.jpg "The Adventure of the Blackmailer")
It has been years since the events I’m about to recount, and I still hesitate to share them. For a long time, discretion prevented me from making these facts public, but now, with the principal figure beyond the reach of justice, I can tell the tale with care to harm no one. This story marks a singular chapter in the careers of Sherlock Holmes and myself, Dr. John Watson. I must obscure certain details—dates and specifics—that might pinpoint the incident, for the sake of those still living.
It was a bitter winter evening in 1890s London when Holmes and I returned from one of our evening strolls through the fog-draped streets. The clock struck six as we entered our Baker Street lodgings, the chill still clinging to our coats. As Holmes lit the gas lamp, its glow revealed a calling card on the table. He snatched it, glanced at it, and with a grunt of disdain, flung it to the floor. I retrieved it and read:
Charles Augustus Milverton
Appledore Towers, Hampstead
Agent
“Who’s this?” I asked, curious.
Holmes settled into his armchair by the fire, stretching his legs. “The vilest man in London,” he replied, his voice sharp with contempt. “Check the back of the card.”
I flipped it over: “Will call at 6:30 – C.A.M.”
“Humph! He’s due any moment,” Holmes said. “Ever feel a shiver, Watson, standing before the snake pit at the zoo, watching those slithering, venomous creatures with their cold eyes and flattened faces? That’s Milverton to me. I’ve faced murderers—fifty, at least—but none repulse me like he does. Yet, I’m forced to deal with him. He’s here at my invitation.”
“Who is he?” I pressed, unsettled by Holmes’s intensity.
“He’s the king of blackmailers,” Holmes said, his eyes narrowing. “God help anyone—especially a woman—whose secrets fall into his hands. With a smile like a mask and a heart of stone, he’ll bleed them dry. He’s a genius, in his twisted way, and could’ve thrived in an honest trade. His method is simple: he lets it be known he’ll pay handsomely for compromising letters, sourced not just from disloyal servants but from charming rogues who prey on trusting hearts. He’s no miser—once paid seven hundred pounds for a two-line note, ruining a noble family. Every scandal in London finds its way to Milverton. He’s too rich, too cunning to act impulsively. He’ll hold a secret for years, playing it when the stakes are highest. I call him the worst man in London—how can you compare a hot-blooded thug to a man who methodically tortures souls for profit?”
I’d rarely seen Holmes so impassioned. “But surely the law can touch him?” I asked.
“Technically, yes,” he replied, “but in practice, no. What woman would risk her ruin for a few months’ jail time for him? His victims can’t fight back. If he ever targeted an innocent, we’d have him—but he’s as sly as the devil. We need another way.”
“Why’s he coming here?” I asked.
Holmes leaned forward, his voice low. “An illustrious client, Lady Eva Blackwell, has entrusted me with her plight. She’s the season’s brightest debutante, set to marry the Earl of Dovercourt in two weeks. Milverton holds several letters she wrote—foolish, not wicked—to a penniless squire in her youth. They could derail her marriage. He’ll send them to the Earl unless she pays an exorbitant sum. I’m to meet him and negotiate what terms I can.”
At that moment, hooves clattered outside. Through the window, I saw a grand carriage with gleaming lamps, drawn by two chestnut horses. A footman opened the door, and a short, stout man in a fur-lined overcoat stepped out. Moments later, he entered our room.
Charles Augustus Milverton was about fifty, with a broad, intellectual forehead, a round, clean-shaven face, and a fixed smile that never reached his piercing grey eyes, which glinted behind gold-rimmed glasses. His appearance suggested a jovial benevolence, like a kindly uncle, but the hard glint in his gaze betrayed his cruelty. His voice was smooth as silk as he extended a plump hand, apologizing for missing us earlier. Holmes ignored the gesture, his face like stone. Milverton’s smile widened; he shrugged, draped his coat over a chair, and sat.
“This gentleman?” he said, nodding toward me. “Is it wise to have him here?”
“Dr. Watson is my confidant,” Holmes replied coldly.
“Very well,” Milverton said, unruffled. “You represent Lady Eva. Is she prepared to meet my terms?”
“What are they?” Holmes asked.
“Seven thousand pounds,” Milverton said, his smile smug.
“And if she refuses?”
“Then, on the 14th, there’ll be no wedding on the 18th,” he replied, his tone dripping with satisfaction.
Holmes paused, then said, “You assume too much. I know the letters’ contents. I’ll advise Lady Eva to confess to her fiancé and trust his understanding.”
Milverton chuckled. “You don’t know the Earl. Those letters are lively—charming, even—but he’d never forgive them. If you think otherwise, let him have them. It’s business. Paying seven thousand is foolish if you believe her fiancé will overlook it.” He stood, reaching for his coat.
Holmes, pale with fury, said, “Wait. We’ll do all we can to avoid scandal.”
“I knew you’d see reason,” Milverton purred, settling back.
“But,” Holmes continued, “Lady Eva isn’t wealthy. Two thousand pounds is her limit. I urge you to accept it—it’s the most you’ll get.”
Milverton’s eyes twinkled mockingly. “I know her finances. But a wedding is the perfect time for friends to rally. These letters would be a finer gift than any silverware. Refusing such a sum is a pity.” He pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Look here—this note belongs to a lady whose name I’ll reveal tomorrow. Her husband will get it because she wouldn’t part with a pittance. Or take the case of Miss Miles and Colonel Dorking—canceled two days before their wedding for want of twelve hundred pounds. And you, a man of sense, haggle when your client’s honor is at stake?”
“The money isn’t there,” Holmes insisted. “Take the two thousand—it’s better than ruining her for no gain.”
“You’re wrong,” Milverton said. “Her ruin strengthens my hand with others. I have ten similar cases. If word spreads I crushed Lady Eva, they’ll pay faster. You see?”
Holmes leapt up. “Behind him, Watson! Don’t let him leave! Show us that notebook.”
Milverton darted to the wall, pulling a revolver from his coat. “I expected better from you, Holmes. This trick’s been tried before—useless. I’m armed, and the law’s on my side. The letters aren’t here anyway—I’m not that foolish. I have appointments tonight; it’s a long drive to Hampstead.” He grabbed his coat, hand on his revolver, and left with a mocking bow. I raised a chair, but Holmes signaled me to stop. The carriage rattled away.
Holmes sat by the fire, hands in pockets, staring at the embers for half an hour, lost in thought. Then, with sudden resolve, he stood and went to his room. He emerged as a scruffy young workman, complete with a goatee and a clay pipe. “I’ll be back, Watson,” he said, vanishing into the night. I knew he’d begun his war against Milverton, but I couldn’t fathom its strange course.
For days, Holmes came and went in disguise, saying only that he was in Hampstead and his time wasn’t wasted. One stormy evening, as wind howled outside, he returned, shed his disguise, and laughed quietly. “You wouldn’t peg me for a marrying man, Watson?”
“Hardly!” I said, startled.
“I’m engaged—to Milverton’s housemaid.”
“Good Lord, Holmes!”
“I needed information,” he said. “I’m Escott, a plumber with a growing trade. I’ve courted her each evening, and her chatter’s been gold. I know Milverton’s house like my own hand.”
“But the girl?” I asked, uneasy.
He shrugged. “You play the hand you’re dealt, Watson. A rival will swoop in soon enough. Splendid night, isn’t it?”
“You like this storm?”
“It suits me. I’m burgling Milverton’s house tonight.”
My breath caught, my skin chilled. The risks—arrest, disgrace, the end of Holmes’s career—flashed before me. “Holmes, think this through!” I urged.
“I have,” he said firmly. “I’m not rash. This is the only way. It’s morally right, though legally a crime. Burgling his house is like taking his notebook by force—you were ready for that.”
I considered it. “Yes, it’s justifiable if we take only what he uses for blackmail.”
“Exactly,” Holmes said. “The risk is mine. A lady needs help, and I won’t let her down.”
“You’ll be compromised,” I warned.
“That’s the price. Lady Eva has no money or confidants. Tomorrow’s her last chance, or Milverton will ruin her. It’s a duel, Watson—he bested me today, but my honor demands I fight on.”
“I don’t like it, but if it’s the only way—when do we go?” I asked.
“You’re not coming,” he said.
“Then you’re not going,” I shot back. “I swear, Holmes, I’ll go straight to the police unless you let me join you.”
He relented, clapping my shoulder. “Fine, Watson. We’ve shared rooms for years—might as well share a cell. I’ve always fancied myself a fine criminal. Look here!” He opened a leather case, revealing a gleaming set of burglary tools—jemmy, glass-cutter, skeleton keys. “Top-notch kit,” he said. “I’ve got a dark lantern. Got silent shoes?”
“Rubber-soled trainers,” I replied.
“Good. Masks?”
“I’ll make some from black silk.”
“You’ve a knack for this,” he said. “Make the masks. We’ll eat a cold supper and leave at eleven. We’ll drive to Church Row, then walk to Appledore Towers. We’ll be at work by midnight. Milverton sleeps heavily and retires at ten-thirty. With luck, we’ll be back by two with Lady Eva’s letters.”
We dressed as theatergoers, buttoned our coats against the cold, and took a hansom to Hampstead. Near the Heath, we paid the driver and walked, the wind biting through us. “This needs finesse,” Holmes whispered. “The letters are in a safe in his study, next to his bedroom. He’s a heavy sleeper, but his secretary never leaves the study by day, and a guard dog roams the garden. My ‘fiancée,’ Agatha, locks the dog up for me. There’s the house—big, isolated. Through the gate, right into the laurels. Masks on now—no lights in the windows; we’re clear.”
Masked, we crept to the silent house. A tiled veranda ran along one side, with windows and doors. “That’s his bedroom,” Holmes whispered. “This door leads to the study, but it’s bolted. Let’s try the greenhouse to the drawing room.” It was locked, but Holmes cut a glass pane, reached in, and turned the key. Inside, the warm, fragrant air of the conservatory hit us. Holmes led me through shrubs, opened a door to a cigar-scented room, then another to a passage with hanging coats. He eased open a study door, and a cat darted out, startling me. A fire burned in the study, heavy with tobacco smoke. A curtained bay window stood to one side, a veranda door to the other, a red leather chair at a desk, and a bookcase topped with a marble bust. In the corner gleamed a green safe.
Holmes checked the bedroom door—no sound. I noticed the veranda door was unbolted, to my surprise. “I don’t like it,” Holmes whispered. “No time to waste. Guard the door. If anyone comes, bolt it, and we escape as we came. If they come from the bedroom, we finish or hide behind the curtains.”
I nodded, fear giving way to thrill. The mission’s nobility—saving Lady Eva from a villain—fueled my resolve. I watched Holmes work the safe with surgical precision, his tools glinting in the firelight. After thirty minutes, a click sounded, and the safe opened, revealing sealed packets. Holmes took one, but reading by firelight was tricky. He used his dark lantern, avoiding the electric switch near Milverton’s room. Suddenly, he froze, listening, then shut the safe, grabbed his coat, and dove behind the curtain, pulling me with him.
Footsteps approached. A door slammed, and heavy steps echoed in the passage. The study door opened, the light snapped on, and cigar smoke stung my nose. The door closed, and pacing began nearby. A chair creaked, a key turned, and papers rustled. Peering through the curtain, I saw Milverton’s broad back, cigar in mouth, reading a legal document in a claret-colored jacket. He hadn’t gone to bed but had been in another wing. The safe’s door wasn’t fully closed—a risk he might notice. I resolved to act if he saw it, but he didn’t look up, engrossed in his papers.
Milverton checked his watch, impatient. Then, a faint sound came from the veranda, followed by a tap. He opened the door, saying, “You’re half an hour late.” A woman in a veil and cloak entered, her breath quick with emotion.
“You’ve cost me my sleep,” Milverton said. “I hope it’s worth it. Couldn’t come earlier?”
She shook her head.
“Well, if the Countess is harsh, here’s your chance to settle scores. Pull yourself together! You have five letters compromising her. I’ll buy them. Name your price.”
Without a word, the woman lifted her veil, revealing a striking face—curved nose, dark brows, glittering eyes, and a dangerous smile. “It’s me,” she said, “the woman whose life you ruined.”
Milverton laughed, but fear shook his voice. “You were stubborn. I gave you a fair price—you refused. I had no choice but to send the letters to your husband, the noblest man I ever knew. He died of a broken heart. That night I begged for mercy, you laughed. Now I’m here, alone. What do you say?”
“You can’t intimidate me,” Milverton said, standing. “One shout, and my servants will have you arrested. But I’ll indulge your anger. Leave now, and I’ll forget this.”
She stood, hand in her cloak, smiling coldly. “You’ll ruin no more lives. Take this, you monster!” She drew a revolver and fired repeatedly into his chest. He staggered, clawed at papers, took another shot, and collapsed, gasping, “You’ve done me.” She ground her heel into his face, checked again, and fled as the night air rushed in.
I moved to intervene, but Holmes gripped my wrist, his hold conveying justice had prevailed. As she vanished, he locked the bedroom door. Voices and footsteps erupted— the shots had roused the house. Holmes dashed to the safe, grabbed armfuls of letters, and burned them in the fire, emptying the safe. Someone rattled the door. Holmes tossed Milverton’s bloodied note into the flames, locked the veranda door, and we fled. Scaling the garden wall, I felt a hand grab my ankle but kicked free, landing among bushes. Holmes pulled me up, and we ran across Hampstead Heath, pursued by shouts. After two miles, silence fell—we’d escaped.
The next morning, as we smoked our pipes after breakfast, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard arrived. “A murder at Appledore Towers last night,” he said. “Dramatic case. Milverton was a villain—blackmailed with papers, all burned by the killers. No valuables taken, likely men of status avoiding exposure.”
“Killers, plural?” Holmes asked.
“Two,” Lestrade said. “Nearly caught them. We have footprints, descriptions—a strong man, square jaw, masked. Could almost be Watson!”
Holmes smiled faintly. “Too vague, Lestrade. I knew Milverton—a dangerous man. Some crimes the law can’t touch, justifying private justice. My sympathies lie with the culprits. I won’t take the case.”
Lestrade left, disappointed. Holmes said nothing of the night, but during lunch, he sprang up. “I’ve got it, Watson! Grab your hat!” We raced to Regent Circus, where he stared at a shop window displaying photographs of notable figures. His eyes fixed on a regal woman in court dress, her diamond tiara gleaming. I recognized her noble features and read the name of her late husband, a great statesman. Our eyes met; Holmes pressed a finger to his lips, and we turned away.
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