Luke's ENGLISH Podcast - Learn British English with Luke Thompson｜Sherlock Holmes & The Adventure of the Man with the Twisted Lip 🕵 [999]

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You're listening to Luke's English Podcast.

Welcome back to Luke's English Podcast.

How are you doing today?

I hope you're doing fine.

So back by popular demand, which means that lots of people have requested this.

Here is another Sherlock Holmes story on Luke's English Podcast.

The aim of this episode is really just to let you enjoy listening to one of the original Sherlock Holmes stories.

And to understand it as well.

So that's my aim while I do this, to help you enjoy listening to this story and to understand it as well.

The process is going to be this.

I'll read the story to you twice.

The first time I read the story, I'll just read the whole thing without stopping or pausing or explaining anything.

So I'm just going to read the whole story

Once first, just so that you can hear the whole thing uninterrupted.

And then when I've done that, I will read the entire story again.

And I will pause to explain various words and details just to make sure you understand it a lot more.

Clearly and also to give you the chance to learn some vocabulary from it too.

Now doing that, reading it and then reading it again and stopping and explaining lots of things, that is going to make this episode potentially extremely long.

But so be it.

Like I've said before, you could consider this to be a kind of audio book rather than a podcast episode.

And when you think of it in those terms, a three-hour episode is nothing, right?

It's just a...

Normal for an audiobook

So the first time you listen to this story which i'm going to start in just a second the first time just listen to the story try to follow me and try to understand everything

Try to keep listening even if you feel lost and it is quite easy to feel lost

With stories like these because there is a lot of detail.

There's also a lot of mystery as well.

A lot of stuff happens that doesn't seem to make any sense.

It can be a bit mysterious and confusing with a lot of details and things like that.

It doesn't really all get concluded until the end when Sherlock Holmes explains everything.

So it's quite normal to feel a bit lost or a bit confused.

If you feel like you've just got no idea what's going on, my advice is continue listening.

Keep listening, keep going, and certainly then I will explain absolutely everything for you.

Like Sherlock Holmes, I will...

Explain all the details when I go through the story again the second time, and then you can check what you've understood, and you can get also a deeper sense of the nuances and details, and probably pick up some words and phrases in the process.

This episode is going to be a marathon, I think, so let's get started.

The PDF for this contains the story text...

And that's it, basically.

So you can download the PDF with the full story text.

By the way, I have adapted the text very slightly myself just to get rid of certain words and phrases which are so old-fashioned that they're not really...

Useful for you learning modern English that we can use today.

But I didn't want to completely change the text because the original story is great.

But I've just modernised a few little details, basically changed a few words and phrases.

But 95% of the text is the same as the original.

Let's get started.

The story that I've chosen here is called Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Man with the Twisted Lip.

Okay, the man with the twisted lip.

So you can imagine a person with a lip on their face, top lip, bottom lip, which is twisted.

Why would someone's lip be twisted?

You can imagine someone might look quite extraordinary, quite ugly, quite striking with a twisted lip.

I should say that this story begins with Watson going off on a little adventure of his own.

So there's like a little mini Watson story at the beginning of this.

And then the real story of the man with the twisted lip begins again.

After Watson's little mini adventure at the start.

Okay, so there's the mini Watson adventure, and then the proper case involving Sherlock Holmes gets started after that.

So don't get confused between the two things, although the location is the same.

The little Watson adventure sets the scene with a certain location and then the proper story continues from there.

Okay, so this is The Adventure of the Man with the Twisted Lip by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

And here we go.

Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., principal of the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted to opium.

The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak impulse when he was at college, for having read De Quincey's descriptions of his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the same effects.

He found, as so many more have done, that the practice is easier to pick up than to get rid of, and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives.

I can see him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids and pinpoint pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.

One night, it was in June, 89, there came a ring to my bell about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock.

I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needlework down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment.

A patient, she said.

You'll have to go out.

I groaned, for I'd only just come back from a weary day.

We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps in the hall.

Our own door flew open and a lady, clad in some dark-coloured stuff with a black veil, entered the room.

You will excuse my calling so late, she began, and then, suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder.

Oh, I'm in such trouble, she cried.

I do so want a little help.

Why, said my wife, pulling up her veil.

It's Kate Whitney.

How you startled me, Kate.

I had no idea who you were when you came in.

I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you.

That was always the way.

Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a lighthouse.

It was very sweet of you to come.

Now, you must have some wine and water and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it.

Or would you rather I sent James off to bed?

Oh, no, no, I want the doctor's advice and help too.

It's about Isa.

He hasn't been home for two days.

I'm so worried about him.

It was not the first time that she'd spoken to us about her husband's trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school companion.

We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find.

Did she know where her husband was?

Was it possible that we could bring him back to her?

It seems it was.

She had the surest information that lately he had made use of an opium den in the farthest east of the city.

Hitherto his orgies had always been confined to one day, and he'd come back twitching and shattered in the evening.

But now the spell had been upon him eight and forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects.

There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold in Upper Swandham Lane.

But what was she supposed to do?

How could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place and pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?

There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it.

Might I not escort her to this place?

And then, as a second thought, why should she come at all?

I was Isa Whitney's medical advisor, and as such I had influence over him.

I could manage it better if I were alone.

I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given me.

And so in ten minutes I'd left my armchair and cheery sitting room behind me and was speeding eastward in a handsome on a strange errand as it seemed to me at the time.

Though the future could only show how strange it was to be.

There was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure.

Upper Swandham Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge.'

Between a slop shop and a gin shop, approached by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the den I was searching for.

Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn down in the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet, and by the light of a flickering oil lamp above the door, I found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brown opium smoke.

And terraced with wooden bunks like the forecastle of an emigrant ship

Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in strange fantastic poses bowed shoulders bent knees heads thrown back and chins pointed upward

With here and there a dark, lacklustre eye turned upon the newcomer.

Out of the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes.

Most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour.

At the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which, on a three-legged wooden stool, there sat a tall, thin old man with his jaw resting upon his two fists and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.

As I entered, a sickly Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.

Thank you, I have not come to stay, said I.

There is a friend of mine here, Mr. Iser Whitney, and I wish to speak with him.

There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering through the gloom I saw Whitney, pale, haggard and unkempt, staring out at me.

"'My God, it's Watson!'

Said he.

He was in a pitiable state of reaction, with every nerve twitching.

"'I say, Watson, what o'clock is it?'

Nearly eleven.

Of what day?

Of Friday, June the 19th.

Good heavens!

I thought it was Wednesday.

It is Wednesday.

What do you want to frighten a chap for?

He sank his face onto his arms and began to sob in a high treble key.

I tell you that it is Friday, man.

Your wife has been waiting this two days for you.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

So I am.

But you've got mixed up, Watson, for I've only been here a few hours.

Three pipes, four pipes.

I forget how many, but I'll go home with you.

I wouldn't frighten Kate.

Poor little Kate.

Give me your hand.

Have you got a cab?

Yes, I have one waiting.

Then I shall go in it.

But I must owe something.

Find out what I owe, Watson.

I'm all off colour.

I can do nothing for myself.'

I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager.'

As I passed the tall man who sat by the brazier, I felt a sudden pull at my skirt, and a low voice whispered, ''Walk past me, and then look back at me.''

The words fell quite distinctly on my ear.

I glanced down.

They could only have come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from between his knees.

As though it had dropped in sheer weariness from his fingers.

I took two steps forward and looked back.

It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of astonishment.

He had turned his back so that no one could see him except me.

His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes.

He made a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face half round to the company once more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped senility.

"'Holmes!'

I whispered.

"'What on earth are you doing in this den?'

As low as you can, he answered.

I have excellent ears.

If you would have the great kindness to get rid of that wasted friend of yours, I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you.

I have a cab outside.

Then pray send him home in it.

You may safely trust him, for he appears to be too weak to get into any mischief.

I should recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife, to say that you've thrown in your lot with me.

If you will wait outside, I shall be with you in five minutes.

It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes' requests, for they were always so exceedingly definite and put forward with such a quiet air of mastery.

I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in the cab, my mission was practically accomplished, and for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be associated with my friend in one of those singular adventures which were the normal condition of his existence.

In a few minutes I'd written my note, paid Whitney's bill, led him out to the cab and seen him driven through the darkness.

In a very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes.

For two streets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot.

Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

I suppose, Watson, said he, that you imagine I've added opium smoking to cocaine injections and all the other little weaknesses on which you've favoured me with your medical views.

I was certainly surprised to find you there, but not more so than I to find you.

I came to find a friend, and I to find an enemy.

An enemy?

Yes, one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey.

Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these addicts, as I've done before now.

Had I been recognised in that den, my life would not have been worth an hour's purchase.

For i have used it before now for my own purposes and the rascally lascar who runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon me

There is a trap-door at the back of that building near the corner of paul's wharf

Which could tell some strange tales of what has passed through it on moonless nights.

What?

You do not mean bodies?

Aye, bodies, Watson.

We should be rich men if we had one thousand pounds for every poor devil who's ever been done to death in that den.

It is the vilest murder trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair has entered it never to leave again.

But our trap should be here.

He put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly, a signal which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses' hoofs.

Now, Watson...

Said Holmes as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side lanterns.

"'You'll come with me, won't you?'

"'If I can be of use.'

"'Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use, and a chronicler still more so.

My room at the Cedars is a double-bedded one.'

The Cedars?

Yes, that is Mr. St. Clair's house.

I am staying there while I conduct the inquiry.

Where is it, then?

Near Lee, in Kent.

We have a seven-mile drive before us.

But I am all in the dark.

Of course you are.

You'll know all about it in a moment.

Jump up here.

All right, John, we shall not need you.

Here's half a crown.

Ting!

Look out for me tomorrow about eleven.

So long, then.

He flicked the horse with his whip and we dashed away through the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened gradually until we were flying across a broad, balustraded bridge with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us.

Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of the policemen, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of revellers.

A dull rack of cloud was drifting slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the gaps in the cover.

Holmes drove in silence with his head sunk upon his breast and the air of a man who is lost in thought while i sat beside him curious to learn what this new quest might be which seemed to tax his powers so sorely

And yet afraid to break in upon the current of his thoughts

We had driven several miles and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban villas when he shook himself shrugged his shoulders and lit up his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he is acting for the best

You have a grand gift of silence, Watson, said he.

It makes you quite invaluable as a companion.

Upon my word, it is a great thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not over-pleasant.

I was wondering what I should say to this dear little woman to-night when she meets me at the door.

You forget that I know nothing about it.

I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get to Lee.

It seems absurdly simple, and yet somehow I can get nothing to work on.

There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can't get the end of it into my hand.

Now I'll state the case clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to me.

Proceed then.

Some years ago, to be definite, in May 1884, there came to Lee a gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of money.

He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and lived generally in good style.'

By degrees he made friends in the neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer by whom he now has two children.

He had no occupation, but was interested in several companies, and went into town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 5.14 from Cannon Street every night.

Mr St Clair is now 37 years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know him.

I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as far as we have been able to ascertain, amount to £88.10, while he has £220 standing to his credit in the Capital and Counties Bank.

There is no reason, therefore, to think that money troubles have been weighing upon his mind.

Last Monday, Mr Neville St Clair went into town rather earlier than usual, remarking before he started that he had two important commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy home a box of bricks.

Now, by the merest chance, his wife received a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to the effect that a small parcel of considerable value, which she had been expecting, was waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company.'

Now, if you are well up on your London geography, you will know that the office of the company is in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandom Lane, where you found me tonight.

Mrs St Clair had her lunch, started for the city, did some shopping, proceeded to the company's office, got her packet and found herself at exactly 4.35 walking through Swandham Lane on her way back to the station.

Have you followed me so far?

It is very clear.

If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs St Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, as she did not like the neighbourhood in which she found herself.

While she was walking in this way down Swandham Lane, she suddenly heard an ejaculation or cry and was struck cold to see her husband looking down at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a second floor window.

The window was open and she distinctly saw his face, which she describes as being terribly agitated.

He waved his hands frantically to her and then vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her that he had been pulled back by some irresistible force from behind.

One singular point which struck her quick eye was that although he wore a dark coat, like the one he'd gone to town in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.

Convinced that something was amiss with him she rushed down the steps for the house was none other than the opium den in which you found me to-night and running through the front room she attempted to go up the stairs which led to the first floor

At the foot of the stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of whom I have spoken, who thrust her back, and aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant there, pushed her out into the street.

Filled with the most maddening doubts and fears, she rushed down the lane and by rare good fortune met in Fresno Street a number of constables with an inspector all on their way to their beat.

The inspector and two men accompanied her back and in spite of their continued resistance of the prepar...

And in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their way to the room in which Mr Sinclair had last been seen.

There was no sign of him there.

In fact, in the whole of that floor, there was no one to be found, save a crippled man with a hideous appearance, who, it seems, made his home there.

Both he and the lascar stoutly swore that no one else had been in the front room during the afternoon.

So determined was their denial that the inspector was staggered and had almost come to believe that Mrs St Clair had been deluded, when, with a cry, she sprang at a small box which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it.

Out there fell a cascade of children's bricks.

It was the toy which he had promised to bring home.

This discovery and the evident confusion which the cripple showed made the inspector realise that the matter was serious.

The rooms were carefully examined and results all pointed to an abominable crime.

The front room was plainly furnished as a sitting room and led into a small bedroom which looked out upon the back of one of the wharves.

Between the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow strip which is dry at low tide, but is covered at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water.

The bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below.

On examination, traces of blood were found upon the windowsill and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of the bedroom.

Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were all the clothes of Mr Neville St. Clair, with the exception of his coat.

His boots, his socks, his hat and his watch all were there.

There were no signs of violence upon any of these garments and there were no other traces of Mr Neville St Clair.

Out of the window

He must apparently have gone, for no other exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon the windowsill gave little promise that he could save himself by swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment of the tragedy.

And now, as to the villains who seem to be immediately implicated in the matter, the last car was known to be a man with a very shady background.

But as, by Mrs St Clair's story, he was known to have been at the foot of the stair within a few seconds of her husband's appearance at the window...

He could hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime.

His defence was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he could not account in any way for the presence of the missing gentleman's clothes.

So much for the last car manager, now for the sinister cripple who lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair.

His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which is familiar to every man who regularly goes into the city.

He is a professional beggar though in order to avoid the police regulations he pretends to do a small trade in wax matches

Some little distance down threadneedle street upon the left-hand side there is as you may have remarked a small angle in the wall

Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat, cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a piteous spectacle, a small rain of charity descends into the greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him.

I've watched the fellow more than once before I ever thought of making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised at the harvest which he's reaped in such a short time.

His appearance, you see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him without observing him.

A shock of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar.

Which, by its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of his upper lip.

A bulldog chin and a pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him out from amid the common crowd of beggars, and so, too, does his wit, for he's always ready with a reply to any piece of abuse which may be thrown at him by the passers-by.

This is the man whom we now learn to have been the lodger at the opium den, and to have been the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest.

"'But a cripple,' said I, "'what could he have done single-handed against a man in the prime of life?'

He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp, but in other respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man.

Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others.

Pray continue your narrative.

Mrs St Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her presence could be of no help to them in their investigations.

Inspector Barton, who was in charge of the case, made a very careful examination of the premises, but without finding anything which threw any light upon the matter.

One mistake had been made in not arresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed a few minutes during which he might have communicated with his friend the Lascar.

But this fault was soon remedied and he was seized and searched without anything being found which could incriminate him.

There were, it is true, some blood stains upon his right shirt sleeve, but he pointed to his ring finger, which had been cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from there.

Adding that he'd been to the window not long before and that the stains which had been observed there came doubtless from the same source.

He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes in his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police.

As to Mrs St Clair's assertion that she had actually seen her husband at the window, he declared that she must have been either mad or dreaming.

He was removed, loudly protesting to the police station, while the inspector remained upon the premises in the hope that the ebbing tide might reveal some fresh clue.

And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they had feared to find.

It was Neville St. Clair's coat, and not Neville St. Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded.

And what do you think they found in the pockets?

I cannot imagine.

No, I don't think you would guess.

Every pocket stuffed with pennies and half pennies.

421 pennies and 270 half pennies.

It was no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide.

But a human body is a different matter.

There was a fierce current between the wharf and the house.

It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained when the stripped body had been sucked away into the river.

But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room.

Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?

No, sir, but the facts might be explained convincingly enough.

Suppose that this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the window.

There is no human eye which could not have seen the deed.

What would he do then?

It would, of course, instantly strike him that he must get rid of the telltale garments.

He would seize the coat, then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when it would occur to him that it would swim and not sink.'

He has little time for

He's heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife tried to force her way up and perhaps he's already heard from his lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street

There is not an instant to be lost

He rushes to some secret hoard where he's accumulated the fruits of his beggary

And he stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure of the coat's sinking.

He throws it out, and would have done the same with the other garments had not he heard the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the window when the police appeared.

Certainly sounds feasible.

Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better one.

Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but it could not be shown that there had ever before been anything against him.

He had for years been known as a professional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one.

There the matter stands at present, and the questions which have to be solved, what Neville St Clair was doing in the opium den, what happened to him when there, where he is now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with this disappearance, are all as far from a solution as ever.

I confess that I cannot recall any case within my experience which looked at the first glance so simple, and yet which presented such difficulties.

While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great town until the last straggling houses had been left behind, and we rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us.

Just as he finished, however, we drove through two scattered villages, where a few lights still glimmered in the windows.

We are on the outskirts of Leigh, said my companion.

We have touched on three English counties in our short drive, starting with Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey and ending in Kent.

See that light among the trees?

That is the cedars, and beside that lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt, caught the clink of our horse's feet.

But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?

I asked.

Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here.

Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and you may rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend and colleague.

I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have no news of her husband.

Here we are.

Whoa, whoa there.

Whoa.

We had pulled up in front of a large villa, which stood within its own grounds.

A stable boy had run out to the horse's head, and springing down, I followed Holmes up the small, winding gravel drive which led to the house.

As we approached, the door flew open and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, dressed in some sort of light silk muslin with a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck and wrists.

She stood with her figure outlined against the flood of light, one hand upon the door, one half raised in her eagerness, her body slightly bent, her head and face protruded with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing question.

"'Well?'

She cried.

"'Well?'

And then, seeing that there were two of us, she gave a cry of hope, which sank into a groan as she saw that my companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

"'No good news?'

"'None.'

"'No bad?'

"'No.'

"'Thank God for that.

But come in.

You must be weary, for you've had a long day.'

This is my friend, Dr. Watson.

He's been of most vital use to me in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for me to bring him out and associate him with this investigation.

I'm delighted to see you, said she, pressing my hand warmly.

You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our arrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly upon us.

My dear madam, said I, I am an old campaigner, and if I were not, I can very well see that no apology is needed.

If I could be of any assistance either to you or to my friend here, I shall indeed be happy.

"'Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,' said the lady, as we entered a well-lit dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had been laid out,

"'I should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions, to which I beg that you will give a plain answer.'

"'Certainly, madam.'

Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question.

Frankly now, she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket chair.

Frankly then, madam, I do not.

You think that he is dead?

I do.

"'Murdered?'

"'I don't say that, perhaps.'

"'And on what day did he meet his death?'

"'On Monday.'

"'Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it is that I have received a letter from him today.'

Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he'd been galvanised.

"'What?'

He roared.

"'Yes, today,' she stood, smiling, holding up a little slip of paper in the air.

"'May I see it?'

"'Certainly.'

He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon the table, he drew over the lamp and examined it intently.

I had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder.

The envelope was a very coarse one, and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark, and with the date of that very day, or rather of the day before, for it was considerably after midnight.

"'Course writing,' murmured Holmes.

"'Surely this is not your husband's writing, madam?'

"'No, but the enclosure is.'

"'I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope "'had to go and inquire as to the address.'

How can you tell that?

The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink which has dried itself.

The rest is of the greyish colour which shows that blotting paper has been used.

If it had been written straight off and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade.

This man has written the name, and there has then been a pause before he wrote the address, which can only mean that he is not familiar with it.

It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles.

Let us now see the letter.

Ha!

There has been an enclosure here.

Yes, there was a ring, his signet ring.

And are you sure that this is your husband's hand?

One of his hands.

One?

His hand when he wrote hurriedly.

It is very unlike his usual writing, yet I know it well.

Dearest, do not be frightened.

All will come well.

There is a huge error which it may take some little time to rectify.

Wait in patience.

Neville.

That was what was written on the note.

Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book octavo size no water mark hm posted to-day in gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb ha

And the flap has been gummed if i am not much in error by a person who has been chewing tobacco and you have no doubt that it is your husband's hand madam

"'None.

Neville wrote those words.'

"'And they were posted to-day at Gravesend.

"'Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the clouds lighten, "'though I should not venture to say that the danger is over.'

But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes, unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent.

The ring, after all, proves nothing.

It may have been taken from him.

No, no, it is his very own writing.

Very well.

It may, however, have been written on Monday and only posted today.

That is possible if so much may have happened between then and now oh you must not discourage me mr holmes

I know that all is well with him there is so keen a sympathy between us that i should know if evil came upon him

On the very day that I saw him last, he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining room rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty that something had happened.

Do you think that I would respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant of his death?

I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner.

And in this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to corroborate your view.

But if your husband is alive and able to write letters, why should he remain away from you?

"'I cannot imagine.

It is unthinkable.'

"'And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?'

"'No.'

"'And you were surprised to see him in Swandham Lane?'

"'Very much so.'

"'Was the window open?'

Yes.

Then he might have called to you.

He might.

He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry.

Yes.

A call for help, you thought.

Yes, he waved his hands.

But it might have been a cry of surprise, astonishment, at the unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands.

It is possible.

And you thought he was pulled back.

He disappeared so suddenly.

He might have leapt back.

You did not see anyone else in the room?

No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the last car was at the foot of the stairs.

Quite so.

Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary clothes on.

But without his collar or tie, I distinctly saw his bare throat.

Had he ever spoken of Swandham Lane?

Never.

Had he ever shown any signs of having taken opium?

Never.

Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair.

Those are the principal points about which I wished to be absolutely clear.

We shall now have a little supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day tomorrow.

A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets as I was weary after my night of adventure.

Sherlock Holmes was a man, however—

Who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days and even for a week without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of view until he'd either fathomed it or convinced himself that his data were insufficient.

It was soon evident to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting.

He took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing gown, and then wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions from the sofa and armchairs.

With these he constructed a sort of eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged with an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front of him.

In the dim light of the lamp

I saw him sitting there, an old briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline features.

So he sat as I dropped off to sleep.

And so he sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up.

He's done it again.

So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found the summer sun shining into the apartment.

The pipe was still between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the room was full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag which I had seen upon the previous night.

"'Awake, Watson?'

He asked.

"'Yes.'

"'Game for a morning drive?'

"'Certainly.'

"'Then dress.

No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out.'

He chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the sombre thinker of the previous night.

As I dressed, I glanced at my watch.

It was no wonder that no one was stirring.

It was twenty-five minutes past four.

I had hardly finished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the horse.

I want to test a little theory of mine, said he, pulling on his boots.

I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe.

I deserve to be kicked from here to Charing Cross, but I think I have the key of the affair now.

And where is it?

I asked, smiling.

In the bathroom, he answered.

Oh, yes, I am not joking, he continued, seeing my look of incredulity.

I have just been there, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag.

Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock.

We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible and out into the bright morning sunshine.

In the road stood our horse and trap with the half-clad stable boy waiting at the head.

We both sprang in and away we dashed down the London road.

A few country carts were stirring bearing in vegetables to the metropolis but the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream

It has been in some points a singular case said holmes flicking the horse on into a gallop

I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.

In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side.

Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river and dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found ourselves in Bow Street.

Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force, that's the police force, and the two constables at the door saluted him.

One of them held the horse's head while the other led us in.

"'Who is on duty?'

Asked Holmes.

"'Inspector Bradstreet, sir.'

"'Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?'

A tall, stout official had come down the stone-flagged passage in a peaked cap and frogged jacket.

"'I wish to have a word with you, Bradstreet.

Certainly, Mr Holmes, step into my room here.'

It was a small office-like room with a huge ledger upon the table and a telephone projecting from the wall.

The inspector sat down at his desk.

So what can I do for you, Mr Holmes?

I called about the beggar-man, Boone, the one who was charged with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair of Leigh.

Yes, he was brought up and remanded for further inquiries.

So I heard.

You have him here?

In the cells.

Is he quiet?

Oh, he gives no trouble, but he's a dirty scoundrel.

Dirty?

Yes, it's all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is as black as a tinker's.

Well, once his case has been settled, he will have a regular prison bath, and I think if you saw him you would agree with me that he needed it.

I should like to see him very much.

Would you?

That's easily done.

Come this way, you can leave your bag.

No, I think that I'll take it.

Very good.

Come this way, if you please.

He led us down a passage, opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side.

"'The third on the right is his,' said the inspector.

"'Here it is!'

He quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced through.

"'He's asleep,' said he.

"'You can see him very well.'

We both put our eyes to the grating.

The prisoner lay with his face towards us in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily.

He was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad, as became his calling, with a coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat.

He was, as the

But the grime which covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness.

A broad wheel from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and by its contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl.

A shock of very bright red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.

He's a beauty, isn't he, said the inspector.

He certainly needs a wash, remarked Holmes.

I had the idea that he might so i took the liberty of bringing the tools with me

He opened the gladstone bag as he spoke and took out to my astonishment a very large bath sponge

You are a funny one chuckled the inspector

Now, if you'll have the great goodness to open that door very quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure.

Well, I don't know why not, said the inspector.

He doesn't look a credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?

He slipped his key into the lock and we all very quietly entered the cell.

The sleeper half turned and then settled down once more into a deep slumber.

Holmes stooped to the water jug, moistened his sponge and then rubbed it twice vigorously across...

And down the prisoner's face.

"'Let me introduce you,' he shouted, "'to Mr Neville St. Clair of Leigh, in the county of Kent.'

Never in my life have I seen such a sight, the man's face peeled off under the sponge like the bark from a tree.

Gone was the coarse brown tint.

Gone, too, was the horrid scar and the twisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face.

A twitch brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in his bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy bewilderment.

Then, suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a scream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow.

"'Great heavens!'

Cried the inspector.

"'It is indeed the missing man!

I know him from the photograph!'

The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons himself to his destiny."

Be it so, said he, and pray, what am I charged with?

With making away with Mr Nevelson.

Oh, come, you can't be charged with that unless they make it a case of attempted suicide, said the inspector with a grin.

Well, I've been 27 years in the force, but this really takes the cake.

If I am Mr Neville St Clair, then it's obvious that no crime has been committed and that, therefore, I am illegally detained.

No crime, but a very great error has been committed, said Holmes.

You would have done better to have trusted your wife.

It was not the wife, it was the children, groaned the prisoner.

God help me!

I would not have them ashamed of their father.

My God, what an exposure!

What can I do?

Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him kindly on the shoulder.

If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up, said he, of course you can hardly avoid publicity.

On the other hand, if you convince the police authorities that there is no possible case against you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details should find their way into the papers.

Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which he might tell us, and submit it to the proper authorities.

The case would then never go to court at all.

"'God bless you!'

Cried the prisoner passionately.

"'I would have endured imprisonment, aye, even execution, rather than have left my miserable secret as a family blot to my children.'

You're the first who have ever heard my story.

My father was a schoolmaster in Chesterfield where I received an excellent education.

I travelled in my youth, took to the stage and finally became a reporter on an evening paper in London.

One day my editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis and I volunteered to supply them.

That was the point from which all my adventures started.

It was only by trying begging as an amateur that I could get the facts upon which to base my articles.

When an actor, I had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up and had been famous in the green room for my skill.

I took advantage now of my attainment.

I painted my face and to make myself as pitiable as possible I made a good scar and fixed it to one side of my lip in a twist by the aid of a small slip of flesh coloured plaster.

Then, with a red head of hair and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the business part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller, but really as a beggar.

For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home in the evening, I found to my surprise that I had received no less than 26 shillings and 4 d.

I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until some time later I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served upon me for twenty-five pounds.

I was at my wit's end where to get the money, but a sudden idea came to me.

I begged a fortnight's grace from the creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers, and spent the time begging in the city under my disguise.

In ten days I had the money and had paid the debt.

Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work at two pounds a week when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground and sitting still.

It was a long fight between my pride and the money, but the pounds won at last, and I threw up reporting and sat day after day in the corner which I'd first chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my pockets with coppers.

Only one man knew my secret.

He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to lodge in Swandham Lane.

Where I could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the evenings transform myself into a well-dressed man about town.

This fellow, a lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms so that I knew that my secret was safe in his possession.

Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of money.

I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could earn £700 a year, which is less than my average takings, but I had exceptional advantages in my power of making up and also in a facility of repartee, which improved my practice and made me quite a recognised character in the city.

All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver, poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in which I failed to take two pounds.

That is about 300 pounds in today's money, by the way.

As I grew richer, I grew more ambitious.

I took a house in the country and eventually married without anyone having a suspicion as to my real occupation.

My dear wife knew that I had business in the city.

She little knew what.

Last Monday I'd finished for the day and was dressing in my room above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw to my horror and astonishment that my wife was standing in the street with her eyes fixed full upon me.'

I gave a cry of surprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and rushing to my confidant, the lascar, entreated him to prevent anyone from coming up to me.

I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not come up.

Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my make-up and wig.

Even a wife's eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise.

But then it occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and that the clothes might betray me.

I threw open the window, reopening a small cut, which I'd inflicted upon myself in the bedroom that morning, causing me to bleed.

Then I seized my coat, which was weighted by the coppers which I'd just transferred to it from the leather bag in which I carried my takings.

I hurled it out of the window, and it disappeared into the Thames.

The other clothes would have followed, but at that moment there was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather, I confess to my relief that instead of being identified as Mr Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his murderer.

I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain.

I was determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my preference for a dirty face.

Knowing that my wife would be terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar at a moment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried scrawl, a piece of writing, telling her that she had no cause to fear.

That note only reached her yesterday, said Holmes.

Good God, what a week she must have spent!

The police have watched this lascar, said Inspector Bradstreet, and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter unobserved.

Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his, who forgot all about it for some days.

Yes, that was it, said Holmes, nodding approvingly.

I have no doubt of it.

But have you never been prosecuted for begging?

Many times, but what was a fine to me?

It must stop here, however, said Bradstreet.

If the police are to hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone.

I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take.

In that case, I think it's probable that no further steps may be taken.

But if you are found again, then all must come out.

I am sure, Mr Holmes, that we are very much in debt to you for having cleared the matter up.

I wish I knew how you reach your results.

I reached this one, said my friend, by sitting upon five pillows and consuming an ounce of shag tobacco.

I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker Street, we shall be just in time for breakfast.

Okay, and that is the story of the man with the twisted lip.

What did you think about that one, everyone?

How did you get on with that?

Well done, I should say, for making it all the way through because, yeah, that took about an hour, didn't it, to read.

And if I'm going to go through that in detail and explain a lot of things, ooh, it's going to be complicated.

And it's going to take time.

I don't have time to do it now.

It's going to be something I'll have to do at a later date, which is going to delay the publication of this episode.

But that's okay.

So let me try and explain the basics of the story before I go through it again.

So essentially, we start with Watson at home.

There's a knock at the door and a woman who's very upset comes in and she says, oh, it's my husband, Issa.

He's been missing for several days.

This is Issa Whitney, who is one of Watson's clients, one of his patients.

And Issa Whitney is addicted to opium.

Opium is a

Opium is a drug and it's kind of part of the, how do you describe this?

So opium, morphine, heroin, these are all opiates.

And they all essentially are derived from the poppy plant.

But opium is the oldest version of a drug derived from the poppy plant.

And it's an incredibly powerful drug.

And extremely addictive.

And so Isa Whitney is an opium addict, and essentially he's disappeared for several days.

And Watson goes to this opium den, this place in the very seedy part of East London, to try to find him and bring him back to his wife.

Which he does.

He goes there and there are some great passages in the story describing Watson going into the opium den and seeing all these addicts lying down on these bunk beds smoking opium through pipes.

And eventually he does find Isa Whitney, who is all confused and is completely out of it.

And Watson is going to send him home in a cab.

And he describes this old, thin, wrinkled old man sitting next to a fire with an opium pipe between his legs saying,

And as Watson walks past him, this man appears to say something to Watson.

He says, walk past me and then turn back and look at me, which he does.

And he looks...

Back at this old man who, when he knows that no one else in the place is looking at him, reveals himself to actually be Sherlock Holmes.

So this is Sherlock Holmes in disguise, disguising himself as an old opium-addicted man.

And...

So this is when the proper adventure of this story begins.

And essentially what we've done, what the writer, what Conan Doyle has done, is he's placed Watson in this opium den, establishing...

The scene, the location where most of the story takes place.

An opium den, a very dodgy place in the east end of London full of opium addicts.

The sort of...

A place that's probably full of criminals and all sorts of dodgy people.

And he also describes the fact that many, many people go missing in this place.

They get, I don't know, maybe they die from overdoses.

Their bodies get thrown out of a little trapdoor in the back into the River Thames.

Maybe people get murdered there.

It's a really nasty little place.

Holmes is there in disguise.

One of his skills is that he is a master of disguise.

He's there in disguise to try to get information about this place because he's on the case of Neville St. Clair.

I think it's the wife who's come to Sherlock Holmes saying that Neville St. Clair has disappeared and in strange circumstances.

The story, according to her, is that...

So Neville St. Clair is a respectable man, a wealthy, respectable man from a good class, from a good family.

He lives in a part of Kent, just outside London.

Every day he goes into London and goes to what his wife believes is a job in the city –

Where he earns good money, enough to pay for this nice house in the countryside and a good life with these two good children.

Neville St. Clair, by all accounts, is an honest, good person, a good father, trustworthy character.

But she says that on this one particular day...

She had to go into a part of East London in order to pick up a package which was waiting for her.

And after picking up the package, she discovered herself on Swandham Lane, which is this nasty little road where this opium den is to be found.

And she was walking along, trying to find a cab to get out of there because it wasn't a very nice place to be.

To be, basically.

So she was looking around and she suddenly heard a noise.

She heard an ejaculation, to be honest.

She heard a cry, a scream or a cry.

And looking up, she was amazed to see the face of her husband, Neville.

Who seemed to be shocked to see her, and he threw his hands up and then immediately disappeared.

Was he pulled out of the window?

Did he try to gesture to her?

Was he waving at her?

She didn't understand what was going on.

She went into the opium den, but was blocked in the stairs by this last car.

This is a sort of, I guess, an old Chinese sailor.

Who apparently ran the opium den, he blocked her from going up the stairs.

And with the help of his assistant, threw her out into the street.

She ran down the street and was lucky enough to find some police officers who accompanied her back to the opium den and managed to make their way up the stairs to the room where she was sure that she'd just seen her husband.

And they went up into the room.

There was no sign of her husband at all.

There was this beggar, this hideously ugly, disfigured, very dirty man called Hugh Boone, who was known in the area for begging in the street, begging for money.

He was there.

Also, there was some blood on the window and some of Neville St. Clair's clothes were found as well, but not his coat.

And so it looked like maybe this Hugh Boone character had thrown Neville St. Clair out of the window, perhaps with his coat on.

But it really wasn't very clear what had happened.

Where was Neville St. Clair?

Why was he there?

Where had he gone?

What had happened to him?

And how was Hugh Boone involved in this?

And had Neville St. Clair been murdered?

Hugh Boone apparently was the prime culprit for doing it, so he was arrested.

And those are the details of the case.

And Watson and Holmes go down to Kent to stay with Neville St. Clair's wife, who is in a very, very upset kind of state.

Holmes is sure that Neville is being killed.

Probably his body was dumped into the river.

Um, this is what he thinks.

And there's a very strong current which would have pulled the body out.

Um, it would have been impossible for, uh, Sinclair to swim because the water, the water is too dangerous.

And he tells Mrs. St. Clair that he thinks that her husband is dead.

And she says, well, how is that possible when I got a letter from him today?

And she reveals that this letter, which was clearly written very quickly, the address on the envelope was not written by him, written by someone else.

But it seems to prove that he is in fact alive.

Now that night, Holmes and Watson stay in the same room.

There are two beds.

Watson goes to sleep really quickly because of course this whole story happened.

This whole story began at about 11pm one evening when Watson was just about ready to go to bed.

And then this all kicked off and suddenly he finds himself off on an adventure in the middle of the night.

So he must be really tired.

And Watson falls asleep instantly.

But Holmes sits, he creates this kind of

A sort of bench out of pillows.

And he sits on top of it with all this tobacco, which he smokes through his pipe.

And he spends the whole night smoking pipe tobacco.

Watson wakes up with an ejaculation, of course.

I'll explain what's funny about that later.

But Watson wakes up and he sees that Holmes is still sitting there, but all the tobacco is gone.

And he's in a different mood.

He seems to be all happy and he's worked something out.

And together they go to the police station where Hugh Boone is being kept.

And, um, Holmes goes into the cell and with a sponge, a wet sponge, he wipes Hugh Boone's face and wipes off all the dirt and wipes off some makeup, revealing...

That Hugh Boone is in fact Neville St. Clair.

They are one and the same person.

And since Boone can't be charged for killing himself, there's no actual murder involved.

So it seems that he can't really be charged with anything.

So he'll probably be innocent.

But

But he'll only get away with it if he tells the police and tells Holmes and Watson exactly what's happened, just so that the police can be sure that nothing criminal has occurred.

And that's the only way.

And the police will probably drop their charges at that point.

And that's the only way that Neville St. Clair can be sure that this case will not go public.

Because what he doesn't want is for his wife and especially his children.

To know that he's been spending his days as a beggar in the street, making money from begging.

Because especially in those days, you know, social class, social hierarchy was a really, really big thing.

And someone from a very sort of noble family, very...

Respectable family.

If it turned out, if everyone knew that he spent his days living on the streets of the city as a dirty beggar, that it would bring the family into such disrepute and he would be so ashamed that it would be worse even than death for him.

So he was willing to kind of do anything that would mean that his family wouldn't find out about it.

So he told the whole story.

The whole story being that basically Neville St. Clair received a very good education.

He also spent time working in the theatre where he developed his abilities with makeup.

Right.

And he was particularly good at that.

And then he went off to get some job as a journalist.

That's right.

He worked as a journalist.

And one of his stories that he was asked to write was about homeless people in London, beggars, people begging in London.

And as part of his research, he decided that he would spend a day begging on the streets to see what it was like.

And he was shocked to discover that he could actually earn more money from begging than he could from his actual job.

In the story, it says that this is mainly because of his particular set of skills, that he was very good at the makeup and, you know, making himself look hideous and very noticeable with his red hair and this twisted lip with a scar on his face.

And that's...

Was a large part of why he was so successful, and much more successful than anyone else.

So he's not saying that anyone can make this amount of money as a beggar on the streets of London every day.

But he could because he had these particular skills.

And he was also very good verbally.

He could kind of like respond very quickly to any abuse that was given to him.

And this is how he spent his time.

And he used a room above this opium den owned by this Lascar, by this sailor.

And he paid him a lot of money so he could be sure that the secret would be safe with him.

And he used this room to get changed, to transform into the beggar and transform back into Neville St. Clair every single day.

And that's what he was doing.

And then one day he looked out of his window and was shocked to see his wife there.

Which he didn't expect.

And he was so shocked that he shouted or screamed or something and threw up his hands to cover his face and quickly went back into the room to escape from her.

But he knew it was too late and he quickly had to think and he decided that he would...

Quickly tried to get rid of any evidence of Neville St. Clair being there.

He quickly made himself up, put the makeup on to cover his identity and threw out the coat, which had coins in the pockets, which allowed the coat to sink and disappear.

But the other clothes he couldn't get rid of in time.

And then the police came in and that's what they discovered.

And that's why they arrested him, because they thought that he'd murdered Neville St. Clair.

And no one, not even his wife, was able to identify or was able to see through the incredible disguise that he'd put on his face.

That is until Sherlock Holmes comes along and...

By spending one night thinking about the case, smoking his way through an entire bag of pipe tobacco, that he works out what's happened.

And he's worked out that, in fact, Hugh Boone is Neville St. Clair.

And that is that.

And he's proven correct.

And so telling his story means that the police let him off.

They don't charge him with anything.

His secret is safe and he's returned to his wife and family.

I don't know how he's going to explain his disappearance.

Surely he'll have to explain it to his wife, but maybe the kids will never need to know.

But there you go.

That's the story of the man with the twisted lip.

Let me know your comments in the comments section.

What did you think of this particular story?

Did you see it coming?

Did you solve it?

Before the end

You may have heard this story before or read it yourself or seen the televised the tv version of it uh but i hope you enjoyed my reading of it

Now what i'm going to do at this point is stop and i'll find a time uh later on to go through the story again and explain lots of details although that will take absolutely ages won't it

But you know it is what it is

Okay, so I'm going to stop here.

And when we continue, it will be the future, future, future, future.

Okay, so let's continue.

So now I'm back in my podcasting room in my office in the podcast, all the headquarters of Luke's English podcast.

Let's continue then.

And so what I'm going to do now is go through the story again.

And explain a lot of things.

And I think it's probably worth restating my aim for this episode.

The aim was, if you remember, just to help you to understand and enjoy a Sherlock Holmes story in English, okay?

And I think you probably...

Are more likely to enjoy it if you understand it.

So as I go through the story text now, the focus, the aim for me is just to clarify things, explain enough to help you understand the story more deeply, okay?

Now, maybe I've bitten off more than I can chew by choosing to do it this way because it took over an hour just to read the story.

So if I read through it again and pause to explain things, then obviously that's going to extend the episode length massively.

So who knows?

This could be the longest episode of Luke's English Podcast ever.

Ever.

But that's OK, because like I've said before, you can consider this to be an audio book, can't you?

And if it was a four hour audio book, you'd be happy, maybe unhappy because you think four hours, that's it.

Normally, audio books are much longer.

So let's consider this to be an audiobook, but even better than an audiobook, because not only do you get a story, you also get me explaining lots of things afterwards.

Now, I can't explain every single word in the way that I would normally do with a much shorter story.

Sometimes when I do a story on the podcast, they're really short and I can then teach every single phrase, go through every line of the story and pick out every bit of vocabulary and expand that to other areas of teaching and stuff.

I can't do that.

So I'm going to try and fly through this and just explain details.

With the overall aim of helping you understand and enjoy the story, okay?

So it's going to be a little bit of a general explain rather than specific details.

Right, so having said that, let's crack on and continue.

So this is Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Man with the Twisted Lip, and it starts like this.

Isa Whitney, brother of the late...

Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the Theological College of St George's, was much addicted to opium.

Right, so first of all, this sentence could be contracted simply to Isa Whitney was much addicted to opium, right?

But then you've got all this other detail, brother of the late Elias Whitney.

So late, when you say late in front of a person, the late Elias Whitney, that means that they are dead, okay?

But anyway...

So this paragraph here just tells us a bit of background about Isa Whitney, who is the first character kind of who appears in the story.

As I said at the beginning of my first reading, I said, don't be distracted by the fact that there's a mini adventure at the beginning, followed by the proper story.

So there's Isa Whitney, the opium addict, and then we have Neville St. Clair.

Who kind of turns up later on in the story.

And I guess it's possible for you to mix the two up, but they are not at all the same.

So anyway, Isa Whitney is the first character.

And this stuff about how he was the brother of this guy called Elias Whitney, D.D.

That means that he was...

Like a theologian, right?

A doctor of theology, okay?

That's what those initials stand for.

And...

So his brother was also principal of the Theological College of St. George's.

So his brother was a very eminent person and quite a high-status person, this professor at a religious college, right?

Right.

And the point of putting that in is just to show that Isa Whitney comes from a good, reputable family.

And this is a theme that comes up in this story a lot.

The sense that high class, upper class people with respectable backgrounds and high status...

Reduced to the very lowest levels in society.

That's a theme that runs through this.

So Isa Whitney is the first character who comes from a very good family.

He's the brother of this eminent academic, religious academic man.

So that's just establishing the fact that he's from a good family.

And he was addicted to opium.

Much addicted.

I wouldn't say much addicted these days.

I think we would just say very addicted to opium.

The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak impulse when he was at college.

The habit grew upon him.

So if something grows upon you... Now, again, upon is a slightly old-fashioned word.

I could have... Maybe I could have removed all instances of the word upon in this story and replaced them with on.

And it more or less works exactly the same.

So just think of upon...

Normally, it's a bit of an old-fashioned word, an old-fashioned preposition that these days is replaced with simply by saying on.

The habit grew on him, you might say.

If something grows on you, it means it develops slowly over time, like a...

Like an opium addiction or indeed a heroin addiction, which may be at the beginning, Issa took a little bit and then there were a few days where he didn't do it and then he took a little bit more

And slowly but surely, the habit grew upon him until he needed to take it every single day and he was completely addicted.

It grew upon him from some foolish freak impulse.

So a foolish freak impulse.

An impulse is just when you suddenly decide to do something without really thinking it through.

Like when you go shopping and you suddenly see something and you're just like, oh, I think I'll buy that.

And you buy it.

You don't really plan to buy it.

That's an impulse purchase.

So some sort of impulse is just a sudden desire to do something.

Foolish just means it's stupid, not a very clever thing to do.

And freak here just means that it's

Completely rare, completely out of the blue, completely against his normal behaviour.

So a freak impulse is an impulse that is completely unexpected, okay, and not normal for him.

So it was a stupid impulse that suddenly took him when he was at university and he just decided to try it because he read De Quincey's descriptions of his dreams and sensations.

So this is...

A reference to a famous book called, I think it's Confessions of an English Opium Eater by De Quincey.

I can't remember the name of the author.

Okay, Thomas De Quincey, who wrote this account of his opium addiction, basically.

And it's a very kind of influential piece of writing.

Very stylish, like really, really well written.

I mean, the guy was an absolute, just genius with words.

And he describes his, yeah, his experimentation with laudanum, which is basically like opium, and his addiction to it, and all the sort of, all the...

Struggles that he then went through.

And it was written in the...

When?

18th century, I think it is.

Maybe 19th century.

And it was the first of that kind of literature...

About drug use.

And since then, there have been a few other similar things, like, for example, the work of William S. Burroughs, very much influenced by De Quincey's descriptions of his opium use.

And then there's Hunter S. Thompson.

And then even more recently, films like Trainspotting

A lot of those sorts of narratives owe a lot to Dick Quincy's book.

Anyway, so Isa Whitney read this book and then suddenly decided that he would try it himself.

And he found, as so many more have done, that the practice is easier to pick up than to get rid of.

To get rid of is a nice expression that we definitely use today.

If you get rid of something, it means you throw it away.

You don't want any more.

You put it in the bin.

You throw it away.

So to pick something up, I think we understand.

To get rid of something.

What should we do with these things?

Oh, we don't need them anymore.

Let's get rid of them.

But he couldn't get rid of the habit.

Because of course, opium is extremely addictive.

And for many years, he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives.

Mingled horror and pity mingled means sort of mixed together basically so um for his friends and relatives

They looked at him and saw um this combination of horror and pity i can see him now with yellow pasty face

If your face is pasty, it means it doesn't have much colour to it.

It's kind of pale.

Pale and pasty.

Those two words basically are synonyms.

I can see him now with yellow pasty face, drooping lids.

Lids means eyelids.

Okay, the bits that cover your eyes when you close your eyes.

And if your lids or eyelids are drooping, it means they're hanging down.

As if...

Someone is half asleep or nodding off as his eyelids droop down.

And pinpoint pupils.

That means his pupils are very constricted, very tiny.

The pupils are the black...

Parts in the centre of the eye.

And drugs and alcohol can actually have an effect on the dilation of the pupils.

And with...

I think most drugs...

We associate that with dilated pupils, but apparently opiates cause a constriction of the pupils.

And that's why we have the expression pinpoint pupils, like very, very small, basically.

So I can see him now with yellow pasty face, drooping lids and pinpoint pupils all huddled in a chair.

So he's kind of like...

Sitting in a chair, but kind of like in a ball, kind of with his legs and arms wrapped around himself.

The wreck and ruin of a noble man.

A wreck is something that's sort of all broken and destroyed and doesn't work anymore.

Ruin is a similar thing.

Ruin is like spoil.

You will ruin something.

Don't put all that salt in the cake.

You will ruin the cake.

He is the wreck and ruin of a noble man.

So just basically, seeing him, he looks exactly like a ruined and wrecked noble man.

Okay.

One night, it was June 89, there came a ring to my bell about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock.

So basically one evening the bell rings at Watson's house.

At a late hour probably about 10 30 or 11 o'clock or something just when usually a man goes gives his first yawn and glances at the clock has a quick look at the clock to see if it's bedtime

I sat up in my chair and my wife laid her needlework down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment.

So they both sat up, him and his wife.

His wife stopped doing the embroidery or something that she was doing.

She put it down and was disappointed.

A patient, she said, you'll have to go out.

So a patient is someone who needs help from a doctor, right?

So you have the doctor and the patient.

So they think it's a patient coming for Watson because he is a doctor after all.

And Watson says, I groaned for I'd only just come back from a weary day.

For here is quite interesting.

I groaned for I had only just come back.

So for is a word that means because.

Obviously, it means other things usually, but sometimes it means because in the same way that as can mean because and since can also mean because after.

And for is used as a way of saying because quite a lot, I think, in this story.

Again, a little bit old fashioned that.

I groaned for I had only just come back from a weary day.

Weary means tiring.

Tired or tiring.

So he'd had a difficult day already.

We heard the door open, a few hurried words and then quick steps in the hall.

Our own door flew open and a lady clad in some dark coloured stuff.

Clad means that she was wearing clothes.

Those things she was wearing some dark coloured stuff with a black veil.

That's a thing that covers the face a bit like traditionally when a woman gets married, she wears a wedding dress and she wears a white veil over her face.

In this case, the woman is wearing a black veil.

Not uncommon in those times for women to wear veils to cover their face for whatever reason.

So this woman is wearing a black veil.

"'You will excuse my calling so late,' she began, and then suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder.'

So she arrives, she says something kind of polite and then instantly loses her control, runs to Watson's wife, throws her arms around her neck and sobs to sob.

Sobbing is another word for a type of strong crying.

Oh, I'm in so I'm in such trouble, she cried.

I do want a little help.

Why, said my wife, pulling up her veil.

It's Kate Whitney.

How you startled me, Kate.

Startled means surprised.

I had no idea who you were when you came in.

So this is a friend of theirs who seems to be in trouble.

So Watson's wife was the sort of helpful person who people came to when they needed something.

It was very sweet of you to come.

Now you must have some wine and water and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it, or would you rather I sent James off to bed?

Wine and water is apparently the solution here to the emotional problem that this woman has.

Oh, no, no, I want the doctor's advice and help too.

It's about Isa.

He hasn't been home for two days.

I'm so worried about him.

It was not the first time that she'd spoken to us about her husband's trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school companion.

We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find.

Did she know where her husband was?

That's what they're asking her.

Was it possible that we could bring him back to her?

It seems that it was.

She had the surest information that lately he had made use of an opium den in the farthest east of the city.

So she seems to know that he has been using this opium den

And she's sure that that is where he is.

Hitherto, his orgies had always been confined to one day.

So hitherto is a very old fashioned formal word.

It goes together with a few different types of words like whereby, hereby, whereby, hereby, thereof, therein, words like that.

Old-fashioned words that you still find in legal English, by the way.

Hitherto means until this point.

Okay, until now, up to now.

OK, so up until now or so far, hitherto, his orgies had always been confined to one day.

Now, these days we consider an orgy to be a sexual thing, like a like a party where people have sex.

Right.

That's an orgy.

But it was used in those days also to just refer to anyone who's indulging in sort of a lot of pleasure.

Like, for example, someone sitting or lying down in an opium den for a day or two, taking opium, right?

So hitherto, his orgies had always been confined to one day.

So up until this point, he'd always only spent one day in the opium den.

And he'd come back twitching and shattered in the evening, so he would come back really in a terrible condition afterwards.

But now the spell had been upon him eight and forty hours.

So now he's been away for forty-eight hours, obviously two days, and he lay there doubtless among the dregs of the docks.

The dregs of the docks are like the lowest...

Right?

A bit like if you drink...

If you have some soup...

And you pretty much have finished the soup, but the stuff at the bottom of the bowl, that's the dregs of the soup, the kind of little bits that are left at the bottom.

So the very bottom stuff that no one really wants.

The dregs of the docks then means the lowest people in that area.

The docks is the area next to the riverfront.

Where ships come and go, right?

So he lay there probably, or doubtless, meaning we have no doubt, he must be, he surely was lying in this opium den, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects.

Breathing in the poison...

Inhaling the smoke and sleeping off the effects.

If you sleep something off, it means that you go to sleep.

And while you're asleep, your body deals with something.

For example, if you drink too much, you would sleep off the effects.

Right, you get the idea.

So here he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold in Upper Swandham Lane.

But what was she supposed to do?

How could she, a young and timid woman, timid meaning shy, not very confident, how could she make her way into such a place and pluck her husband out, like pull him out, grab him and pull him out,

From among the ruffians who surrounded him, ruffians is a bit of an old-fashioned word these days, we might say thugs, there was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it.

Might I not escort her to this place?

And then as a second thought, why should she come at all?

I was Isa Whitney's medical advisor.

And as such, I had influence over him.

I could manage it better if I were alone.

So Watson is thinking that he should go and that Isa's wife doesn't need to come at all.

And after all, Watson is his doctor.

So he has a certain sort of power or authority over him.

So he continues, I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given me.

And so in ten minutes I'd left my armchair and cheery sitting room behind me and was speeding eastward in a handsome, that is a...

A taxi of the time, a horse-drawn carriage.

I was speeding eastward in a handsome on a strange errand.

An errand is like a little mission, a little job that you have to do, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only could show how strange it was to be.

Okay, right, let's continue.

Trying to go quickly here.

There was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure.

Upper Swandham Lane is a vile alley.

Vile means disgusting, horrible.

An alley is like a little path, little road between buildings.

It's a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge.

So a wharf is like a kind of line of buildings.

Built right next to the water okay um right so buildings including walls uh right next to the river

Okay um it's so it's a vile alley lurking behind these wharves so the wharves might be oh i don't know like um

Just old buildings or maybe workshops, little factories, things like that.

Maybe small apartment buildings, stuff like that.

And this alley is just behind these, lurking.

If something lurks, it means it sort of hides, sits.

Something unpleasant or nasty or...

Or evil sort of hiding, waiting in a place that people can't really see it.

Like, for example, I don't know, a monster would lurk behind your cupboard in your bedroom.

A monster would lurk under your bed, you know.

In this case, this Upper Swandham Lane is this horrible little street that sits just next to the river.

Between a slop shop and a gin shop.

Okay, so a slop shop and a gin shop.

These are typical sorts of...

Shops that you might find in the east of London in those days a gin shop is basically a shop selling gin and gin was a drink that was drunk massively in London this strong alcoholic drink and

And a slop shop, basically that's a shop to sell very cheap clothing, for example, clothing worn by sailors or people working in the docks.

So basically between two really kind of horrible shops.

And that's where it is.

And approached by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the den I was searching for.

So it's this little doorway, steps that lead down into the darkness.

A den is like a little place where...

Animals might live.

So foxes, I believe, live in a den.

Holes in the ground they dig.

They go down into the holes and live underground.

So that's a den.

An opium den then is a similar thing, like a place underground, dark kind of place full of opium addicts.

Ordering my cab to wait i passed down the steps worn down in the center by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet so describing the shape of the steps that you know like old stone steps were always worn down in the middle and by the light of a flickering oil lamp above the door

So the oil lamp is shining some light down to the door.

He said, I found the latch.

So the latch is the click, the thing that you lift up in order to let the door open.

I found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brown opium smoke and terraced with wooden bunks like the forecastle of an emigrant ship.

So going down into this opium den, he compares it to, I guess, the inside sleeping quarters of a ship, like an old some old wooden ship that might have crossed the Atlantic coast.

With wooden bunk beds on either side.

Probably single bunks on either side, right?

Through the gloom, one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in strange, fantastic poses.

So he's looking through the smoke, looking through the darkness.

He can see people lying in these different positions.

Bowed shoulders, so people with their heads...

Hanging down from their rounded shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back.

So people with their head back as if they're looking at the ceiling with chins pointed upwards.

And here and there, a dark, lackluster eye turned upon the newcomer.

So a few people are looking at Watson.

And the eyes are described as lacklustre.

That means there's no shine.

Lustre would mean a shine or a brilliance.

If something is lacklustre, it means it has no shine or brilliance to it.

So it's dull, right?

You can use the word lacklustre for lots of things.

Like, what did you think of the film?

I thought it was lacklustre, meaning it just didn't have a kind of spark of brilliance to it.

It lacked a kind of shine.

Out of the black shadows, they're glimmered, meaning kind of like shined.

Little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes.

That's a nice passage just showing how he can see little glowing red circles in the darkness.

Most lay silent, most people lay silent, but some muttered to themselves.

To mutter is to talk in a low voice.

And others talk together in a strange, low, monotonous voice.

Uh some people were talking in this kind of like this voice that sort of sounds a bit like this not really not really much life to it a monotonous voice their conversation coming in gushes

So when someone suddenly speaks very quickly and then suddenly tailing off into silence

Each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour.

So they're all sort of talking, not really listening to each other.

At the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, so like a little fire.

Beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old man with his jaw resting upon his two fists and his elbows upon his knees staring into the fire.

As I entered, a sickly Malay attendant...

Had hurried up with a pipe for me.

Malay means from Malaysia.

Sickly means not looking very healthy.

Again, like pale, pasty.

So this Malay attendant quickly came up with a pipe for Watson and a supply of the drug beckoning me to an empty berth, meaning, here, come and sit down on this bed.

Thank you, I've not come to stay, said I.

There's a friend of mine here, Mr Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him.

There was a movement and an exclamation from my right that's like, Oh!

You know, like when you're writing and you can punctuate.

If you write a question, you have to put a question mark at the end.

But if you write something that's supposed to show shock or surprise, you might use an exclamation point.

But an exclamation is like, oh, like a loud, like a noise, sudden quick noise.

There was an exclamation from my right, and peering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard and unkempt.

Haggard is a good word.

If someone's haggard, it means they just look really old and really tired, as if they've been through a really awful experience.

If you've been kidnapped and held prisoner...

Like chained to a radiator in some horrible room somewhere for two months, and then you're finally released to be given back, you know, exchanged.

And there you are, you come out of this room where you've been kept hostage for all this time and you come out and your family and everyone is so shocked to see you because you look terrible.

You've got long hair and a beard and you look really old and thin.

You could say that you looked haggard.

Unkempt is a similar word.

It just means untidy.

Like, for example, hair which is not combed or brushed could be described as unkempt.

Scruffy.

I saw Whitney, pale, haggard and unkempt staring out at me.

My God, it's Watson, said he.

He was in a pitiable state of reaction with every nerve twitching.

I say, Watson, what o'clock is it?

So he's kind of like really messed up on this opium.

Now, I don't know what...

It's like when someone takes opium, or indeed, well, I know a little bit about heroin.

I suppose it's similar.

But I don't know if people who take opium end up all twitchy and, you know, like that, nervous and twitching.

Maybe if someone is going through withdrawal, if they're addicted to opium and then they can't have it for several days, they might end up kind of twitching and...

Something like that.

But anyway, I say, Watson, what o'clock is it?

Meaning, what time is it?

Nearly 11.

Of what day?

Of Friday, June the 19th.

Good heavens, I thought it was Wednesday.

It is Wednesday.

What do you want to frighten a chap for?

Like, why do you want to frighten a chap that's a man?

He sank his face onto his arms and began to sob in a high treble key.

There's the word sob again.

He's crying like that.

I tell you that it is Friday, man.

Your wife has been waiting this two days for you.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

I like the way Watson doesn't take any bullshit.

So I am, but you've got mixed up, Watson, for I've only been here a few hours.

Three pipes, four pipes, I forget how many, but I'll go home with you.

I wouldn't frighten Kate.

Poor little Kate.

Give me your hand.

Have you got a cab?

Yes, I have one waiting.

Then I shall go in it.

But I must owe something, meaning money.

He needs to pay money to the...

Opium den

Find out what i owe watson

I'm off i'm all off color

If you're off color it means you're sick

I can do nothing for myself

So he's in a terrible state

He can't really do anything

I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers holding my breath to keep out the vile stupefying fumes of the drug

So stupefying means it makes you stupid

Now, I don't think that Watson is wearing a skirt, but I think that maybe his coat has a skirt attached to it.

You know, the bit that sort of sticks out at the bottom of the coat could be described as a skirt.

And a low voice whispered, walk past me, then look back at me.

The words fell quite distinctly on my ear.

So this is the moment where Watson has obviously gone to this opium den on a mission to get Isa Whitney back to his wife.

But while he's there...

He sees this old man and the old man has pulled his coat and said something to him, meaning like, come walk forward and look back at me.

OK, the words fell quite distinctly on my ear, meaning he heard them very clearly.

I glanced down.

They could only have come from the old man at my side.

And yet he now he sat now as absorbed as ever, meaning really calm.

Focusing on what he was doing,

Looking at the fire, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from between his knees as though it had dropped in sheer weariness from his fingers.

Weary, again meaning tired.

So he's sitting there.

I mean, we know now that this is Sherlock Holmes and what a great act he's doing, pretending to be this old junkie.

I took two steps forward and looked back.

It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of astonishment.

He turned his back so that no one could see him except me.

His form had filled out.

Meaning he suddenly looked less thin, his wrinkles were gone, and the dull eyes had regained their fire,

And there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes.

Now, Sherlock Holmes is...

Obviously, his skills as a detective are bordering on supernatural.

I mean, although his philosophy is very much opposed to any sense of superstition.

But...

It goes a bit far sometimes where he's like such a good disguise.

He's so good at disguising himself that he's almost able to change the shape of his body, give himself wrinkles when he doesn't normally have them, make himself look thin when actually he's not that thin.

I don't know how he does that, but it's kind of like Mission Impossible stuff, isn't it?

You know, when they...

Put that mask on and they pull it off and reveal who it really is.

It's a good sort of narrative technique and it makes it fun and exciting that suddenly this person is, oh my God, it's Sherlock Holmes.

It's a really good reveal.

Very exciting moment.

He made a slight motion to me to approach him and instantly as he turned his face half round to the company once more subsided into a doddering loose-lipped senility so

He's keeping up the act of being this old, decrepit old man so that when the other people in the room can see him, even if he turns slightly to the side, he goes back into this act.

He subsided, meaning went back down into a doddering.

So doddering is a word that you might use to describe the way an older person acts.

Moves and behaves.

It's not particularly nice.

So an old person who doesn't really know what they're doing, doesn't really know where they are, and isn't very mobile, might move around slowly and in a confused way.

I'm going this way.

I seem to have lost my keys.

And

Oh, I can't bend down like a doddering old man.

Loose lipped.

If you're loose lipped, it means you can't really control the things you're saying.

So he kind of when the other people can see him, he kind of goes back into this act of being this sort of doddering old man.

Holmes, I whispered, what on earth are you doing in this den?

As low as you can, he answered.

I have excellent ears.

If you would have the great kindness to get rid of that wasted friend of yours, I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you.

I have a cab outside.

Then pray send him home in it.

You may safely trust him, for he appears to be too weak to get into any mischief.

I should recommend that you also send a note by the cabman to your wife, to say that you've thrown in your lot with me.

If you will wait outside, I shall be with you in five minutes.

So Watson just can't say no to Holmes.

And what was...

Already a nice evening in with the wife has turned into an adventure out with Holmes.

And, I mean, this is a running theme where Watson's normal domestic...

Life with his wife is interrupted by the arrival of Sherlock Holmes.

And every single time, Watson chooses to go out with Holmes instead of staying in with his wife.

Every time.

I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in the cab, my mission was practically accomplished.

And for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be associated with my friend in one of those singular adventures which were the normal condition of his existence.

I mean, fair enough.

He knows he's going to have an exciting time.

In a few minutes, I'd written my note.

That's the note for the wife, his wife, Mary, paid Whitney's bill, led him out to the cab and seen him driven through the darkness.

So that's the end of Isa Whitney.

That's that's part of the story gone.

In a very short time, a decrepit figure, a sort of old and weak figure, had emerged from the opium den – this is Holmes – and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes.

For two streets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot.

Then, glancing quickly around, he straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter –

Yes, we do burst into laughter.

That's when you suddenly start laughing.

So Holmes suddenly starts laughing because he's pleased that his act was successful.

I suppose, Watson, said he, that you imagine that I've added opium smoking to cocaine injections and all the other little weaknesses on which you favoured me with your medical views.

So Holmes is actually known for his drug taking.

In some of the stories, it is described in some detail how when Holmes is not involved in a case...

When his brain is not busy working on some mystery, when he's between cases and there's nothing for him to do, he kind of lapses into periods of sort of like depression.

And nothing stimulates him at all.

And he uses drugs.

He uses cocaine.

In fact, he injects it, which is pretty hardcore.

So he sits and injects cocaine.

Out of maybe boredom because he hasn't got something more interesting to do.

But it's an interesting part of Holmes' character that he is, to an extent, a kind of drug addict himself.

But it only happens when he doesn't have an interesting case to be working on.

So that's why he says, I suppose you imagine that I've added opium smoking to cocaine injections.

And all the other little weaknesses on which you've favoured me with your medical views.

So Watson doesn't like the fact that Holmes injects cocaine, of course, and tells him so.

But yes, maybe Watson imagines that Holmes has become an opium addict as well, or at least he doesn't know why he was in the opium den.

I was certainly surprised to find you there, but not more so than I to find you.

I came to find a friend, said Watson, and I to find an enemy, said Holmes.

An enemy?

Yes, one of my natural enemies, or shall I say my natural prey.

Prey?

In the animal world, it means the animals that other animals try to catch and eat.

So, for example, an owl, an eagle, an eagle, let's say.

For an eagle, prey for an eagle might be a rabbit.

Okay, that's the prey of an eagle.

Or for an owl, which is one of those birds...

One of those birds that comes out at night.

That wasn't a Paul McCartney impression.

That was an owl.

Their prey is like mice, little animals on the ground.

Okay, so what Holmes is looking for is natural prey.

So the sorts of people he's hunting, basically a kind of criminal type.

I think he's talking about the guy who runs the opium den.

Who is part of this story.

So I'm in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, meaning I'm in the middle of a very remarkable case.

And I have hoped to find a clue to the incoherent ramblings of these addicts.

So he's listening into the addict talking to try to find information.

Had I been recognised in that den, my life would not have been worth an hour's purchase, for I have used it before now for my own purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon me.

So the guy who runs the opium den hates Holmes and wants to, I suppose, wants to kill him or something like that.

A lascar, as I said before, is a word we don't use anymore, but in those days it was a sort of a sailor from somewhere in Asia, like a Chinese sailor, I suppose.

There is interesting history with opium and Britain.

And, you know, let me tell you a little bit about opium.

I'm just going to break off from the story and talk about opium a little bit.

So opium, according to Wikipedia, is a sticky, dark brown narcotic drug made from the dried milky juice of the opium poppy.

It contains strong natural chemicals like morphine and codeine, and it's used to make both legal medicines and illegal drugs, including heroin.

So here's what opium does.

It slows down brain activity, stops pain and brings sleep or a state of dreamy joy.

Now, I think this description is probably understating it slightly, the state of dreamy joy.

I think from what I understand, heroin at least is so good.

That people will give literally everything they have to be able to continue using it.

It will take everything from you.

I think the high is so sort of all-encompassing and so wonderful that people will literally give up every single thing.

And they'll sleep on the street if they can get the chance to have some more.

So it's incredibly dangerous, incredibly addictive.

The risks, it causes very strong physical addiction, severe constipation, that means when you can't poo, except, of course, when you stop and it comes back.

If you've seen Trainspotting, you'll know what I'm talking about, the film.

And slow or blocked breathing at high doses.

In fact, the...

Cause of overdose is that the body stops breathing um opium in the time of sherlock holmes

So these days the big opiate crisis is basically in the form of heroin which is traded illegally and very commonly used causing awful social problems

And there are different opiates as well um

But heroin is the main one.

We also have opioids, opioids.

These are chemicals made like synthetic chemicals that are made to copy what opiates do.

OK, opioids are that I mean, they're painkillers.

But we know that people get addicted to them as well.

And we've seen the opioid crisis in the United States in particular.

The fact that doctors have been prescribing opioid drugs for lots of things and people end up getting addicted to it.

And then when they can't get their prescription anymore, they end up going on the streets and they become heroin addicts or they become addicted to this incredibly dangerous new form, this new opioid called fentanyl.

Which you might have heard about, and it's like much stronger than heroin, and it's incredibly dangerous that, you know, I guess when people buy heroin on the streets, they don't really know what they're getting every time, and sometimes their heroin might have some fentanyl in it, and if that is the case, they will overdose.

So fentanyl is like a very nasty...

Incredibly addictive and very dangerous because of its strength.

Opioid.

Um,

OK, so that's today.

But in the late 19th century, opium was on the shelves of many people's medicine cabinets at home.

So a lot of people just had opium as a medicine at home.

I mean, the past is just wild, isn't it?

The same was true of cocaine.

A lot of people just had cocaine at home.

It was put in products.

Dentists would give it to their patients, and amphetamines, it was the same thing.

These things were legal and widespread.

The public perception of opium

In the late 19th century went from it...

It changed.

It went from it being an everyday medical solution to all problems to being associated with moral decline, moral decline in poor parts of London, and in particular, the negative influence of foreign cultures invading the country.

So that's interesting, the way this...

The place of this drug in culture changed from it being a medical thing that everyone used to it being associated with low culture, low life, moral decline, opium dens, addicts.

And all the stuff that we've described, and also a negative foreign influence, which is quite interesting.

There was a moral panic about it, a mix of like...

You know, people being disturbed by how awful it was, and also the foreign element as well, which is interesting.

Opium dens, these places where people used to go and take opium, and their potential to undermine society, were written about a lot at the time, and were in the public consciousness.

So they made their way into literature as the exciting and exotic backdrop to stories like this.

The interesting thing here is the crossing of class lines.

An upper class respectable man is dragged to the lowest level of society by his addiction.

And another...

Now I'm talking about Neville St. Clair.

Even higher in social status, also makes a similar transition, much to the shock of civilised society as he fakes his identity.

Another bit of disguise going on.

The story's full of...

People in high-level society being dragged down to the very bottom and people changing the way they look and messing with their appearance and changing their identity.

So Neville Sinclair is dragged down to the lowest level of society, much to the shock of everyone.

I could talk more about opium.

I think I probably should just get on with the story.

So where were we?

Holmes, what have you been doing?

Right, so going back to the opium den, Holmes says there's a trap door at the back of the building near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell some strange tales of what has passed through it on moonless nights.

What, you do not mean bodies?

I bod...

I bodies.

I means yes.

Normally in Scotland...

I bodies, Watson.

We should be rich men if we had a thousand pounds for every poor devil who's been done to death in that den.

It is the vilest murder trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair has entered it never to leave again, but our trap should be here.

So, um...

Trap here, the second use of trap in that paragraph means his taxi, his horse and cart.

But also trap is used earlier to mean that the opium den is a murder trap, a place where people go, they can't get out or people go and they never leave because they get murdered for whatever reason.

So Holmes put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly, so a loud high whistle, a signal which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses' hoofs.

Now, Watson, said Holmes, as a tall dog cart...

Dashed up through the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side lanterns.

You'll come with me, won't you?

If I can be of use.

Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use, and a chronicler still more so.

Chronicler, that means the fact that Watson chronicles their inventions, he writes them down.

My room at the Cedars is a double bedded one.

The Cedars?

Yes, it is Mr. St. Clair's house.

I'm staying there while I conduct the inquiry.

So just to be clear then, Holmes is on the case of a man named Neville St. Clair and he was in the opium den trying to find out information about Neville St. Clair.

We know now, because we've already read the story, that Neville Sinclair is a man from a good family who was at the opium den because he's been using it as a sort of hiding place where he can transform into a beggar who then makes a surprising amount of money by begging on the streets of London.

And this is Neville St. Clair's double life.

But things get very mixed up and confused when Neville's wife, by coincidence, sees him in this very nasty part of town and doesn't know what's going on.

And then Neville St. Clair disappears.

And everyone thinks that this beggar has actually killed him.

But...

But it's not until later in the story that Holmes works out that the beggar is in fact Neville St. Clair himself.

Right, so that is Mr St Clair's house.

I'm staying there while I conduct the inquiry.

Where is it then?

Near Leigh in Kent.

We have a seven-mile drive before us.

But I'm all in the dark, meaning Watson doesn't know anything.

Of course you are.

You'll know all about it in a moment.

Jump up here.

All right, John, we shall not need you, he says to the...

The man who was looking after the horse and cart.

Here's half a crown.

Ping!

So he kind of, I imagine he flicks a coin towards the man.

Look out for me tomorrow, about 11.

So long then.

So so long means goodbye.

Talking to the driver of the cart, but now Holmes is driving the cart with Watson sitting next to him.

He flicked the horse with his whip and we dashed away through the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets.

Sombre means dark.

Dark and moody and deserted no one there which widened gradually until we were flying across a broad balustraded bridge

So this is a bridge with pillars underneath it with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us the river dark river flowing slowly but

Beyond, in the distance, lay another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar.

So there's another town, I suppose, in the distance.

It's silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of the policeman.

So this must be the policeman who previously was holding onto the cart.

And now he's walking away, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of revellers.

So the only noises are the sound of the policeman walking away, and also some people just sort of like partying, maybe in a pub nearby.

A dull rack of clouds, so that's like a kind of long row of cloud, was drifting slowly across the sky and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the gaps in the cover.

So there's grey cloud above them, but there's a few gaps in the cloud with the stars shining through.

Holmes drove in silence with his head sunk upon his breast.

That's his chest.

So he's got his head...

His head is sunk down as he drives and the air of a man who is lost in thought while i sat beside him curious to learn what this new quest might be which seemed to tax his powers so sorely

If something taxes you taxes your brain

It means it challenges you.

It's difficult.

If something is taxing, it means it's difficult to do.

We also have tax, meaning money that you have to pay to the government.

But I don't see the things as being connected.

Maybe they are somehow, but I don't see them as connected.

So this is very taxing.

This exercise was taxing.

It really taxed my brain.

It means it was difficult and challenging.

But this...

This quest is taxing Holmes' powers so sorely, so much, so hard, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of his thoughts.

So Watson's thinking, oh, I'd love to know what Holmes is thinking, but I don't want to interrupt him.

We'd driven several miles and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban villas.

So they're just getting to the edge of this line of houses in the suburbs.

When he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders and lit up his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he's acting for the best.

The air of something, that's the atmosphere, right?

So he lit his pipe.

In a way that suggests that he's satisfied, that he's acting for his best.

So after a little think, he's now decided that he thinks he's probably doing the right thing.

And then he turns to Watson and says, You have a grand gift of silence, Watson, said he.

It makes you quite invaluable as a companion.

Upon my word.

So this means upon my word, but it's been...

Contracted to pon my word, which is quite a nice bit of old-fashioned English.

I quite like that.

Pon, meaning upon, meaning on.

On my word, it is a great thing for me to have someone to talk to.

And it's like sort of saying, I promise.

Right.

So he's really sincere when he says that.

It's great to have someone to talk to for my own thoughts are not over pleasant.

I was wondering what I should say to this dear little woman tonight when she meets me at the door.

So he's got to meet Neville Sinclair's wife and he doesn't have any good news for her.

So he's feeling a bit bad about it.

And Watson says, you forget that I know nothing about it.

I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get to Lee.

It seems absurdly simple, and yet somehow I can get nothing to work on.

Um...

Now I'll state the case clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to me.

Proceed then.

Some years ago, to be definite, in May 1884, there came to Lee a gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of money.

He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely and lived generally in good style.

By degrees he made friends in the neighbourhood and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer by whom he now has two children.

He had no occupation, but was interested in several companies and went into town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 5.14 from Cannon Street every night.

I think this is fairly clear to understand, this bit.

Mr St Clair is now 37 years of age, is a man of temperate habits, which means that he doesn't do anything extreme.

A good husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know him.'

I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, so debts meaning the money that he owes to the bank probably, money he's borrowed that he needs to pay back, so these are his debts, his whole debts at the present moment, as far as we've been able to ascertain, amount to £88.10.

While he has £220 standing to his credit in the Capital and Counties Bank.

Basically, the point there is that financially, he's fine.

There's no reason, therefore, to think that money troubles have been weighing upon his mind.

Last Monday, Mr Neville St Clair went into town, rather earlier than usual, remarking before he started that he had two important commissions to perform.

Commissions, I suppose, just, you know, jobs of some form.

And that he would bring his little boy home a box of bricks.

He promised to bring back a toy for his son.

Now, by the merest chance...

His wife received a telegram upon the same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to the effect that a small parcel of considerable value, which she had been expecting, was waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen shipping company.

So there's a coincidence.

The coincidence is that on the very same day that he left early to do something,

She gets a telegram, a message, saying that she needs to go into town to pick up a small and valuable package.

And by coincidence, the place where she has to go is right next to Upper Swandham Lane, where the opium den is.

Now, if you're well up on your London geography, you will know that the office of the company is in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandham Lane, where you found me tonight.

Mrs St Clair had her lunch.

Started for the city, did some shopping, proceeded to the company's office, got her packet and found herself at exactly 4.35 walking through Swandham Lane on her way back to the station.

Have you followed me so far?

It is very clear.

If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs St Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, as she did not like the neighbourhood in which she found herself.

While she was walking in this way down Swandham Lane, she suddenly heard an ejaculation.

So this story is quite good for the number of ejaculations that occur in it.

I mean, it's odd that she heard an ejaculation.

I mean, it is a pretty dodgy part of town.

Maybe there are brothels in the area as well.

You might feasibly hear someone ejaculating in one of the rooms.

So, ejaculation.

I need to explain this.

This has come up before several times in Sherlock Holmes stories.

It's normally a funny moment.

So...

In those days, an ejaculation would be when someone suddenly makes a noise, when someone suddenly shouts or says something quickly.

Yeah.

That's an example of an ejaculation.

Or, what do you mean?

That's an example of someone ejaculating in the time of Sherlock Holmes.

These days, though, the word is just used to talk about when a man reaches a sexual climax.

And, well, you know what happens, right?

I mean, you've studied biology.

You know that something comes out of a man's body, something comes out of a certain part of a man's body when he reaches orgasm.

Well, that is to ejaculate.

Okay, so clearly quite different.

The old-fashioned sense meaning...

Suddenly a sound comes quickly out of your mouth, and the present-day one is when someone, a man, why do I keep saying someone?

It's only a man, isn't it?

Isn't it?

I don't know.

What do I know?

I think it is.

When he comes, reaches orgasm, and semen comes flying out the end of his penis.

OK, right.

So she was walking down Swandham Lane.

She suddenly heard an ejaculation or cry.

I mean, what she actually heard was someone go like that.

And she was struck cold to see her husband looking down at her.

And as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a second floor window.

So she sees it, she hears a cry, a shout, and she looks up and she can't believe her eyes because there's her husband poking out of a window and he seems to be beckoning.

To beckon someone is to use your hand to say, come here, come here, right?

You use your hand, imagine you're

Saying to your friend who's over on the other side of a field, and you're like, come here, come here, you would beckon to them with your hand.

That's what she thinks is happening.

What's actually happening is he's throwing up his hands to try to cover his face.

The window was open and she distinctly saw his face, which she described as being terribly agitated.

So he's totally stressed out.

He waved his hands frantically to her and then vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her that he'd been pulled back by some irresistible force from behind.

Now, we now know that he wasn't pulled.

He just moved back into the room quickly because he didn't want her to see him.

One singular point which struck her quick eye was that although he wore a dark coat, like the one he'd gone to town in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.

So he wasn't wearing a collar like a shirt collar or a tie.

And she noticed this.

Obviously, this is because he'd been dressed up as Hugh Boone, the beggar.

Convinced that something was amiss with him, something was wrong with him, she rushed down the steps, for the house was none other than the opium den in which she found me tonight.

And running through the front room, she attempted to go up the stairs, which led to the first floor.

At the foot of the stairs, however, she met this lascar scoundrel.

A scoundrel is...

Someone who, you know, does lots of very bad things.

Right?

Someone you can't trust.

She met this Lascar scoundrel, the owner of the opium den, who I have spoken...

Of who thrust her back

So he pushed her back and aided by a dane so a danish guy helped her um pushed her out into the street filled with the most maddening doubts

So she's like oh my god i don't know what's going on or what's happened to him

She rushed down the lane and by rare good fortune, so just by good luck, she met in Fresno Street a number of constables, that's police officers, with an inspector all on their way to their beat.

So they're all on the way to basically the part of town where they would walk around.

The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor, so despite the fact that Lascar is still trying to stop them, they made their way to the room in which Mr St Clair had last been seen.

There was no sign of him there.

In fact, in the whole of that floor, there was no one to be found, save a crippled man with a hideous appearance, who it seems made his home there.

Both he and the lascar stoutly swore.

So if you swear, it means you promise in a very strong terms.

I swear it.

I don't know what's going on.

I swear.

They stoutly swore, so stout is a word that's not really used today, and it just means kind of strong, solid, okay?

They stoutly or strongly swore that no one else had been in the front room during the afternoon.

No one's been here, I swear!

So determined was their denial that the inspector was staggered, like, I can't believe it, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had been deluded, meaning that she'd been like, if you're deluded, it just means that you are mistaken.

And you don't see the truth, right?

He came to believe that she'd been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small box which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it.

So she saw a box on the table, ripped the top off.

And out of there fell a cascade of children's bricks.

It was the toy which he'd promised to bring home.

So this is evidence that Sinclair was in that room before.

This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple showed, made the inspector realise that the matter was serious.

The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an abominable crime.

Abominable meaning terrible, awful, evil.

The front room was plainly furnished as a sitting room and led into a small bedroom, which looked out upon the back of one of the wharves.

Between the wharf and the bedroom window...

Is a narrow strip which is dry at low tide but is covered at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water

The bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below so basically the window faces the wharf and down below there's a

There's an area where at low tide when the water is low uh

It's not covered, but at high tide, there's about four and a half feet of water, fairly deep water then under the window.

One examination, sorry, on examination, traces of blood were found on the windowsill.

So little bits of blood were found upon the windowsill.

That's the edge of the window.

And several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of the bedroom.

So there's a little bit of blood on the window and on the floor.

Thrust away, so pushed.

Back, behind a curtain in the front room, were all the clothes of Mr Neville St Clair, with the exception of his coat.

His boots, his socks, his hat and his watch all were there.

There were no signs of violence upon any of these garments.

Garments, clothes.

And there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St. Clair.

Out of the window he must apparently have gone, for no other exit could be discovered.

And the ominous bloodstains upon the window...

Gave little promise that he could save himself by swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment of the tragedy.

So they think that because...

Neville Sinclair cannot be found.

There's only this beggar there.

He must have gone through the window.

The fact there's blood on the window suggests that maybe he was injured, which doesn't seem promising for his chances of survival, considering he will have fallen into the water.

And as we'll see, there are currents that pull things around, and he probably wouldn't have survived if he'd gone into the water.

So everyone's thinking either he's fallen in or he's been pushed in by this beggar.

And now as to the villains who seem to be immediately implicated in the matter.

The last car was known to be a man with a very shady background.

But as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was known to have been at the foot of the stair within a few seconds of her husband's appearance at the window, he could hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime.

So the last car is not the one who...

Possibly pushed him out of the window because almost immediately he was at the bottom of the stairs

So that's not possible

His defense was one of absolute ignorance and he protested that he'd no knowledge as to the doings of hugh boone his lodger and that he couldn't account in any way for the presence of the missing gentleman's clothes

So the the manager's like i've got no idea

So much for the last car manager, now for the sinister cripple who lives upon the second floor of the opium den and who was certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair.

His name is Hugh Boone and his hideous face is one which is familiar to every man who regularly goes into the city.

He's a professional beggar.

So a beggar, obviously someone who sits and begs.

Although these days we don't tend to use the word beggar.

We also don't use the word cripple anymore.

It's considered to be an inappropriate word.

We tend to use...

Slightly better language to describe this, which is slightly less negative.

The word cripple has got a lot of very negative connotations.

A beggar as well is full of negative connotations.

In modern language, we would probably say a disabled person for a cripple.

Someone is disabled, they're not crippled.

And not a beggar, but just a homeless person.

You might refer to begging as a verb, a homeless person begging in the street, but we probably wouldn't call them a beggar.

We just tend to use more modern language like a homeless person.

Yeah.

But anyway, in the story, he is a professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police regulations, he pretends to do a small trade in wax matches.

So he pretends to sell matches, but we know that he's actually begging in the street.

This is Hugh Boone.

Some little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the wall.

So this is describing where Hugh Boone sits and begs.

And he's such a piteous spectacle because he looks so terrible.

People have pity for him.

People feel so sorry for him that people regularly put money into his cap.

I've watched the fellow more than once before.

Before I ever thought of making his professional acquaintance, and I've been surprised at the harvest which he has reaped in such a short time.

So Holmes is surprised at how much money he makes.

His appearance, you see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him without observing him.

So he's very noticeable with his red hair and his scar.

A shock of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar.

Obviously, a scar is what happens on your skin after you've had a cut.

So if you cut your leg, right, a very bad cut, the cut will heal, but then it leaves a scar which lasts forever.

So this guy's got a horrible scar which goes down his face.

By its contraction, meaning as the scars sort of shrunk, it's turned up the outer edge of his upper lip.

So he's got his lip that sticks up,

A bulldog chin, I suppose this means a double chin or something, and a pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him out from amid the common crowd of beggars, and so too does his wit, for he's always ready with a reply to any piece of abuse which may be thrown at him by the passers-by.

So he's very noticeable.

He looks very different.

He's got a very, very striking appearance.

And as a result, he's very successful as a beggar.

This is the man whom we now learn to have been the lodger at the opium den and to have been the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest.

But a cripple, said I, what could he have done single-handed against a man in the prime of life?

He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp.

So that means one of his legs is injured and he walks in an uneven way.

He limps.

But in other respects, he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man.

Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others.

I mean, they're painting a picture of Hugh Boone here as being, although he's kind of got a problem with his leg.

The rest of his body is compensated and he's got exceptional strength in the other parts of his body.

Pray continue your narrative.

Pray continue, meaning please continue.

This came up on the podcast a while ago with Amber and Paul.

I think Paul was going to tell a story and I said to him, pray tell.

And he was like, you what?

You didn't understand that.

But pray tell, pray continue.

It's just a way of saying, please continue.

Old fashioned language.

Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window and she was escorted home in a cab by the police as her presence could be of no help to them in their investigations.

Obviously, these are old-fashioned stories, so some of the treatment of women, the descriptions of women, is quite indicative of the attitudes of the time.

Also, the references to foreign people is also quite descriptive of the attitudes of the time, that basically foreigners were viewed with suspicion.

Women were not really meant to be protagonists in stories like this, that they were emotional, they weren't rational.

So there's a bit of sexism in these stories, unfortunately, but that was just the sign of the times, really.

Hopefully the other qualities in these stories make up for that.

Inspector Barton, that's a police officer, who was in charge of the case, made a very careful examination of the premises, but without finding anything which threw any light upon the matter.

One mistake had been made in not arresting Boone instantly, so Hugh Boone was not instantly arrested.

He was allowed a few minutes during which he might have communicated with his friend the Lascar.

We know now that this is when he quickly wrote a note for his wife, which he gave to the Lascar, which took a few days to be posted.

But this fault was soon remedied and he was seized and searched without anything being found which could incriminate him.

So he was eventually arrested.

There were, it is true, some bloodstains upon his right shirt sleeve, but he pointed to his ring finger, which had been cut near the nail.

And explained that the bleeding came from there, adding that he'd been to the window not long before and that the stains which had been observed there came doubtless from the same source.

So he's trying to explain the blood by saying, look, I cut my finger a few days ago and I've reopened the wound or something like that.

He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr Neville St Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes in his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police.

So he said, I've got no idea.

As to Mrs St Clair's assertion that she had actually seen her husband at the window, he declared that she must have been either mad or dreaming.

It was removed, loudly protesting to the police station, while the inspector remained upon the premises in the hope that the ebbing tide, the tide moving out, might reveal some fresh clue.

And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud bank what they'd feared to find.

So they thought that maybe as the tide went out it might reveal the body on the bank of the river.

But they didn't find the body.

They found something else.

It was Neville St. Clair's coat and not Neville St. Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded.

And what do you think they found in the pockets?

I cannot imagine, said Watson.

No, I don't think you would guess.

Every pocket stuffed with pennies and half pennies.

421 pennies and 270 half pennies.

It was no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide.

But a human body is a different matter.

So the coat sank and stayed there because of the money in the pockets.

But maybe the body slipped away.

There is a fierce current between the wharf and the house.

It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained when the stripped body had been sucked away into the river.

But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room.

Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?

No, sir, but the facts might be explained convincingly enough.

So there's a kind of theory to explain some of these things.

Suppose that this man Boone had thrust, like pushed, Neville St. Clair through the window.

There is no human eye which could have seen the deed.

So no one could have seen it happen.

What would he do then?

It would of course instantly strike him that he must get rid of the tell-tale garments.

He would seize the coat then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when it would occur to him that it would swim and not sink.

So there's one thing that confuses me a little bit.

It's like, how many windows are we talking about here?

Because there's the window where Neville St. Clair's wife sees him.

She's walking along.

She looks up and she sees him at the window.

Is this the same window that faces the water?

Because that's a bit confusing, isn't it?

Maybe it's a different window.

I mean, I suppose we shouldn't really worry about it too much.

But anyway, she sees him and then goes up and he's gone.

So maybe while she was going up, in theory, that's when he could have been pushed out of the window or another window.

I don't know.

But anyway, he would seize the coat.

So what would he do?

So let's say, imagine that Hugh Boone has thrown Neville Sinclair out of the window.

Then what would he do?

He would, of course, instantly realise that he had to get rid of the clothes.

He would seize the coat.

And be about to throw it out when it would occur to him that it would swim and not sink.

He has little time, for he's heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife tried to force her way up, and perhaps he's already heard from his Lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street.

There is not an instant to be lost.

He rushes to some secret hoard...

Like a hidden collection of coins in this case, where he's accumulated the fruits of his beggary and he stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure of the coat sinking.

So this is a theory that he takes the coat, puts all the coins in the pockets and throws it out the window to make it sink.

He throws it out and would have done the same with the other garments had not he heard the rush of steps below and only just had time to close the window when the police appeared.

So the theory is that, yes, he just pushed Neville St. Clair out of the window.

We don't know why.

Then threw the coat out with the coins in the pockets to make it sink.

And he was going to do the same with the other clothes.

But then the police arrived.

It certainly sounds feasible.

Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better one.

Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but it could not be shown that there had ever before been anything against him.

He had for years been known as a professional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one.

There the matter stands at present and the questions which have to be solved.

What Neville St. Clair was doing in the opium den, what happened to him when there, where he is now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance are all far from a solution as ever.

I confess that I cannot recall any case within my experience which looked at the first glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties.

Right.

We're about halfway through I think.

While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of events we'd been whirling through the outskirts of the great town until the last straggling houses had been left behind and we rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us.

So that basically means that...

While Holmes was telling this story, they've left the town and they're now riding through the countryside.

As he finished, however, we drove through two scattered villages where a few lights still glimmered in the windows.

We are on the outskirts of Leigh, said my companion.

We've touched on three English counties in our short drive, starting in Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey and ending in Kent.

See that light among the trees?

That is the cedars.

And beside that lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt, caught the clink of our horse's feet.

I think that's pretty clear, right?

"'But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?'

I asked.

"'Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here.

Mrs St Clare has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and you may rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend and colleague.

I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have no news of her husband.

Here we are.

Whoa!

Whoa there!'

We'd pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its own grounds.

A stable boy had run out to the horse's head and springing down, I followed Holmes up the small winding gravel drive which led to the house.

So they've arrived at Neville St. Clair's house to meet Neville St. Clair's wife.

Holmes is feeling anxious about telling her...

About meeting her because he doesn't have good news.

As we approached, the door flew open, and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, dressed in some sort of light silk muslin...

With a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck and wrists, so she's described in very feminine terms.

She stood with her figure outlined against the flood of light, one hand upon the door, one half raised in her eagerness.

Her body slightly bent, her head and face protruded with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing question.

So she stands there, like, waiting to find out information.

"'Well?'

She cried.

"'Well?'

And then, seeing that there were two of us, she gave a cry of hope, which sank into a groan, as she saw that my companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders,

So she thinks for a second that it might be her husband, but no, it's Watson.

No good news?

None.

No bad?

No.

Thank God for that.

But come in.

You must be weary.

There's that word again, meaning tired.

For you've had a long day.

This is my friend, Dr. Watson.

He's been of most vital use to me in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for me to bring him out and associate him with this investigation.

I'm delighted to see you, she said, said she, pressing my hand warmly.

You will, I'm sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our arrangements when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly upon us.

So she's like, sorry if that, you know, sorry if the house isn't

Really tidy but you know we've had a bit of a problem recently

My dear madam said i i'm an old campaigner and if i were not i can very well see that no apology is needed

If i can be of any assistance either to you or to my friend here i shall indeed be happy

Let me have a water drink

Water break hydration break

So it's all very nice with the woman.

She's happy that Watson is there.

She's saying, if I can do anything to help you, I will.

Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, said the lady, as we entered a well-lit dining room upon the table of which a cold supper had been laid out, I should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions to which I beg that you will give a plain answer.

Certainly, madam.

Do not trouble about my feelings.

I'm not hysterical, nor given to fainting.

Well, that's not true, is it?

She fainted when she saw the blood in the room before.

But okay.

I'm not hysterical, nor given to fainting.

I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion.

Upon what point?

Who do you think is going to win the FA Cup?

No.

In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?

Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question.

Frankly now, she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket chair.

Frankly then, madam, I do not.

You think that he's dead?

I do.

Murdered?

I don't say that, perhaps.

And on what day did he meet his death?

On Monday.

Then perhaps, Mr Holmes, you'll be good enough to explain how it is that I've received a letter from him today.

Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he'd been galvanised, like electrocuted.

Boing!

What?

He roared.

Yes, today.

She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper in the air.

May I see it?

"'Certainly.'

He snatched it from her, in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon the table, he drew over a lamp and examined it carefully, intently.

I had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder.'

The envelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark and with the date of that very day, or rather of the day before, for it was very considerably after midnight.

So, Mrs St Clair wants news.

She says, do you think he's dead?

Holmes says, yeah, probably.

And then she said, well, how is that possible then when I received a letter from him today?

And she shows the letter.

It's written on a scrap of paper.

The writing is very, very sketchy as if it's been written in a hurry.

Coarse writing, murmured Holmes.

Surely this is not your husband's writing, madam.

No, but the enclosure is.

So the writing on the envelope is not his writing, but the letter inside is his writing.

In those days, they called it the enclosure envelope.

People used to write, please find enclosed, blah, blah, blah.

These days it's an attachment, isn't it?

Please find attached.

Anyway, I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and inquire as to the address.

So Sherlock Holmes...

Works out that whoever wrote the address on the envelope didn't know the address.

The reason for that is that he can see by the different colours of ink that the first part, the name, was written and then blotted with paper.

So when they used to write with ink,

They used to use blotting paper to help dry the ink so that it wouldn't smudge.

And when you dried writing with blotting paper, it changes the colour slightly and makes it a bit more grey rather than black.

So the writing on the name is in grey that's been blotted, but the writing on the rest of it has not been blotted because it's in a different colour.

So he thinks that whoever wrote the address had to go away, had to stop and go away and find the address before continuing to write it.

Which suggests that it was written by someone else, right?

It wasn't written by Neville Sinclair, that the address was written by someone else.

So we can kind of work out from this that he wrote the letter quickly and gave it to someone else, who then put it in an envelope and sent it late.

The name you see is in perfectly black ink, which has dried itself.

The rest is of the greyish colour...

Anyway, all right, so I got that the other way around.

The name dried itself, the rest was blotted, but it shows that there was a difference between the writing of the name and the writing of the address.

If it had been written straight off and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade.

This man has written the name and there has then been a pause before he wrote the address, which can only mean that he was not familiar with it.

It is of course a trifle, meaning a trivial detail.

But there's nothing so important as trifles.

Let us now see the letter.

Ha!

There's been an enclosure here.

So something was also included in the envelope.

Yes, there was a ring, his signet ring.

Are you sure that this is your husband's hand, meaning handwriting?

One of his hands.

One.

Yes, his hand when he wrote hurriedly.

It is very unlike his usual writing, and yet I know it well.

So Sinclair had two types of handwriting, quick handwriting and normal handwriting.

And she thinks this is definitely his quick handwriting.

And the note goes like this.

Dearest, do not be frightened.

All will come well.

There is a huge error which it may take some little time to rectify.

Wait in patience.

Neville.

Written in pencil on the flyleaf of a book, octavo size, no watermark.

Hmm.

Posted today in Gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb.

Ha, and the flap has been gummed, if I'm not very much in error, by a person who's been chewing tobacco.

And you have no doubt that it's your husband's hand, madam?

So, I mean, we know now that this suggests that it was the last car and one of his sailor friends who posted the letter, hence the dirty thumb mark and the smell of tobacco.

Neville wrote those words, and they were posted today at Gravesend.

Well, Mrs Sinclair, the clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is over.

He must be alive, Mr Holmes, unless this is a clever forgery.

A forgery is like when something is being faked, right?

Like a forged banknote.

Or a forged cheque, it means it's been faked.

It's a forgery.

It's not the real thing.

Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent, the ring, after all, proves nothing.

It may have been taken from him.

No, no, it is his very own writing.

Very well, it may, however, have been written on Monday and only posted today.

That is possible.

If so, much may have happened between then and now.

So she's saying that they're so connected that she just knows when something's happened to him.

And she gives the example of when he cut his finger earlier that day.

She was downstairs, but she rushed upstairs because she knew that something had happened to him.

And this seems like a funny detail, but actually it's important because it shows that Neville St. Clair cut his finger.

So Holmes is able to put two and two together and work out, OK, Neville St. Clair cut his finger.

Hugh Boone cut his finger.

Hmm.

Same person?

On the very day that I saw him last, he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining room rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty that something had happened.

Do you think that I would respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant of his death?

So she's saying that surely I would know.

With this magic power, I would surely know that he'd died.

I've seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner.

So Holmes is saying that he should trust the feelings of women.

And in this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to corroborate your view.

But if your husband is alive and able to write letters, why should he remain away from you?

I cannot imagine.

It's unthinkable.

And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?

No.

And you were surprised to see him in Swandham Lane?

Very much so.

Was the window open?

Yes, then he might have called to you.

He might.

He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry.

Yes.

A call for help, you thought?

Yes, he waved his hands.

But it might have been a cry of surprise, astonishment at the unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands.

It is possible.

And you thought he was pulled back?

He disappeared so suddenly.

He might have leapt back.

Did you not see anyone else in the room?

No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the last car was at the foot of the stairs.

Quite so, your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary clothes on.

But without his collar or tie I distinctly saw his bare throat.

Had he ever spoken of Swandham Lane?'

Never.

Had he ever shown any signs of having taken opium?

Never.

Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair.

Those are the principal points about which I wish to be absolutely clear.

We shall now have a little supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day tomorrow.

I mean, all the facts have been given to us now, haven't they really?

More or less, everything's been given.

So if you are clever, and maybe you are, I mean, after all, you do listen to Luke's English Podcasts,

So you are probably up there in the 0.1% of intelligence in terms of intelligence in the human race.

So you may well have worked it out for yourself.

But anyway, they're now going to eat and then retire, meaning go to bed.

A large and comfortable double bedded room had been placed at our disposal and I was quickly between the sheets as I was weary after my night of adventure.

So Watson is straight into bed, straight between the sheets, straight to bed because he's super tired.

He's been up...

He's really late.

He's already had a really difficult day.

And then he was about to go to bed when all this kicked off.

So straight into bed for Watson.

Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when he had an unsolved problem on his mind, would go for days and even for a week without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of view until he'd either fathomed it, meaning worked it out, or convinced himself that his data were insufficient.

It was soon evident to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting.

He took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing gown, and then wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions from the sofa and armchairs.

With these he constructed a sort of eastern divan upon which...

He perched himself cross-legged with an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front of him.

So this is one of those moments where Sherlock Holmes settles down to have a good thinking session.

And there are lots of examples of this throughout all the Sherlock Holmes stories.

But in this one, Watson's gone to bed, he's going to go to sleep, but Holmes is going to stay up all night sitting on this pile of cushions

With lots of pipe tobacco, and he's going to smoke all night and think about this situation.

In the dim light of the lamp, I saw him sitting there, an old briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner of the ceiling.

So he's just sort of staring at the corner of the ceiling.

Smoking.

That's the sound effect of Sherlock Holmes smoking.

The blue smoke curling up from him, silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his strong aquiline features.

Aquiline means like an eagle.

So he's got this nose that's like an eagle's nose, a kind of a hooked nose.

So he sat as I dropped off to sleep.

And so he sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up.

Okay.

So Watson, yes, he's done it again.

This time he's ejaculated in his sleep and it's woken him up.

That's what it sounds like.

Sounds like he's had a wet dream.

Oh, Holmes, you're still awake.

Excuse me while I just briefly go to the bathroom.

I see, Watson, that you have ejaculated in your sleep again.

No, not that kind of ejaculation.

No, a noise.

A noise.

So he was woken up by a sudden ejaculation.

Maybe it's the sound of Holmes going, ha, I've got it.

Something like that.

Ha ha.

And Watson woke up and found the summer sun shining into the apartment.

The pipe was still between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the room was full of a dense tobacco haze.

I talk about second-hand smoke.

But nothing remained of the heap of shag, that's tobacco, which I'd seen upon the previous night.

So he smoked all the tobacco.

Works it out.

Awake, Watson?

He asked.

Yes.

Game for a morning drive?

Meaning, are you up for a morning drive?

Certainly.

Then dress.

No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable boy sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out, so meaning we'll be able to go in a minute.

He chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the sombre thinker of the previous night.

So he's worked it out.

As I dressed, I glanced at my watch.

It was no wonder that no one was stirring, no one was moving.

It was 25 past four in the morning, so I guess it's the middle of summer.

It is possible for the sun to come up that early in England.

I had hardly finished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the horse.

I want to test a little theory of mine, said he, pulling on his boots.

I think Watson...

So Holmes is saying that he's been a stupid idiot because he hasn't seen the truth.

And he's now worked out and he's now realised how stupid he's been.

But he says, now I think I have the key of the affair.

The key meaning the solution.

And where is it?

I asked, smiling.

In the bathroom, he answered.

Oh yes, I'm not joking, he continued.

So he's not talking about the actual key.

The key to it will be the sponge, which he's going to use to wipe away the disguise that Neville Sinclair has been using.

So the key is in the bathroom.

I have just been there in the bathroom and I've taken it out and I've got it in this Gladstone bag.

So we don't know what he's talking about at this point.

But anyway, he's actually talking about the sponge, the bathroom sponge, which he's now put in his bag.

Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock.

We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible and out into the bright morning sunshine.

In the road stood our horse and trap with the half-clad stable boy waiting at the head.

We both sprang in and away we dashed down the London road.

A few country carts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream.

So they're travelling back into London.

I don't really know why it was necessary to go all the way to Neville St. Clair's house, but I suppose that's where they saw the letter and all that.

Anyway, but they're on their way into London and everything's quiet and all the houses are lifeless because no one is awake, except for a few people who are up to deliver food into the city.

It has been in some points a singular case, meaning unique, said Holmes, flicking the horse into a gallop.

I confess that I've been as blind as a mole.

A mole is an animal that lives underground.

It digs holes in the garden.

And they are blind or nearly blind.

But it's better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all.

In town, the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side.

Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road, we crossed over the river and, dashing up Wellington Street, wheeled sharply to the right and found ourselves in Bow Street.

So they've gone to...

I guess it's Scotland Yard or wherever the police headquarters is in Bow Street.

Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force and the two constables at the door saluted him.

So they...

Salute him as if he's an officer in the army.

One of them held the horse's head while the other led us in.

Who is on duty?

Asked Holmes.

Inspector Bradstreet, sir.

Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?

A tall, stout official had come down the stone-flagged passage in a peaked cap and a frogged jacket.

So he's just wearing his police uniform, I suppose.

I wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet.

Certainly, Mr Holmes, step into my room here.

And I've given Bradstreet a sort of stereotypical police voice who sounds a bit like this.

Hello, hello, hello.

What seems to be going on here?

Certainly, Mr. Holmes.

Step into my room.

It was a small office-like room with a huge ledger upon the table.

That's a large book for keeping records in.

And a telephone projecting from the wall.

The inspector sat down at his desk.

What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?

I called about that beggar-man, Boone, the one who was charged with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair of Leigh.

Yes, he was brought up and remanded for further inquiries.

So I heard.

You have him here, in the cells.

Is he quiet?

Oh, he gives no trouble, but he's a dirty scoundrel.

Dirty?

Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is as black as a tinker's.

Meaning they can only make him wash his hands, they can't make him wash his face.

And it's totally dirty.

Well, once his case has been settled, he will have a regular prison bath.

And I think if you saw him, you'd agree with me that he needed it.

I should like to see him very much.

Would you?

That's easily done.

Come this way.

You can leave your bag.

No, I think I'll take it.

Obviously, this is the bag with the sponge inside.

Very good.

Come this way, if you please.

He led us down a passage, opened a barred door.

Like...

Passed down a winding stair and brought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side.

The third on the right is his, said the inspector.

Here it is.

He quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced through.

He's asleep.

You can see him very well.

We both put our eyes to the grating.

The prisoner lay with his face towards us in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily.

He was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad, meaning like wearing rough clothes, as became his calling, meaning as was appropriate for his job.

With a coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat.

So his shirt is showing through a rip in his coat, so he looks very roughly dressed.

He was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness.

The grime meaning dirt.

So the dirt on his face couldn't cover the fact that he was extremely ugly.

A broad wheel.

So I suppose this is a cut or scar wheel.

I think there's maybe a round scratch.

Okay, so it's a raised area of the skin.

Like a scar might...

Might cause a bump or a raised area.

So anyway, we're talking about the scar.

It ran right across the face from eye to chin and by its contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip so that three teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl.

A snarl is...

Dogs snarl when they're aggressive.

And the lips kind of come up and they show their teeth.

That's a snarl.

You know, raising your lip to show your teeth.

That's a snarl.

A shock of very bright red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.

He's a beauty, isn't he?

Said the inspector.

He certainly needs a wash, remarked Holmes.

I had an idea that he might.

No, this is Holmes.

I had an idea that he might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me.

He opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke and took out, to my astonishment...

A very large bath sponge.

"'He, he, you are a funny one,' chuckled the inspector.

"'Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure.'

"'Well, I don't know why not,' said the inspector.

"'He doesn't look a credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?'

He slipped the key into the lock and we all very quietly entered the cell.

The sleeper half turned and then settled down once more into a deep slumber.

Holmes stood... Holmes stooped to the water jug, so he's bent down, put water on the sponge, moistened the sponge and then rubbed it twice vigorously...

"'across and down the prisoner's face.

"'Let me introduce you,' he shouted, "'to Mr Neville St Clair of Leigh in the county of Kent.'

And there...

Sitting up in his bed was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about with sleepy bewilderment.

Now, the thing that bewilders me about this is that how could his disguise genuinely fool everyone, even Sherlock Holmes?

How could...

How could his disguise be that good?

I don't know.

But I suppose we have to suspend our disbelief a little bit and let's just go with the whole kind of like Mission Impossible thing where this guy was just particularly good at disguising and no one noticed.

Then, suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a scream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow.

"'Great heavens!'

Cried the inspector.

"'It is indeed the missing man!

I know him from the photograph!'

The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons himself to his destiny.

"'Ah, be it so, or so be it,' said he, "'and pray, what am I charged with?'

"'With making away with Mr Nevelson—' "'Oh, come, you can't be charged with that "'unless they make it a case of attempted suicide,' "'said the inspector with a grin.'

Well, I've been 27 years in the force and this really takes the cake.

If something takes the cake or takes the biscuit, it just is really kind of like the most extraordinary thing that you've seen so far.

If I am Mr Neville St Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has been committed and that therefore I am illegally detained.

No crime but a very great error has been committed, said Holmes.

You would have done better to have trusted your wife.

It was not the wife, it was the children, groaned the prisoner.

God help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father.

Oh my God, what an exposure, what can I do?

He said.

Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him kindly on the shoulder.

I mean, fair enough, he hasn't actually done anything wrong, has he?

I don't think so.

If you leave it up to a court of law to clear the matter up, said he, of course you can hardly avoid publicity.

On the other hand, if you convince the police authorities that there is no possible case against you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details should find their way into the papers.

So Neville St. Clair is most worried that his family, especially his children, are going to find out about what he's been doing and that this is going to just ruin their impression of him.

And these things were important in those days.

And that's what he's worried about.

And Holmes is saying, if you tell the police everything, then they probably will realise that there's nothing to charge you with and they'll leave you alone.

They'll let you go.

Just tell your story.

Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which you might tell us and submit it to the proper authorities.

The case would then never go into court at all.

Although if it did go into court, I mean, I don't know what he'd be charged with.

Anyway, he's now going to tell the story.

This is the important thing.

God bless you, cried the prisoner passionately.

I would have endured imprisonment, aye, even execution, rather than have left my miserable secret as a family blot to my children.

Okay, so the shame and the way it would have ruined the family reputation was too much for him and he would have rather been killed than let that happen.

So he's glad to have a chance to be sort of understood and then let go.

And for the story not to be made public by going through the courts, that's the point.

You were the first who've ever heard my story.

My father was a schoolmaster in Chesterfield where I received an excellent education.

I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, so spent time in the theatre, and finally became a reporter on an evening paper in London.

So, theatre background and now working as a journalist.

One day, my editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis and I volunteered to supply them.

That was the point from which all my adventures started.

So...

As a journalist, he decided to do some reports about begging and he actually tried begging for a day to see what it was like and he was surprised to discover he was brilliant at it and earned lots of money, more than he would normally earn as a journalist.

It was only by trying begging as an amateur that I could get the facts upon which to base my articles.

When an actor, I had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up.

And had been famous in the green room for my skill.

I took advantage now of my attainments.

So he took advantage of the things he'd learned.

I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as possible, I made a good scar and fixed it on one side of my lip in a twist by the aid of a small slip of fresh-coloured plaster.'

I mean, what a genius this guy is at doing makeup.

He should pursue a career in the theatre.

Then with a red head of hair and an appropriate dress, meaning appropriate clothing, I took my station in the business part of the city, ostensibly as a match seller, but really as a beggar.

For seven hours, I plied my trade, and then I returned home in the evening.

And when I returned home in the evening, I found to my surprise that I'd received no less than 26 shillings and 4D.

So this is old-fashioned money, shillings and D. To be honest, I don't really know what that means, but I think it's in the region of 200, 300 pounds.

I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until sometime later I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served upon me for £25.

So this basically means that he, I guess he...

Guaranteed a bill for someone else, and the bill didn't go through, and then he suddenly was legally obliged to pay £25.

So a writ is like a legal obligation.

So basically, suddenly he had to pay £25.

I was at my wit's end, so he just didn't know what to do.

But a sudden idea came to me as to where to get the money.

I begged a fortnight's grace from the creditor.

So he went to the bank, I guess, who he needed to pay money to and said, please give me two weeks.

Then asked for a holiday from my employers.

So he went to the newspaper and said, please, can I have two weeks holiday?

And spent the time begging in the city under my disguise.

In 10 days, I had the money and had paid the debt.

So he's saying that...

Obviously, when he could earn a lot more money begging, he would do begging, right?

It was a long fight between my pride and the money, but the pounds won at last.

And I threw up reporting, meaning stopped it, and sat day after day in the corner which I had first chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my pockets with coppers, that's coins.

So only the Lascar knew about this because, uh, um...

St. Clair paid him a lot of money to use the room as a changing room.

This fellow, a lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew that my secret was safe in his possession.

Well very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of money.

I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could earn 700 pounds a year which is less than my average takings but I had exceptional advantages in my power of making up and also in a facility of repartee.

Which improved by practice and made me quite a recognised character in the city.

So he was just particularly good at this for various reasons.

All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver, poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in which I failed to take two pounds, which is about 300 pounds in today's money.

So the thing I said before, was it 24 shillings?

That's not actually 200 pounds.

I don't know what... How many shillings are in a pound?

I don't know.

It's old money.

As I grew richer, I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country and eventually married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my real occupation.

My dear wife knew that I had business in the city.

She little knew what.

Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room above the opium den when I looked out of my window...

And saw, to my horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street with her eyes fixed full upon me.

I gave a cry of surprise.

I mean, what noise do you make when you're surprised?

I don't know.

Anyway, I gave us a cry of surprise.

So I'm surprised.

Threw up my arms to cover my face and rushing to my confidant.

The last car entreated him, meaning made him promise to prevent anyone from coming up to me.

I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not come up.

Swiftly, I threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar and put on my makeup and wig.

Wow, he's able to...

Make this disguise, do this disguise in like a matter of seconds.

The guy's a genius.

Should have gone to Hollywood.

Even a wife's eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise.

Even his wife couldn't identify him.

But then it occurred to me that there might be a search in the room and that the clothes might betray me.

I threw open the window, reopening a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the bedroom that morning, causing me to bleed.

Then I seized my coat, which was weighted by the coppers, which I just transferred to it from the leather bag in which I carried my takings.

I hurled it out the window and it disappeared into the Thames.

So he'd already moved the coins from the leather bag that he used when begging into the pockets of the jacket.

And then he threw that out the window and it sank into the river.

The other clothes would have followed, but at that moment there was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather I confess to my relief that instead of being identified as Mr Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his murderer.

I do not know.

That there's anything else for me to explain.

I was determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my preference for a dirty face.

Knowing that my wife would be terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar, like secretly gave it to him, at a moment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried scrawl,

Scrawl means a quick

Quick writing, quick messy writing.

That was not the sound of Donald Duck.

That was sound of someone writing hurriedly, telling her that I had no cause to fear.

That note only reached her yesterday, said Holmes.

Good God, what a week she must have spent.

The police have watched this lascar, said Inspector Bradstreet, and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter unobserved.

Oh, this is Bradstreet.

The police have watched this lascar, and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter unobserved.

Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his who forgot all about it for some days.

Yes, that was it, said Holmes, nodding approvingly.

I have no doubt of it, but have you never been prosecuted for begging?

Many times, but what was a fine to me?

Meaning, sure, you'd have to pay a little bit of money, but that's all right, he's got plenty.

It must stop here, however, said Bradstreet.

If the police are to hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone.

So he's going to have to stop now.

If the police are going to hush this up, meaning if they're not going to keep it quiet.

To protect his reputation.

I mean, yeah, I was going to say, it's convenient, isn't it, that if you are an upper-class person that essentially the establishment will protect you, certainly in those days.

But to be fair, he hasn't actually done anything wrong, has he?

Anyway, if the police are to hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone.

I've sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take, so he's promised it very seriously.

In that case, I think that it is probable that no further steps may be taken, but if you are found again...

Then all must come out.

I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much in debt to you for having cleared the matter up.

I wish I knew how you reach your results.

I reached this one, said my friend, by sitting upon five pillows and consuming an ounce of shag tobacco.

I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker Street, we shall just be in time for breakfast.

And that's the end of that.

I love the fact that it all happened in one night.

When Watson was desperate to go to bed the entire time, and now they've finally finished, and it's, yeah, it's breakfast time.

Time to tuck into a lovely breakfast.

I imagine they will have bacon and eggs or something like that, won't they?

Okay, that was quite long, wasn't it?

But, um...

But hopefully good.

If you made it all the way through to this point, then well done to you.

Good for you.

And let me know how this was for you.

What do you think of the story?

All the other questions I asked you before.

And what about the bit just there, the last two hours or so where I've just been through that story again and explained a lot of stuff?

I think I managed to do it in fairly good time, considering it.

More or less took me just under two hours so that's uh less than double the time to just read the story so i'm quite quite pleased with that

Um i really hope you enjoyed this genuinely sincerely hope that you enjoyed this and that you that i helped you to understand the story a little bit more

I hope you enjoyed the format that i used this time reading the story uninterrupted

And then sort of doing it again and explaining things.

I really hope you enjoyed that.

Let me know what you thought of that.

This has been episode number 999.

And of course, next time it's episode 1000.

And I need some time to work on that.

So there might be a little bit of a gap between now and the arrival of episode 1,000, but I think you understand, don't you?

You are very understanding and reasonable people, my listeners.

Thank you so much for listening.

Have a lovely morning, afternoon, evening or night, wherever you are in podcast land, whatever you happen to be doing with yourself right now and whatever you choose to do next.

I hope that you have a good time doing it.

Be excellent to each other, OK?

And I will speak to you next time.

But for now, it's just time for me to say good bye, bye, bye, bye, bye.

Thanks for listening to Luke's English Podcast.

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[]-[Sherlock Holmes & The Adventure of the Man with the Twisted Lip 🕵 [999]]

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