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known that such was his intention and he carried out that
intention. But there was only one person who was aware of the final outcome; namely, that he
never actually signed it."
"You mean Trelawney himself?"
"I mean Ainsworth, the solicitor who drew the will. He has admitted as much in his
confession."
Holmes leaned back in his chair and placed his fingertips together.
"Chloroform is easily obtainable, as the British public knows from the Bartlett case. In such
a small community, a friend of the family, like Ainsworth, would have easy access to the
medical works in the vicar's library. He evolved rather a clever plan at his leisure. In my
little analysis last night, I should have been less confident had not examination of the dead
man's face with a lens revealed jury-proof evidence in the form of minute burns and traces of
vaseline in the skin-pores."
"But Miss Dale and Dr. Griffin!"
"Their conduct puzzled you?"
"Well, women are strange."
"My dear Watson, when I hear of a young woman, all fire and temperament, who is thrown
into the company of a man of exactly similar characteristics—in sharp contrast to a cold-
minded solicitor who watches her carefully —my suspicions are aroused, especially when she
expresses unprovoked dislike on all public occasions."
"Then why did she not simply break her engagement!"
"You overlook the fact that her uncle always upbraided her for fickleness. Had she revoked her
pledge, she would have lost dignity in her own eyes. But why on earth, Watson, are you
chuckling now?"
"Merely a sense of incongruity. I was thinking of the singular name of that village in
Somerset."
"The village of Camberwell?" said Holmes, smiling. "Yes, it is indeed different from our
London district of Camberwell. You must give the chronicle a different title, Watson, lest
readers be confused as to the true locale of the Camberwell poisoning case."
The year '87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or less interest, of which I
retain the records. Among my headings under this one twelve months I find . . . the
Camberwell poisoning case.
FROM "THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS."
3
The Adventure of the Wax Gamblers
When my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes sprained his ankle, irony followed upon irony. Within
a matter of hours he was presented with a problem whose singular nature seemed to make
imperative a visit to that sinister, underground room so well known to the public.
My friend's accident had been an unlucky one. Purely for the sport of it, he had consented to
an impromptu glove-match with Bully Boy Rasher, the well-known professional middle-
weight, at the old Cribb Sporting Club in Panton Street. To the amazement of the spectators,
Holmes knocked out the Bully Boy before the latter could settle down to a long, hard mill.
Having broken Rasher's hanging guard and survived his right hand, my friend was leaving
the sparring-saloon when he tripped on those ill-lighted, rickety stairs which I trust the
Honorary Secretary of the club has since caused to be mended.
The intelligence of this mishap reached me as my wife and I finished our midday meal one
cold season of rain and screaming winds. Though I have not my note-book at hand, I believe
it was the first week in March, 1890. Uttering an exclamation as I read the telegram from Mrs.
Hudson, I handed the message to my wife.
"You must go at once and see to the comfort of Mr. Sherlock Holmes for a day or two,"
said she. "Anstruther will always do your work for you."
Since at that time my house was in the Paddington area, it took me no great time to be
in Baker Street.
Holmes was, as I expected, seated upon the sofa with his back to the wall, wearing a purple
dressing-gown and with his bandaged right ankle upon a heap of cushions. A low-power
microscope stood on a small table at his left hand, while on the sofa at his right lay a
perfect drift of discarded newspapers.
Despite the weary, heavy-lidded expression which veiled
intention. But there was only one person who was aware of the final outcome; namely, that he
never actually signed it."
"You mean Trelawney himself?"
"I mean Ainsworth, the solicitor who drew the will. He has admitted as much in his
confession."
Holmes leaned back in his chair and placed his fingertips together.
"Chloroform is easily obtainable, as the British public knows from the Bartlett case. In such
a small community, a friend of the family, like Ainsworth, would have easy access to the
medical works in the vicar's library. He evolved rather a clever plan at his leisure. In my
little analysis last night, I should have been less confident had not examination of the dead
man's face with a lens revealed jury-proof evidence in the form of minute burns and traces of
vaseline in the skin-pores."
"But Miss Dale and Dr. Griffin!"
"Their conduct puzzled you?"
"Well, women are strange."
"My dear Watson, when I hear of a young woman, all fire and temperament, who is thrown
into the company of a man of exactly similar characteristics—in sharp contrast to a cold-
minded solicitor who watches her carefully —my suspicions are aroused, especially when she
expresses unprovoked dislike on all public occasions."
"Then why did she not simply break her engagement!"
"You overlook the fact that her uncle always upbraided her for fickleness. Had she revoked her
pledge, she would have lost dignity in her own eyes. But why on earth, Watson, are you
chuckling now?"
"Merely a sense of incongruity. I was thinking of the singular name of that village in
Somerset."
"The village of Camberwell?" said Holmes, smiling. "Yes, it is indeed different from our
London district of Camberwell. You must give the chronicle a different title, Watson, lest
readers be confused as to the true locale of the Camberwell poisoning case."
The year '87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or less interest, of which I
retain the records. Among my headings under this one twelve months I find . . . the
Camberwell poisoning case.
FROM "THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS."
3
The Adventure of the Wax Gamblers
When my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes sprained his ankle, irony followed upon irony. Within
a matter of hours he was presented with a problem whose singular nature seemed to make
imperative a visit to that sinister, underground room so well known to the public.
My friend's accident had been an unlucky one. Purely for the sport of it, he had consented to
an impromptu glove-match with Bully Boy Rasher, the well-known professional middle-
weight, at the old Cribb Sporting Club in Panton Street. To the amazement of the spectators,
Holmes knocked out the Bully Boy before the latter could settle down to a long, hard mill.
Having broken Rasher's hanging guard and survived his right hand, my friend was leaving
the sparring-saloon when he tripped on those ill-lighted, rickety stairs which I trust the
Honorary Secretary of the club has since caused to be mended.
The intelligence of this mishap reached me as my wife and I finished our midday meal one
cold season of rain and screaming winds. Though I have not my note-book at hand, I believe
it was the first week in March, 1890. Uttering an exclamation as I read the telegram from Mrs.
Hudson, I handed the message to my wife.
"You must go at once and see to the comfort of Mr. Sherlock Holmes for a day or two,"
said she. "Anstruther will always do your work for you."
Since at that time my house was in the Paddington area, it took me no great time to be
in Baker Street.
Holmes was, as I expected, seated upon the sofa with his back to the wall, wearing a purple
dressing-gown and with his bandaged right ankle upon a heap of cushions. A low-power
microscope stood on a small table at his left hand, while on the sofa at his right lay a
perfect drift of discarded newspapers.
Despite the weary, heavy-lidded expression which veiled
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