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A Study in Scarlet (AmazonClassics Edition) (English Edition) eBook Kindle
Edição Inglês
por
Arthur Conan Doyle
(Autor)
Formato: eBook Kindle
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When a postwar search for London lodgings introduces ailing doctor John H. Watson to quirky chemist Sherlock Holmes, their collaboration in the art of observation and deduction begins. Congenial flatmates and even better colleagues, the pair is quickly drawn into a case of murder and revenge that has Scotland Yard at their wits’ end.
With A Study in Scarlet, Arthur Conan Doyle introduces readers to idiosyncratic Sherlock Holmes and his skeptical but loyal sidekick, Dr. Watson. Many retellings and adaptations have followed, but this is the original tale that started the legacy.
AmazonClassics brings you timeless works from the masters of storytelling. Ideal for anyone who wants to read a great work for the first time or rediscover an old favorite, these new editions open the door to literature’s most unforgettable characters and beloved worlds.
Revised edition: Previously published as A Study in Scarlet, this edition of A Study in Scarlet (AmazonClassics Edition) includes editorial revisions.
- IdiomaInglês
- EditoraAmazonClassics
- Data da publicação27 fevereiro 2018
- Tamanho do arquivo1110 KB
Descrição do produto
Resenha da Amazon.com.br
Arthur Conan Doyle's Study in Scarlet is the first published story involving the legendary Sherlock Holmes, arguably the world's best-known detective, and the first narrative by Holmes's Boswell, the unassuming Dr. Watson, a military surgeon lately returned from the Afghan War. Watson needs a flat-mate and a diversion. Holmes needs a foil. And thus a great literary collaboration begins.
Watson and Holmes move to a now-famous address, 221B Baker Street, where Watson is introduced to Holmes's eccentricities as well as his uncanny ability to deduce information about his fellow beings. Somewhat shaken by Holmes's egotism, Watson is nonetheless dazzled by his seemingly magical ability to provide detailed information about a man glimpsed once under the streetlamp across the road.
Then murder. Facing a deserted house, a twisted corpse with no wounds, a mysterious phrase drawn in blood on the wall, and the buffoons of Scotland Yard--Lestrade and Gregson--Holmes measures, observes, picks up a pinch of this and a pinch of that, and generally baffles his faithful Watson. Later, Holmes explains: "In solving a problem of this sort, the grand thing is to be able to reason backward.... There are few people who, if you told them a result, would be able to evolve from their own inner consciousness what the steps were which led up to that result." Holmes is in that elite group.
Conan Doyle quickly learned that it was Holmes's deductions that were of most interest to his readers. The lengthy flashback, while a convention of popular fiction, simply distracted from readers' real focus. It is when Holmes and Watson gather before the coal fire and Holmes sums up the deductions that led him to the successful apprehension of the criminal that we are most captivated. Subsequent Holmes stories--The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, The Return of Sherlock Holmes, and The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes--rightly plunge the twosome directly into the middle of a baffling crime, piling mystery upon mystery until Holmes's denouement once more leaves the dazzled Watson murmuring, "You are wonderful, Holmes!" Generations of readers agree. --Barbara Schlieper
--Este texto se refere à uma edição alternativa kindle_editionResenha
"A perfect work of the American imagination."
-- "D. H. Lawrence" --Este texto se refere à uma edição alternativa kindle_editionContracapa
“[Holmes] is probably the only literary creation since the creations of Dickens which has really passed into the life and language of the people.”—G. K. Chesterton --Este texto se refere à uma edição alternativa kindle_edition
Sobre o Autor
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930) was born in Edinburgh and studied medicine. He began writing while he waited for his practice to grow and, with 1887's A Study in Scarlet, created one of the most famous literary characters of all time. He was a volunteer physician in the Boer War and wrote a book on spiritualism. Three more volumes of his fiction are forthcoming from Penguin Classics. --Este texto se refere à uma edição alternativa kindle_edition
Capa Interna
In the first of all the Sherlock Holmes stories, Dr. John Watson, discharged from military service after suffering severe wounds, is at a loose end until a chance encounter leads him to take rooms with a remarkable young man. The arrogant, irracible Sherlock Holmes is a master chemist, a talented musician and an expert on all aspects of crime. And when Watson is drawn into the investigation of a bizarre murder in which Holmes is involved, he is unaware that it is the beginning of the most famous partnership in the history of criminal detection.
Here is where it all began for England's super sleuth and his faithful sidekick--and fans of the intrepid inspector won't be disappointed by this exciting new dramatization. Produced by the world's foremost creators of radio entertainment and boasting a first-rate cast and stirring music and sound effects, this exclusive BBC production brings Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's eerie tale of murder and revenge to life. --Este texto se refere à uma edição alternativa kindle_edition
Here is where it all began for England's super sleuth and his faithful sidekick--and fans of the intrepid inspector won't be disappointed by this exciting new dramatization. Produced by the world's foremost creators of radio entertainment and boasting a first-rate cast and stirring music and sound effects, this exclusive BBC production brings Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's eerie tale of murder and revenge to life. --Este texto se refere à uma edição alternativa kindle_edition
Trecho. © Reimpressão autorizada. Todos os direitos reservados
CHAPTER I
Mr. Sherlock Holmes
In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan war had broken out. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my corps had advanced through the passes, and was already deep in the enemy’s country. I followed, however, with many other officers who were in the same situation as myself, and succeeded in reaching Candahar in safety, where I found my regiment, and at once entered upon my new duties.
The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed from my brigade and attached to the Berkshires,with whom I served at the fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I should have fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly, who threw me across a pack-horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to the British lines.
Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had undergone, I was removed, with a great train of wounded sufferers, to the base hospital at Peshawur. Here I rallied, and had already improved so far as to be able to walk about the wards, and even to bask a little upon the verandah, when I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse of our Indian possessions. For months my life was despaired of, and when at last I came to myself and became convalescent, I was so weak and emaciated that a medical board determined that not a day should be lost in sending me back to England. I was despatched, accordingly, in the troopship Orontes, and landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, with my health irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a paternal government to spend the next nine months in attempting to improve it.
I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as air—or as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day will permit a man to be. Under such circumstances I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless, meaningless existence, and spending such money as I had, considerably more freely than I ought. So alarming did the state of my finances become, that I soon realized that I must either leave the metropolis and rusticate somewhere in the country, or that I must make a complete alteration in my style of living. Choosing the latter alternative, I began by making up my mind to leave the hotel, and to take up my quarters in some less pretentious and less expensive domicile.
On the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was standing at the Criterion Bar, when some one tapped me on the shoulder, and turning round I recognized young Stamford, who had been a dresser under me at Barts. The sight of a friendly face in the great wilderness of London is a pleasant thing indeed to a lonely man. In old days Stamford had never been a particular crony of mine, but now I hailed him with enthusiasm, and he, in his turn, appeared to be delighted to see me. In the exuberance of my joy, I asked him to lunch with me at the Holborn, and we started off together in a hansom.
“Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?” he asked in undisguised wonder, as we rattled through the crowded London streets. “You are as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut.”
I gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and had hardly concluded it by the time that we reached our destination.
“Poor devil!” he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my misfortunes. “What are you up to now?”
“Looking for lodgings,” I answered. “Trying to solve the problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price.”
“That’s a strange thing,” remarked my companion, “you are the second man to-day that has used that expression to me.”
“And who was the first?” I asked.
“A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get some one to go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had found, and which were too much for his purse.”
“By Jove!” I cried; “if he really wants some one to share the rooms and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a partner to being alone.”
Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine glass. “You don’t know Sherlock Holmes yet,” he said; “perhaps you would not care for him as a constant companion.”
“Why, what is there against him?”
“Oh, I didn’t say there was anything against him. He is a little queer in his ideas—an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far as I know he is a decent fellow enough.”
“A medical student, I suppose?” said I.
“No—I have no idea what he intends to go in for. I believe he is well up in anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but, as far as I know, he has never taken out any systematic medical classes. His studies are very desultory and eccentric, but he has amassed a lot of out-of-the-way knowledge which would astonish his professors.”
“Did you never ask him what he was going in for?” I asked.
“No; he is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he can be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him.”
“I should like to meet him,” I said. “If I am to lodge with any one, I should prefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am not strong enough yet to stand much noise or excitement. I had enough of both in Afghanistan to last me for the remainder of my natural existence. How could I meet this friend of yours?”
“He is sure to be at the laboratory,” returned my companion. “He either avoids the place for weeks, or else he works there from morning till night. If you like, we will drive round together after luncheon.”
“Certainly,” I answered, and the conversation drifted away into other channels.
As we made our way to the hospital after leaving the Holborn, Stamford gave me a few more particulars about the gentleman whom I proposed to take as a fellow-lodger.
“You mustn’t blame me if you don’t get on with him,” he said; “I know nothing more of him than I have learned from meeting him occasionally in the laboratory. You proposed this arrangement, so you must not hold me responsible.”
“If we don’t get on it will be easy to part company,” I answered. “It seems to me, Stamford,” I added, looking hard at my companion, “that you have some reason for washing your hands of the matter. Is this fellow’s temper so formidable, or what is it? Don’t be mealy-mouthed about it.”
“It is not easy to express the inexpressible,” he answered with a laugh. “Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes—it approaches to cold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid,15 not out of malevolence, you understand, but simply out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an accurate idea of the effects. To do him justice, I think that he would take it himself with the same readiness. He appears to have a passion for definite and exact knowledge.”
“Very right too.”
“Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to beating the subjects in the dissecting-rooms with a stick, it is certainly taking rather a bizarre shape.”
“Beating the subjects!”
“Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw him at it with my own eyes.”
“And yet you say he is not a medical student?”
“No. Heaven knows what the objects of his studies are. But here we are, and you must form your own impressions about him.” As he spoke, we turned down a narrow lane and passed through a small side-door, which opened into a wing of the great hospital. It was familiar ground to me, and I needed no guiding as we ascended the bleak stone staircase and made our way down the long corridor with its vista of whitewashed wall and dun-coloured doors. Near the farther end a low arched passage branched away from it and led to the chemical laboratory.
This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles. Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts, test-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickering flames. There was only one student in the room, who was bending over a distant table absorbed in his work. At the sound of our steps he glanced round and sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure. “I’ve found it! I’ve found it,” he shouted to my companion, running towards us with a test-tube in his hand. “I have found a re-agent which is precipitated by hœmoglobin, and by nothing else.” Had he discovered a gold mine, greater delight could not have shone upon his features.
“Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Stamford, introducing us.
“How are you?” he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength for which I should hardly have given him credit. “You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.”
“How on earth did you know that?” I asked in astonishment.
“Never mind,” said he, chuckling to himself. “The question now is about hœmoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of this discovery of mine?”
“It is interesting, chemically, no doubt,” I answered, “but practically——”
“Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years. Don’t you see that it gives us an infallible test for blood stains. Come over here now!” He seized me by the coat-sleeve in his eagerness, and drew me over to the table at which he had been working. “Let us have some fresh blood,” he said, digging a long bodkin into his finger, and drawing off the resulting drop of blood in a chemical pipette. “Now, I add this small quantity of blood to a litre of water. You perceive that the resulting mixture has the appearance of pure water. The proportion of blood cannot be more than one in a million. I have no doubt, however, that we shall be able to obtain the characteristic reaction.” As he spoke, he threw into the vessel a few white crystals, and then added some drops of a transparent fluid. In an instant the contents assumed a dull mahogany colour, and a brownish dust was precipitated to the bottom of the glass jar.
“Ha! ha!” he cried, clapping his hands, and looking as delighted as a child with a new toy. “What do you think of that?”
“It seems to be a very delicate test,” I remarked.
“Beautiful! beautiful! The old guaiacum test was very clumsy and uncertain. So is the microscopic examination for blood corpuscles. The latter is valueless if the stains are a few hours old. Now, this appears to act as well whether the blood is old or new. Had this test been invented, there are hundreds of men now walking the earth who would long ago have paid the penalty of their crimes.”
“Indeed!” I murmured.
“Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one point. A man is suspected of a crime months perhaps after it has been committed. His linen or clothes are examined and brownish stains discovered upon them. Are they blood stains, or mud stains, or rust stains, or fruit stains, or what are they? That is a question which has puzzled many an expert, and why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have the Sherlock Holmes test, and there will no longer be any difficulty.”
His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over his heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his imagination.
“You are to be congratulated,” I remarked, considerably surprised at his enthusiasm.
“There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year. He would certainly have been hung had this test been in existence. Then there was Mason of Bradford, and the notorious Muller, and Lefevre of Montpellier, and Samson of New Orleans. I could name a score of cases in which it would have been decisive.”
“You seem to be a walking calendar of crime,” said Stamford with a laugh. “You might start a paper on those lines. Call it the ‘Police News of the Past.’ ”
“Very interesting reading it might be made, too,” remarked Sherlock Holmes, sticking a small piece of plaster over the prick on his finger. “I have to be careful,” he continued, turning to me with a smile, “for I dabble with poisons a good deal.” He held out his hand as he spoke, and I noticed that it was all mottled over with similar pieces of plaster, and discoloured with strong acids.
“We came here on business,” said Stamford, sitting down on a high three-legged stool, and pushing another one in my direction with his foot. “My friend here wants to take diggings; and as you were complaining that you could get no one to go halves with you, I thought that I had better bring you together.”
Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms with me. “I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street,” he said, “which would suit us down to the ground. You don’t mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?”
“I always smoke ‘ship’s’ myself,” I answered.
“That’s good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?”
“By no means.”
“Let me see—what are my other shortcomings. I get in the dumps at times, and don’t open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I’ll soon be right. What have you to confess now? It’s just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together.”
I laughed at this cross-examination. “I keep a bull pup,” I said, “and I object to row because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices when I’m well, but those are the principal ones at present.”
“Do you include violin playing in your category of rows?” he asked, anxiously.
“It depends on the player,” I answered. “A well-played violin is a treat for the gods—a badly-played one——”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he cried, with a merry laugh. “I think we may consider the thing as settled—that is, if the rooms are agreeable to you.”
“When shall we see them?”
“Call for me here at noon to-morrow, and we’ll go together and settle everything,” he answered.
“All right—noon exactly,” said I, shaking his hand.
We left him working among his chemicals, and we walked together towards my hotel.
“By the way,” I asked suddenly, stopping and turning upon Stamford, “how the deuce did he know that I had come from Afghanistan?”
My companion smiled an enigmatical smile. “That’s just his little peculiarity,” he said. “A good many people have wanted to know how he finds things out.”
“Oh! a mystery is it?” I cried, rubbing my hands. “This is very piquant. I am much obliged to you for bringing us together. ‘The proper study of mankind is man,’ you know.”
“You must study him, then,” Stamford said, as he bade me good-bye. “You’ll find him a knotty problem, though. I’ll wager he learns more about you than you about him. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” I answered, and strolled on to my hotel, considerably interested in my new acquaintance. --Este texto se refere à uma edição alternativa kindle_edition
Mr. Sherlock Holmes
In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan war had broken out. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my corps had advanced through the passes, and was already deep in the enemy’s country. I followed, however, with many other officers who were in the same situation as myself, and succeeded in reaching Candahar in safety, where I found my regiment, and at once entered upon my new duties.
The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed from my brigade and attached to the Berkshires,with whom I served at the fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I should have fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly, who threw me across a pack-horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to the British lines.
Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had undergone, I was removed, with a great train of wounded sufferers, to the base hospital at Peshawur. Here I rallied, and had already improved so far as to be able to walk about the wards, and even to bask a little upon the verandah, when I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse of our Indian possessions. For months my life was despaired of, and when at last I came to myself and became convalescent, I was so weak and emaciated that a medical board determined that not a day should be lost in sending me back to England. I was despatched, accordingly, in the troopship Orontes, and landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, with my health irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a paternal government to spend the next nine months in attempting to improve it.
I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as air—or as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day will permit a man to be. Under such circumstances I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless, meaningless existence, and spending such money as I had, considerably more freely than I ought. So alarming did the state of my finances become, that I soon realized that I must either leave the metropolis and rusticate somewhere in the country, or that I must make a complete alteration in my style of living. Choosing the latter alternative, I began by making up my mind to leave the hotel, and to take up my quarters in some less pretentious and less expensive domicile.
On the very day that I had come to this conclusion, I was standing at the Criterion Bar, when some one tapped me on the shoulder, and turning round I recognized young Stamford, who had been a dresser under me at Barts. The sight of a friendly face in the great wilderness of London is a pleasant thing indeed to a lonely man. In old days Stamford had never been a particular crony of mine, but now I hailed him with enthusiasm, and he, in his turn, appeared to be delighted to see me. In the exuberance of my joy, I asked him to lunch with me at the Holborn, and we started off together in a hansom.
“Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?” he asked in undisguised wonder, as we rattled through the crowded London streets. “You are as thin as a lath and as brown as a nut.”
I gave him a short sketch of my adventures, and had hardly concluded it by the time that we reached our destination.
“Poor devil!” he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my misfortunes. “What are you up to now?”
“Looking for lodgings,” I answered. “Trying to solve the problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price.”
“That’s a strange thing,” remarked my companion, “you are the second man to-day that has used that expression to me.”
“And who was the first?” I asked.
“A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get some one to go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had found, and which were too much for his purse.”
“By Jove!” I cried; “if he really wants some one to share the rooms and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer having a partner to being alone.”
Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wine glass. “You don’t know Sherlock Holmes yet,” he said; “perhaps you would not care for him as a constant companion.”
“Why, what is there against him?”
“Oh, I didn’t say there was anything against him. He is a little queer in his ideas—an enthusiast in some branches of science. As far as I know he is a decent fellow enough.”
“A medical student, I suppose?” said I.
“No—I have no idea what he intends to go in for. I believe he is well up in anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but, as far as I know, he has never taken out any systematic medical classes. His studies are very desultory and eccentric, but he has amassed a lot of out-of-the-way knowledge which would astonish his professors.”
“Did you never ask him what he was going in for?” I asked.
“No; he is not a man that it is easy to draw out, though he can be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him.”
“I should like to meet him,” I said. “If I am to lodge with any one, I should prefer a man of studious and quiet habits. I am not strong enough yet to stand much noise or excitement. I had enough of both in Afghanistan to last me for the remainder of my natural existence. How could I meet this friend of yours?”
“He is sure to be at the laboratory,” returned my companion. “He either avoids the place for weeks, or else he works there from morning till night. If you like, we will drive round together after luncheon.”
“Certainly,” I answered, and the conversation drifted away into other channels.
As we made our way to the hospital after leaving the Holborn, Stamford gave me a few more particulars about the gentleman whom I proposed to take as a fellow-lodger.
“You mustn’t blame me if you don’t get on with him,” he said; “I know nothing more of him than I have learned from meeting him occasionally in the laboratory. You proposed this arrangement, so you must not hold me responsible.”
“If we don’t get on it will be easy to part company,” I answered. “It seems to me, Stamford,” I added, looking hard at my companion, “that you have some reason for washing your hands of the matter. Is this fellow’s temper so formidable, or what is it? Don’t be mealy-mouthed about it.”
“It is not easy to express the inexpressible,” he answered with a laugh. “Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes—it approaches to cold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid,15 not out of malevolence, you understand, but simply out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an accurate idea of the effects. To do him justice, I think that he would take it himself with the same readiness. He appears to have a passion for definite and exact knowledge.”
“Very right too.”
“Yes, but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to beating the subjects in the dissecting-rooms with a stick, it is certainly taking rather a bizarre shape.”
“Beating the subjects!”
“Yes, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw him at it with my own eyes.”
“And yet you say he is not a medical student?”
“No. Heaven knows what the objects of his studies are. But here we are, and you must form your own impressions about him.” As he spoke, we turned down a narrow lane and passed through a small side-door, which opened into a wing of the great hospital. It was familiar ground to me, and I needed no guiding as we ascended the bleak stone staircase and made our way down the long corridor with its vista of whitewashed wall and dun-coloured doors. Near the farther end a low arched passage branched away from it and led to the chemical laboratory.
This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles. Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts, test-tubes, and little Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickering flames. There was only one student in the room, who was bending over a distant table absorbed in his work. At the sound of our steps he glanced round and sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure. “I’ve found it! I’ve found it,” he shouted to my companion, running towards us with a test-tube in his hand. “I have found a re-agent which is precipitated by hœmoglobin, and by nothing else.” Had he discovered a gold mine, greater delight could not have shone upon his features.
“Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Stamford, introducing us.
“How are you?” he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength for which I should hardly have given him credit. “You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.”
“How on earth did you know that?” I asked in astonishment.
“Never mind,” said he, chuckling to himself. “The question now is about hœmoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of this discovery of mine?”
“It is interesting, chemically, no doubt,” I answered, “but practically——”
“Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years. Don’t you see that it gives us an infallible test for blood stains. Come over here now!” He seized me by the coat-sleeve in his eagerness, and drew me over to the table at which he had been working. “Let us have some fresh blood,” he said, digging a long bodkin into his finger, and drawing off the resulting drop of blood in a chemical pipette. “Now, I add this small quantity of blood to a litre of water. You perceive that the resulting mixture has the appearance of pure water. The proportion of blood cannot be more than one in a million. I have no doubt, however, that we shall be able to obtain the characteristic reaction.” As he spoke, he threw into the vessel a few white crystals, and then added some drops of a transparent fluid. In an instant the contents assumed a dull mahogany colour, and a brownish dust was precipitated to the bottom of the glass jar.
“Ha! ha!” he cried, clapping his hands, and looking as delighted as a child with a new toy. “What do you think of that?”
“It seems to be a very delicate test,” I remarked.
“Beautiful! beautiful! The old guaiacum test was very clumsy and uncertain. So is the microscopic examination for blood corpuscles. The latter is valueless if the stains are a few hours old. Now, this appears to act as well whether the blood is old or new. Had this test been invented, there are hundreds of men now walking the earth who would long ago have paid the penalty of their crimes.”
“Indeed!” I murmured.
“Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one point. A man is suspected of a crime months perhaps after it has been committed. His linen or clothes are examined and brownish stains discovered upon them. Are they blood stains, or mud stains, or rust stains, or fruit stains, or what are they? That is a question which has puzzled many an expert, and why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have the Sherlock Holmes test, and there will no longer be any difficulty.”
His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he put his hand over his heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his imagination.
“You are to be congratulated,” I remarked, considerably surprised at his enthusiasm.
“There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year. He would certainly have been hung had this test been in existence. Then there was Mason of Bradford, and the notorious Muller, and Lefevre of Montpellier, and Samson of New Orleans. I could name a score of cases in which it would have been decisive.”
“You seem to be a walking calendar of crime,” said Stamford with a laugh. “You might start a paper on those lines. Call it the ‘Police News of the Past.’ ”
“Very interesting reading it might be made, too,” remarked Sherlock Holmes, sticking a small piece of plaster over the prick on his finger. “I have to be careful,” he continued, turning to me with a smile, “for I dabble with poisons a good deal.” He held out his hand as he spoke, and I noticed that it was all mottled over with similar pieces of plaster, and discoloured with strong acids.
“We came here on business,” said Stamford, sitting down on a high three-legged stool, and pushing another one in my direction with his foot. “My friend here wants to take diggings; and as you were complaining that you could get no one to go halves with you, I thought that I had better bring you together.”
Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms with me. “I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street,” he said, “which would suit us down to the ground. You don’t mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?”
“I always smoke ‘ship’s’ myself,” I answered.
“That’s good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?”
“By no means.”
“Let me see—what are my other shortcomings. I get in the dumps at times, and don’t open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I’ll soon be right. What have you to confess now? It’s just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together.”
I laughed at this cross-examination. “I keep a bull pup,” I said, “and I object to row because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices when I’m well, but those are the principal ones at present.”
“Do you include violin playing in your category of rows?” he asked, anxiously.
“It depends on the player,” I answered. “A well-played violin is a treat for the gods—a badly-played one——”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he cried, with a merry laugh. “I think we may consider the thing as settled—that is, if the rooms are agreeable to you.”
“When shall we see them?”
“Call for me here at noon to-morrow, and we’ll go together and settle everything,” he answered.
“All right—noon exactly,” said I, shaking his hand.
We left him working among his chemicals, and we walked together towards my hotel.
“By the way,” I asked suddenly, stopping and turning upon Stamford, “how the deuce did he know that I had come from Afghanistan?”
My companion smiled an enigmatical smile. “That’s just his little peculiarity,” he said. “A good many people have wanted to know how he finds things out.”
“Oh! a mystery is it?” I cried, rubbing my hands. “This is very piquant. I am much obliged to you for bringing us together. ‘The proper study of mankind is man,’ you know.”
“You must study him, then,” Stamford said, as he bade me good-bye. “You’ll find him a knotty problem, though. I’ll wager he learns more about you than you about him. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” I answered, and strolled on to my hotel, considerably interested in my new acquaintance. --Este texto se refere à uma edição alternativa kindle_edition
Mensagem do Autor
Jack Cashill is an independent writer and producer who has written for Fortune, Wall Street Journal, Washington Post, Weekly Standard. Cashill writes weekly for WND and has authored nine books of nonfiction under his own name, five of which have been featured on Book-TV, and collaborated quietly on six others. Cashill also has produced a score of documentaries for regional PBS and national cable channels. He holds a Ph.D. from Purdue.
--Este texto se refere à uma edição alternativa kindle_editionResenha Especializada
ALA 2016 Selection for the Young Adult Library Service's Great Graphic Novels for Teens List.
2016 Selection for Texas Library Association's Mavericks Graphic Novel Reading List. --Este texto se refere à uma edição alternativa kindle_edition
2016 Selection for Texas Library Association's Mavericks Graphic Novel Reading List. --Este texto se refere à uma edição alternativa kindle_edition
Descrição do Livro
Cambridge Literature is a series of literary texts edited for study by students aged 14–18 in English-speaking classrooms. It will include novels, poetry, short stories, essays, travel-writing and other non-fiction. --Este texto se refere à uma edição alternativa kindle_edition
Detalhes do produto
- ASIN : B0769Z85G1
- Editora : AmazonClassics (27 fevereiro 2018)
- Idioma : Inglês
- Tamanho do arquivo : 1110 KB
- Leitura de texto : Habilitado
- Leitor de tela : Compatível
- Configuração de fonte : Habilitado
- X-Ray : Habilitado
- Dicas de vocabulário : Habilitado
- Número de páginas : 175 páginas
- ISBN da fonte dos números de páginas : B095L9LVLS
- Ranking dos mais vendidos: #1,015 entre os mais baixados gratuitamente na Loja Kindle (Conheça o Top 100 na categoria Loja Kindle)
- Avaliações dos clientes:
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Principais avaliações do Brasil
Ocorreu um problema para filtrar as avaliações agora. Tente novamente mais tarde.
Avaliado no Brasil em 25 de novembro de 2019
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Aqui começa a atividade do detetive consultor da polícia londrina, objetivando descobrir motivos de um homicídio. Livro em duas partes, motivando a leitura até o final.
2 pessoas acharam isso útil
Útil
Avaliado no Brasil em 4 de maio de 2021
The beginning is always interesting.
It is a perfect option for the real book.
The history shows itself very captivating.
It is a perfect option for the real book.
The history shows itself very captivating.
Avaliado no Brasil em 30 de agosto de 2015
Read this book for the edx.org course! Great book, it is an inspiring introduction to a Holmes journey throughout literature! Looking forward to take the BerkeleyX course!
50 PRINCIPAIS AVALIADORES
Existem alguns livros que não precisam de resenhas. Todos do Sherlock Holmes são assim. Se você não quer ler, não precisa. Mas, se tem curiosidade, deve ler. Clássicos sempre valem a pena se você tem vontade, senão por serem bons, no mínimo para conhecer estes livros que sobreviveram a tantos anos e ainda são admirados.
É difícil ficar tão intrigado e surpreendido com as histórias do Sherlock Holmes, porque elas e sua ciência da dedução já foram tão recicladas que muita coisa é fácil de reconhecer de várias outras histórias diferentes e até das releituras sobre ele mesmo. Ainda assim, fiz questão de tentar imaginar como seria ler este livro como um primeiro contato com o detetive. E, com essa visão, tenho que admitir que ele é excelente!
Quero esquecer tudo que já vi e sei do Sherlock Holmes para continuar lendo suas histórias e me surpreender mais! Queria ter vivido na mesma época e ter sentido meu mundo despencar de emoção ao ler um livro desses!
Se você tem interesse, eu super recomendo, mas acho válido manter em mente que a propagação do Sherlock e de todos os detetives que foram inspirados nele desde então são um empecilho para você se surpreender. Pensa na história como a primeira desse estilo, e você vai ver como ela é genial!
É difícil ficar tão intrigado e surpreendido com as histórias do Sherlock Holmes, porque elas e sua ciência da dedução já foram tão recicladas que muita coisa é fácil de reconhecer de várias outras histórias diferentes e até das releituras sobre ele mesmo. Ainda assim, fiz questão de tentar imaginar como seria ler este livro como um primeiro contato com o detetive. E, com essa visão, tenho que admitir que ele é excelente!
Quero esquecer tudo que já vi e sei do Sherlock Holmes para continuar lendo suas histórias e me surpreender mais! Queria ter vivido na mesma época e ter sentido meu mundo despencar de emoção ao ler um livro desses!
Se você tem interesse, eu super recomendo, mas acho válido manter em mente que a propagação do Sherlock e de todos os detetives que foram inspirados nele desde então são um empecilho para você se surpreender. Pensa na história como a primeira desse estilo, e você vai ver como ela é genial!
3 pessoas acharam isso útil
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Principais avaliações de outros países
Tim
4,0 de 5 estrelas
The Detective Appears.
Avaliado no Reino Unido em 16 de julho de 2017
This is another one of those books that is hard to review as the main character has become so large that he has stepped of the written page and almost become real, is real to so many people. Reading this I had to try and shrink all the media back until all I had left was the written word before me, to try and imagine I was in a different world at a different time, and that no-one had ever heard the name of Sherlock Holmes.
The book is a slight one, but serves as a fitting introduction to a character who stands out almost immediately, and without overlooking things I found Watson to be an equally fascinating creation in his own right, although a much of what he says of himself is played down.
At the same time, the book itself becomes a snapshot of a different century, a London that has long gone but is still familiar in all the small ways.
The story itself sees an ‘unlucky’ Dr John Watson trying to find a place for himself after returning to England following injury and sickness has invalided him out of the army medical core. Finding accommodation in the capitol to be a little more than he can afford he is introduced by a mutual friend to another in the same situation, the slightly unusual Sherlock Holmes. Although Watson recognises there is a strangeness to Holmes he is attracted to the man’s observations and eccentricities and the two end up sharing rooms at 221B Baker Street.
Holmes, it would seem is a consulting detective, spending all his time learning bits and pieces from countless disciplines in order to make himself not just good, but one of the best in the field, something that combined with his mind make him excellent. He is aware of his genius, but does not feel the need to boast about it, more than happy to let others take credit for his work. It would seem as long as a few people, like Watson know and accept the truth then he is happy.
Even so, it seems as though he is getting bored of what he is doing, very rarely seeing the need to leave the house to investigate, but when he is presented with a more than interesting case and with a little cajoling from Watson he begins to investigate what becomes their first case together. The mystery is that of a dead body in an empty house, with no sign of violence, but a message written in blood on the wall in another room brings opens a mystery that seem almost impossible to solve…
It goes without saying that Holmes manages to solve it and in an entertaining style. Conan-Doyle is a great storyteller, keeping the reader enthralled and bringing them back again and again so that the pages seem to fly by! The world of which he is writing is modern to him, so there are some lovely touches that help open the world to another time for us.
The resolution to the story is satisfying, although it might be considered slightly annoying to watch Holmes start to work it out, but not reveal everything until he talks Watson through it at the end.
There is an unusual set up in that we get the murder and mystery, see it virtually resolved, then get thrown back in time to another continent as we are shown the events that led up to the murder, before having Holmes and Watson back to wrap it up. It is an interesting device to use, but it does come across a quite a break, snapping the reader out of the story and then back in again. I will not deny that the story as presented is interesting, but it seems an odd way of going about it.
The revelation itself is a good one. It shows that things are not as clear cut as they might have seemed and the sympathies of the reader (well this one) were not where I would have thought they would have been.
There is a little bit of a rather neat wrap up, but it did not detract from the story too much.
Most importantly you can see why Holmes and Watson were to become the iconic figures they deserved.
The book is a slight one, but serves as a fitting introduction to a character who stands out almost immediately, and without overlooking things I found Watson to be an equally fascinating creation in his own right, although a much of what he says of himself is played down.
At the same time, the book itself becomes a snapshot of a different century, a London that has long gone but is still familiar in all the small ways.
The story itself sees an ‘unlucky’ Dr John Watson trying to find a place for himself after returning to England following injury and sickness has invalided him out of the army medical core. Finding accommodation in the capitol to be a little more than he can afford he is introduced by a mutual friend to another in the same situation, the slightly unusual Sherlock Holmes. Although Watson recognises there is a strangeness to Holmes he is attracted to the man’s observations and eccentricities and the two end up sharing rooms at 221B Baker Street.
Holmes, it would seem is a consulting detective, spending all his time learning bits and pieces from countless disciplines in order to make himself not just good, but one of the best in the field, something that combined with his mind make him excellent. He is aware of his genius, but does not feel the need to boast about it, more than happy to let others take credit for his work. It would seem as long as a few people, like Watson know and accept the truth then he is happy.
Even so, it seems as though he is getting bored of what he is doing, very rarely seeing the need to leave the house to investigate, but when he is presented with a more than interesting case and with a little cajoling from Watson he begins to investigate what becomes their first case together. The mystery is that of a dead body in an empty house, with no sign of violence, but a message written in blood on the wall in another room brings opens a mystery that seem almost impossible to solve…
It goes without saying that Holmes manages to solve it and in an entertaining style. Conan-Doyle is a great storyteller, keeping the reader enthralled and bringing them back again and again so that the pages seem to fly by! The world of which he is writing is modern to him, so there are some lovely touches that help open the world to another time for us.
The resolution to the story is satisfying, although it might be considered slightly annoying to watch Holmes start to work it out, but not reveal everything until he talks Watson through it at the end.
There is an unusual set up in that we get the murder and mystery, see it virtually resolved, then get thrown back in time to another continent as we are shown the events that led up to the murder, before having Holmes and Watson back to wrap it up. It is an interesting device to use, but it does come across a quite a break, snapping the reader out of the story and then back in again. I will not deny that the story as presented is interesting, but it seems an odd way of going about it.
The revelation itself is a good one. It shows that things are not as clear cut as they might have seemed and the sympathies of the reader (well this one) were not where I would have thought they would have been.
There is a little bit of a rather neat wrap up, but it did not detract from the story too much.
Most importantly you can see why Holmes and Watson were to become the iconic figures they deserved.
Lauren
5,0 de 5 estrelas
Sir Conan Doyle has a talent for writing, as Holmes has a talent for solving cases!
Avaliado no Reino Unido em 17 de janeiro de 2022
“To a great mind, nothing is little,' remarked Holmes, sententiously.”
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson become acquaintances and living partners throughout this book. Part one covers a case bought to Holmes’ attention from the police, and Holmes solves it for them. Part two details exactly what happened to the man who ‘murdered’ the others, and how he was getting his revenge.
Honestly I’ve never actually read any of the Sherlock Holmes books, so it was good to actually read some of the literature behind the TV series, and I could see them acting it out on my head! Sir Conan Doyle has a talent for writing, as Holmes has a talent for solving cases!
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson become acquaintances and living partners throughout this book. Part one covers a case bought to Holmes’ attention from the police, and Holmes solves it for them. Part two details exactly what happened to the man who ‘murdered’ the others, and how he was getting his revenge.
Honestly I’ve never actually read any of the Sherlock Holmes books, so it was good to actually read some of the literature behind the TV series, and I could see them acting it out on my head! Sir Conan Doyle has a talent for writing, as Holmes has a talent for solving cases!
Lauren
Avaliado no Reino Unido em 17 de janeiro de 2022
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson become acquaintances and living partners throughout this book. Part one covers a case bought to Holmes’ attention from the police, and Holmes solves it for them. Part two details exactly what happened to the man who ‘murdered’ the others, and how he was getting his revenge.
Honestly I’ve never actually read any of the Sherlock Holmes books, so it was good to actually read some of the literature behind the TV series, and I could see them acting it out on my head! Sir Conan Doyle has a talent for writing, as Holmes has a talent for solving cases!
Imagens nesta avaliação
Trish23
3,0 de 5 estrelas
A Study in Scarlet
Avaliado no Reino Unido em 6 de fevereiro de 2017
I've always loved Sherlock Holmes on screen in practically every incarnation, from Basil Rathbone to Jeremy Brett and beyond. However I have never really enjoyed actually reading the stories and often choose to try to read one when I can't sleep and they tend to work like a charm for curing insomnia. I thought perhaps the problem was that I started with the short stories so I decided to begin at the beginning and read the novel where it all began, A Study In Scarlet.
The novel is in three parts and the first part - the best - covers the first meeting of Holmes and Watson and the first murder case they investigate together. This was gripping and quite exciting but just as the investigation reaches a climax the novel veers off into section two and to the back story of the murderer and his eventual victims. This part really dragged and is why I busted what initially seemed like a four star read down to a three star. The pace picks up again when the story returns to London for the denouement but the odd structure with the big dip in the middle really takes the wind out of it's sails.
I did enjoy reading this and intend to try The Sign of Four next.
The novel is in three parts and the first part - the best - covers the first meeting of Holmes and Watson and the first murder case they investigate together. This was gripping and quite exciting but just as the investigation reaches a climax the novel veers off into section two and to the back story of the murderer and his eventual victims. This part really dragged and is why I busted what initially seemed like a four star read down to a three star. The pace picks up again when the story returns to London for the denouement but the odd structure with the big dip in the middle really takes the wind out of it's sails.
I did enjoy reading this and intend to try The Sign of Four next.
M. Dowden
5,0 de 5 estrelas
Introducing Sherlock Holmes
Avaliado no Reino Unido em 31 de dezembro de 2015
Here we have the first appearance of Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, in this the first of only four novels as the rest of the tales were short stories. Nowadays everyone has heard of Holmes, but this was published with very little interest from the public. One reason for this may be that apart from ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’ the other novels have never proved as popular as the short tales. Another reason also is rather ironic as mention is made in this book of Lecoq a fictional French detective who was arguably the most famous detective in the world until Holmes eventually usurped him from his place, and the creator and author of him and other crime tales, Emile Gaboriau, in which the structure of this novel does bear some resemblance to its format.
Watson returns from Afghanistan suffering injuries after the Second Afghanistan War. Looking for somewhere to rent in London a former friend and colleague of his points him in the direction of a certain Sherlock Holmes who is looking for someone to share rooms with, thus creating that famous partnership that we are all aware of. It does take some time for Watson to realise what his flatmate does for a living, but he does soon pick up on his rather vain conceit.
With a mysterious murder committed Watson finds himself with Holmes investigating, whilst both Gregson and Lestrade from the Yard of course mess things up with false conclusions. Not as well written as stories that were to come later this still does make for an enjoyable read as we see Holmes in his element, solving crimes that seem to others to be impossible of solution. Also, for those who are coming to the Sherlock stories for the very first time this does show you how they came to be living and working together. In all then this is still very much an enjoyable read that should give you much pleasure.
Watson returns from Afghanistan suffering injuries after the Second Afghanistan War. Looking for somewhere to rent in London a former friend and colleague of his points him in the direction of a certain Sherlock Holmes who is looking for someone to share rooms with, thus creating that famous partnership that we are all aware of. It does take some time for Watson to realise what his flatmate does for a living, but he does soon pick up on his rather vain conceit.
With a mysterious murder committed Watson finds himself with Holmes investigating, whilst both Gregson and Lestrade from the Yard of course mess things up with false conclusions. Not as well written as stories that were to come later this still does make for an enjoyable read as we see Holmes in his element, solving crimes that seem to others to be impossible of solution. Also, for those who are coming to the Sherlock stories for the very first time this does show you how they came to be living and working together. In all then this is still very much an enjoyable read that should give you much pleasure.
German girl
4,0 de 5 estrelas
Exciting read
Avaliado no Reino Unido em 27 de janeiro de 2020
The book consists of 2 parts. The first part is the usual Sherlock Holmes read, but the second part is a revelation and really exciting to read. At first you think it might be a different story, but it all comes together at the end. I gave the book only 4 stars, as I bought it second-hand and the lower section of the pages were damp. It must have stood in a damp place.
