Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated), page 1
The Complete Works of
SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
(1859-1930)
Contents
The Sherlock Holmes Collections
SHERLOCK HOLMES: AN INTRODUCTION
A STUDY IN SCARLET
THE SIGN OF THE FOUR
THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES
THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE VALLEY OF FEAR
HIS LAST BOW
THE FIELD BAZAAR
HOW WATSON LEARNT THE TRICK
THE ADVENTURE OF THE TALL MAN
THE CASE-BOOK OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
The Sherlock Holmes Stories
The Challenger Works
THE LOST WORLD
THE POISON BELT
THE LAND OF MIST
WHEN THE WORLD SCREAMED
THE DISINTEGRATION MACHINE
Historical Novels
MICAH CLARKE
THE WHITE COMPANY
THE GREAT SHADOW
THE REFUGEES
RODNEY STONE
UNCLE BERNAC
SIR NIGEL
Other Novels and Novellas
THE MYSTERY OF CLOOMBER
THE FIRM OF GIRDLESTONE
THE DOINGS OF RAFFLES HAW
BEYOND THE CITY
THE PARASITE
THE STARK MUNRO LETTERS
THE TRAGEDY OF THE KOROSKO
A DUET
THE MARACOT DEEP
The Short Story Collections
THE CAPTAIN OF THE POLESTAR AND OTHER TALES.
THE GREAT KEINPLATZ EXPERIMENT AND OTHER TALES OF TWILIGHT AND THE UNSEEN
MY FRIEND THE MURDERER AND OTHER MYSTERIES AND ADVENTURES
THE GULLY OF BLUEMANSDYKE AND OTHER STORIES
ROUND THE RED LAMP
THE GREEN FLAG AND OTHER STORIES
THE EXPLOITS OF BRIGADIER GERARD
THE ADVENTURES OF GERARD
ROUND THE FIRE STORIES
THE LAST OF THE LEGIONS AND OTHER TALES OF LONG AGO
THE LAST GALLEY
DANGER! AND OTHER STORIES
TALES OF TERROR AND MYSTERY
THE DEALINGS OF CAPTAIN SHARKEY AND OTHER TALES OF PIRATES
THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL AND OTHER TALES OF ADVENTURE
UNCOLLECTED SHORT STORIES
The Short Stories
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
The Opera
JANE ANNIE, OR THE GOOD CONDUCT PRIZE
The Plays
WATERLOO
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE SPECKLED BAND
THE CROWN DIAMOND
THE JOURNEY
The Poetry
SONGS OF ACTION
SONGS OF THE ROAD
THE GUARDS CAME THROUGH
The Non Fiction
THE GREAT BOER WAR
THE WAR IN SOUTH AFRICA
THROUGH THE MAGIC DOOR
THE CRIME OF THE CONGO
THE CASE OF MR. GEORGE EDALJI
THE CASE OF MR. OSCAR SLATER
THE HOLOCAUST OF MANOR PLACE
THE BRAVOES OF MARKET-DRAYTON
THE DEBATABLE CASE OF MRS. EMSLEY
THE LOVE AFFAIR OF GEORGE VINCENT PARKER
THE BRITISH CAMPAIGN IN FRANCE AND FLANDERS VOLUMES I-VI
A VISIT TO THREE FRONTS. JUNE 1916
A GLIMPSE OF THE ARMY
GREAT BRITAIN AND THE NEXT WAR
THE FUTURE OF CANADIAN LITERATURE
THE NEW REVELATION
THE VITAL MESSAGE
THE WANDERINGS OF A SPIRITUALIST
THE COMING OF THE FAIRIES
THE HISTORY OF SPIRITUALISM VOLUME I
THE HISTORY OF SPIRITUALISM VOLUME II
THE EDGE OF THE UNKNOWN
The Autobiography
MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
© Delphi Classics 2013
Version 5
The Complete Works of
SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
By Delphi Classics, 2013
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The Sherlock Holmes Collections
Statue of Sherlock Holmes, close to Conan Doyle’s birthplace in Picardy Place, Edinburgh
SHERLOCK HOLMES: AN INTRODUCTION
One of the most celebrated and beloved characters of English fiction, Sherlock Holmes is a detective that was created by author and physician Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Holmes is portrayed as a London-based “consulting detective”, who is famous for his astute logical reasoning, his ability to adopt almost any disguise and his use of forensic science skills to solve difficult cases. Doyle later explained that the character of Sherlock Holmes was inspired by Dr. Joseph Bell, who the author had worked for as a clerk at the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh. Like Holmes, Bell was noted for drawing large conclusions from the smallest observations. However, some years later Bell wrote in a letter to Conan Doyle: “you are yourself Sherlock Holmes and well you know it.”
The Holmes stories are often narrated by the detective’s friend Dr. John H. Watson, a former surgeon in the British Army, who was wounded at the Battle of Maiwand and sent back to England to recover. When they first meet, Watson is intrigued by the intelligent detective and finds himself following along in his various adventures and cases.
The character of Holmes first appeared in publication in 1887 in the novel A Study in Scarlet and he was featured altogether in four novels and 56 short stories, with the narratives covering a period from around 1880 till 1914.
Dr Joseph Bell, the real-life inspiration for Sherlock Holmes
Dr. Watson (left) and Sherlock Holmes in an early illustration by Sidney Paget
A STUDY IN SCARLET
This novel was published in 1887 and is the first Sherlock Holmes story. The novel’s title derives from a speech given by Holmes to his companion Doctor Watson on the nature of his work, in which he describes the story’s murder investigation as his “study in scarlet”. Conan Doyle wrote the novel at the age of 27 in less than three weeks. As a general practice doctor in Southsea, Hampshire, he had already published short stories in magazines, but this was his first attempt at a novel. It was originally titled A Tangled Skein and was eventually published in Beeton’s Christmas Annual 1887, after many rejections. The author received £25 in return for the full rights and it was illustrated by D. H. Friston. The novel was first published as a book on July 1888 and featured drawings by the author’s father, Charles Doyle. The story, and its main character, attracted little interest when it first appeared. Only a handful of copies of Beeton’s Christmas Annual 1887 are known to exist now and they ae now highly treasured by literary collectors.
One of the few surviving first edition annual covers
A STUDY IN SCARLET.
CONTENTS
PART I.
CHAPTER I. MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES.
CHAPTER II. THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION.
CHAPTER III. THE LAURISTON GARDEN MYSTERY
CHAPTER IV. WHAT JOHN RANCE HAD TO TELL.
CHAPTER V. OUR ADVERTISEMENT BRINGS A VISITOR.
CHAPTER VI. TOBIAS GREGSON SHOWS WHAT HE CAN DO.
CHAPTER VII. LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS.
PART II.
CHAPTER I. ON THE GREAT ALKALI PLAIN.
CHAPTER II. THE FLOWER OF UTAH.
CHAPTER III. JOHN FERRIER TALKS WITH THE PROPHET.
CHAPTER IV. A FLIGHT FOR LIFE.
CHAPTER V. THE AVENGING ANGELS.
CHAPTER VI. A CONTINUATION OF THE REMINISCENCES OF JOHN WATSON, M.D.
CHAPTER VII. THE CONCLUSION.
PART I.
(Being a reprint from the reminiscences of JOHN H. WATSON, M.D., late of the Army Medical Department.)
CHAPTER I. MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES.
IN the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan war had broken out. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my corps had advanced through the passes, and was already deep in the enemy’s country. I followed, however, with many other officers who were in the same situation as myself, and succeeded in reaching Candahar in safety, where I found my regiment, and at once entered upon my new duties.
The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed from my brigade and attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I should have fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly, who threw me across a pack-horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to the British lines.
Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had undergone, I was removed, with a great train of wounded sufferers, to the base hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied, and had already improved so far as to be able to walk about the wards, and even to bask a little upon the verandah, when I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse of our Indian possessions. For months my life was despaired of, and when at last I came to myself and became convalescent, I was so weak and emaciated that a medical board determined that not a day should be lost in sending me back to England. I was dispatched, accordingly, in the troopship “Orontes,” and landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, with my health irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a paternal government to spend the next nine months in attempting to improve it.
I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as air — or as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day will permit a man to be. Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless, meaningless existence, and spending such money as I had, considerably more freely than I ought. So alarming did the state of my finances become, that I soon realised that I must either leave the metropolis and rusticate somewhere in the country, or that I must make a complete alteration in my style of living. Choosing the latter alternative, I began by making up my mind to leave the hotel, and to take up my quarters in some less pretentious and less expensive domicile.
On the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was standing at the Criterion Bar, when some one tapped me on the shoulder, and turning round I recognised young Stamford, who had been a dresser under me at Barts. The sight of a friendly face in the great wilderness of London is a pleasant thing indeed to a lonely man. In old days Stamford had never been a particular crony of mine, but now I hailed him with enthusiasm, and he, in his turn, appeared to be delighted to see me. In the exuberance of my joy, I asked him to lunch with me at the Holborn, and we started off together in a hansom.
“Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?” he asked in undisguised wonder, as we rattled through the crowded London streets. “You are as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut.”
I gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and had hardly concluded it by the time that we reached our destination.
“Poor devil!” he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my misfortunes. “What are you up to now?”
“Looking for lodgings.” I answered. “Trying to solve the problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price.”
“That’s a strange thing,” remarked my companion; “you are the second man to-day that has used that expression to me.”
“And who was the first?” I asked.
“A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get someone to go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had found, and which were too much for his purse.”
“By Jove!” I cried, “if he really wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a partner to being alone.”
Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine-glass. “You don’t know Sherlock Holmes yet,” he said; “perhaps you would not care for him as a constant companion.”
“Why, what is there against him?”
“Oh, I didn’t say there was anything against him. He is a little queer in his ideas — an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far as I know he is a decent fellow enough.”
“A medical student, I suppose?” said I.
“No — I have no idea what he intends to go in for. I believe he is well up in anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but, as far as I know, he has never taken out any systematic medical classes. His studies are very desultory and eccentric, but he has amassed a lot of out-of-the way knowledge which would astonish his professors.”
“Did you never ask him what he was going in for?” I asked.
“No; he is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he can be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him.”
“I should like to meet him,” I said. “If I am to lodge with anyone, I should prefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am not strong enough yet to stand much noise or excitement. I had enough of both in Afghanistan to last me for the remainder of my natural existence. How could I meet this friend of yours?”
“He is sure to be at the laboratory,” returned my companion. “He either avoids the place for weeks, or else he works there from morning to night. If you like, we shall drive round together after luncheon.”
“Certainly,” I answered, and the conversation drifted away into other channels.
As we made our way to the hospital after leaving the Holborn, Stamford gave me a few more particulars about the gentleman whom I proposed to take as a fellow-lodger.
“You mustn’t blame me if you don’t get on with him,” he said; “I know nothing more of him than I have learned from meeting him occasionally in the laboratory. You proposed this arrangement, so you must not hold me responsible.”
“If we don’t get on it will be easy to part company,” I answered. “It seems to me, Stamford,” I added, looking hard at my companion, “that you have some reason for washing your hands of the matter. Is this fellow’s temper so formidable, or what is it? Don’t be mealy-mouthed about it.”
“It is not easy to express the inexpressible,” he answered with a laugh. “Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes — it approaches to cold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you understand, but simply out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an accurate idea of the effects. To do him justice, I think that he would take it himself with the same readiness. He appears to have a passion for definite and exact knowledge.”
“Very right too.”
“Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to beating the subjects in the dissecting-rooms with a stick, it is certainly taking rather a bizarre shape.”
“Beating the subjects!”
“Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw him at it with my own eyes.”
“And yet you say he is not a medical student?”
“No. Heaven knows what the objects of his studies are. But here we are, and you must form your own impressions about him.” As he spoke, we turned down a narrow lane and passed through a small side-door, which opened into a wing of the great hospital. It was familiar ground to me, and I needed no guiding as we ascended the bleak stone staircase and made our way down the long corridor with its vista of whitewashed wall and dun-coloured doors. Near the further end a low arched passage branched away from it and led to the chemical laboratory.
This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles. Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts, test-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickering flames. There was only one student in the room, who was bending over a distant table absorbed in his work. At the sound of our steps he glanced round and sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure. “I’ve found it! I’ve found it,” he shouted to my companion, running towards us with a test-tube in his hand. “I have found a re-agent which is precipitated by hoemoglobin, and by nothing else.” Had he discovered a gold mine, greater delight could not have shone upon his features.
“Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Stamford, introducing us.
“How are you?” he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength for which I should hardly have given him credit. “You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.”
“How on earth did you know that?” I asked in astonishment.
