A Study in Sherlock

“The subtlety of the mind of Mr. Sherlock Holmes—” Chan smiled. “—could lead one to believe he is not an Englishman at all, but one of us. The fact that he learns nothing by his stay at the Bar of Gold will be, in fact, what he learns. It will become the knot at which he will chew, eventually to unravel the problem before him.”

Wing and Zhang considered this. Lu, with his flare for the dramatic, put down his teacup and took up the story. “The attendance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes upon the Lascar’s opium rooms,” he said, “will be useful to us in another way, also.”

“How so?” asked Wing.

“As soon as it became known that Mrs. Neville St. Clair had presented herself at 221B Baker Street, the young Dane in my employ at the Lascar’s made his way to the home of one Mr. Isa Whitney. There he invited that gentleman, as a regular patron of the Lascar’s establishment, to come to Swandam Lane to sample, with the proprietor’s compliments, a pipeful of the latest shipment of goods received. Mr. Isa Whitney, being much addicted to opium, appears to have found the invitation compelling, so much so that he accompanied the young man without delay. The Dane has been instructed to continue to ply Mr. Isa Whitney with a fresh supply of pipes, for which I will bear the cost.” He waved a hand to indicate that this was a mere trifle, not to be discussed. The others nodded to acknowledge his generosity, though Chan reflected that the cost of a pipeful of opium in London was not so great that Lu’s fortune was likely to be noticeably diminished by it. “By these means,” Lu continued, “the attendance of that gentleman at the Lascar’s establishment has been assured for the near future.”

Chan observed Wing and Zhang exchanging a rare glance of sympathetic concordance. It was Zhang who expressed their mutual thought: “I fail to understand, Lu, what involvement Mr. Isa Whitney has in this affair.”

Lu smiled. “He has none. However, it is the practice of Mr. Isa Whitney’s wife, when trouble comes upon her, to consult an old friend, a school companion. This excellent woman is one Mary Watson, whose husband, Dr. John Watson—that surgeon known to his wife affectionately as ‘James’—serves with great forbearance as Mr. Isa Whitney’s medical adviser. More than once, Dr. John Watson has been called upon to untangle Mr. Isa Whitney from the clasp of the opium pipe. It is Mr. Isa Whitney’s sojourn at the Bar of Gold that will bring Dr. John Watson there, thus making him available to attend Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Can we depend upon his discovering the detective,” Wing asked mildly, “if Mr. Sherlock Holmes will be wearing so excellent a disguise?”

“Certainly not,” Chan responded. “He will not discover Mr. Sherlock Holmes. London’s most brilliant consulting detective will discover him.”

As Chan had predicted it, so it transpired. Lu’s Dane having returned to the Lascar’s establishment, he sent word upon the Friday evening that Dr. John Watson had called at the Bar of Gold demanding to speak to Mr. Isa Whitney. That gentleman being found in a sorry state, Dr. John Watson paid his debt and put him in a cab for home. The doctor did not, however, accompany him, but rather lingered in Swandam Lane for some few minutes, until one of the other opium smokers emerged from the establishment. The bent old man who stumbled into the street exchanged words with the doctor, who accompanied him for a time—the Dane stealing silently behind them—until suddenly the old man straightened out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter. The Dane observed the two men as they spoke. The old and decrepit opium addict, having miraculously recovered both his vigor and his wits, whistled for their carriage. As it rolled away, the Dane returned to his position at the Lascar’s door.

The following afternoon, final confirmation as to the success of the plan was received from one of Wing’s allies in the police, a constable who provided Wing with information from time to time. Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson had called very early in the morning at the Bow Street gaol. They had spoken in private with Inspector Bradstreet; what precisely had transpired in Bradstreet’s office was not known to Wing’s informant, but the two had been taken by the inspector downstairs to the cells. There they remained for some time. Shortly after they returned to the street, to drive away in a carriage, a gentleman was escorted from the area of the cells whom the constable had not previously seen. That gentleman summoned a cab and was overheard to request delivery to the train station with all speed. The enterprising constable, thinking to learn something of what had transpired in the cells, took himself down the winding stair to the whitewashed corridor lined with doors. To his surprise, the beggar Hugh Boone was gone, his cell empty though the constable had not seen him brought up the stairs.