                                      1927
                                SHERLOCK HOLMES
                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE VEILED LODGER
                           by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  When one considers that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was in active practice
for twenty-three years, and that during seventeen of these I was
allowed to cooperate with him and to keep notes of his doings, it will
be clear that I have a mass of material at my command. The problem has
always been not to find but to choose. There is the long row of
year-books which fill a shelf, and there are the dispatch-cases filled
with documents, a perfect quarry for the student not only of crime but
of the social and official scandals of the late Victorian era.
Concerning these latter, I may say that the writers of agonized
letters, who beg that the honour of their families or the reputation
of famous forebears may not be touched, have nothing to fear. The
discretion and high sense of professional honour which have always
distinguished my friend are still at work in the choice of these
memoirs, and no confidence will be abused. I deprecate, however, in
the strongest way the attempts which have been mode lately to get at
and to destroy these papers. The source of these outrages is known,
and if they are repeated I have Mr. Holmes's authority for saying that
the whole story concerning the politician, the lighthouse, and the
trained cormorant will be given to the public. There is at least one
reader who will understand.
  It is not reasonable to suppose that every one of these cases gave
Holmes the opportunity of showing those curious gifts of instinct
and observation which I have endeavoured to set fourth in these
memoirs. Sometimes he had with much effort to pick the fruit,
sometimes it fell easily into his lap. But the most terrible human
tragedies were often involved in those cases which brought him the
fewest personal opportunities, and it is one of these which I now
desire to record. In telling it, I have made a slight change of name
and place, but otherwise the facts are as stated.
  One forenoon- it was late in 1896- I received a hurried note from
Holmes asking for my attendance. When I arrived I found him seated
in a smoke-laden atmosphere, with all elderly, motherly woman of the
buxom landlady type in the corresponding chair in front of him.
  "This is Mrs. Merrilow, of South Brixton," said my friend with a
wave of the hand. "Mrs. Merrilow does not object to tobacco, Watson,
if you wish to indulge your filthy habits. Mrs. Merrilow has an
interesting story to tell which may well lead to further
developments in which your presence may be useful."
  "Anything I can do-"
  "You will understand, Mrs. Merrilow, that if I come to Mrs. Ronder I
should prefer to have a witness. You will make her understand that
before we arrive."
  "Lord bless you, Mr. Holmes," said our visitor, "she is that anxious
to see you that you might bring the whole parish at your heals!"
  "Then we shall come early in the afternoon. Let us see that we
have our facts correct before we start. If we go over them it will
help Dr. Watson to understand the situation. You say that Mrs.
Ronder has been your lodger for seven years and that you have only
once seen her face."
  "And I wish to God I had not!" said Mrs. Merrilow.
  "It was, I understand, terribly mutilated."
  "Well, Mr. Holmes, you would hardly say it was a face at all. That's
how it looked. Our milkman got a glimpse of her once peeping out of
the upper window, and he dropped his tin and the milk all over the
front garden. that is the kind of face it is. When I saw her- I
happened on her unawares- she covered up quick, and then she said,
'Now, Mrs. Merrilow, you know at last why it is that I never raise
my veil.'"
  "Do you know anything about her history?"
  "Nothing at all."
  "Did she give references when she came?"
  "No, sir, but she gave hard cash, and plenty of it. A quarter's rent
right down on the table in advance and no arguing about terms. In
these times a poor woman like me can't afford to turn down a chance
like that."
  "Did she give any reason for choosing your house?"
  "Mine stands well back from the road and is more private than
most. Then, again, I only take the one, and I have no family of my
own. I reckon she had tried others and found that mine suited her
best. It's privacy she is after, and she is ready to pay for it."
  "You say that she never showed her face from first to last save on
the one accidental occasion. Well, it is a very remarkable story, most
remarkable, and I don't wonder that you want it examined."
  "I don't, Mr. Holmes. I am quite satisfied so long as I get my rent.
You could not have a quieter lodger, or one who gives less trouble."
  "Then what has brought matters to a head?"
  "Her health, Mr. Holmes. She seems to be wasting away. And there's
something terrible on her mind. 'Murder!' she cries. 'Murder!' And
once I heard her: 'You cruel beast! You monster!' she cried. It was in
the night, and it fair rang through the house and sent the shivers
through me. So I went to her in the morning. 'Mrs. Ronder,' I says,
'if you have anything that is troubling your soul, there's the
clergy,' I says, 'and there's the police. Between them you should
get some help.' 'For God's sake, not the police!' says she, 'and the
clergy can't change what is past. And yet,' she says, 'it would ease
my mind if someone knew the truth before I died.' 'Well,' says I,
'if you won't have the regulars, there is this detective man what we
read about'- beggin' your pardon, Mr. Holmes. And she, she fair jumped
at it. 'That's the man,' says she. 'I wonder I never thought of it
before. Bring him here, Mrs. Merrilow, and if he won't come, tell
him I am the wife of Ronder's wild beast show. Say that, and give
him the name Abbas Parva. Here it is as she wrote it, Abbas Parva.
'That will bring him if he's the man I think he is.'"
  "And it will, too," remarked Holmes. "Very good, Mrs. Merrilow. I
should like to have a little chat with Dr. Watson. That will carry
us till lunch-time. About three o'clock you may expect to see us at
your house in Brixton."
  Our visitor had no sooner waddled out of the room- no other verb can
describe Mrs. Merrilow's method of progression- than Sherlock Holmes
threw himself with fierce energy upon the pile of commonplace books in
the corner. For a few minutes there was a constant swish of the
leaves, and then with a grunt of satisfaction he came upon what he
sought. So excited was he that he did not rise, but sat upon the floor
like some strange Buddha, with crossed legs, the huge books all
round him, and one open upon his knees.
  "The case worried me at the time, Watson. Here are my marginal notes
to prove it. I confess that I could make nothing of it. And yet I
was convinced that the coroner was wrong. Have you no recollection
of the Abbas Parva tragedy?"
  "None, Holmes."
  "And yet you were with me then. But certainly my own impression
was very superficial. For there was nothing to go by, and none of
the parties had engaged my services. Perhaps you would care to read
the papers?"
  "Could you not give me the points?"
  "That is very easily done. It will probably come back to your memory
as I talk. Ronder, of course, was a household word. He was the rival
of Wombwell, and of Sanger, one of the greatest showmen of his day.
There is evidence, however, that he took to drink, and that both he
and his show were on the down grade at the time of the great
tragedy. The caravan had halted for the night at Abbas Parva, which is
a small village in Berkshire, when this horror occurred. They were
on their way to Wimbledon, travelling by road, and they were simply
camping and not exhibiting, as the place is so small a one that it
would not have paid them to open.
  "They had among their exhibits a very fine North African lion.
Sahara King was its name, and it was the habit, both of Ronder and his
wife, to give exhibitions inside its cage. Here, you see, is a
photograph of the performance by which you will perceive that Ronder
was a huge porcine person and that his wife was a very magnificent
woman. It was deposed at the inquest that there had been some signs
that the lion was dangerous, but, as usual, familiarity begat
contempt, and no notice was taken of the fact.
  "It was usual for either Ronder or his wife to feed the lion at
night. Sometimes one went, sometimes both, but they never allowed
anyone else to do it, for they believed that so long as they were
the food-carriers he would regard them as benefactors and would
never molest them. On this particular night, seven years ago, they
both went, and a very terrible happening followed, the details of
which have never been made clear.
  "It seems that the whole camp was roused near midnight by the
roars of the animal and the screams of the woman. The different grooms
and employees rushed from their tents, carrying lanterns, and by their
light an awful sight was revealed. Ronder lay, with the back of his
head crushed in and deep claw-marks across his scalp, some ten yards
from the cage, which was open. Close to the door of the cage lay
Mrs. Ronder upon her back, with the creature squatting and snarling
above her. It had torn her face in such a fashion that it was never
thought that she could live. Several of the circus men, headed by
Leonardo, the strong man, and Griggs, the clown, drove the creature
off with poles, upon which it sprang back into the cage and was at
once locked in. How it had got loose was a mystery. It was conjectured
that the pair intended to enter the cage, but that when the door was
loosed the creature bounded out upon them. There was no other point of
interest in the evidence save that the woman in a delirium of agony
kept screaming, 'Coward! Coward!' as she was carried back to the van
in which they lived. It was six months before she was fit to give
evidence, but the inquest was duly held, with the obvious verdict of
death from misadventure.
  "What alternative could be conceived?" said I.
  "You may well say so. And yet there were one or two points which
worried young Edmunds, of the Berkshire Constabulary. A smart lad
that! He was sent later to Allanabad. That was how I came into the
matter, for he dropped in and smoked a pipe or two over it."
  "A thin, yellow-haired man?"
  "Exactly. I was sure you would pick up the trail presently."
  "But what worried him?"
  "Well, we were both worried. It was so deucedly difficult to
reconstruct the affair. Look at it from the lion's point of view. He
is liberated. What does he do? He takes half a dozen bounds forward,
which brings him to Ronder. Ronder turns to fly- the claw-marks were
on the back of his head- but the lion strikes him down. Then,
instead of bounding on and escaping, he returns to the woman, who
was close to the cage, and he knocks her over and chews her face up.
Then, again, those cries of hers would seem to imply that her
husband had in some way failed her. What could the poor devil have
done to help her? You see the difficulty?"
  "Quite."
  "And then there was another thing. It comes back to me now as I
think it over. There was some evidence that just at the time the
lion roared and the woman screamed, a man began shouting in terror."
  "This man Ronder, no doubt."
  "Well, if his skull was smashed in you would hardly expect to hear
from him again. There were at least two witnesses who spoke of the
cries of a man being mingled with those of a woman."
  "I should think the whole camp was crying out by then. As to the
other points, I think I could suggest a solution."
  "I should be glad to consider it."
  "The two were together, ten yards from the cage, when the lion got
loose. The man turned and was struck down. The woman conceived the
idea of getting into the cage and shutting the door. It was her only
refuge. She made for it, and just as she reached it the beast
bounded after her and knocked her over. She was angry with her husband
for having encouraged the beast's rage by turning. If they had faced
it they might have cowed it. Hence her cries of 'Coward!'"
  "Brilliant, Watson! Only one flaw in your diamond."
  "What is the flaw, Holmes?"
  "If they were both ten paces from the cage, how came the beast to
get loose?"
  "Is it possible that they had some enemy who loosed it?"
  "And why should it attack them savagely when it was in the habit
of playing with them, and doing tricks with them inside the cage?"
  "Possibly the same enemy had done something to enrage it."
  Holmes looked thoughtful and remained in silence for some moments.
  "Well, Watson, there is this to be said for your theory. Ronder
was a man of many enemies. Edmunds told me that in his cups he was
horrible. A huge bully of a man, he cursed and slashed at everyone who
came in his way. I expect those cries about a monster, of which our
visitor has spoken, were nocturnal reminiscences of the dear departed.
However, our speculations are futile until we have all the facts.
There is a cold partridge on the sideboard, Watson, and a bottle of
Montrachet. Let us renew our energies before we make a fresh call upon
them."
  When our hansom deposited us at the house of Mrs. Merrilow, we found
that plump lady blocking up the open door of her humble but retired
abode. It was very clear that her chief preoccupation was lest she
should lose a valuable lodger, and she implored us, before showing
us up, to say and do nothing which could lead to so undesirable an
end. Then, having reassured her, we followed her up the straight,
badly carpeted staircase and were shown into the room of the
mysterious lodger.
  It was a close, musty, ill-ventilated place, as might be expected,
since its inmate seldom left it. From keeping beasts in a cage, the
woman seemed, by some retribution of fate, to have become herself a
beast in a cage. She sat now in a broken armchair in the shadowy
corner of the room. Long years of inaction had coarsened the lines
of her figure, but at some period it must have been beautiful, and was
still full and voluptuous. A thick dark veil covered her face, but
it was cut off close at her upper lip and disclosed a perfectly shaped
mouth and a delicately rounded chin. I could well conceive that she
had indeed been a very remarkable woman. Her voice, too, was well
modulated and pleasing.
  "My name is not unfamiliar to you, Mr. Holmes," said she. "I thought
that it would bring you."
  "That is so, madam, though I do not know how you are aware that I
was interested in your case."
  "I learned it when I had recovered my health and was examined by Mr.
Edmunds, the county detective. I fear I lied to him. Perhaps it
would have been wiser had I told the truth."
  "It is usually wiser to tell the truth. But why did you lie to him?"
  "Because the fate of someone else depended upon it. I know that he
was a very worthless being, and yet I would not have his destruction
upon my conscience. We had been so close- so close!"
  "But has this impediment been removed?"
  "Yes, sir. the person that I allude to is dead."
  "Then why should you not now tell the police anything you know?"
  "Because there is another person to be considered. That other person
is myself. I could not stand the scandal and publicity which would
come from a police examination. I have not long to live, but I wish to
die undisturbed. And yet I wanted to find one man of judgment to
whom I could tell my terrible story, so that when I am gone all
might be understood."
  "You compliment me, madam. At the same time, I am a responsible
person. I do not promise you that when you have spoken I may not
myself think it my duty to refer the case to the police."
  "I think not, Mr. Holmes. I know your character and methods too
well, for I have followed your work for some years. Reading is the
only pleasure which fate has left me, and I miss little which passes
in the world. But in any case, I will take my chance of the use
which you may make of my tragedy. It will case my mind to tell it."
  "My friend and I would be glad to hear it."
  The woman rose and took from a drawer the photograph of a man. He
was clearly a professional acrobat, a man of magnificent physique,
taken with his huge arms folded across his swollen chest and a smile
breaking from under his heavy moustache- the self-satisfied smile of
the man of many conquests.
  "That is Leonardo," she said.
  "Leonardo, the strong man, who gave evidence?"
  "The same. And this- this is my husband."
  It was a dreadful face- a human pig, or rather a human wild boar,
for it was formidable in its bestiality. One could imagine that vile
mouth champing and foaming in its rage, and one could conceive those
small, vicious eyes darting pure malignancy as they looked forth
upon the world. Ruffian, bully, beast- it was all written on that
heavy-jowled face.
  "Those two pictures will help you, gentlemen, to understand the
story. I was a poor circus girl brought up on the sawdust, and doing
springs through the hoop before I was ten. When I became a woman
this man loved me, if such lust as his can be called love, and in an
evil moment I became his wife. From that day I was in hell, and he the
devil who tormented me. There was no one in the show who did not
know of his treatment. He deserted me for others. He tied me down
and lashed me with his riding-whip when I complained. They all
pitied me and they all loathed him, but what could they do? They
feared him, one and all. For he was terrible at all times, and
murderous when he was drunk. Again and again he was had up for
assault, and for cruelty to the beasts, but he had plenty of money and
the fines were nothing to him. The best men all left us, and the
show began to go downhill. It was only Leonardo and I who kept it
up- with little Jimmy Griggs, the clown. Poor devil, he had not much
to be funny about, but he did what he could to bold things together.
  "Then Leonardo came more and more into my life. You see what he
was like. I know now the poor spirit that was hidden in that
splendid body, but compared to my husband he seemed like the angel
Gabriel. He pitied me and helped me, till at last our intimacy
turned to love- deep, deep, passionate love, such love as I had
dreamed of but never hoped to feel. My husband suspected it, but I
think that he was a coward as well as a bully, and that Leonardo was
the one man that he was afraid of. He took revenge in his own way by
torturing me more than ever. One night my cries brought Leonardo to
the door of our van. We were near tragedy that night, and soon my
lover and I understood that it could not be avoided. My husband was
not fit to live. We planned that he should die.
  "Leonardo had a clever, scheming brain. It was he who planned it.
I do not say that to blame him, for I was ready to go with him every
inch of the way. But I should never have had the wit to think of
such a plan. We made a club- Leonardo made it- and in the leaden
head lie fastened five long steel nails, the points outward, with just
such a spread as the lion's paw. This was to give my husband his
death-blow, and yet to leave the evidence that it was the lion which
we would loose who had done the deed.
  "It was a pitch-dark night when my husband and I went down, as was
our custom, to feed the beast. We carried with us the raw meat in a
zinc pail. Leonardo was waiting at the corner of the big van which
we should have to pass before we reached the cage. He was too slow,
and we walked past him before he could strike, but he followed us on
tiptoe and I heard the crash as the club smashed my husband's skull.
My heart leaped with joy at the sound. I sprang forward, and I undid
the catch which held the door of the great lion's cage.
  "And then the terrible thing happened. You may have heard how
quick these creatures are to scent human blood, and how it excites
them. Some strange instinct had told the creature in one instant
that a human being had been slain. As I slipped the bars it bounced
out and was on me in an instant. Leonardo could have saved me. If he
had rushed forward and struck the beast with his club he might have
cowed it. But the man lost his nerve. I heard him shout in his terror,
and then I saw him turn and fly. At the same instant the teeth of
the lion met in my face. Its hot, filthy breath had already poisoned
me and I was hardly conscious of pain. With the palms of my hands I
tried to push the great steaming, blood-stained jaws away from me, and
I screamed for help. I was conscious that the camp was stirring, and
then dimly I remembered a group of men. Leonardo, Griggs, and
others, dragging me from under the creature's paws. That was my last
memory, Mr. Holmes, for many a weary month. When I came to myself
and saw myself in the mirror, I cursed that lion- oh, how I cursed
him!- not because he had torn away my beauty but because he had not
torn away my life. I had but one desire, Mr. Holmes, and I had
enough money to gratify it. It was that I should cover myself so
that my poor face should be seen by none, and that I should dwell
where none whom I had ever known should find me. That was all that was
left to me to do- and that is what I have done. A poor wounded beast
that has crawled into its hole to die- that is the end of Eugenia
Ronder."
  We sat in silence for some time after the unhappy woman had told her
story. Then Holmes stretched out his long arm and patted her hand with
such a show of sympathy as I had seldom known him to exhibit.
  "Poor girl!" he said. "Poor girl! The ways of fate are indeed hard
to understand. If there is not some compensation hereafter, then the
world is a cruel jest. But what of this man Leonardo?"
  "I never saw him or heard from him again. Perhaps I have been
wrong to feel so bitterly against him. He might as soon have loved one
of the freaks whom we carried round the country as the thing which the
lion had left. But a woman's love is not so easily set aside. He had
left me under the beast's claws, he had deserted me in my need, and
yet I could not bring myself to give him to the gallows. For myself, I
cared nothing what became of me. What could be more dreadful than my
actual life? But I stood between Leonardo and his fate."
  "And he is dead?"
  "He was drowned last month when bathing near Margate. I saw his
death in the paper.
  "And what did he do with this five-clawed club, which is the most
singular and ingenious part of all your story?"
  "I cannot tell, Mr. Holmes. There is a chalk-pit by the camp, with a
deep green pool at the base of it. Perhaps in the depths of that
pool-"
  "Well, well, it is of little consequence now. The case is closed."
  "Yes," said the woman, "the case is closed."
  We had risen to go, but there was something in the woman's voice
which arrested Holmes's attention. He turned swiftly upon her.
  "Your life is not your own," he said. "Keep your hands off it."
  "What use is it to anyone?"
  "How can you tell? the example of patient suffering is in itself the
most precious of all lessons to an impatient world."
  The woman's answer was a terrible one. She raised her veil and
stepped forward into the light.
  "I wonder if you would bear it," she said.
  It was horrible. No words can describe the framework of a face
when the face itself is gone. Two living and beautiful brown eyes
looking sadly out from that grisly ruin did but make the view more
awful. Holmes held up his hand in a gesture of pity and protest, and
together we left the room.

  Two days later, when I called upon my friend, he pointed with some
pride to a small blue bottle upon his mantelpiece. I picked it up.
There was a red poison label. A pleasant almondy odour rose when I
opened it.
  "Prussic acid?" said I.
  "Exactly. It came by post. 'I send you my temptation. I will
follow your advice.' That was the message. I think, Watson, we can
guess the name of the brave woman who sent it."


                           -THE END-
