by Miss Roylott
"Yesterday you told me that my profession was of little consequence and was not worth my happiness. I tell you, Watson, my profession is of great consequence to me, my clients, and their clients, as the case may be."
I regretted my hasty words. "I'm sure that it is."
He smiled smugly. "Furthermore, my profession is the very thing that brings me happiness and satisfaction, so it can surely be regarded as a legitimate reason for me to give up those idle extras of life that I do not need."
On that point I still protested. "You do not need a lover to fulfil you? Honestly?"
"Honestly." He spoke without hesitation, his eyes quiet clear.
I could only exhale and shake my head, wondering at his strength of will. I looked at my note with the addresses again, knowing that I could not last alone for much longer. Murray, the devil, had made me too used to nightly fornication. I sat in my own armchair and glanced at Holmes. "I suppose you won't come with me now."
He studied my face. "If your trepidation is genuine, and was not merely part of your ploy to fix me up with a lover, then yes, I will support you." He smiled at me. "You definitely look in need of some ravishing."
"Holmes!"
He laughed, not unkindly.
Chapter 5
A Tangled Skein
After lunch and reading the Times, Holmes sat smoking in his armchair, looking vacant and saying nothing. I had time to write out his entire revelation to me about his profession, yet he scarcely moved in all that time. It worried me. It was not just that he had promised me he would be ready at nine to take me out; I simply could not stand the thought of another week-long depression.
I took one of my mystery novels down from the bookshelf to distract me. I skimmed it awhile, but soon returned to the thought of Holmes. So I made a stab at conversation.
"You remind me of Edgar Allan Poe's Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals did exist outside of stories."
Holmes glared at me and sat up. "No doubt," he said, "you think you are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin. Now, in my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of breaking in on his friends' thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of an hour's silence is really very showy and superficial. He had some analytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine."
I gazed at Holmes wide-eyed. Evidently he did read fiction, and I had touched a nerve with my comparison. "Have you read Gaboriau's works? Does Lecoq come up to your idea of a detective?"
Holmes sniffed sardonically. "Lecoq was a miserable bungler. He had only one thing to recommend him, and that was his energy. That book made me positively ill. The question was how to identify an unknown prisoner. I could have done it in twenty-four hours. Lecoq took six months or so. It might have made a textbook for detectives to teach them what to avoid."
I did not know whether to be angry or delighted. Holmes dismissed both my favourite detectives in the most conceited manner possible. And yet, at least it had got him talking.
Holmes continued on, lamenting tragically that there were no crimes and no criminals worthy of him these days. His natural talent and his years of study were all going to waste. "There is no crime to detect, or, at most, some bungling villainy with a motive so transparent that even a Scotland Yard official can see through it."
I laughed out loud, and he scowled at me.
"Watson, I am serious!"
"That's the best part," I said, grinning at him ridiculously.
He looked so petulant and childlike that I got up from my chair and kissed him then. Just a faint brush of his lips, and then I stood back, watching his reaction.
He blinked at me, trying to decide between outrage and anxiety. Then he took a different route altogether. "If you are practising for tonight, Watson, I suggest you be less chaste with your kisses, should you intend to bring a man home." He managed a smile.
I picked up my book again and withdrew to my bedroom, to give him the impression that I was in here reading. I have not heard him stir in my absence; hopefully he has not sunk back into a depressive state. We shall dine soon, and then prepare for our night out. I must think up some lines to use at the molly houses.
I do not even care anymore about Holmes's remark about my desperation. One does not just jump in and find a new partner when the old one is gone; I have to find my footing again, my lost confidence. If I have no luck tonight, I'll tease Holmes some more about his notion that I am trying to seduce him again. Maybe I am, because I know he won't respond anymore. There's nothing more enticing than a challenge.
Such a headache this morning. Why didn't Holmes restrict my consumption of alcohol?
Last night we must have been to half the addresses on the list. The men were mostly effeminate and stagey to a degree that I found distasteful. One cannot just sit upon my lap without my permission or interest! Still Holmes would nudge me to this or that fellow, and some wanted to hear about my wound and make unfunny jokes. I suppose I was too finicky, but why should I want to take somebody that I didn't actually like?
Holmes argued that I took him, having just declared that I hated him. I said that was different, and tried explaining why, but was very incoherent. I sulked with my drink until I realised that Holmes kept plucking my sleeve because he had been propositioned by a variety of men and wanted to escape them.
We left and proceeded to one more molly house, where I kept thinking about Murray and seeing him everywhere. I am not sure what mumblings I let slip out before Holmes took me home at last and put me to bed. I think I did something idiotic like kiss him. He said good-night firmly and left me. I should not be surprised if he locked his bedroom door against me.
What is he going to say at breakfast?
Suffering through my headache, I made my belated appearance at breakfast. "I apologise for the dreadful night, Holmes. You were far too kind and patient."
Holmes looked somewhat weary, but evidently he had not drunk as much as I. He poured tea for me and urged me to drink it.
I said I could not stomach anything just now. I put my head down on the table and groaned. "Must it be so bright in here?"
Holmes rose and adjusted the curtains so as to dim the light in the room. "You should not be out of bed. Would you rather I inform Mrs. Hudson that you are ill, and have her make you something so you can sleep?"
I sighed. "No, I shall get over it. It's my just punishment, anyway."
"Punishment?" He shook his head. "My dear Watson, you didn't do anything remotely immoral last night. Not even kiss a man."
"Didn't I kiss you?" I squinted at him.
He coughed and looked out the window. "Twice. Still, it led to nothing, and you should not drag yourself about like a sinner in need of penitence. Whenever you do find someone new, I shall not regard you as morally bankrupt and degraded; you are a man with needs."
I wondered why the same did not apply to him, as a man.
"Here, do have some tea. Or would you prefer brandy?"
I finally obliged him by sitting up and sipping my tea, while Holmes resumed his seat at the table. I watched him eat awhile, but soon found the sight too nauseating and turned away. In the more subdued light of our room, I was now able to gaze out the window into the street below.
"I wonder what that fellow is looking for?" I asked, pointing to a stalwart, plainly dressed individual who was walking slowly down the other side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers. He had a large blue envelope in his hand, and was evidently the bearer of a message.
"You mean the retired sergeant of Marines," Holmes remarked.
I furrowed my brow at him. Certainly I no longer wondered at Holmes's ability to deduce startling facts about me, at close range and with such history between us, but it stretched the limits of my belief to think that Holmes could at a glance detect facts about a complete stranger across the street.
With astonishing luck, the man whom we were watching caught sight of the number on our door a
nd ran rapidly across the roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps ascending the stair.
"For Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, stepping into the room and handing my friend the letter.
I saw my opportunity to indulge my curiosity and to test Holmes's farfetched deduction. I asked the messenger for his trade and he answered that he was a commissionaire, though his uniform was away for repairs. Then I asked the man's former profession, and to my shock he replied that he had been a sergeant in the Royal Marine Light Infantry.
Seeing that Holmes had no answer for the message, the commissionaire clicked his heels together, raised his hand in salute, and was gone.
Holmes had finished reading the delivered note, and now sat back pensively in his chair.
I asked him, "How in the world did you deduce that?"
"Deduce what?" said he, petulantly.
"Why, that he was a retired sergeant of Marines."
"I have no time for trifles!" he responded brusquely. After a moment, Holmes smiled and apologised for his rudeness. He explained the process of his deduction, beginning with the blue anchor tattooed on the back of the man's hand. The man's military carriage and regulation side whiskers showed he was a marine rather than a sailor. Finally, his air of command as he walked, his being middle-aged, and his steady, respectable demeanour suggested that he was a sergeant.
I praised Holmes for the wonderful feat, but he dismissed it as commonplace and now referred to the letter in his hand. "I said just yesterday that there were no criminals. It appears that I am wrong—look at this!" He threw over to me the note which the commissionaire had brought, and I read it.
The letter detailed a terrible discovery during the night at 3, Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton Road. The policeman on duty saw a light in an empty house, and upon investigation, he found the door open and inside the front room the corpse of a well-dressed gentleman lying on the floor. There had been no robbery, nor any evidence as to how the man met his death. The note requested that Holmes come round to the house before twelve to give his opinion on the puzzling matter, and the signature was that of a Tobias Gregson.
"Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders," Holmes explained to me. "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 sat amazed at the calm way Holmes rippled on. "Surely there is not a moment to be lost," I cried. "Shall I ring 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."
I was beginning to suspect that Holmes was lapsing into another long depression, such as I had feared yesterday. I argued that he should take the case and get out of the rooms. After some reluctance, Holmes finally agreed to go and rose from our table.
"I may have a laugh at them, if I have nothing else." He hustled on his overcoat and then beckoned to me. "Come on! Get your hat."
I blinked; were not all his cases private from me? "You wish me to come?"
"Yes, if you have nothing better to do."
I shrugged. My hangover had faded somewhat by now, and I was feeling more myself, so I joined him. A minute later we were both in a hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road.
On the ride, Holmes talked cheerily of Cremona fiddles and the differences between a Stradivarius and an Amati. It seemed inappropriate to me for him to be prattling away on such airy matters, but he protested that he could not discuss or theorise about the mysterious death until he had all the data and evidence before him.
We soon neared our destination, and Holmes had the driver stop more than a hundred yards away from the house, so that he might approach it on foot and thoroughly examine the surrounding area. I walked with him, puzzled by his concentration outside the house, and was relieved when we finally came to the door.
We were met by Gregson, a tall, white-faced, flaxen-haired man who rushed forward and wrung Holmes's hand with enthusiasm. "It is indeed kind of you to come," he said. "I have had everything left untouched."
"Except that!" Holmes declared, pointing at the pathway where the wet clayey soil was trampled with numerous footprints. "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," answered Gregson evasively. I felt sorry for him to be scolded by Holmes, for he was a most attractive-looking chap. If only Holmes's frequent visitor had been this Gregson, rather than Lestrade!
Gregson mentioned Lestrade's presence on the case, and shifted the blame for the mess to his colleague.
Holmes talked more about the case with him, rudely neglecting to introduce me to Gregson all the while, and indeed, the Yard detective took no notice of my presence at all. I was annoyed and disheartened; still, an affair with a policeman was probably unlikely, for it would be the man's sworn duty to arrest me if I made sexual advances toward him at all.
Holmes soon led the three of us into the house, to the dirty, unfurnished front room that held the body. It was a grim sight—a dead man of about forty-thee years old, 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.
I felt so sickened that I looked away to the dark, grimy room with its peeling wallpaper and its solitary window, and it was the less disturbing view by far.
Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, stood by the doorway and greeted Holmes, then myself. "Dr. Watson?" he ventured, shaking my hand. He did remember, then, what little he saw of me at Baker Street. He might have wondered why I had come, but did not remark upon it. The case was all that the three detectives principally talked about, and I stood there just observing and not knowing what to do with myself.
Holmes examined the dead man intently and verified that there was indeed no wound, despite the splashes of blood laying all around the room. "Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second individual—presumably the murderer, if murder has been committed." He muttered about some other death in Utrecht in 1834, which I suppose was somehow similar to this death, though I had never heard of it.
When Holmes finished inspecting the body, they proceeded to remove it to the mortuary, but in lifting it onto the stretcher, they uncovered fresh evidence, in the form of a ring that tinkled down and rolled across the floor.
Lestrade retrieved it and held it up to view. "There's been a woman here. It's a woman's wedding ring." Lestrade was mystified, and Gregson worried that the ring would complicate matters, but Holmes was nonchalant about it.
Holmes asked next about the contents of the dead man's pockets, and Gregson led us out again to the hall, where a litter of objects rested upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs. He detailed the items as being several pieces of gold jewellery, along with calling cards, a book, loose money, and letters. The cards, as well as the initials upon the man's linen, showed him to be Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A, although the book and one letter bore the name of Joseph Stangerson.
Gregson had already made inquiries about this Stangerson fellow, but had as yet no response.
Then Holmes strangely began to pester Gregson about his telegraph to Cleveland for information. What kind of information had Gregson asked for? Did he not think there was something in particular to as
k about? Was he not going to send another telegram? I was not surprised when Gregson soon took offence at this questioning.
Fortunately, we had a distraction soon from Lestrade, who had remained behind in the front room. He came up to us excitedly, looking exultant and highly pleased with himself. "Mr. Gregson, 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."
He proudly led us towards a dingy corner of the room and in a triumphant manner, he lit a match and held it up to reveal a dramatic sight. In blood-red letters upon the yellow plaster, we could now read a single word—RACHE.
"What do you think of that?" For all his unattractiveness, I admired Lestrade then. He explained, "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."
This seemed quite good reasoning on Lestrade's part, but Gregson did not think as much of the discovery, asking what the word could mean.
"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."
Sherlock Holmes, most ungraciously, had begun to laugh at Lestrade, ruffling the little man's temper. In his place, I would certainly have been infuriated too.
Holmes made scant apology and then proceeded to examine the room as closely as he had the body. He trotted about with a tape measure and a magnifying glass from his pocket. Ignoring us for some twenty minutes or more, Holmes scrutinised every part of the room and mumbled things to himself all the while.
