A Study in Scarlet

by Arthur Conan Doyle

  CHAPTER III. THE LAURISTON GARDEN MYSTERY [6]

  I CONFESS that I was considerably startled by this fresh proof of thepractical nature of my companion's theories. My respect for his powersof analysis increased wondrously. There still remained some lurkingsuspicion in my mind, however, that the whole thing was a pre-arrangedepisode, intended to dazzle me, though what earthly object he could havein taking me in was past my comprehension. When I looked at him hehad 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 perhapsit is as well. So you actually were not able to see that that man was asergeant of Marines?"

  "No, indeed."

  "It was easier to know it than to explain why I knew it. If youwere asked to prove that two and two made four, you might find somedifficulty, and yet you are quite sure of the fact. Even across thestreet I could see a great blue anchor tattooed on the back of thefellow's hand. That smacked of the sea. He had a military carriage,however, and regulation side whiskers. There we have the marine. He wasa 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 swunghis cane. A steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the face ofhim--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 hewas pleased at my evident surprise and admiration. "I said just now thatthere were no criminals. It appears that I am wrong--look at this!" Hethrew 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 inthe morning, and as the house was an empty one, suspected that somethingwas amiss. He found the door open, and in the front room, which is bareof furniture, discovered the body of a gentleman, well dressed, andhaving cards in his pocket bearing the name of 'Enoch J. Drebber,Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A.' There had been no robbery, nor is there anyevidence as to how the man met his death. There are marks of blood inthe room, but there is no wound upon his person. We are at a loss as tohow 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 findme 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 wouldesteem 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 andenergetic, but conventional--shockingly so. They have their knivesinto one another, too. They are as jealous as a pair of professionalbeauties. There will be some fun over this case if they are both putupon the scent."

  I was amazed at the calm way in which he rippled on. "Surely there isnot 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 lazydevil 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 thewhole matter, you may be sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. willpocket 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; buthe 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 myown 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 thatan 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 ina hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.

  It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung over thehouse-tops, looking like the reflection of the mud-coloured streetsbeneath. My companion was in the best of spirits, and prattled awayabout Cremona fiddles, and the difference between a Stradivarius andan Amati. As for myself, I was silent, for the dull weather and themelancholy business upon which we were engaged, depressed my spirits.

  "You don't seem to give much thought to the matter in hand," I said atlast, interrupting Holmes' musical disquisition.

  "No data yet," he answered. "It is a capital mistake to theorize beforeyou 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 muchmistaken."

  "So it is. Stop, driver, stop!" We were still a hundred yards or so fromit, but he insisted upon our alighting, and we finished our journey uponfoot.

  Number 3, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look. It wasone of four which stood back some little way from the street, two beingoccupied and two empty. The latter looked out with three tiers of vacantmelancholy windows, which were blank and dreary, save that here andthere a "To Let" card had developed like a cataract upon the blearedpanes. A small garden sprinkled over with a scattered eruption of sicklyplants separated each of these houses from the street, and was traversedby a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and consisting apparently of amixture of clay and of gravel. The whole place was very sloppy from therain which had fallen through the night. The garden was bounded by athree-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood rails upon the top, andagainst this wall was leaning a stalwart police constable, surrounded bya small knot of loafers, who craned their necks and strained their eyesin the vain hope of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.

  I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried into thehouse and plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared to befurther from his intention. With an air of nonchalance which, under thecircumstances, seemed to me to border upon affectation, he lounged upand down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, theopposite houses and the line of railings. Having finished his scrutiny,he proceeded slowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grasswhich flanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the ground. Twicehe stopped, and once I saw him smile, and heard him utter an exclamationof satisfaction. There were many marks of footsteps upon the wet clayeysoil, but since the police had been coming and going over it, I wasunable to see how my companion could hope to learn anything from it.Still I had had such extraordinary evidence of the quickness of hisperceptive faculties, that I had no doubt that he could see a great dealwhich 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 andwrung my companion's hand with effusion. "It is indeed kind of you tocome," he said, "I have had everything left untouched."

  "Except that!" my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. "If a herdof buffaloes had passed along there could not be a greater mess. Nodoubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson, before youpermitted this."

  "I have had so much to do inside the house," the detective saidevasively. "My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon himto l
ook after this."

  Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically. "With twosuch men as yourself and Lestrade upon the ground, there will not bemuch for a third party to find out," he said.

  Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. "I think we have doneall that can be done," he answered; "it's a queer case though, and Iknew 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 hestrode on into the house, followed by Gregson, whose features expressedhis 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 thesehad obviously been closed for many weeks. The other belonged to thedining-room, which was the apartment in which the mysterious affair hadoccurred. Holmes walked in, and I followed him with that subdued feelingat my heart which the presence of death inspires.

  It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the absenceof all furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the walls, but it wasblotched in places with mildew, and here and there great strips hadbecome detached and hung down, exposing the yellow plaster beneath.Opposite the door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece ofimitation white marble. On one corner of this was stuck the stump of ared wax candle. The solitary window was so dirty that the light washazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge to everything, which wasintensified by the thick layer of dust which coated the whole apartment.

  All these details I observed afterwards. At present my attention wascentred upon the single grim motionless figure which lay stretched uponthe boards, with vacant sightless eyes staring up at the discolouredceiling. It was that of a man about forty-three or forty-four years ofage, middle-sized, broad shouldered, with crisp curling black hair, anda short stubbly beard. He was dressed in a heavy broadcloth frock coatand waistcoat, with light-coloured trousers, and immaculate collarand cuffs. A top hat, well brushed and trim, was placed upon the floorbeside him. His hands were clenched and his arms thrown abroad, whilehis lower limbs were interlocked as though his death struggle had been agrievous 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 humanfeatures. This malignant and terrible contortion, combined with the lowforehead, blunt nose, and prognathous jaw gave the dead man a singularlysimious and ape-like appearance, which was increased by his writhing,unnatural posture. I have seen death in many forms, but never hasit appeared to me in a more fearsome aspect than in that dark grimyapartment, which looked out upon one of the main arteries of suburbanLondon.

  Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, was standing by the doorway, andgreeted my companion and myself.

  "This case will make a stir, sir," he remarked. "It beats anything Ihave 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 itintently. "You are sure that there is no wound?" he asked, pointing tonumerous 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 ofthe circumstances attendant on the death of Van Jansen, in Utrecht, inthe year '34. Do you remember the case, Gregson?"

  "No, sir."

  "Read it up--you really should. There is nothing new under the sun. Ithas 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 samefar-away expression which I have already remarked upon. So swiftly wasthe examination made, that one would hardly have guessed the minutenesswith 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 moreto be learned."

  Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call they enteredthe room, and the stranger was lifted and carried out. As they raisedhim, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor. Lestrade grabbedit 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 gatheredround him and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that that circlet ofplain gold had once adorned the finger of a bride.

  "This complicates matters," said Gregson. "Heaven knows, they werecomplicated enough before."

  "You're sure it doesn't simplify them?" observed Holmes. "There'snothing to be learned by staring at it. What did you find in hispockets?"

  "We have it all here," said Gregson, pointing to a litter of objectsupon one of the bottom steps of the stairs. "A gold watch, No. 97163, byBarraud, 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 loosemoney to the extent of seven pounds thirteen. Pocket edition ofBoccaccio's 'Decameron,' with name of Joseph Stangerson upon thefly-leaf. Two letters--one addressed to E. J. Drebber and one to JosephStangerson."

  "At what address?"

  "American Exchange, Strand--to be left till called for. They are bothfrom the Guion Steamship Company, and refer to the sailing of theirboats from Liverpool. It is clear that this unfortunate man was about toreturn to New York."

  "Have you made any inquiries as to this man, Stangerson?"

  "I did it at once, sir," said Gregson. "I have had advertisementssent to all the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to the AmericanExchange, 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 gladof any information which could help us."

  "You did not ask for particulars on any point which appeared to you tobe crucial?"

  "I asked about Stangerson."

  "Nothing else? Is there no circumstance on which this whole case appearsto 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 makesome remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front room while wewere 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 highestimportance, and one which would have been overlooked had I not made acareful examination of the walls."

  The little man's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evidently ina state of suppressed exultation at having scored a point against hiscolleague.

  "Come here," he said, bustling back into the room, the atmosphere ofwhich felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly inmate. "Now, standthere!"

  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 thisparticular corner of the room a large piece had peeled off, leaving ayellow square of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there wasscrawled in blood-red letters a single word--

  RACHE.

  "What do you think of that?" cried the detective, with the air of ashowman exhibiting his show. "This was overlooked because it was in thedarkest corner of the room, and no one thought of looking ther
e. Themurderer has written it with his or her own blood. See this smear whereit has trickled down the wall! That disposes of the idea of suicideanyhow. Why was that corner chosen to write it on? I will tell you. Seethat candle on the mantelpiece. It was lit at the time, and if it waslit this corner would be the brightest instead of the darkest portion ofthe wall."

  "And what does it mean now that you _have_ found it?" asked Gregson in adepreciatory voice.

  "Mean? Why, it means that the writer was going to put the female nameRachel, but was disturbed before he or she had time to finish. You markmy words, when this case comes to be cleared up you will find that awoman named Rachel has something to do with it. It's all very well foryou to laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You may be very smart and clever, butthe old hound is the best, when all is said and done."

  "I really beg your pardon!" said my companion, who had ruffled thelittle man's temper by bursting into an explosion of laughter. "Youcertainly 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 otherparticipant in last night's mystery. I have not had time to examine thisroom yet, but with your permission I shall do so now."

  As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifyingglass from his pocket. With these two implements he trotted noiselesslyabout the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally kneeling, and oncelying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with his occupation thathe appeared to have forgotten our presence, for he chattered away tohimself under his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fireof exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive ofencouragement and of hope. As I watched him I was irresistibly remindedof a pure-blooded well-trained foxhound as it dashes backwards andforwards through the covert, whining in its eagerness, until it comesacross the lost scent. For twenty minutes or more he continued hisresearches, measuring with the most exact care the distance betweenmarks which were entirely invisible to me, and occasionally applying histape to the walls in an equally incomprehensible manner. In one placehe 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 glassthe word upon the wall, going over every letter of it with the mostminute exactness. This done, he appeared to be satisfied, for hereplaced his tape and his glass in his pocket.

  "They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains," heremarked with a smile. "It's a very bad definition, but it does apply todetective work."

  Gregson and Lestrade had watched the manoeuvres [9] of their amateurcompanion with considerable curiosity and some contempt. They evidentlyfailed to appreciate the fact, which I had begun to realize, thatSherlock Holmes' smallest actions were all directed towards somedefinite 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 presumeto help you," remarked my friend. "You are doing so well now that itwould be a pity for anyone to interfere." There was a world ofsarcasm in his voice as he spoke. "If you will let me know how yourinvestigations go," he continued, "I shall be happy to give you any helpI can. In the meantime I should like to speak to the constable who foundthe body. Can you give me his name and address?"

  Lestrade glanced at his note-book. "John Rance," he said. "He is offduty 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 tellyou one thing which may help you in the case," he continued, turning tothe two detectives. "There has been murder done, and the murderer was aman. He was more than six feet high, was in the prime of life, hadsmall feet for his height, wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked aTrichinopoly 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 hisoff fore leg. In all probability the murderer had a florid face, and thefinger-nails of his right hand were remarkably long. These are only afew 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 Germanfor 'revenge;' so don't lose your time looking for Miss Rachel."

  With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two rivalsopen-mouthed behind him.