars in the box.”
The official detective was attired in a pea-jacket and cravat, which
gave him a decidedly nautical appearance, and he carried a black canvas
bag in his hand. With a short greeting he seated himself and lit the
cigar which had been offered to him.
“What’s up, then?” asked Holmes, with a twinkle in his eye. “You look
dissatisfied.”
“And I feel dissatisfied. It is this infernal St. Simon marriage case.
I can make neither head nor tail of the business.”
“Really! You surprise me.”
“Who ever heard of such a mixed affair? Every clew seems to slip
through my fingers. I have been at work upon it all day.”
“And very wet it seems to have made you,” said Holmes, laying his hand
upon the arm of the pea-jacket.
“Yes, I have been dragging the Serpentine.”
“In Heaven’s name, what for?”
“In search of the body of Lady St. Simon.”
Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.
“Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar Square fountain?” he asked.
“Why? What do you mean?”
“Because you have just as good a chance of finding this lady in the one
as in the other.”
Lestrade shot an angry glance at my companion. “I suppose you know all
about it,” he snarled.
“Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my mind is made up.”
“Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpentine plays no part in the
matter?”
“I think it very unlikely.”
“Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we found this
in it?” He opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto the floor a
wedding-dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin shoes, and a
bride’s wreath and veil, all discolored and soaked in water. “There,”
said he, putting a new wedding-ring upon the top of the pile. “There is
a little nut for you to crack, Master Holmes.”
“Oh, indeed!” said my friend, blowing blue rings into the air. “You
dragged them from the Serpentine?”
“No. They were found floating near the margin by a park-keeper. They
have been identified as her clothes, and it seemed to me that if the
clothes were there the body would not be far off.”
“By the same brilliant reasoning, every man’s body is to be found in
the neighborhood of his wardrobe. And pray what did you hope to arrive
at through this?”
“At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the disappearance.”
“I am afraid that you will find it difficult.”
“Are you, indeed, now?” cried Lestrade, with some bitterness. “I am
afraid, Holmes, that you are not very practical with your deductions
and your inferences. You have made two blunders in as many minutes.
This dress does implicate Miss Flora Millar.”
“And how?”
“In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket is a card-case. In the
card-case is a note. And here is the very note.” He slapped it down
upon the table in front of him. “Listen to this: ‘You will see me when
all is ready. Come at once. F. H. M.’ Now my theory all along has been
that Lady St. Simon was decoyed away by Flora Millar, and that she,
with confederates, no doubt, was responsible for her disappearance.
Here, signed with her initials, is the very note which was no doubt
quietly slipped into her hand at the door, and which lured her within
their reach.”
“Very good, Lestrade,” said Holmes, laughing. “You really are very fine
indeed. Let me see it.” He took up the paper in a listless way, but
his attention instantly became riveted, and he gave a little cry of
satisfaction. “This is indeed important,” said he.
“Ha! you find it so?”
“Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly.”
Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head to look. “Why,” he
shrieked, “you’re looking at the wrong side!”
“On the contrary, this is the right side.”
“The right side? You’re mad! Here is the note written in pencil over
here.”
“And over here is what appears to be the fragment of a hotel bill,
which interests me deeply.”
“There’s nothing in it. I looked at it before,” said Lestrade. “‘Oct.
4th, rooms 8_s._, breakfast 2_s._ 6_d._, cocktail 1_s._, lunch 2_s._
6_d._, glass sherry, 8_d._’ I see nothing in that.”
“Very likely not. It is most important, all the same. As to the note,
it is important also, or at least the initials are, so I congratulate
you again.”
“I’ve wasted time enough,” said Lestrade, rising. “I believe in hard
work, and not in sitting by the fire spinning fine theories. Good-day,
Mr. Holmes, and we shall see which gets to the bottom of the matter
first.” He gathered up the garments, thrust them into the bag, and made
for the door.
“Just one hint to you, Lestrade,” drawled Holmes, before his rival
vanished; “I will tell you the true solution of the matter. Lady St.
Simon is a myth. There is not, and there never has been, any such
person.”
Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then he turned to me, tapped
his forehead three times, shook his head solemnly, and hurried away.