The Adventure of the Empty House

CEFR B1 Simplified Version

In the spring of 1894, people all over London were deeply shocked by a strange murder. The victim was Ronald Adair, a young man from a noble family. He was found dead in his room under very unusual circumstances. Newspapers reported many details from the police investigation, but some information was not shared with the public. This was because the evidence against the unknown murderer seemed strong enough without it. Now, almost ten years later, I am finally allowed to tell the whole story.

The murder itself was serious and mysterious, but what happened afterward affected me even more. It was the greatest shock of my life. Even now, when I think about it, I feel the same excitement and disbelief as I did then. I want readers to know that I did not hide the truth by choice. I was forbidden to speak until very recently, when that order was finally removed.

Because I had been a close friend of Sherlock Holmes, I had become very interested in criminal cases. After his disappearance, I carefully followed reports of crimes in the newspapers. Sometimes I tried to solve them myself using Holmes’s methods, but I was rarely successful. Still, no case captured my attention like the death of Ronald Adair.

When I read the official report of the inquest—an investigation held after a suspicious death—which concluded that Adair had been murdered by someone unknown, I clearly felt how much the world had lost when Holmes was believed to be dead. This case had many strange details that would have interested him greatly. I was sure that he would have understood it far better than the police. All day, as I went about my work, I turned the facts over in my mind, but I could find no explanation that satisfied me. I will now briefly explain the facts as they were known to the public at that time.

Ronald Adair was the second son of the Earl of Maynooth, a British nobleman who was serving as a governor in Australia. Adair’s mother had returned to England for eye surgery and was living with Ronald and his sister Hilda in a house on Park Lane, a wealthy area of London. Ronald lived a quiet and respectable life. He had no known enemies and no bad habits. He had once been engaged to a woman named Edith Woodley, but the engagement ended peacefully several months earlier and seemed to have little emotional effect on him. His life was calm and ordinary.

Despite this, Ronald Adair died in a strange and unexpected way between ten o’clock and eleven-twenty on the night of March 30, 1894.

Ronald enjoyed playing cards, but he never gambled large amounts of money. He belonged to several gentlemen’s clubs, places where upper-class men met to socialize and play games. On the day of his death, he had spent time at one of these clubs playing a card game called whist. Witnesses later reported that the game was fair and that he lost only a small amount of money. Ronald was wealthy, so such a loss meant nothing to him.

That evening, he returned home at exactly ten o’clock. His mother and sister were out visiting a relative. A servant later said that Ronald went into his sitting room on the second floor, where a fire had been lit earlier. Because the fire was smoking, the servant had opened the window. No sounds were heard from the room until eleven-twenty, when Lady Maynooth and her daughter returned home.

When they tried to enter Ronald’s room to say good night, they found the door locked from the inside. He did not answer their calls. The door was finally forced open, and Ronald Adair was found lying near the table. He had been shot in the head and was already dead. However, no weapon was found in the room.

Money was lying neatly arranged on the table, along with a sheet of paper that listed names and numbers. It appeared that Ronald had been calculating card winnings and losses before his death. There was no sign of robbery.

A careful examination of the room only made the mystery deeper. No one could explain why Ronald had locked the door from the inside. One theory was that the murderer had escaped through the open window. However, the window was high above the ground, and the flowers below showed no signs of disturbance. There were also no footprints outside.

No one had heard a gunshot, even though the street outside was busy and nearby cab drivers were usually present. Yet the bullet that killed Ronald had caused instant death. There was no clear motive, no missing valuables, and no obvious suspect.

All day long, I thought about these facts, trying to find a theory that could explain them. In the evening, I walked past the house on Park Lane where the murder had occurred. A small crowd had gathered, staring up at one of the windows. Among them was a tall man wearing dark glasses who appeared to be a detective explaining his ideas to the others. I listened briefly, but his explanation seemed foolish, so I walked away.

As I turned, I accidentally bumped into an elderly man with a bent back who was carrying several books. I helped him pick them up and noticed that they were unusual and scholarly titles. He seemed angry at first, then walked away without accepting my apology.

Later that evening, after I returned home, my servant told me that someone wished to see me. To my great surprise, it was the same old book collector. He apologized for his earlier rudeness and spoke in a strange voice. As he talked, he pointed out gaps in my bookshelf and suggested books to fill them.

When I turned to look at the shelf and then turned back again, Sherlock Holmes was standing in my room, smiling.

For several seconds I could not speak. The shock was too great. Everything went dark, and I fainted.

When I regained consciousness, Holmes was bending over me, holding a flask.

“My dear Watson,” he said, “I’m afraid my return was a little too dramatic.”

I grabbed his arms in disbelief.

“Holmes!” I cried. “You’re alive!”

“Yes,” he replied calmly. “Very much so.”

Holmes helped me into a chair and waited until I was fully myself again. I could not stop staring at him. It was impossible to believe that the man I had mourned for three years was now calmly standing in my study.

“I owe you an apology, Watson,” he said gently. “I had no idea my return would affect you so strongly.”

“I’m all right,” I replied. “But Holmes, I can hardly believe this. I saw you fall. The whole world believed you were dead.”

Holmes smiled slightly. “Sit down, my dear friend, and I will explain everything. But first, are you strong enough to listen?”

“I am,” I said firmly. “Tell me everything.”

Holmes sat opposite me and lit a cigarette, just as he had done so many times before. He looked thinner than I remembered, and his face was pale, but his sharp eyes and calm manner were unchanged.

“You will come with me later tonight,” he said. “There is important work to do. But first, I will tell you how I survived.”

“You never fell into the waterfall?” I asked.

“No,” Holmes replied. “I never did.”

He explained that at the Reichenbach Falls, he had realized that Professor Moriarty meant to kill him. Moriarty attacked him suddenly, hoping to drag him down with him. Holmes used a form of Japanese wrestling that he had learned earlier in his life. He managed to escape Moriarty’s grip, and Moriarty lost his balance and fell into the deep water below.

Holmes leaned forward as he spoke. “I watched him fall. There was no doubt that he was dead.”

“But the footprints?” I asked. “I saw them myself.”

Holmes explained that he had climbed up the rock face nearby and hidden on a narrow ledge. From there, he watched as I and others searched the area and sadly accepted the idea that he was dead. The climb had been dangerous, but it was the only way to escape without leaving evidence.

While he was hiding, something unexpected happened. A large rock suddenly fell from above and almost struck him. Holmes realized that Moriarty had not been alone. Another dangerous man had been watching from a distance and now believed Holmes was still alive. This man tried to kill him by throwing stones from above.

Holmes had no time to hesitate. He climbed down the cliff and ran for his life through the mountains. Within days, he had escaped Europe and disappeared completely.

“I decided then,” Holmes said, “that the world must believe I was dead.”

He explained that Moriarty had led a powerful group of criminals. Even after Moriarty’s death, several of them still wanted revenge. If they believed Holmes was alive, he would never be safe. But if they thought he was dead, they would relax and make mistakes.

“I told only one person the truth,” Holmes continued. “My brother Mycroft.”

Mycroft helped Holmes by providing money and protecting his belongings in Baker Street. Holmes avoided contacting me, even though it caused him great pain.

“I knew that if you believed I was alive, your feelings would betray the secret,” he said kindly. “Your grief convinced everyone.”

For the next three years, Holmes lived under false names and traveled widely. He spent time in remote places where no one would recognize him. He studied, observed, and waited.

“When most of my enemies had been caught or destroyed,” Holmes said, “I prepared to return to London.”

His return was made suddenly after he learned about the strange murder of Ronald Adair. The case interested him deeply, not only because of its mystery, but because it involved one of his most dangerous enemies.

“That man believed I was dead,” Holmes said. “But when he saw me return to Baker Street, he panicked. I knew he would try to kill me at once.”

Holmes explained that he had created a lifelike model of himself and placed it in the window of Baker Street. From across the street, it looked exactly like Holmes sitting quietly in his room. Mrs. Hudson helped move the figure from time to time so that it appeared alive.

“This false image was meant to attract my enemy,” Holmes said. “And it worked.”

That evening, Holmes asked me to join him for dinner and then for what he called “a little adventure.”

Later that night, we left together in a horse-drawn cab. Holmes was silent and serious. I could tell that he was thinking deeply.

“I believe we are being watched,” he said quietly.

He led me through narrow streets and quiet paths that I had never noticed before. At last, we entered an empty house directly across from Baker Street. From an upstairs room, we could clearly see the window where the false Holmes sat, lit by a bright lamp.

“This is the best place to observe,” Holmes whispered. “Now we wait.”

We stood silently in the dark room as people passed outside. Time moved slowly. The street gradually emptied, and the wind blew cold along the road.

Suddenly, Holmes stiffened.

“Someone is here,” he whispered.

A faint sound came from behind us inside the house. A door opened quietly. Footsteps crept along the hallway.

I felt my heart race as a dark figure entered the room. The man did not see us. He moved carefully toward the window and opened it slightly.

As the streetlight fell on his face, I saw that he was an older man with a fierce expression and a thick moustache. He held a strange weapon, unlike any gun I had ever seen.

The man aimed carefully at the figure in the Baker Street window.

There was a sharp sound, and glass shattered.

At that instant, Holmes leapt forward and knocked the man to the ground. The man fought wildly, but I struck him with my revolver, and together we held him until the police arrived.

Holmes blew a whistle, and moments later several officers rushed into the room.

“Good evening, Lestrade,” Holmes said calmly.

The man was arrested and taken away. Holmes turned to me with a quiet smile.

“The trap has worked,” he said.

When the police lights filled the room, I was finally able to look clearly at the man we had captured. He was strong and dangerous-looking, with hard blue eyes and a cruel expression. Even as he was held by two policemen, he stared at Holmes with hatred and disbelief.

“You clever devil,” he muttered again and again.

Holmes straightened his collar calmly. “Colonel Sebastian Moran,” he said. “We meet again.”

The name meant little to me at first, but Holmes explained it at once. Moran had once been an officer in the British army and was known as an excellent hunter and marksman. After leaving the army, he had become involved in serious crime and had worked closely with Professor Moriarty. He was the man who had tried to kill Holmes at the Reichenbach Falls by throwing stones from above.

The police officer Lestrade arrived and greeted Holmes with obvious respect.

“It’s good to see you back in London, Mr. Holmes,” he said.

Holmes smiled slightly. “I believe you now have enough reason to arrest this man.”

Lestrade nodded. “Attempted murder,” he said.

Holmes shook his head. “No, not that. The charge is murder.”

He then explained everything clearly. Colonel Moran had murdered Ronald Adair.

Holmes showed the police the strange weapon Moran had been using. It was a powerful air gun, silent but deadly. Such a weapon could fire a soft bullet without making the loud noise of a normal gun.

“This gun explains everything,” Holmes said. “The lack of sound, the locked room, and the bullet.”

The police listened carefully as Holmes continued.

Moran and Adair had played cards together at several clubs. Moran was known to cheat, though he was very careful. Holmes believed that Adair had discovered the cheating and had spoken to Moran privately. Adair likely demanded that Moran stop playing cards and leave the clubs quietly, without public shame.

“For Moran,” Holmes said, “this would have meant ruin. Cards were his main source of income.”

That night, Moran followed Adair home. From the street below, he used the air gun to shoot through the open window. The bullet struck Adair instantly. Because the gun was silent, no one heard the shot.

Inside the room, Adair had locked the door to avoid being disturbed while he calculated how much money he needed to return, since he did not want to benefit from cheating. This explained the coins and notes laid out on the table.

After the shot, Moran escaped easily. There was no sign of robbery, no noise, and no clear suspect.

Lestrade listened closely and finally nodded. “That explains everything,” he said. “We’ll take him.”

As Moran was led away, he struggled and glared at Holmes, but the policemen held him firmly.

Later that night, Holmes and I returned to Baker Street. The familiar rooms were exactly as they had been before. Mrs. Hudson greeted us warmly, and the wax figure that had fooled the criminals stood silently by the window, damaged by the bullet that had passed through its head.

Holmes examined the bullet and showed it to me. “A soft bullet,” he said. “No one would expect such a thing to be fired from an air gun. Very clever — but not clever enough.”

He changed into his old dressing gown and settled into his chair with a cigar. It felt as if the past three years had never happened.

Holmes then showed me a book that contained short biographies of famous criminals. One entry was marked in his handwriting:

Colonel Sebastian Moran — the second most dangerous man in London.

I was amazed. “He seemed like a respectable soldier,” I said.

Holmes nodded. “Some men begin well and then take a dark turn. Intelligence and courage can be used for good or evil.”

He explained that as long as Moran was free, Holmes himself had never been safe. The murder of Ronald Adair had finally given Holmes the chance to trap him legally.

“Now,” Holmes said quietly, “the danger is past.”

I asked if anything was still uncertain.

“Only one thing,” Holmes replied. “Motive is always partly guesswork. But the evidence will speak clearly at the trial.”

He leaned back and smiled slightly. “London will continue to provide interesting problems, Watson. And I am once again free to solve them.”

As I sat beside him in the familiar room, I felt that life had returned to its proper order. Sherlock Holmes was alive, justice had been done, and the strange mystery of the empty house was finally explained.