PART ONE

DR WATSON REMEMBERS

CHAPTER ONE

Iintroductions
In the year 1878 I became a doctor of medicine at the
University of London, and then joined the Army as a surgeon.
My first job was in Afghanistan, where I was shot in the
shoulder. I went to hospital and started to recover, but then I
became ill with a fever. For many months I was close to death,
but finally I was strong enough to make the journey back to
England.
My health was very weak and I had no friends or family
in England. The Government gave me a small allowance for
each day and with this money I lived well enough for a while
in a hotel in London. But it soon became too expensive and I
needed find somewhere cheaper to live. That how I met Mr
Sherlock Holmes.
One day, I left the hotel and by chance I met a young
man I knew called Stamford.
‘Why, you’re very thin and as brown as a nut, Watson.
What have you been doing?’
We went to lunch together and I told him about my
adventures and my current money problems.
‘I may be able to help you,’ said Stamford. ‘I know a
man who needs someone to share some nice rooms he’s found.
They’re too expensive for him on his own.’
‘I’m just the right man for him. When can I meet him?’
Stamford gave me a strange look. ‘You don’t know Sherlock
Holmes yet,’ he said. ‘You might not get on with him.’
‘But why?’ I asked. I was extremely curious about him.
 ‘He’s a decent man,’ said Stamford, ‘but he has some
strange ideas. He studies many different things; medicine,
science, anatomy… but apparently with no reason.’
‘I’d still like to meet him,’ I said.
After lunch we went to meet Sherlock Holmes at the
laboratory where he worked.
‘Dr Watson, Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ said Stamford,
introducing us. ‘How are you?’ he said, shaking my hand
firmly. ‘You’ve been in Afghanistan, I perceive.’
‘How did you know that?’ I asked in great surprise.
‘Never mind,’ he said laughing to himself.
‘We came here on business,’ interrupted Stamford. ‘My
friend here needs somewhere to live and I know that you need
someone to share your rooms.’
Mr Holmes seemed pleased.
‘I’ve seen some rooms in Baker Street,’ he said. ‘Do you
mind the smell of tobacco?’
‘I’m a smoker myself,’ I answered.
‘That’s good. I also usually have chemicals about and
sometimes do experiments. Would that be a problem for you?’
‘No,’ I replied.
‘Hmm… What about you? We need to know the worst
things about each other before we can live together.’
‘I don’t like noise, and I get up at strange times, and I’m
very lazy.’
‘Oh, that’s alright!’ he laughed. ‘Come to see the rooms
tomorrow. I’ll meet you here at noon.’
On our way out, I suddenly remembered something.
‘How did he know that I’d been in Afghanistan?’ I
asked.
 Stamford smiled. ‘Many people want to know how he
finds things out.’
‘Oh, a mystery is it? How very interesting!’ I left
Stamford and walked to my hotel, intrigued by my new
acquaintance.
The rooms were at 221B Baker Street; two comfortable
bedrooms and a large sitting room. We moved in immediately.
As the weeks passed, my curiosity and interest in Sherlock
Holmes increased. Even his appearance was extraordinary; he
was over six feet tall, but he was thin so he appeared to be
taller. He studied all kinds of subjects; his knowledge was
remarkable, but so was his ignorance. For example, he did not
know that the Earth travelled around the sun. ‘But what do I
care?’ he said. ‘If we go around the moon, it makes no
difference to me or my work.’
‘But what was his work?’ I thought to myself.
During the first week we had no visitors and I thought
that Holmes, like myself, had few friends. But soon I found
that he had many acquaintances from all different classes of
society. When these people came to visit, Holmes asked to use
the sitting room and I went to my bedroom.
‘I have to use this room as a place of business,’ he
explained, ‘and these people are my clients.’ Again, I wanted
to ask him what his business was and soon my question was
answered by Holmes himself.
While we were eating breakfast one morning, I was
reading an article in a magazine. The article said that by
looking carefully, a person could learn a lot from everyday
details. The writer said that from an expression, a tiny
movement or a look of an eye, one person could read another
person’s thoughts. With a lot of study, one could learn to tell
what happened in a person’s past. If you were good at
observation, you could look carefully at their clothes and the
way they looked. Then it would be easy to say what they did
for a living.
 I threw the magazine down. ‘What absolute rubbish!’ I
exclaimed.
‘What is it?’ asked Sherlock Holmes.
‘This article!’ I replied. ‘It’s well written but it isn’t
practical. I’d like to see the writer on a train on the
Underground. Could he successfully guess the jobs of all the
other travellers?’
‘I wrote that article,’ said Sherlock Holmes calmly.
‘You!’
‘Yes, I’m very good at observation and deduction. You
could say it was my job, really.’
‘How? I don’t understand.’
‘Well, I suppose I’m unique. I’m a consulting detective.
Here in London we have government detectives and private
detectives. When they are confused, they come to me for help.
They tell me all the details of the crime. By using my
knowledge and skills, I can usually tell them what to do to
solve it.’
‘But how can you explain a problem without leaving
your room when other men who have seen every detail
cannot?’
‘Sometimes I do have to see the evidence with my own
eyes. To me observation comes naturally. You were surprised
on our first meeting. How did I know that you came from
Afghanistan?’
‘Somebody told you.’
‘Of course not. From your manner, I knew that you were
an army doctor. Afghanistan is a hot place and your face was
brown from the sun. This wasn’t your natural colour because
your arms were white. Your face looked tired. This meant that
you hadn’t been well during your stay in Afghanistan. Your
left arm was injured because you held it in an unnatural way.
Where could an English army doctor have been ill and
wounded? Obviously in Afghanistan. All these details went
quickly through my mind and led me to the correct
conclusion.’
‘It’s very simple when you explain it,’ I said, smiling. I
looked out of the window.
‘I wonder who that is,’ I said, pointing to the street,
where a man was looking at the street numbers. He had a large
envelope in his hand. Sherlock Holmes looked out.
‘You mean the retired sergeant of the Marines?’ he said.
‘Hmm, very clever,’ I thought to myself. ‘How do I
know if he’s right?’ But soon I had the chance to find out; the
man knocked on the door and came up the stairs.
‘For Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ he said, handing him the
envelope.
‘Can I ask,’ I said to the man, ‘what it is that you do?’
‘I was a sergeant, sir, in the Marines. Is that all, sir?’
‘Right, sir.’
‘Sherlock Holmes was right again,’ I thought, as the man
left the room. ‘Maybe he is as clever as he thinks he is.’
Meanwhile Sherlock Holmes was reading the letter.
‘Here,’ he said, giving it to me. ‘Look at this.’
‘But this is terrible!’ I exclaimed after reading it.
‘There’s been a murder!’
 CHAPTER TWO

Murder in Brixton
The letter stated that the circumstances of the murder
were very strange. A policeman had seen a light in a house
that he knew was empty. The front door was open. The
policeman went in and discovered the body of a man on the
floor of the empty room. The man was well dressed and had a
business card in his pocket with the name ‘Enoch Drebber,
Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A.’ written on it. Nothing was stolen
from the man and, although there were marks of blood in the
room, there was no injury on the body. It was a mystery how
he had died.
The letter was from a Mr Gregson, who was a detective
for Scotland Yard. He wanted Sherlock Holmes to visit the
scene of the crime and help him solve the mysterious murder.
Sherlock Holmes seemed calm after I had read the letter
to him.
‘Shall I order you a cab?’ I asked.
‘I’m not sure if I’ll go,’ he said. ‘Gregson and Lestrade,
another detective, are working on the case. They need me to
help them solve it, but then they’ll get all the approval for it.
But let’s go. I can solve the mystery and laugh at Gregson and
Lestrade, if nothing else.’
A minute later we were in a cab on our way to the
murder scene.
The murder had taken place in Brixton Road. There was
something extremely unpleasant about the house when we
arrived there. No one lived in it and the windows looked
empty and sad. The garden was small and untidy, and full of
mud because it had rained the night before.
We stopped about a hundred yards before the house.
Sherlock Holmes walked slowly down the pavement, looking
at the area around us. He continued walking down the garden
path, looking carefully at the ground. He stopped twice and
seemed pleased about something, but I could see nothing
except a lot of footprints. Mr Gregson met us at the door.
‘Did you come here in a cab?’ Holmes asked him.
‘No, sir.’
‘Did Lestrade?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then let’s go into the room.’
The room seemed very large because there was no
furniture in it. The wallpaper was old and torn. There was one
window but it was so dirty it made the light look grey, like the
dust that covered everything. Everything except the motionless
body which lay on the floor, its eyes staring at the ceiling. It
was the body of a man about forty-three years old. On his face
there was an expression of horror and, it seemed to me, of
hatred. I have never seen such an ugly and frightening corpse.
Sherlock Holmes examined the body, which was
surrounded by many splashes of blood.
‘Are you sure there’s no injury?’ he asked.
‘Positive!’ said both the detectives.
‘Then the blood must belong to a second person,
probably the murderer.’
Sherlock Holmes continued to examine the body closely.
Finally he sniffed the dead man’s lips.
‘I’ve finished. Take the body away,’ he said.
When the body was lifted, a ring fell from it and rolled
across the floor.
Lestrade grabbed it, saying, ‘A woman’s been here, it’s a
woman’s wedding ring!’
‘What else did you find in his pockets?’ asked Holmes.
‘A gold watch and two letters, one addressed to E. J.
Drebber and one to Joseph Stangerson, both at the American
Exchange, Strand. They are from a steamship company, tickets
for boats from Liverpool to New York.’
‘Have you made inquiries about this Stangerson?’
‘Yes, but we’ve heard nothing yet,’ said Gregson.
At this moment Lestrade appeared, looking pleased.
‘I’ve made a very important discovery. Come with me.’
He took us back into the room.
‘Look at that!’ he said, pointing to the wall. In blood red
letters, a single word was written: RACHE.
‘The murderer has written this in his or her own blood.
The writer was going to write the female name ‘Rachel’ but he
or she didn’t have time to finish it. You can laugh, Mr Holmes,
but when this case is solved, I’m sure we’ll find that a woman
named Rachel had something to do with it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Holmes, who had offended Lestrade by
laughing at his deductions. ‘I haven’t examined the room
myself. Can I examine it now?’
Holmes moved around the room with a measuring tape
and a magnifying glass. In one place he picked up a little pile
of grey dust, which he put into an envelope. He examined the
word on the wall with his magnifying glass. Then he put the
tape and the glass back in his pocket.
‘What do you think of it, sir?’ the two detectives asked.
‘You don’t need me, you two are doing very well on
your own,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to the policeman who found
the body. Can you tell me where to find him?’
Lestrade gave him the name and address.
‘Come, Doctor Watson. I’ll tell you one thing which may
help,’ he said to the two detectives. ‘The murderer is a man.
He’s a tall man, he has small feet, and he smokes cigars. He
came here in a cab with his victim. He has a red face and long
fingernails on his right hand.’
 ‘But how was he murdered?’ asked Lestrade, confused.
‘Poison,’ said Sherlock Holmes. ‘One other thing: Rache
is the German word for ‘revenge’, so don’t waste your time
looking for Miss Rachel. Goodbye.’
We left, leaving the two detectives lost for words behind
us.
 CHAPTER THREE

A Mysterious Visitor
After we left the house, we went to the nearest telegraph
office, where Holmes sent a long telegram to America. We
then went to talk to the policeman who found the body. On the
way, I asked Holmes how he was so sure of the details of the
murderer.
‘Well,’ he replied, ‘I know he and the victim came in a
cab, because there were two marks from the wheels. Gregson
said that nobody else arrived in a cab in the morning, so it
must have been the murderer. He must have gone there during
the night.’
‘How do you know he was tall?’ I asked.
‘From the distance between the footprints in the mud
outside and in the dust inside the room. Anything else?’
‘The fingernails and the cigar?’ I asked.
‘The writing on the wall was done in blood with a man’s
finger. With the magnifying glass, I saw that the wall was
scratched, meaning that he had a long fingernail. Do you
remember the grey dust I put in the envelope?’
I nodded. ‘The ash from a cigar. That all makes sense,’ I
admitted, ‘but I still feel confused. How did one man make the
other take the poison? Where did the blood come from? What
was the reason for the murder? Why was the woman’s ring
there? And why did the second man write the German word
RACHE before leaving?’
Holmes smiled approvingly. ‘You’re right,’ he said.
‘There are still many things about this which remain a
mystery. The word RACHE, however, was simply a trick to
confuse the police. It’ll make them think that Socialism and
secret societies are involved. But now I’ve told you all I know
for certain.’
 We arrived at the policeman’s house. We went in and he
told us his story.
‘… After I’d discovered the body, I went outside and
signaled for help. Three more policeman arrived at the scene-‘
‘Was the street empty then?’ interrupted Sherlock
Holmes.
‘Well, there was a very drunk man outside when I came
out, singing and falling over. I had to help him stand up. He
couldn’t speak.’
‘What did he look like?’ asked Holmes.
‘He was tall, with a red face-‘
‘That’ll do!’ said Holmes. ‘What happened to this man?’
‘There was enough to do without looking after him!’
said the policeman. ‘I think he went home.’
‘You fool! That drunk man holds the clue to this
mystery; he’s the man we’re looking for!’ cried Holmes.
We left the policeman. ‘But why did the murderer come
back to the house?’ I asked.
‘For the ring; he came back for the ring! And that’s how
we can catch him,’ said Holmes.
Holmes put a notice in every newspaper, saying that a
gold wedding ring had been found in Brixton Road. He put my
name and our address and invited people to call between eight
and nine that evening to claim it.
‘But I don’t have a ring!’ I said.
‘This one will do,’ he said, giving me a plain gold ring.
‘The murderer doesn’t want to lose it. He didn’t know it was
lost until after the murder and that’s why he went back to the
house last night. He pretended to be drunk when he found the
police were already there. But he’ll think that maybe he lost
the ring in the road. He’ll see our advertisement and will come
to claim his ring.’
 That evening, we waited for the murderer to arrive.
There was a knock at the door. We heard a voice.
‘Does Doctor Watson live here?’
‘Come in,’ I said.
To our surprise, a very old woman came slowly into the
room. Sherlock Holmes looked disappointed.
‘The ring belongs to my daughter Sally,’ she said. ‘She
lost it last night and-‘
‘Is this her ring?’ I asked.
‘Oh, thank goodness! Sally will be so pleased.’
Holmes asked for her name and address and I gave her
the ring. The old woman put it in her pocket and walked
slowly down the stairs. As soon as she was gone, Sherlock
Holmes put on his coat. ‘I’ll follow her,’ he said. ‘She must be
helping the murderer, she’ll lead me to him. Wait for me.’
He was away for a long time, but I did not feel at all
sleepy so I did as he asked. It was midnight when he returned
and told me what happened.
After the old woman left, she took a cab, asking to go to
the address she gave to Sherlock Holmes. Holmes jumped
onto the back of the cab where no one could see him. The cab
reached the address and Holmes jumped off and watched. The
driver opened the cab door but no one got out. His passenger
had disappeared.
‘But how did an old woman jump out of a moving cab?’
I asked in surprise.
‘That wasn’t an old woman! It was a young man dressed
up as an old woman. We were stupid not to see it. Doctor
Watson, you look tired. Go to bed.’ After such a long day, I
did as he told me.
 CHAPTER FOUR

Gregson’s Account
The next day, the newspapers were full of stories about
the ‘Brixton mystery’. Many of the newspapers thought that
there was a political motive for the murder, because of the
word written on the wall, and because there seemed to be no
other explanation. The dead man was an American who was
staying in London for a few weeks. He was staying at a small
hotel owned by a Madame Charpentier, with his private
secretary, Mr Joseph Stangerson.
The two men left the hotel on Tuesday to go to Euston
Station to catch the train to Liverpool. They were seen on the
platform at the station, but not again until Mr Drebber’s body
was found in the house in Brixton Road, a long way from
Euston. The report in the Daily News read: ‘The secretary, Mr
Stangerson, has not been seen since and no one has heard from
him. It is very important to find him.’
Holmes and I were reading the newspapers while we ate
breakfast. Suddenly, I heard the sound of many steps in the
hall and six street children ran into the room. They lined up in
front of Holmes.
‘Have you found it, Wiggins?’ Holmes asked one of
them.
‘No sir, we haven’t,’ he said.
‘Keep trying until you do. Here’s your money.’ He gave
them all a coin each. ‘Now off you go.’ They ran down the
stairs.
‘They’re better than the police force at finding things
out,’ Holmes said to me. ‘They go everywhere and hear
everything. There’s one thing I need to know to help with this
case. They’ll find it soon. Look, here’s Gregson coming down
the road.’
 A few seconds later, Gregson was in our living room,
smiling contentedly.
‘I’ve solved the case!’ he announced. ‘We have the
murderer locked away!’
‘And what’s his name?’
‘Arthur Charpentier, an officer in the Royal Navy.’
Holmes seemed relieved. ‘Sit down and tell us all about
it,’ he said, giving Gregson a cigar and a drink.
‘The funny thing is that Lestrade has got it completely
wrong. He’s been looking for the secretary, Mr Stangerson,
who has nothing to do with the crime!’ Gregson laughed. ‘I’ll
tell you what happened.’
Gregson had found out that Drebber was staying at
Charpentier’s hotel before he was murdered. Gregson had
gone to speak to Madame Charpentier and her daughter. They
both looked very upset. Gregson asked at what time Drebber
left to catch the train and if that was the last time they saw
him. The mother said yes it was, but then her daughter, Alice,
stopped her, saying, ‘No good comes from lying, Mother. We
did see Mr Drebber again. You must tell him everything.’ So
she did.
Madame Charpentier did not like Mr Drebber; he was
rude and often drunk. He also tried to grab Alice and embrace
her. Madame Charpentier told him to leave and was very
pleased when he finally left.
She did not tell her son Arthur about Mr Drebber’s
actions. If she told him, he would become angry and maybe
violent. But Mr Drebber returned to the house. He had missed
the train and was drunk. He grabbed Alice’s arm and wanted
her to leave with him to become his wife. He was trying to
pull her out of the door when Arthur came back. He stopped
Drebber and took him outside. Then he came back with a stick
in his hand.
‘I don’t think he’ll trouble us again,’ he said. ‘I’ll just
follow him to see where he goes.’ The next day they heard
about Mr Drebber’s death.
‘I then asked her at what time her son returned,’ said
Gregson, ‘but she didn’t know. I questioned her again and
again until she told me that Arthur Charpentier had been away
for maybe four or five hours and she didn’t know where he
was. So of course I arrested him. He was still carrying the
heavy stick. He must be guilty!’
‘So, what’s your theory?’ asked Holmes.
‘Well, I think he followed Drebber as far as Brixton
Road and hit him in the stomach with the stick, to kill him
without leaving any mark. Charpentier pulled the body into the
empty house. The blood, the ring and the writing on the wall
were all tricks to give the police the wrong idea.’
Just then, Lestrade walked into the room. He had come
upstairs while we were talking. He looked unhappy.
‘This is a most extraordinary case,’ he said. ‘I can’t
understand it.’
‘Really, Mr Lestrade?’ said Gregson, looking pleased.
‘Did you find the secretary, Mr Stangerson?’
‘The secretary, Mr Stangerson,’ said Lestrade seriously,
‘was murdered at Halliday’s Hotel about six o’clock this
morning.’
 CHAPTER FIVE

Poison
All three of us were very surprised by this news.
Gregson jumped out of his chair, spilling his drink.
‘Stangerson too,’ Holmes said quietly. ‘This story’s becoming
more and more complicated. Gregson’s told us what he thinks.
Can you tell us what you’ve seen and done, Lestrade?’ he
asked.
Lestrade sat down.
‘Before, I thought that Stangerson was involved in the
death of Drebber,’ he said, ‘but now he’s dead too I know he
wasn’t responsible. But that was my theory, so I tried to find
him.’
Lestrade told us that he had gone to many hotels near
Euston station and asked if a Mr Stangerson was there. When
Lestrade asked at the Halliday Hotel, they said yes, a Mr
Stangerson was there and that he was expecting another
gentleman to join him. They thought Lestrade was this
gentleman, and sent him up to Stangerson’s room.
‘When I got to the door, I saw something which made
me feel sick,’ said Lestrade. ‘A small, red stream of blood was
coming from under the door. It had run across the corridor and
collected on the other side. I opened the door, and there by the
window was the body of a man.’
The man was Joseph Stangerson. He had died from a
deep knife injury in his side. The strangest thing of all was
that, again, above the murdered man, was written the word
RACHE, in letters of blood. We were all silent.
Lestrade continued with his story.
‘The murderer was seen by a young boy passing the
hotel. He saw a ladder against one of the windows of the hotel,
and when he looked back he saw a man coming down it. The
man was tall, with a red face, and wore a long brown coat.’
 ‘Did you find any clues in the room?’ asked Holmes.
‘There was a telegram in the dead man’s pocket. It was
from Cleveland, sent about a month ago, and it said “J. H. is in
Europe.”’
‘Anything else?’
‘There was a book, his pipe, a glass of water and by the
window was a small box containing two pills,’ replied
Lestrade.
Sherlock Holmes jumped up from his chair in delight.
‘The last link!’ he cried. ‘I now understand all the main
facts of this case and I’ll prove it to you. Do you have the two
pills?’
‘Here they are,’ said Lestrade, giving Holmes a small
white box.
‘Doctor Watson,’ said Holmes, ‘can you get the poor dog
from downstairs? It’s been ill for so long. Only yesterday the
landlady asked you to end its pain.’
I went downstairs and carried the dog up in my arms. It
was very old and was breathing with great difficulty. Sherlock
Holmes cut one of the pills in half and gave one half to the
dog. Nothing happened.
‘I don’t understand how this is connected with the
murder of Mr Stangerson,’ said Lestrade as we sat there
watching.
Holmes looked at his watch.
‘This is impossible!’ he cried. ‘The pills which I thought
were used on Drebber are found after the death of Stangerson,
but they aren’t poisonous. What can this mean? Surely I can’t
be wrong… Ah, I have it, I have it!’
He rushed to the box, cut the other pill in half and again
gave half to the dog. Only seconds after it had eaten the pill,
the dog was dead.
 ‘I should have known,’ said Holmes. ‘One of the pills
was deadly poison and the other was entirely harmless.
Sometimes, gentlemen, it’s a mistake to confuse strangeness
with mystery. The strange details of this case have really made
it easier to solve, not more difficult.’
Mr Gregson was tired of listening to Sherlock Holmes.
‘Look, Mr Holmes, we know you are a very clever man
and you have your own way of working. I’ve told you what I
thought of the case, but it seems I was wrong. Arthur
Charpentier isn’t the murderer. Lestrade went after his man,
Stangerson, and he was wrong too. You say you know this and
you know that, and you seem to know more than we do. Tell
me now, what do you know about this case? Can you name the
man who did it?’
Lestrade nodded in agreement.
‘I think Gregson is right, sir. We’ve both tried and we’ve
both failed. Tell us what you know,’ he said.
‘If we wait any longer to arrest the murderer, he may kill
somebody else,’ I added. We waited as Holmes walked up and
down, lost in thought.
‘There’ll be no more murders,’ he said finally. ‘I do
know the name of the murderer, but that isn’t the same as
knowing how to catch him. But I expect this to happen very
soon; I’ve made my own arrangements.’ Just then there was a
knock at the door, and young Wiggins ran into the room.
‘Please, sir,’ he said, ‘I have the cab downstairs.’
‘Good boy,’ said Holmes. He took a pair of handcuffs
from a drawer. ‘Ask the cabdriver to come up and help me,
Wiggins.’
I was surprised to hear this. I did not know that Sherlock
Holmes was planning to go on a journey. Holmes pulled out a
suitcase and bent over it as the cabdriver stepped into the
room. ‘Just help me with this a moment, driver,’ he said.
 The cabdriver walked forward and put his hands down to
help. At that moment Sherlock Holmes put the handcuffs on
his hands and jumped to his feet.
‘Gentlemen,’ he cried, ‘this is Mr Jefferson Hope, the
murderer of Enoch Drebber and Joseph Stangerson.’
Everything seemed to stand still for a second: the
cabdriver looked in surprise at the handcuffs. Then with an
angry cry, he threw himself at the window. The glass smashed,
but before he could escape, Gregson, Lestrade and Holmes
grabbed him. He was pulled back into the room where a
terrible fight began. He was so strong all four of us had
difficulty holding him. At last, he realised he was trapped and
stopped fighting. We tied up his feet and stood back,
exhausted.
‘We have his cab outside. We can use it to take him to
Scotland Yard,’ said Holmes. ‘And now I’ll be happy to
explain everything.’
 PART TWO
IN THE COUNTRY OF THE SAINTS

CHAPTER ONE

The Mormons
In the centre of North America there is a large desert,
which for a long time stopped people crossing the continent.
No one could live in the desert, many people died trying to
cross it to reach more fertile lands.
In the year 1847, a traveller stood on a rocky cliff,
looking across this empty land. All he could see were the
bones of other people who had tried to reach the West. The
man was dying from hunger and thirst. With him he had a
small child, a girl, who he was carrying in a blanket. They
were the only ones left of a group of twenty-one people who
tried to travel to a better life, the others, including the little
girl’s mother, were dead. The man’s name was John Ferrier,
and as the little girl had no one else, he adopted her, and called
her Lucy Ferrier. John knew that if he did not find food and
water soon, both of them would die.
But he was very tired. He and Lucy sat down on the cliff
above the desert. Before long both of them were asleep.
In the distance there was a cloud of dust. The cloud
became bigger as it got nearer, until it was clear that it was
made by a large group of moving creatures. It was a huge
group of carts, men and women, children, horses and animals,
who were travelling across America to find a new place to
live. One of the men saw Lucy and John, high up on their cliff.
The great trail of wagons, men and women stopped while
some of the men climbed up to see who they were. John
Ferrier woke up and was shocked to see the empty desert now
full of people and life. The men took the man and the little girl
to the wagons.
 ‘Who are you?’ asked John Ferrier. ‘There are so many
of you.’
‘There are nearly ten thousand of us,’ said one of the
young men. ‘We’re the Mormons.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked John Ferrier.
‘We don’t know. The hand of God is leading us through
our Prophet. You must come before him. He’ll decide what to
do with you.’
The Prophet, a man called Brigham Young, was in a
large, brightly painted wagon, with six horses pulling it. Lucy
and John stood before him.
‘If we take you with us,’ he said, ‘you must become
believers in our religion. Will you do that?’
‘I don’t think we have a choice,’ said Ferrier. ‘If we stay
here, we’ll die.’
‘Take them then, Brother Stangerson,’ said the Prophet
‘and give them food and drink. It’s your job to teach these two
the way of the Mormons. Now let’s move on!’
After a long and difficult journey the group of Mormons
arrived in Utah, where they built Salt Lake City. The Prophet
gave each person a piece of land to farm and to build on. He
gave the biggest pieces of land to the two Elders of the
Mormon religion; their names were Stangerson and Drebber.
He also gave land to John and Lucy Ferrier. On the
journey, John proved he was very useful, he was a hard worker
and a good hunter. John built a fine house for himself and
Lucy and worked hard on his land and farm. Over twelve
years he became rich and well known in the area.
There was just one thing that the Mormons did not like
about John Ferrier. The Mormons practised polygamy; that is,
having more than one wife. They wanted John to have many
wives but John did not agree with this practice and preferred to
stay unmarried.
 As the years passed and John became rich, Lucy was
also growing up. She became a very beautiful young woman,
and this soon started to cause problems for the Ferriers.
One day, Lucy was riding into town to do some business
for her father. She found herself surrounded by a herd of cattle.
Her horse became frightened and nearly threw Lucy to
the ground. But at this moment a strong brown hand grabbed
the reins of the frightened horse and brought the horse and
Lucy to safety.
‘I hope you’re not hurt, Miss,’ said the young man.
‘I was very frightened,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
‘I guess you’re the daughter of John Ferrier,’ said the
young man. ‘Ask him if he remembers Jefferson Hope from St
Louis. He and my father were good friends.’
‘Why don’t you come and ask him yourself?’ said Lucy.
After Lucy left, Jefferson Hope realised that he had
fallen in love with the beautiful young girl. He was determined
to marry her and visited John Ferrier that same night. He
visited the farm many times, telling stories of hunting, mining
for silver and working on ranches. It was clear that Lucy, too,
had fallen in love with the young man who had saved her.
One night, he came to the farm.
‘I must go, Lucy,’ he said. ‘I won’t ask you to come with
me now, but will you be ready to come when I’m here again?’
‘When will that be?’ she asked.
‘About two months. Your father’s happy for us to get
married, if I can make enough money to look after you.’
‘If you and Father have arranged it all, there’s nothing
more to say,’ she said, resting her head on his chest.
He kissed her. ‘Goodbye my darling - in two months
you’ll see me again.’ She watched him ride away, the happiest
girl in all of Utah.
 Three weeks passed before the trouble began. Brigham
Young came to visit John Ferrier.
‘Brother Ferrier,’ said Brigham Young, ‘we’ve been very
good to you. You’ve grown rich with our help. In return, we
asked you to become a true believer in our faith. But you’ve
failed us. You haven’t taken any wives, and now I hear that
Lucy’s going to be married to a man who isn’t one of us. This
can’t be allowed.’
Ferrier was nervous at these words. Brigham Young
continued.
‘We the Elders want Lucy to marry one of our sons,
either Stangerson’s or Drebber’s. They’re both young and rich.
Lucy must choose between them.’
Ferrier was silent for some time. At last he said, ‘You
must give us time. My daughter’s very young.’
‘Lucy can have a month to choose,’ said Brigham
Young. ‘After that she must give us an answer.’ He turned and
left.
Lucy came into the room. Her frightened face showed
that she knew what the Prophet planned for her.
‘What can we do?’ she asked. ‘There are such terrible
stories of what happens to people who don’t do what the
Prophet asks.’
‘We’ll send a message to Jefferson,’ said her father.
‘He’ll help us to escape from Utah and the Mormons.’
‘Leave Utah?’ cried Lucy.
‘We have no choice,’ said John. ‘We’ll wait for Jefferson
to come back and then we’ll leave.’
‘But they won’t let us leave!’ said Lucy.
‘Wait until Jefferson comes. There’s nothing to be afraid
of and there’s no danger.’
That night, John Ferrier very carefully locked all the
doors and cleaned and loaded his old gun.
 CHAPTER TWO

Escape
The next morning, John sent his message to Jefferson,
asking him to return as soon as possible. When he returned to
his farm, there were two young men sitting in his living room.
‘Maybe you don’t know who we are,’ said one. ‘This is
the son of Elder Drebber and I’m Joseph Stangerson. We’ve
come to help you decide which of us will marry Lucy.’
John Ferrier waited.
‘As I have only four wives and Drebber has seven, I
think it’s better if Lucy chooses me,’ said Stangerson.
‘No, no,’ said Drebber. ‘I’m much richer than you. I can
afford to keep more wives. She’ll marry me.’
‘For now, you can both stop fighting over my daughter
and get out of my house!’ shouted John.
‘She has a month to choose. Now go!’
‘You’ll be sorry! shouted Stangerson as he left. ‘No one
opposes the Prophet!’
The next morning, John woke up to find a note on his
bed. It said, Twenty nine days left. John did not know how this
message was delivered as he slept. All the doors and windows
were locked.
Every day John found another note, counting down the
days until Lucy had to choose. There was still no news from
Jefferson.
One evening John sat alone trying to think of a way out
of his trouble. That morning the number two was written on
the wall of his house. The next day was the last day of Lucy’s
freedom. Suddenly he heard a quiet scratching on the door to
the house.
John opened the door. He looked right and left and saw
no one.
 Then he looked down, there on the ground was Jefferson
Hope. ‘You scared me!’ said John. ‘Why did you come like
that?’
‘How’s Lucy?’ asked Jefferson. ‘Is she well?’
‘She doesn’t know the danger,’ said John.
That’s good. The house is watched on every side. That’s
why I crawled to the door like that. We must leave tonight. I
have three horses waiting in the Eagle Canyon. Do you have
money?’ John nodded.
‘Go and wake Lucy. We must leave at once’
They waited until a dark cloud covered the moon. Then
they climbed out of the window into the small garden. Silently
they crossed the garden into a field. Suddenly, Jefferson pulled
them down into the shadow. They saw two men meet in the
darkness. ‘Tomorrow at midnight,’ said one. ‘Tell Brother
Drebber.’
‘Nine to seven!’
‘Seven to five!’ The two men separated and disappeared
into the night.
Jefferson, Lucy and John quickly crossed the fields and
came to the road. Soon the road led between two dark, rocky
mountains: Eagle Canyon, where the horses were waiting for
them. As they travelled further and further away from the
Mormons, all three felt happier. But they were still inside the
boundary of the Mormon city; a soldier stood on a cliff.
‘Who goes there?’ he shouted.
‘Travellers for Nevada,’ replied Jefferson.
‘By whose permission?’
‘The Holy Elders,’ answered Ferrier.
‘Nine to seven.’
‘Seven to five,’ replied Jefferson, remembering the code
words he had heard earlier.
 ‘You may pass,’ said the figure.
The travellers knew that freedom lay ahead of them.
They continued through the night and at sunrise they
stopped to eat and rest. But Jefferson did not want to wait
long.
‘They must be following us by now,’ he said. ‘We must
get to Carson City and then we’ll be safe.’ They carried on.
On the second day, their food ran out and Jefferson knew
that he must go hunting for food to survive. In a sheltered
place, he built a small fire and left Lucy and John to rest while
he went hunting. He searched for two or three hours without
success, then he found and shot a wild sheep. He cut off as
much meat as he could carry and started back to Lucy and
John. But he was lost. It took him a long time to find his way
and it was getting dark. Finally he recognised the place where
Lucy and John were. He shouted to them but there was no
reply. He rushed on and, turning the corner, found a pile of hot
ashes from the fire but no sign of John and Lucy. Even the
animals had gone.
Jefferson looked around him. At one side of the fire was
a pile of earth. It was a new grave. On it was a stick with a
piece of paper on it. It said John Ferrier Previously of Salt
Lake City Died August 4.
Jefferson looked around for a second grave but there
wasn’t one. They must have taken Lucy back to become the
wife of Drebber or Stangerson. As Jefferson realised that he
was powerless, he wished that he too was dead like John
Ferrier.
But then he decided to fight back, if he could not have
Lucy, he would have revenge. He would kill Drebber and
Stangerson.
For five days he walked back the way he had come with
Lucy and John on horse days before. He was tired and hungry
but still he kept going. On the sixth day he arrived in Eagle
Canyon. From here he could see Salt Lake City, the home of
the Mormons. A man on horseback was passing by. Jefferson
knew him.
‘Please, tell me what happened to Lucy Ferrier,’ he
asked the man.
The man looked scared. ‘I can’t be seen talking to you,’
he said. ‘They’ll kill both of us.’
‘Just tell me,’ asked Jefferson.
‘She was married yesterday to young Drebber,’ he said.
‘But I don’t think he’ll have Lucy for long. She’s more like a
ghost than a woman. What will you do?’
‘I’m leaving,’ said Jefferson. He turned and walked back
into the mountains.
The man was right. Lucy never recovered from the loss
of her father and Jefferson. In a month she was dead. Drebber
did not seem sad. He only married her for her father’s farm
and wealth. But his other wives mourned for her, and sat with
her body the night before she was buried. Early in the
morning, they were sitting around the body when the door was
thrown open and a savage looking man walked in. He walked
up to the body that once contained the soul of Lucy Ferrier. He
kissed her and then took the wedding ring from her finger.
‘She won’t be buried in that,’ he said angrily. He
disappeared as suddenly as he came.
For several months, Jefferson stayed in the mountains
around the Mormon city. There were stories of attempts to kill
Drebber and Stangerson. They knew it was Jefferson and tried
to find their enemy and kill him before he killed them. But
they failed.
Jefferson was ill from living in the mountains. He
decided that his revenge could wait while he regained his
health and earned some money.
Five years later, he returned to Salt Lake City, disguised
and with a different name. However, the Mormons were no
longer together. There was a split between the younger and
older Mormons. Drebber and Stangerson were no longer
Mormons and they left Salt Lake City. No one knew where
they were. They only knew that Drebber was still very rich but
Stangerson was not. He was working for Drebber as his
secretary.
Jefferson travelled from city to city in America,
searching for his enemies. Year after year, he continued his
search until finally he found the two men in Cleveland, Ohio.
But they managed to escape him again, by leaving for Europe.
Jefferson worked for a while to earn the money to follow
them, but he always just missed them. When he reached St
Petersburg, they left for Paris; when he arrived in Paris, they
went to Copenhagen. He followed them all over Europe until
finally he found them in London. To know what happened
there, we can return to the diary of Doctor Watson, where he
recorded Jefferson Hope’s story.
 CHAPTER THREE

Revenge
After we got our prisoner under control, he was very
calm and did not try to hurt us anymore.
‘I guess you’re going to take me to the police station,’ he
said to Sherlock Holmes. ‘My cab’s downstairs. If you free my
legs, I can walk down to it.’
Sherlock Holmes did as he asked, although Gregson and
Lestrade looked worried. Jefferson Hope stood up.
‘I can drive the cab,’ said Lestrade. ‘The doctor and
Gregson can travel with you two inside.’ We went downstairs
to the cab. Jefferson did not try to escape and soon we were at
the police station.
‘I’d like to tell my side of the story,’ said Jefferson
Hope. ‘My heart is weak and I won’t live many more days,
now my work is done. I don’t want to be remembered as a
cold-blooded murderer.’
He sat down and told his story.
‘I hated these two men because they caused the death of
two human beings, the girl I wanted to marry twenty years
ago, and her father. That man Drebber forced her to marry him
instead, and she died from a broken heart because of it. I’ve
carried her wedding ring with me over two continents in my
search for justice. Now the two men are dead and I killed
them. My work is done.
‘They were rich and I was poor. It wasn’t easy to follow
them. When I got to London, I had no money and took work as
a cabdriver. I found out where they were staying and followed
them. But they were clever. They never went out alone and
never after dark. Finally my chance came. They separated at
Euston station. I was close enough to hear their plans.
Stangerson went to the Halliday Hotel to wait while Drebber
returned to their old hotel, Madame Charpentier’s. I followed
Drebber, and waited outside.
‘Soon Drebber came out with a very angry young man,
who was about to hit him with a stick. But Drebber ran away.
He saw my cab, jumped in, and asked to go to the Halliday
Hotel. Finally he was in my cab. I took him to the house in
Brixton Road, which I knew was empty.
‘I didn’t want to kill him without giving him a chance. I
wanted him to know who I was and why he was going to die.
One of the jobs I did in America was working in a laboratory
as a cleaner. In the laboratory there was a deadly poison,
which I made into a pill. I made some pills which were
harmless and some with the deadly poison. With these I could
give Drebber the chance to choose, and I would eat the other
pill.
‘When we arrived at the house, Drebber was still drunk
and he thought it was the hotel. He followed me down the path
and we went into the empty room. I lit a candle and turned to
him. “Now Enoch Drebber, who am I?”
‘He stared at me drunkenly, the horror showing in his
face as he realised who I was.
‘Are you going to murder me?’ he stammered.
‘Did you show mercy to Lucy and her father?’ I cried.
‘Let God judge between us. Choose and swallow,’ I said,
holding out the pills. ‘There’s life in one and death in the
other. Let’s see if there’s justice on the earth.’
‘I held my knife to his throat until he obeyed me. I
swallowed the other pill and we waited. I’ll never forget the
look on his face as he felt the poison in his body. I held Lucy’s
wedding ring in front of his eyes before he fell to the ground.
He was dead.
‘Blood was running from my nose. I don’t know why I
wrote on the wall with it, perhaps to confuse the police. After I
wrote the word on the wall, I returned to my cab and drove
away. I put my hand in my pocket for Lucy’s ring: it was gone.
The ring was the only thing I had to remind me of Lucy so I
returned to the house and walked straight into a policeman. I
pretended to be drunk and got away.
‘That’s how Enoch Drebber died. Now I wanted to find
Stangerson. I went to his hotel and I soon found out which was
his window. I climbed a ladder into his room and gave him the
same choice of pills I gave Drebber. But Stangerson jumped
up from his bed and attacked me. I stabbed him.
‘My business was done and I wanted to work a little
more to earn money to return to America. I was standing in the
cabdriver’s yard when a poor young boy asked for a cabdriver
named Jefferson Hope. He said that his cab was wanted at
221B Baker Street. I went there, suspecting nothing, and the
next thing I knew, this man had put the handcuffs on me.
That’s my story, gentlemen. You may think I’m a murderer,
but I think I’m as much an officer of justice as you are.’
We sat in silence for a minute after this man’s story of
justice and retribution.
‘There’s just one thing I want to ask,’ said Sherlock
Holmes. ‘Who was your friend who came for the ring?’
Jefferson Hope smiled. ‘I can tell my own secrets,’ he
said, ‘but I don’t cause other people trouble. He was a friend
who offered to go in case it was a trap. He did it well, didn’t
he?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Sherlock Holmes.
‘Now gentlemen,’ said the officer in charge, ‘the
prisoner will be held here until Thursday, when he goes to
court.’ Jefferson Hope was taken off to a prison cell. Sherlock
Holmes and I went back to Baker Street.
 CHAPTER FOUR

A Case Solved
We were expected in court with Jefferson Hope on
Thursday. However, when Thursday came, Jefferson Hope
was already dead. On the night after his arrest, his weak heart
finally stopped beating and he was found the next morning in
his prison cell, lying on the floor with a contented smile on his
face.
Sherlock Holmes was cheerful.
‘I’m so glad I didn’t miss this investigation!’ he said. ‘It
really has been a very interesting case. Although it was very
simple, there are many useful things to be learned from it.’
‘Simple?’ I exclaimed.
‘Of course,’ said Sherlock Holmes. ‘The proof is that,
with only a few ordinary deductions, I was able to find the
criminal in only three days.’
‘That’s true,’ I said.
‘This was a case where we had the result and had to
work backwards. I knew that two men arrived at the house in a
cab from the tracks of the wheels and the footprints outside.
There was no injury on the dead man’s body. I sniffed his lips
and smelt a bitter smell: poison. Because of the expression on
his face, I knew that someone had forced him to take the
poison.
‘Now the question was why? There was no robbery. It
was either politics or a woman. When the ring was found, that
answered the question. The murderer used the ring to remind
his victim of a dead or absent woman. At this point I asked
Gregson if he had asked anything in particular about Drebber’s
past in his telegram to Cleveland. He said no, so I did his work
for him. When I contacted Cleveland, I asked only about the
marriage of Enoch Drebber. They told me that Drebber asked
for the protection of the law from an old rival in love called
Jefferson Hope, and that this man Hope was in Europe. You
remember the telegram in Stangerson’s pocket: “J. H. is in
Europe.”
‘I knew that the murderer was also the driver of the cab.
If a man wanted to commit murder, he wouldn’t do it with
someone else, a cabdriver, waiting outside. Also, a cabdriver is
the perfect job for following someone around London. That’s
why I asked young Wiggins to ask in every cab company in
London for a driver named Jefferson Hope. As you know, he
found him and brought him to me.’
‘You really are wonderful, Holmes,’ I said. ‘Your
achievements should be publicly recognised. I’ll publish your
account of the case.’
‘You can try,’ said Holmes, ‘but look at this,’ he said,
handing me a newspaper.
It read: ‘Jefferson Hope, suspected murderer of Mr
Enoch Drebber and Mr Joseph Stangerson, has died. The
details of the case will probably never be known, although we
do know that the crimes were a result of an old feud, in which
love and Mormonism played a part. Both the victims belonged
to the religious group the Mormons when they were young.
Hope also comes from Salt Lake City, where the Mormons
founded their religion.
‘Our police force has been very efficient in capturing the
murderer. All credit must go to the well-known detectives,
Gregson and Lestrade. The murderer was captured in the
rooms of a Mr Sherlock Holmes, an amateur detective who has
also shown some talent. Perhaps, in time, he will be as clever
as Gregson and Lestrade.’
‘Didn’t I tell you at the start?’ laughed Holmes. ‘For all
our hard work, Gregson and Lestrade take all the credit!’
‘Never mind,’ I answered. ‘I have all the facts in my
diary and the public will know them, even though no one else
appreciates you!’
 - THE END -
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