“In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of MorseHudson’s shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner,named Dr. Barnicot, who has one of the largest practices upon thesouth side of the Thames. His residence and principal consultingroomis at Kennington Road, but he has a branch surgery anddispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles away. This Dr.
Barnicot is an enthusiastic admirer of Napoleon, and his house isfull of books, pictures, and relics of the French Emperor. Somelittle time ago he purchased from Morse Hudson two duplicateplaster casts of the famous head of Napoleon by the Frenchsculptor, Devine. One of these he placed in his hall in the houseat Kennington Road, and the other on the mantelpiece of thesurgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr. Barnicot came downthis morning he was astonished to find that his house had beenburgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken save theplaster head from the hall. It had been carried out and had beendashed savagely against the garden wall, under which its splinteredfragments were discovered.”
Holmes rubbed his hands.
“This is certainly very novel,” said he.
“I thought it would please you. But I have not got to the endyet. Dr. Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o’clock, and youcan imagine his amazement when, on arriving there, he found thatthe window had been opened in the night and that the brokenpieces of his second bust were strewn all over the room. It hadbeen smashed to atoms where it stood. In neither case were thereany signs which could give us a clue as to the criminal or lunaticwho had done the mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes, you have got thefacts.”
“They are singular, not to say grotesque,” said Holmes. “May Iask whether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot’s rooms werethe exact duplicates of the one which was destroyed in MorseHudson’s shop?”
“They were taken from the same mould.”
“Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man whobreaks them is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon.
Considering how many hundreds of statues of the greatEmperor must exist in London, it is too much to suppose such acoincidence as that a promiscuous iconoclast should chance tobegin upon three specimens of the same bust.”
“Well, I thought as you do,” said Lestrade. “On the otherhand, this Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part ofLondon, and these three were the only ones which had been in hisshop for years. So, although, as you say, there are many hundredsof statues in London, it is very probable that these three were theonly ones in that district. Therefore, a local fanatic would beginwith them. What do you think, Dr. Watson?”
“There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania,” Ianswered. “There is the condition which the modern Frenchpsychologists have called the ‘IDEE FIXE,’ which may be triflingin character, and accompanied by complete sanity in every otherway. A man who had read deeply about Napoleon, or who hadpossibly received some hereditary family injury through the greatwar, might conceivably form such an IDEE FIXE and under itsinfluence be capable of any fantastic outrage.”
“That won’t do, my dear Watson,” said Holmes, shaking his head,“for no amount of IDEE FIXE would enable your interestingmonomaniac to find out where these busts were situated.”
“Well, how do you explain it?”
“I don’t attempt to do so. I would only observe that there isa certain method in the gentleman’s eccentric proceedings. Forexample, in Dr. Barnicot’s hall, where a sound might arouse thefamily, the bust was taken outside before being broken, whereasin the surgery, where there was less danger of an alarm, it wassmashed where it stood. The affair seems absurdly trifling, andyet I dare call nothing trivial when I reflect that some of mymost classic cases have had the least promising commencement.
You will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of theAbernetty family was first brought to my notice by the depthwhich the parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I can’tafford, therefore, to smile at your three broken busts, Lestrade,and I shall be very much obliged to you if you will let me hear ofany fresh development of so singular a chain of events.”
The development for which my friend had asked came in aquicker and an infinitely more tragic form than he could haveimagined. I was still dressing in my bedroom next morning, whenthere was a tap at the door and Holmes entered, a telegram in hishand. He read it aloud:
“Come instantly, 131 Pitt Street, Kensington.
“LESTRADE.”
“What is it, then?” I asked.
“Don’t know—may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel ofthe story of the statues. In that case our friend the image-breakerhas begun operations in another quarter of London. There’s coffeeon the table, Watson, and I have a cab at the door.”
In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet littlebackwater just beside one of the briskest currents of London life.
No. 131 was one of a row, all flat-chested, respectable, and mostunromantic dwellings. As we drove up, we found the railings infront of the house lined by a curious crowd. Holmes whistled.
“By George! It’s attempted murder at the least. Nothing less willhold the London message-boy. There’s a deed of violence indicatedin that fellow’s round shoulders and outstretched neck. What’sthis, Watson? The top steps swilled down and the other ones dry.
Footsteps enough, anyhow! Well, well, there’s Lestrade at the frontwindow, and we shall soon know all about it.”
The official received us with a very grave face and showed usinto a sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitatedelderly man, clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up anddown. He was introduced to us as the owner of the house—Mr.
Horace Harker, of the Central Press Syndicate.