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- [00:00]
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- [01:02]
Narrator/Host
Hello listeners, some eagle eared detectives amongst you might notice that the first few minutes of this episode bear a striking similarity to the opening of the Adventure of the Cardboard Box, which we released a few months ago. That's the rather gruesome tale featuring the two severed ears delivered to a lady in Croydon, but we aren't investigating a mysterious case of deja vu. It's just a quirk of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's writing process. The Cardboard Box was originally published in the strand magazine in January 1893, but when Doyle's next short story collection, the Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, was released later that year, it was deemed too horrific to inflict upon readers. Again, Doyle put the story away and it wasn't seen again for another quarter century when it was included in the final Holmes collection, His Last Bow. But in the meantime, the author had lifted a brief section of it to bulk out the story you're going to hear today. The Adventure of the Resident Patient so it is that the Holmesian canon contains two stories in which Holmes and Watson have the exact same conversation with each other, ironically about Edgar Allan Poe's fictional detective Auguste Dupin, who was a key influence on the character of Sherlock Holmes.
- [02:30]
Hugh Bonneville / Sherlock Holmes Narrator
I'm Hugh Bonneville and welcome to Sherlock Holmes Short Stories, the series where we delve into the files of fiction's most brilliant detective, following his keen mind and unerring instincts from the first subtle clue to the final dramatic revelation. This time, Holmes and Watson receive a house call from a very agitated physician, Dr. Peter Trevelyan's wealthy benefactor, a man by the name of Blessington, has been spooked by a visit to the surgery from a pair of mysterious Russians. Can Holmes diagnose the case correctly? And what's the prognosis for Blessington? From the Noiser Podcast Network, this is the Adventure of the Resident Patient, Part one. Glancing over the somewhat incoherent series of memoirs with which I have endeavoured to illustrate a few of the mental peculiarities of my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have been struck by the difficulty which I have experienced in picking out examples which shall in every way answer my purpose. For in those cases in which Holmes has performed some tour de force of analytical reasoning and has demonstrated the value of his peculiar methods of investigation, the facts themselves have often been so slight or so commonplace that I could not feel justified in laying them before the public. On the other hand, it has frequently happened that he has been concerned in some research where the facts have been of the most remarkable and dramatic character, but where the share which he has himself taken in determining their causes has been been less pronounced than I, as his biographer, could wish. The small matter which I have chronicled under the heading of A Study in Scarlet and that other later one connected with the loss of the Gloria Scott, may serve as examples of this Scylla and Charybdis which are forever threatening the historian. It may be that in the business of which I am now about to write, the part which my friend played is not sufficiently accentuated. And yet the whole train of circumstances is so remarkable that I cannot bring myself to omit it entirely from this series. It had been a close, rainy day in October. Our blinds were half drawn and Holmes lay curled upon the sofa, reading and re reading a letter which he had received by the morning post. For myself, my term of service in India had trained me to stand heat better than cold, and a thermometer of 90 was no hardship, but the paper was uninteresting. Parliament had risen, everybody was out of town, and I yearned for the glades of the New Forest or the shingle of Southsea. A depleted bank account had caused me to postpone my holiday, and as to my companion, neither the country nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him. He loved to lie in the very centre of five millions of people, with his filaments stretching out and running through them, responsive to every little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of nature found no place among his many gifts, and his only change was when he turned his mind from the evildoer of the town to track down his brother of the country. Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation, I had tossed aside the barren paper and leaning back in my chair, I fell into a brown study. Suddenly my companion's voice broke in upon my thoughts. You are right, Watson, said he. It does seem a very preposterous way of settling a dispute. Most preposterous. I exclaimed. And then suddenly realizing how he had echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair and stared at him in blank amazement. What is this, Holmes? I cried. This is beyond anything which I could have imagined. He laughed heartily at my perplexity. You remember, said he, that some little time ago when I read you the passage in one of Poe's sketches in which a close reasoner follows the unspoken thought of his companion, you were inclined to treat the matter as a mere tour de force of the authority. On my remarking that I was constantly in the habit of doing the same thing, you expressed incredulity. Oh no, perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter upon a train of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity of reading it off and eventually of breaking into it as a proof that that I had been in rapport with you. But I was still far from satisfied. In the example which you read to me, said I, the reasoner drew his conclusions from the actions of the man whom he observed. If I remember right, he stumbled over a heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so on. But I have been seated quietly in my chair and what clues can I have given you? You do yourself an injustice. The features are given to man as the means by which he shall express his emotions and yours are faithful servants. Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my features? Your features and especially your eyes. Perhaps you cannot yourself recall how your reverie commenced. No, I cannot. Then I will tell you. After throwing down your paper, which was the action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a minute with a vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your newly framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by the alteration in your face that a train of thought had been started. But it did not lead very far. Your eyes turned across to the unframed portrait of Henry Ward Beecher which stands upon the top of your books. You then glanced up at the wall and of course your meaning was obvious. You were thinking that if the portrait were framed it would just cover that bare space and correspond with Gordon's picture over there. You have followed me wonderfully. I exclaimed. So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughts went back to Beecher and you looked hard across as if you were studying the character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but you continued to look across and your face was thoughtful. You were recalling the incidents of Beecher's career. I was well aware that you could not do this without thinking of the mission which he undertook on behalf of the north at the time of the Civil War. For I remember you expressing your passionate indignation at the way in which he was received by the more turbulent of our people. You felt so strongly about it that I knew you could not think of Beecher without thinking of that. Also, when a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned to the Civil War. And when I observed that your lips set, your eyes sparkled and your hands clinched, I was positive that you were indeed thinking of the gallantry which was shown by both sides in that desperate struggle. But then again your face grew sadder. You shook your head. You were dwelling upon the sadness and horror and useless waste of life. Your hand stole towards your own old wound and a smile quivered on your lips which showed me that the ridiculous side of this method of settling international questions had forced itself upon your mind. At this point I agreed with you that it was preposterous and was glad to find that all my deductions had been correct. Absolutely, said I, and now that you have explained it, I confess that I am as amazed as before. It was very superficial, my dear Watson. I assure you. I should not have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown me some incredulity the other day. But the evening has brought a breeze with it. What do you say to a ramble through London? I was weary of our little sitting room and gladly acquiesced. For three hours we strolled about together, watching the ever changing kaleidoscope of life as it ebbs and flows through Fleet street and the Strand. His characteristic talk, with its keen observance of detail and subtle power of inference, held me amused and enthralled. It was 10 o' clock before we reached Baker street again. A brougham was waiting at our door. Hmm. A doctor's general practitioner, I perceive, said Holmes. Not been long in practice, but has had a good deal to do. Come to consult us, I fancy. Lucky we came back. I was sufficiently conversant with Holmes methods to be able to follow his reasoning and to see that the nature and state of the various medical instruments in the wicker basket which hung in the lamplight inside the brougham had given him the data for his swift deduction. The light in our window above showed that this late visit was indeed intended for us. With some curiosity as to what could have sent a brother medico to us at such an hour, I followed Holmes into our sanctum.
- [12:32]
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- [13:07]
Hugh Bonneville / Sherlock Holmes Narrator
A pale, taper faced man with sandy whiskers rose up from a chair by the fire as we entered. His age may not have been more than three or four and 30, but his haggard expression and unhealthy hue told of a life which has sapped his strength and robbed him of his youth. His manner was nervous and shy, like that of a sensitive gentleman, and the thin white hand which he laid on the mantelpiece as he rose was that of an artist rather than of a surgeon. His dress was quiet and sombre, a black frock coat, dark trousers, and a touch of color about his necktie. Good evening, Doctor, said Holmes cheerily. I am glad to see that you have only been waiting a very few minutes. You spoke to my coachman then? No, it was the candle on the side table that told me. Pray resume your seat and let me know how I can serve you. My name is Dr. Percy Trevelyan, said our visitor, and I live at 403 Brook Street. Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure nervous lesions? I asked. His pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing that his work was known to me. I so seldom hear of the work that I thought it was quite dead, said he. My publishers gave me a most discouraging account of its sale. You are yourself, I presume, a medical man? A retired army surgeon. My own hobby has always been nervous disease. I should wish to make it an absolute specialty. But of course, a man must take what he can get at first. This, however, is beside the question. Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I quite appreciate how valuable your time is. The fact is that a very singular train of events has occurred recently at my house in Brook Street. And tonight they came to such a head that. That I felt it was quite impossible for me to wait another hour before asking for your advice and assistance. Sherlock Holmes sat down and lit his pipe. You are very welcome to both, said he. Pray let me have a detailed account of what these circumstances are which have disturbed you. One or two of them are so trivial, said Dr. Trevelyan, that really I am almost ashamed to mention them. But the matter is so inexplicable, and the recent turn which it has taken is so elaborate, that I shall lay it all before you and you shall judge what is essential and what is not. I am compelled to begin with, to say something of my own college career. I am a London University man, you know, and I am sure that you will not think that I am unduly singing my own praises if I say that my student career was considered by my professors to be a very promising one. After I had graduated, I continued to devote myself to research, occupying a minor position in King's College Hospital. And I was fortunate enough to excite considerable interest by my research into the pathology of catalepsy and finally to win the Bruce Pinkerton Prize and medal by the monograph on nervous lesions to which your friend has just alluded to. I should not go too far if I were to say that there was a general impression at that time that a distinguished career lay before me. But the one great stumbling block lay in my want of capital. As you will readily understand, a specialist who aims high is compelled to start in one of a dozen streets in the Cavendish Square quarter, all of which entail enormous rents and furnishing expenses. Besides this preliminary outlay, he must be prepared to keep himself for some years and to hire a presentable carriage and horse. To do this was quite beyond my power, and I could only hope that by economy I might in 10 years time, save enough to enable me to put up my plate. Suddenly, however, an unexpected incident opened up quite a new prospect to me. This was a visit from a gentleman of the name of Blessington, who was a complete stranger to me. He came up to my room one morning and plunged into business in an instant. You are the same Percy Trevelyan who has had so distinguished a career and won a great prize lately, said he. I bowed. Answer me frankly, he continued, for you will find it to your interest to do so. You have all the cleverness which makes a successful man. Have you the tact? I could not help smiling at the abruptness of the question. I trust that I have my Share, I said. Any bad habits not drawn towards drink, eh? Really sir, I cried. Quite right, that's all right. But I was bound to ask, with all these qualities why are you not in practice? I shrugged my shoulders. Come, come, said he in his bustling way, it's the old story. More in your brains than in your pocket, eh? What would you say if I were to start you in Brook Street? I stared at him in astonishment. Oh, it's for my sake, not for yours. He cried. I'll be perfectly frank with you and if it suits you it will suit me very well. I have a few thousands to invest, you see, and I think I'll sink them in you. But why? I gasped. Well, it's just like any other speculation and safer than most. What am I to do then? I'll tell you. I'll take the house, furnish it, pay the maids and run the whole place. All you have to do is just to wear out your chair in the consulting room. I'll let you have pocket money and everything. Then you hand over to me three quarters of what you earn and you keep the other quarter for yourself. This was the strange proposal, Mr. Holmes, with which the man Blessington approached me. I won't weary you with the account of how we bargained and negotiated. It ended in my moving into the house next Lady Day and starting in practice on very much the same conditions as he had suggested. He came himself to live with me in the character of a resident patient. His heart was weak it appears, and he needed constant medical supervision. He turned the two best rooms of the first floor into a sitting room and bedroom for himself. He was a man of singular habits, shunning company and very seldom going out. His life was irregular, but in one respect he was regularity itself. Every evening at the same hour he walked into the consulting room, examined the books, put down five and threepence for every guinea that I had earned and and carried the rest off to the strong box in his own room. I may say with confidence that he never had occasion to regret his speculation. From the first it was a success. A few good cases and the reputation which I had won in the hospital brought me rapidly to the front. And during the last few years I have made him a rich man. So much, Mr. Holmes, for my past history and my relations with Mr. Blessington. It only remains for me now to tell you what has occurred to bring me here tonight.
- [21:08]
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- [21:42]
Hugh Bonneville / Sherlock Holmes Narrator
Some weeks ago Mr. Blessington came down to me in, as it seemed to me, a state of considerable agitation. He spoke of some burglary which he said had been committed in the West End, and he appeared, I remember, to be quite unnecessarily excited about it, declaring that a day should not pass before we should add stronger bolts to our windows and doors. For a week he continued to be in a peculiar state of restlessness, peering continually out of the windows and ceasing to take the short walk which had usually been the prelude to his dinner. From his manner it struck me that he was in mortal dread of something or somebody, but when I questioned him upon the point, he became so offensive that I was compelled to drop the subject. Gradually, as time passed, his fears appeared to die away, and he had renewed his former habits when a fresh event reduced him to the pitiable state of prostration in which he now lies. What happened was this. Two days ago I received the letter which I now read to you. Neither address nor date is attached to it. A Russian nobleman who is now resident in England, it runs, would be glad to avail himself of the professional assistance of Dr. Percy Trevelyan. He has been for some years a victim to cataleptic attacks, on which, as is well known, Dr. Trevelyan is an authority. He proposes to call at about a quarter past six tomorrow evening, if Dr. Trevelyan will make it convenient to be at home. This letter interested me deeply, because the chief difficulty in the study of catalepsy is the rareness of the disease. You may believe then, that I was in my consulting room when, at the appointed hour, the page showed in the patient. He was an elderly man, thin, demure, and commonplace, by no means the conception one forms of a Russian nobleman. I was much more struck by the appearance of his companion. This was a tall young man, surprisingly handsome, with a dark, fierce face, and the limbs and chest of a Hercules. He had his hand under the other's arm as they entered and helped him to a chair with a tenderness which one would hardly have expected from his appearance. You will excuse my coming in, doctor, said he to me, speaking English with a slight lisp. This is my father and his health is a matter of the most overwhelming importance to me. I was touched by this filial anxiety. You would perhaps care to remain during the consultation, Said I. Not for the world. He cried with a gesture of horror. It is more painful to me than I can express. If I were to see my father in one of these dreadful seizures, I am convinced that I should never survive it. My own nervous system is an exceptionally sensitive one. With your permission, I will remain in the waiting room while you go into my father's case. To this, of course, I assented, and the young man withdrew the patient, and I then plunged into a discussion of his case, of which I took exhaustive notes. He was not remarkable for intelligence, and his answers were frequently obscure, which I attributed to his limited acquaintance with our language. Suddenly, however, as I sat writing, he ceased to give any answer at all to my inquiries. And on my turning towards him, I was shocked to see that he was sitting bolt upright in his chair, staring at me with a perfectly blank and rigid face. He was again in the grip of his mysterious malady. My first feeling, as I have just said, was one of pity and horror. My second, I fear, was rather one of professional satisfaction. I made notes of my patient's pulse and temperature, tested the rigidity of his muscles, and examined his reflexes. There was nothing markedly abnormal in any of these conditions which harmonized with my former experiences. I had obtained good results in such cases by the inhalation of nitrite of amyl, and the present seemed an admirable opportunity of testing its virtues. The bottle was downstairs in my laboratory, so, leaving my patient seated in his chair, I ran down to get it. There was some little delay in finding it. Five minutes, let us say, and then I returned. Imagine my amazement to find the room empty and the patient gone. Of course, my first act was to run into the waiting room. The son had gone also. The hall door had been closed, but not shut. My page, who admits patience, is a new boy, and by no means quick. He. He waits downstairs and runs up to show patients out when I ring the consulting room bell. He had heard nothing, and the affair remained a complete mystery. Mr. Blessington came in from his walk shortly afterwards, but I did not say anything to him upon the subject, for to tell the truth, I have got in the way of late of holding as little communication with him as possible. Well, I never thought that I should see anything more of the Russian and his son. So you can imagine my amazement when at the very same hour this evening, they both came marching into my Consulting room, just as they had done before. I feel that I owe you a great many apologies for my abrupt departure yesterday, doctor, said my patient. I confess that I was very much surprised at it, said I. Well, the fact is, he remarked that when I recover from these attacks, my mind is always very clouded as to all that has gone before. I woke up in a strange room, as it seemed to me, and made my way out into the street in a sort of dazed way when you were absent. And I, said the son, seeing my father pass the door of the waiting room, naturally thought that the consultation had come to an end. It was not until we had reached home that I began to realize the true state of affairs. Well, said I, laughing, there is no harm done, except that you puzzled me terribly. So if you, sir, would kindly step into the waiting room, I shall be happy to continue our consultation, which was brought to so abrupt an ending. Now, for half an hour or so I discussed that old gentleman's symptoms with him. And then, having prescribed for him, I saw him go off upon the arm of his son. I have told you that Mr. Blessington generally chose this hour of the day for his exercise. He came in shortly afterwards and passed upstairs. An instant later I heard him running down and he burst into my consulting room like a man who is mad with panic. Who has been in my room? He cried. No one, said I. It's a lie.
- [29:24]
Narrator/Host
He yelled.
- [29:25]
Hugh Bonneville / Sherlock Holmes Narrator
Come up and look. I passed over the grossness of his language as he seemed half out of his mind with fear. When I went upstairs with him, he pointed to several footprints upon the light carpet. Do you mean to say those are mine? He cried. They were certainly very much larger than any which he could have made and were evidently quite fresh. It rained hard this afternoon, as you know, and my patients were the only people who called. It must have been the case then that the man in the waiting room had, for some reason, while I was busy with the other, ascended to the room of my resident patient. Nothing had been touched or taken, but there were the footprints to prove that the intrusion was an undoubted fact. Mr. Blessington seemed more excited over the matter than I should have thought possible, though, of course it was enough to disturb anybody's peace of mind. He actually sat crying in an armchair, and I could hardly get him to speak coherently. It was his suggestion that I should come round to you, and of course I at once saw the propriety of it, for certainly the incident is a very singular one, though he appears to completely overrate its importance. If you would only come back with me in my brougham. You would at least be able to soothe him, though I can hardly hope that you will be able to explain this remarkable occurrence. Sherlock Holmes had listened to this long narrative with an intentness which showed me that his interest was keenly aroused. His face was as impassive as ever, but his lids had drooped more heavily over his eyes, and his smoke had curled up more thickly from his pipe to emphasise each curious episode in the Doctor's tale. As our visitor concluded, Holmes sprang up without a word, handed me my hat, picked his own from the table, and followed Dr. Trevelyan to the door. Next time on Sherlock Holmes Short Stories Holmes and Watson pay Blessington a visit and almost require treatment themselves. The Russians return, apparently now in rude health, and Sherlock offers a conclusive diagnosis. That's next time. Can't wait a week until the next episode. Well, listen to it right away by subscribing to Noiser Plus. Head to www.noiser.comscriptions for more information, or click the link in the episode Description.
- [32:36]
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