3 Investigating the Scene

Chapter 3 Investigating the Scene I read my newspaper from front to back while Sherlock Holmes meditated on the problem brought to him by Mr. Jabez Wilson. Finally, he looked up and said, "Let's take a journey into the city, shall we, Watson?" We journeyed by Underground Railway as far as Aldersgate. From there, a short walk took us to Coburg Square where Mr. Wilson had his place of business. It was a small, quiet, and rather shabby place. Behind a railing lay a patch of weedy grass and overgrown bushes. The square was lined with gloomy, red-brick houses. In front of one of the houses hung three gold balls—the traditional symbol of the pawnbroker. The sign above the door read "JABEZ WILSON" in faded white letters.

Holmes stopped here, cocked his head to one side, and examined the house, his eyes shining brightly between half-closed lids. To my surprise, he raised his stick and thumped it hard three times on the paving stone. Then he went up to the door and knocked. The door was instantly opened by an intelligent-looking, clean-shaven young fellow. He asked us to step in.

"Thank you," said Holmes. "I only wished to ask how you would get from here to the Strand." "Third right and then fourth on the left," the assistant quickly answered before closing the door. "Smart fellow that one," observed Holmes as we walked away. "He is, in my opinion, the fourth smartest man in London. And in terms of fearlessness, he may be the third. I've never met him before, but I have had dealings with him." "Clearly," said I. "And it seems to me that this assistant is a key figure in the mystery of the Red

Headed League. I am sure you asked him for directions simply to get a look at him." "Not him," said Holmes. "What then?" "The knees of his trousers." "And what did you see?" "What I expected to see." "Why did you beat the ground with your stick just now?" I asked. "My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not talk. We are spies in enemy territory. We have investigated Coburg Square. Now let us explore the places that lie behind it." After turning left and left again, we found ourselves in the street that ran behind one side of Coburg Square. It could not have been more different. The large, busy thoroughfare was filled with traffic flowing in and out of the city. Holmes ignored the hustle and bustle of smartly dressed pedestrians around him and stood quietly on the street, inspecting the line of shops. "I want to remember the order of shops here," he said. "It is an ambition of mine to develop an exact knowledge of London. Now, let me see. On this

block we have, in order, a pharmacy, a newspaper shop, a bank, a vegetarian restaurant, and a carriage-building yard." He turned to me. "I think we are done with our work for today, Watson. Let's go and have a sandwich and a cup of coffee. After that, we can attend the afternoon concert at St. James's Hall. What do you think? It'll to nice to escape to violin-land for a while, where all is sweetness and harmony and there are no red-headed pawnbrokers to trouble us with their problems." My friend, Sherlock Holmes, is himself a talented violinist and composer, and music has always been a source of great comfort and delight for him. That afternoon, as we sat in the concert hall, he was in a state of perfect happiness, gently

waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music. The relaxed smile on his face and his twinkling, dreamy eyes were so different from those of Holmes the ruthless detective on the hunt for criminals. Over the course of our friendship, I had come to understand that he needed these periods of calm to restore his energy. He was never more dangerous, nor his mind sharper, than after a spell of pleasurable relaxation. When I saw him so wrapped up in the music at St. James's Hall, I