Chapter 1. Mr. Sherlock Holmes

by Arthur Conan Doyle · 2026-03-31

Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who typically took his time in the mornings—except for those nights when he stayed up late—was already at the breakfast table. I stood by the hearth, picking up the cane our visitor had left behind the night before. It was a sturdy, thick piece of wood with a bulbous head, known as a “Penang lawyer.” Just below the head was a broad silver band, nearly an inch wide, engraved with the words, “To James Mortimer, M.R.C.S., from his friends of the C.C.H.,” along with the date “1884.” It was exactly the kind of cane an old-fashioned family doctor would carry—dignified, solid, and reassuring.

“Well, Watson, what do you think?” Holmes asked.

He was sitting with his back to me, and I hadn’t given him any indication of what I was doing.

“How did you know what I was up to? I swear you have eyes in the back of your head,” I replied.

“I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee pot in front of me,” he said. “But seriously, what do you make of our visitor’s cane? Since we’ve unfortunately missed him and have no idea what he wanted, this little souvenir has become important. Let’s see if you can piece together a picture of the man from it.”

“I think,” I began, trying to follow Holmes's methods, “that Dr. Mortimer is a successful, older doctor, well-respected, since those who know him have given him this token of appreciation.”

“Good! Excellent!” Holmes exclaimed.

“I also think it’s likely that he’s a country doctor who does a lot of his visiting on foot.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because this cane, while originally quite handsome, has been so battered that I can hardly imagine a city doctor carrying it. The thick iron tip is worn down, which suggests he’s done a lot of walking with it.”

“Perfectly sound!” Holmes agreed.

“And then there’s the ‘friends of the C.C.H.’ I would guess that refers to a local hunt, perhaps one to which he has provided some surgical assistance, and they’ve given him this small gift in return.”

“Really, Watson, you’re outdoing yourself,” Holmes said, pushing back his chair and lighting a cigarette. “I must say, in all the accounts you’ve given of my small achievements, you’ve consistently undervalued your own abilities. You may not shine brightly yourself, but you certainly help illuminate the path for others. I confess, my dear fellow, that I owe you a great deal.”

He had never said anything like that before, and I must admit his words brought me great pleasure. I had often felt stung by his indifference to my admiration and my attempts to highlight his methods. I was proud, too, to think I had grasped his system well enough to apply it in a way that earned his approval. He took the cane from my hands and examined it closely for a few minutes. Then, with a look of interest, he set down his cigarette and brought the cane to the window, inspecting it again with a magnifying glass.

“Interesting, though elementary,” he said as he returned to his favorite spot on the settee. “There are certainly one or two clues on the cane. It gives us a foundation for several deductions.”

“Have I missed anything?” I asked, feeling a bit smug. “I hope there’s nothing significant that I’ve overlooked?”

“I’m afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were incorrect. When I said you stimulate me, I meant, to be honest, that your mistakes sometimes guide me toward the truth. Not that you’re entirely wrong in this case. The man is definitely a country doctor. And he walks a lot.”

“So I was right.”

“To that extent.”

“But that’s all?”

“No, no, my dear Watson, not all—far from it. For instance, I would suggest that a gift to a doctor is more likely to come from a hospital than from a hunt, and when the initials ‘C.C.’ are placed before that hospital, the words ‘Charing Cross’ naturally come to mind.”

“You might be right.”

“The likelihood leans that way. And if we take this as a working hypothesis, we have a fresh starting point for constructing a profile of this unknown visitor.”

“Well, if ‘C.C.H.’ does stand for ‘Charing Cross Hospital,’ what further conclusions can we draw?”

“Don’t any come to mind? You know my methods. Apply them!”

“All I can think of is the obvious conclusion that the man must have practiced in the city before moving to the country.”

“I think we should explore a bit further,” Sherlock Holmes suggested, leaning forward with a glint of excitement in his eyes. “Consider this: when would it be most likely for such a gift to be presented? Clearly, it would be when Dr. Mortimer left the hospital to start his own practice. We know there was a presentation, and we suspect he transitioned from a city hospital to a country practice. So, is it too much of a stretch to conclude that this presentation coincided with that change?”

“That does seem likely,” I replied, intrigued.

“Now, notice this: he couldn’t have been on the hospital staff. Only someone well-established in a London practice could hold that position, and such a person wouldn’t just move to the countryside. So what was he? If he worked at the hospital but wasn’t on the staff, he must have been a house-surgeon or a house-physician—essentially, a senior student. And he left five years ago, as the date on the stick indicates. So, your serious, middle-aged family doctor disappears, and in his place emerges a young man under thirty—friendly, unambitious, absent-minded, and the owner of a favorite dog, which I’d guess is larger than a terrier but smaller than a mastiff.”

I couldn’t help but laugh as Holmes leaned back on the settee, puffing little rings of smoke toward the ceiling.

“As for the dog, I can’t verify that,” I said, “but it shouldn’t be too hard to find out more about his age and career.” I reached for the Medical Directory on my small shelf, flipping through the pages until I found the name. There were several Mortimers listed, but only one seemed to fit our visitor. I read his details aloud.

“Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon. House-surgeon from 1882 to 1884 at Charing Cross Hospital. Winner of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology with an essay titled ‘Is Disease a Reversion?’ Corresponding member of the Swedish Pathological Society. Author of ‘Some Freaks of Atavism’ (_Lancet_ 1882) and ‘Do We Progress?’ (_Journal of Psychology_, March 1883). Medical Officer for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, and High Barrow.”

“No mention of that local hunt, Watson,” Holmes said with a playful grin, “but you’ve correctly identified him as a country doctor. I believe my deductions are sound. As for my descriptions, I said he was amiable, unambitious, and absent-minded. In my experience, only a genuinely kind man receives testimonials, only an unambitious one would leave a London career for the countryside, and only an absent-minded one would forget his stick instead of his visiting card after waiting an hour in your room.”

“And the dog?” I asked, curious.

“It’s likely he’s been accustomed to carrying this stick for his master. Since it’s a heavy stick, the dog would have held it tightly in the middle, leaving clear bite marks. The width of the dog’s jaw, as indicated by the spacing between those marks, suggests it’s too broad for a terrier but not broad enough for a mastiff. It could be—yes, by Jove, it _is_ a curly-haired spaniel.”

As he spoke, he stood and began pacing the room. He paused at the window, his voice filled with conviction, which made me look up in surprise.

“How can you be so sure?” I asked.

“For a very simple reason: the dog is right on our doorstep, and there’s its owner. Don’t move, please, Watson. He’s a fellow professional, and your presence might be helpful. This is the dramatic moment when you hear a step on the stairs that’s about to change your life, and you don’t know if it’s for better or worse. What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man of science, want from Sherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime? Come in!”

When our visitor entered, I was taken aback. I had expected a typical country doctor, but instead, I saw a tall, thin man with a long, beak-like nose that jutted out between two keen, gray eyes, which sparkled brightly behind gold-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a professional but somewhat disheveled manner; his frock coat was dingy, and his trousers were frayed. Though young, he had a slight stoop, and he walked with his head thrust forward, exuding an air of benevolent curiosity.

As he entered, his gaze fell on the stick in Holmes’s hand, and he rushed toward it with an exclamation of joy. “I’m so glad,” he said. “I wasn’t sure if I’d left it here or at the Shipping Office. I wouldn’t lose that stick for the world.”

“A presentation, I see,” Holmes remarked.

“Yes, sir.”

“From Charing Cross Hospital?”

“From a couple of friends there on the occasion of my marriage.”

“Oh dear, that’s unfortunate!” Holmes said, shaking his head.

Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses, clearly taken aback. “Why is that a problem?”

“Only because you’ve thrown off our little deductions. You mentioned your marriage?”

“Yes, I got married, which meant I left the hospital and with it, my hopes of a consulting practice. I needed to create a home of my own.”

“Well, we’re not as far off as I thought,” Holmes replied. “Now, Dr. James Mortimer—”

“Mister, actually. Just Mister—a humble M.R.C.S.”

“And a man of precise thought, I see.”

“I dabble in science, Mr. Holmes. I pick up shells on the shores of the vast unknown ocean. I assume I’m speaking to Mr. Sherlock Holmes and not—”

“No, this is my friend Dr. Watson.”

“Pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ve heard your name mentioned alongside your friend’s. You intrigue me, Mr. Holmes. I didn’t expect such a long skull or such pronounced brow ridges. Would you mind if I traced my finger along your parietal fissure? A cast of your skull would be a prized addition to any anthropology museum. I don’t mean to flatter, but I must admit, I covet your skull.”

Sherlock Holmes gestured for our unusual visitor to take a seat. “You’re quite passionate about your field, I see, as I am about mine,” he said. “I notice from your forefinger that you roll your own cigarettes. Please, don’t hesitate to light one.”

The man pulled out paper and tobacco, skillfully rolling one into the other with surprising ease. His long, trembling fingers moved with the same restless energy as an insect’s antennae.

Holmes remained quiet, but his quick glances revealed his interest in our peculiar guest. “I assume, sir,” he finally said, “that you didn’t come here just to examine my skull?”

“No, sir, though I’m glad for the chance to do that as well. I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because I realize I’m not a practical man, and I’m suddenly faced with a very serious and extraordinary problem. Knowing that you are the second-best expert in Europe—”

“Indeed! May I ask who holds the title of the first?” Holmes replied, a hint of irritation in his voice.

“For someone with a precise scientific mind, the work of Monsieur Bertillon is always compelling.”

“Then wouldn’t it be better to consult him?”

“I said ‘precisely scientific mind.’ But as a practical man of affairs, it’s recognized that you stand alone. I hope I haven’t inadvertently—”

“Just a little,” Holmes interjected. “I think, Dr. Mortimer, it would be wise for you to clearly explain the exact nature of the problem for which you seek my help.”