When I reflect on the last eight years and the seventy cases in which I have been involved, none seem as sinister or as strange as that of the speckled band. Of course I cannot take the credit for solving the mystery; that claim belongs to my friend and associate, the famous detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
It was during the early spring of 1883 when I awoke one morning to find Holmes standing over my bed in the apartment we shared at 221B Baker Street.
"Watson, we have a new client!" he announced. "She is downstairs and seems to be quite upset. Get dressed and join us—oh, and bring your notebook. This looks as if it may be our most interesting case yet."
"My dear fellow," I responded, "I would not miss it for anything." I quickly pulled on my trousers and buttoned up my shirt. In my haste I forgot to comb my hair, but I did remember to grab my favorite leather notebook. I hustled down the stairs to the sitting room. Standing close to the fireplace was a young woman of about thirty who appeared agitated. Her expression was tired and haggard, and a streak of gray ran through her hair.
"Thanks for joining us, Watson," Holmes said. "This is Lady Helen Stoner. She arrived by carriage this morning to seek our assistance with an unusual situation."
"Although I don’t even know for sure," Miss Stoner added quickly, "whether a crime has been committed."
"Well, if you would explain to Dr. Watson here what you have just told me, I believe we will all agree that there is, indeed, a mystery to be solved."
"Of course," she began, with a slight tremble in her voice. "I am the stepdaughter of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, the last surviving heir to one of the oldest Saxon families in England. My mother was a young widow when she met the doctor in India. He had a successful medical practice there. Dr. Roylott agreed to marry her in exchange for her monthly pension—you see, my father was highly ranked in the military and left us with a hefty sum upon his death."
At this Holmes gave a slight nod of understanding.
Taking notice, Miss Stoner cut in. "Let me correct any misunderstanding if one exists, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Roylott was kind and caring to both my twin sister, Julia, and me. We were only two years old at the time. We lived together happily for the next few years until an incident forced us to return to England."
"Would you explain this ‘incident,’ Miss Stoner?" said Holmes.
"My stepfather was a professional gentleman, but he did have a temper. When he discovered that one of our servants had been stealing food from the cupboards, he flew into a fit of rage and killed him on the spot. Fearing that he would be imprisoned, we fled the country and returned to his ancestral home near Waterloo."
"The mansion called Stoke Moran?" Holmes inquired.
"Yes, it has been in the family for generations. The mansion was not in good condition when we moved in, but we made it into a home. In fact, we were content for a long time until my mother died. She was killed in a railway accident eight years after our return."
"I imagine this had a profound effect on your family?" Holmes asked.
"It did," Miss Stoner responded, lowering her eyes to the floor. "Not only did we lose our mother, but upon her death, our kindhearted stepfather ceased to practice medicine and began to exhibit bizarre behavior. He locked himself in the house and rarely went out. When he did, he often ended up in heated arguments with the neighbors. It was terrible! He was even brought back to the house once by the police after he started a brawl in the nearby village. But that’s not all, Mr. Holmes. Since he no longer worked, Stoke Moran began to decay even more. Julia and I attempted to keep the house up, but it was no use. What’s worse, we could not keep any servants. They quit as soon as they saw the baboon and the cheetah—"
"Baboon and cheetah?" I interjected.
"Yes, my stepfather has a passion for exotic animals. He frequently imports them from India and allows them to run wild in the yard. It’s awful! But that’s not all. A few years ago, he invited Gypsies to live on our land. They have pitched their tents in the woods behind the house. The situation became so stressful that Julia’s hair was already turning white before she died."
"Your sister is dead then?" Holmes asked. I am always so impressed by Holmes’ sensitivity in these delicate matters.
Miss Stoner paused and put down the teacup she was holding. Then, after several moments, she said, "Julia died two years ago, and this is the mystery that I beg you to solve."
"Watson, are you writing all of this down?" Holmes motioned to my leather notebook. I nodded and gestured to Miss Stoner to continue her story.
"Julia was engaged to be married. She had informed us of her plans during a family dinner at Stoke Moran. Dr. Roylott was thrilled and insisted that the wedding be held in the local parish. But it was never to be. The night before the wedding, Julia came to my room just after midnight. ‘Helen,’ she said, ‘may I ask you a question?’ ‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘Do you hear whistling at night?’ she said. I had had no similar experience and told her so.
"She looked at me strangely and inquired, ‘Do you think it might be the Gypsies at the windows?’ ‘No,’ I responded. ‘If that were true, then I would hear it too.’ ‘Maybe it’s the baboon or the cheetah then?’ ‘I don’t think so,’ I answered. But I had no other explanation to offer."
Holmes leaned forward, a gesture I knew indicated that the young woman’s story was of great interest to him. "Please . . . ," he said, urging her on.
"After our talk Julia excused herself and then went to bed. I did the same, but I was quite concerned for her. After tossing and turning for over an hour, I finally fell into a deep sleep until I was startled awake by the sound of Julia screaming. I burst out of bed and ran down the corridor toward her room. I heard the whistling sound and a clang of metal as a shiver of terror ran through my body. When I arrived at her door, I found it unlocked—we usually keep them locked for fear that an animal may wander into the house at night. Inside, my poor sister lay writhing in pain on the floor. I rushed to her side and held her in my arms, but nothing I did would ease her horrible pain. Then she said something that I will never forget.
"She looked up into my eyes and, with considerable effort, gasped, ‘Oh my God, Helen! It was the speckled band!’ I sent for medical aid, but my dear sister was dead."