I CONFESS that I was considerably startled by this fresh proof of the
practical nature of my companion's theories. My respect for his powers of
analysis increased wondrously. There still remained some lurking suspicion in my
mind, however, that the whole thing was a pre-arranged episode, intended to
dazzle me, though what earthly object he could have in taking me in was past my
comprehension. When I looked at him he had finished reading the note, and his
eyes had assumed the vacant, lack-lustre expression which showed mental
abstraction.
"How in the world did you deduce that?" I asked.
"Deduce what?" said he, petulantly.
"Why, that he was a retired sergeant of Marines."
"I have no time for trifles," he answered, brusquely; then with a smile,
"Excuse my rudeness. You broke the thread of my thoughts; but perhaps it is as
well. So you actually were not able to see that that man was a sergeant of
Marines?"
"No, indeed."
"It was easier to know it than to explain why I knew it. If you were asked to
prove that two and two made four, you might find some difficulty, and yet you
are quite sure of the fact. Even across the street I could see a great blue
anchor tattooed on the back of the fellow's hand. That smacked of the sea. He
had a military carriage, however, and regulation side whiskers. There we have
the marine. He was a man with some amount of self-importance and a certain air
of command. You must have observed the way in which he held his head and swung
his cane. A steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the face of him -- all
facts which led me to believe that he had been a sergeant."
"Wonderful!" I ejaculated.
"Commonplace," said Holmes, though I thought from his expression that he was
pleased at my evident surprise and admiration. "I said just now that there were
no criminals. It appears that I am wrong -- look at this!" He threw me over the
note which the commissionaire had brought." {7}
"Why," I cried, as I cast my eye over it, "this is terrible!"
"It does seem to be a little out of the common," he remarked, calmly. "Would
you mind reading it to me aloud?"
This is the letter which I read to him ----
"MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES, -- "There has been a bad business during the
night at 3, Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a
light there about two in the morning, and as the house was an empty one,
suspected that something was amiss. He found the door open, and in the front
room, which is bare of furniture, discovered the body of a gentleman, well
dressed, and having cards in his pocket bearing the name of `Enoch J. Drebber,
Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A.' There had been no robbery, nor is there any evidence as
to how the man met his death. There are marks of blood in the room, but there is
no wound upon his person. We are at a loss as to how he came into the empty
house; indeed, the whole affair is a puzzler. If you can come round to the house
any time before twelve, you will find me there. I have left everything _in statu
quo_ until I hear from you. If you are unable to come I shall give you fuller
details, and would esteem it a great kindness if you would favour me with your
opinion. Yours faithfully, "TOBIAS GREGSON."
"Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders," my friend remarked; "he
and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick and energetic, but
conventional -- shockingly so. They have their knives into one another, too.
They are as jealous as a pair of professional beauties. There will be some fun
over this case if they are both put upon the scent."
I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled on. "Surely there is not a
moment to be lost," I cried, "shall I go and order you a cab?"
"I'm not sure about whether I shall go. I am the most incurably lazy devil
that ever stood in shoe leather -- that is, when the fit is on me, for I can be
spry enough at times."
"Why, it is just such a chance as you have been longing for."
"My dear fellow, what does it matter to me. Supposing I unravel the whole
matter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will pocket all the
credit. That comes of being an unofficial personage."
"But he begs you to help him."
"Yes. He knows that I am his superior, and acknowledges it to me; but he
would cut his tongue out before he would own it to any third person. However, we
may as well go and have a look. I shall work it out on my own hook. I may have a
laugh at them if I have nothing else. Come on!"
He hustled on his overcoat, and bustled about in a way that showed that an
energetic fit had superseded the apathetic one.
"Get your hat," he said.
"You wish me to come?"
"Yes, if you have nothing better to do." A minute later we were both in a
hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.
It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung over the
house-tops, looking like the reflection of the mud-coloured streets beneath. My
companion was in the best of spirits, and prattled away about Cremona fiddles,
and the difference between a Stradivarius and an Amati. As for myself, I was
silent, for the dull weather and the melancholy business upon which we were
engaged, depressed my spirits.
"You don't seem to give much thought to the matter in hand," I said at last,
interrupting Holmes' musical disquisition.
"No data yet," he answered. "It is a capital mistake to theorize before you
have all the evidence. It biases the judgment."
"You will have your data soon," I remarked, pointing with my finger; "this is
the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I am not very much mistaken."
"So it is. Stop, driver, stop!" We were still a hundred yards or so from it,
but he insisted upon our alighting, and we finished our journey upon foot.
Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look. It was one
of four which stood back some little way from the street, two being occupied and
two empty. The latter looked out with three tiers of vacant melancholy windows,
which were blank and dreary, save that here and there a "To Let" card had
developed like a cataract upon the bleared panes. A small garden sprinkled over
with a scattered eruption of sickly plants separated each of these houses from
the street, and was traversed by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and
consisting apparently of a mixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place was
very sloppy from the rain which had fallen through the night. The garden was
bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood rails upon the top, and
against this wall was leaning a stalwart police constable, surrounded by a small
knot of loafers, who craned their necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope
of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.
I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried into the house
and plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared to be further from his
intention. With an air of nonchalance which, under the circumstances, seemed to
me to border upon affectation, he lounged up and down the pavement, and gazed
vacantly at the ground, the sky, the opposite houses and the line of railings.
Having finished his scrutiny, he proceeded slowly down the path, or rather down
the fringe of grass which flanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the
ground. Twice he stopped, and once I saw him smile, and heard him utter an
exclamation of satisfaction. There were many marks of footsteps upon the wet
clayey soil, but since the police had been coming and going over it, I was
unable to see how my companion could hope to learn anything from it. Still I had
had such extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptive faculties,
that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal which was hidden from me.
At the door of the house we were met by a tall, white-faced, flaxen-haired
man, with a notebook in his hand, who rushed forward and wrung my companion's
hand with effusion. "It is indeed kind of you to come," he said, "I have had
everything left untouched."
"Except that!" my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. "If a herd of
buffaloes had passed along there could not be a greater mess. No doubt, however,
you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson, before you permitted this."
"I have had so much to do inside the house," the detective said evasively.
"My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon him to look after this."
Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically. "With two such men
as yourself and Lestrade upon the ground, there will not be much for a third
party to find out," he said.
Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. "I think we have done all
that can be done," he answered; "it's a queer case though, and I knew your taste
for such things."
"You did not come here in a cab?" asked Sherlock Holmes.
"No, sir."
"Nor Lestrade?"
"No, sir."
"Then let us go and look at the room." With which inconsequent remark he
strode on into the house, followed by Gregson, whose features expressed his
astonishment.
A short passage, bare planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and offices. Two
doors opened out of it to the left and to the right. One of these had obviously
been closed for many weeks. The other belonged to the dining-room, which was the
apartment in which the mysterious affair had occurred. Holmes walked in, and I
followed him with that subdued feeling at my heart which the presence of death
inspires.
It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the absence of all
furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the walls, but it was blotched in
places with mildew, and here and there great strips had become detached and hung
down, exposing the yellow plaster beneath. Opposite the door was a showy
fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of imitation white marble. On one corner
of this was stuck the stump of a red wax candle. The solitary window was so
dirty that the light was hazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge to
everything, which was intensified by the thick layer of dust which coated the
whole apartment.
All these details I observed afterwards. At present my attention was centred
upon the single grim motionless figure which lay stretched upon the boards, with
vacant sightless eyes staring up at the discoloured ceiling. It was that of a
man about forty-three or forty-four years of age, middle-sized, broad
shouldered, with crisp curling black hair, and a short stubbly beard. He was
dressed in a heavy broadcloth frock coat and waistcoat, with light-coloured
trousers, and immaculate collar and cuffs. A top hat, well brushed and trim, was
placed upon the floor beside him. His hands were clenched and his arms thrown
abroad, while his lower limbs were interlocked as though his death struggle had
been a grievous one. On his rigid face there stood an expression of horror, and
as it seemed to me, of hatred, such as I have never seen upon human features.
This malignant and terrible contortion, combined with the low forehead, blunt
nose, and prognathous jaw gave the dead man a singularly simious and ape-like
appearance, which was increased by his writhing, unnatural posture. I have seen
death in many forms, but never has it appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect
than in that dark grimy apartment, which looked out upon one of the main
arteries of suburban London.
Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the doorway, and
greeted my companion and myself.
"This case will make a stir, sir," he remarked. "It beats anything I have
seen, and I am no chicken."
"There is no clue?" said Gregson.
"None at all," chimed in Lestrade.
Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and, kneeling down, examined it
intently. "You are sure that there is no wound?" he asked, pointing to numerous
gouts and splashes of blood which lay all round.
"Positive!" cried both detectives.
"Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second individual -- {8} presumably
the murderer, if murder has been committed. It reminds me of the circumstances
attendant on the death of Van Jansen, in Utrecht, in the year '34. Do you
remember the case, Gregson?"
"No, sir."
"Read it up -- you really should. There is nothing new under the sun. It has
all been done before."
As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and everywhere,
feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his eyes wore the same far-away
expression which I have already remarked upon. So swiftly was the examination
made, that one would hardly have guessed the minuteness with which it was
conducted. Finally, he sniffed the dead man's lips, and then glanced at the
soles of his patent leather boots.
"He has not been moved at all?" he asked.
"No more than was necessary for the purposes of our examination."
"You can take him to the mortuary now," he said. "There is nothing more to be
learned."
Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call they entered the
room, and the stranger was lifted and carried out. As they raised him, a ring
tinkled down and rolled across the floor. Lestrade grabbed it up and stared at
it with mystified eyes.
"There's been a woman here," he cried. "It's a woman's wedding-ring."
He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his hand. We all gathered round
him and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that that circlet of plain gold had
once adorned the finger of a bride.
"This complicates matters," said Gregson. "Heaven knows, they were
complicated enough before."
"You're sure it doesn't simplify them?" observed Holmes. "There's nothing to
be learned by staring at it. What did you find in his pockets?"
"We have it all here," said Gregson, pointing to a litter of objects upon one
of the bottom steps of the stairs. "A gold watch, No. 97163, by Barraud, of
London. Gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid. Gold ring, with masonic device.
Gold pin -- bull-dog's head, with rubies as eyes. Russian leather card-case,
with cards of Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland, corresponding with the E. J. D.
upon the linen. No purse, but loose money to the extent of seven pounds
thirteen. Pocket edition of Boccaccio's `Decameron,' with name of Joseph
Stangerson upon the fly-leaf. Two letters -- one addressed to E. J. Drebber and
one to Joseph Stangerson."
"At what address?"
"American Exchange, Strand -- to be left till called for. They are both from
the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to the sailing of their boats from
Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate man was about to return to New
York."
"Have you made any inquiries as to this man, Stangerson?"
"I did it at once, sir," said Gregson. "I have had advertisements sent to all
the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to the American Exchange, but he has
not returned yet."
"Have you sent to Cleveland?"
"We telegraphed this morning."
"How did you word your inquiries?"
"We simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we should be glad of any
information which could help us."
"You did not ask for particulars on any point which appeared to you to be
crucial?"
"I asked about Stangerson."
"Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole case appears to
hinge? Will you not telegraph again?"
"I have said all I have to say," said Gregson, in an offended voice.
Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be about to make some
remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front room while we were holding this
conversation in the hall, reappeared upon the scene, rubbing his hands in a
pompous and self-satisfied manner.
"Mr. Gregson," he said, "I have just made a discovery of the highest
importance, and one which would have been overlooked had I not made a careful
examination of the walls."
The little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evidently in a state
of suppressed exultation at having scored a point against his colleague.
"Come here," he said, bustling back into the room, the atmosphere of which
felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly inmate. "Now, stand there!"
He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall.
"Look at that!" he said, triumphantly.
I have remarked that the paper had fallen away in parts. In this particular
corner of the room a large piece had peeled off, leaving a yellow square of
coarse plastering. Across this bare space there was scrawled in blood-red
letters a single word --
RACHE.
"What do you think of that?" cried the detective, with the air of a showman
exhibiting his show. "This was overlooked because it was in the darkest corner
of the room, and no one thought of looking there. The murderer has written it
with his or her own blood. See this smear where it has trickled down the wall!
That disposes of the idea of suicide anyhow. Why was that corner chosen to write
it on? I will tell you. See that candle on the mantelpiece. It was lit at the
time, and if it was lit this corner would be the brightest instead of the
darkest portion of the wall."
"And what does it mean now that you _have_ found it?" asked Gregson in a
depreciatory voice.
"Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going to put the female name Rachel,
but was disturbed before he or she had time to finish. You mark my words, when
this case comes to be cleared up you will find that a woman named Rachel has
something to do with it. It's all very well for you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes. You may be very smart and clever, but the old hound is the best, when
all is said and done."
"I really beg your pardon!" said my companion, who had ruffled the little
man's temper by bursting into an explosion of laughter. "You certainly have the
credit of being the first of us to find this out, and, as you say, it bears
every mark of having been written by the other participant in last night's
mystery. I have not had time to examine this room yet, but with your permission
I shall do so now."
As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifying glass
from his pocket. With these two implements he trotted noiselessly about the
room, sometimes stopping, occasionally kneeling, and once lying flat upon his
face. So engrossed was he with his occupation that he appeared to have forgotten
our presence, for he chattered away to himself under his breath the whole time,
keeping up a running fire of exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries
suggestive of encouragement and of hope. As I watched him I was irresistibly
reminded of a pure-blooded well-trained foxhound as it dashes backwards and
forwards through the covert, whining in its eagerness, until it comes across the
lost scent. For twenty minutes or more he continued his researches, measuring
with the most exact care the distance between marks which were entirely
invisible to me, and occasionally applying his tape to the walls in an equally
incomprehensible manner. In one place he gathered up very carefully a little
pile of grey dust from the floor, and packed it away in an envelope. Finally, he
examined with his glass the word upon the wall, going over every letter of it
with the most minute exactness. This done, he appeared to be satisfied, for he
replaced his tape and his glass in his pocket.
"They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains," he remarked
with a smile. "It's a very bad definition, but it does apply to detective work."
Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manoeuvres {9} of their amateur
companion with considerable curiosity and some contempt. They evidently failed
to appreciate the fact, which I had begun to realize, that Sherlock Holmes'
smallest actions were all directed towards some definite and practical end.
"What do you think of it, sir?" they both asked.
"It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I was to presume to
help you," remarked my friend. "You are doing so well now that it would be a
pity for anyone to interfere." There was a world of sarcasm in his voice as he
spoke. "If you will let me know how your investigations go," he continued, "I
shall be happy to give you any help I can. In the meantime I should like to
speak to the constable who found the body. Can you give me his name and
address?"
Lestrade glanced at his note-book. "John Rance," he said. "He is off duty
now. You will find him at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate."
Holmes took a note of the address.
"Come along, Doctor," he said; "we shall go and look him up. I'll tell you
one thing which may help you in the case," he continued, turning to the two
detectives. "There has been murder done, and the murderer was a man. He was more
than six feet high, was in the prime of life, had small feet for his height,
wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked a Trichinopoly cigar. He came here
with his victim in a four-wheeled cab, which was drawn by a horse with three old
shoes and one new one on his off fore leg. In all probability the murderer had a
florid face, and the finger-nails of his right hand were remarkably long. These
are only a few indications, but they may assist you."
Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous smile.
"If this man was murdered, how was it done?" asked the former.
"Poison," said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. "One other thing,
Lestrade," he added, turning round at the door: "`Rache,' is the German for
`revenge;' so don't lose your
time looking for Miss Rachel."
With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two rivals open-mouthed
behind him.
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