Prelude to a Partnership

by Miss Roylott

  Gregson and Lestrade watched his movements with contempt, and when Holmes at last finished, they asked, "What do you think of it, sir?"

  Holmes smiled. "It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I were to presume to help you. You are doing so well now that it would be a pity for anyone to interfere." He spoke with such a world of sarcasm in his voice, that I wondered why the Yard detectives tolerated him and asked his advice at all. Holmes then asked for the name and address of the constable who discovered the body, and Lestrade gave it.

  "Come along, Doctor," Holmes beckoned. "We shall go and look him up." Before leaving, though, he turned back and addressed the Yard detectives once more. "I'll tell you one thing which may help you in the case. 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."

  After hearing this astonishing speech, Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with incredulous smiles.

  "If this man was murdered," Lestrade queried, "how was it done?"

  "Poison," Holmes answered. "One other thing, Lestrade, '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.

  I hurried after Holmes, and he led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence he dispatched a long telegram. Then he hailed us a cab and we drove to the address of John Rance, the constable.

  On the way, I asked Holmes how he could possibly be sure of so many details about the murderer. He enlightened me by describing the tracks upon the street that had told him about the presence of the four-wheeled cab, and all the footmarks in the clay outside the house that had told him of two men leaving the cab and going inside, one wearing patent-leather boots—which matched the murdered man's shoes—and the other wearing square-toed boots. Holmes had examined the stride of that second man and so determined his height and health.

  I asked about the other details, the finger-nails and the Trichinopoly, and for these Holmes also had an explanation based on his scrutiny of the room. He told me he had made a special study of cigar ashes and tobacco, and could tell different brands apart with a mere glance. Holmes would not answer my question about the florid face, however, so I had to settle for his discussion of how the RACHE had been written on the wall as a ruse by someone imitating a German.

  "I'm not going to tell you much more of the case, Doctor," he said suddenly.

  I wondered if I had offended him with my interest. "Why?"

  He shrugged. "You know a conjurer gets no credit when once he has explained his trick; and if I show you too much of my method of working, you will come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary individual after all."

  I shook my head, amazed that beneath all his bravado he still had moments of insecurity. "I shall never do that. You have brought detection as near an exact science as it ever will be brought in this world."

  I smiled when he reacted with a flush of pleasure, and his grey eyes turned to mine very warmly. He was as sensitive to flattery on the score of his art as any girl can be of her beauty.

  Remembering himself after a moment, he cleared his throat. "I'll tell you one other thing," he offered. "Patent-leathers and Square-toes came in the same cab, and they walked down the pathway together as friendly as possible—arm in arm, in all probability." He chuckled and shrugged at my naughty thought.

  "When they got inside, they walked up and down the room—or rather, Patent-leathers stood still while Square-toes walked up and down. I could read all that in the dust; and I could read that as he walked he grew more and more excited. That is shown by the increased length of his strides. He was talking all the while, and working himself up, no doubt, into a fury. Then the tragedy occurred. I've told you all I know myself now, for the rest is mere surmise and conjecture. We have a good working basis, however, on which to start. We must hurry up, for I want to go to Halle's concert to hear Norman Neruda this afternoon."

  A murder and a concert, I thought. I did not know why Holmes had invited me to accompany him today, after keeping me isolated from his profession for so long, but I was growing deeply interested in his case and hoped he would continue to confide in me.

  We arrived in Audley Court, where the constable lived, and asked the driver to wait for us while we inquired at number 46. Constable John Rance was in bed, and we awaited him in a little front parlour.

  He appeared presently, looking dishevelled and irritable at being disturbed. When Holmes mentioned his connexion to the Yard and asked about the case, Rance grumbled, "I made my report at the office."

  Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket as incentive. "We thought that we should like to hear it all from your own lips."

  Rance became more cooperative, and sat down upon the sofa. He narrated the events of the night in detail, but as he came to the part where he had spied the light in the empty house and went to the door, Holmes interrupted.

  "You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate. What did you do that for?"

  Rance gave a violent jump and stared with amazement at Holmes, no doubt having the eerie feeling that Holmes must have been there observing him. The constable explained his urge to go back and fetch another constable to help him investigate the lonely house. After finding no one nearby, he had returned to the house and gone inside, where he found the burning candle and the dead body. After examining his discovery, Rance had gone outside again and fetched help by blowing his whistle.

  Holmes asked whether the street was empty at that time, and the constable replied dismissively that there had been a drunk fellow leaning on the gate railings and singing nonsense when he came out.

  "What sort of man was he?" Holmes asked with great interest.

  Rance did not see the relevance of this digression and had to be pressed to recall the man's face and dress. "A long chap, with a red face, the lower part muffled round." The drunk had also been wearing a brown overcoat, and it seemed definitely to be the very man Holmes had described as Square-toes, the murderer.

  Rance, unfortunately, had been in a hurry to attend to the corpse, so he had attached no importance to the drunk and had let him go. This frustrated Holmes considerably, and he gave the constable his half-sovereign with disdain.

  "The blundering fool!" Holmes complained bitterly after we had left the constable's lodgings and returned to our cab. "Just to think of his having such an incomparable bit of good luck, and not taking advantage of it."

  I asked why the murderer should risk coming back to the house after leaving it.

  "The ring, man, the ring: that was what he came back for. If we have no other way of catching him, we can always bait our line with the ring. I shall have him, Doctor—I'll lay you two to one that I have him." He chuckled happily and touched my arm. "I must thank you for it all. I might not have gone but for you, and so missed the finest study I ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh? Why shouldn't we use a little art jargon. There's the scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it."

  I smiled at his metaphor, for he did seem to like an inspired turn of phrase. Art and literature could not be so foreign to his nature as I had originally thought.

  As we rode home to Baker Street for our lunch, Holmes spoke again of the concert with Norman Neruda, and in his anticipation, he hummed a melody of Chopin's that he had once heard her play.

  I would have gone with Holmes to the concert, but I was exhausted after the morning's exertions (as well as last night's) and thought I would take a nap o
n the sofa. So after he left, I lay down and tried to sleep, but it was useless. I have recorded my thoughts on the morning in hopes that it will relax me, but I find that my mind strays stubbornly to the awful image of the distorted, baboon-like countenance of the murdered man. Enoch J. Drebber, however he was murdered, gives me the impression of being a sinister, fearsome, and malignant man, whom I am glad I never came across in life.

  My headache is returning. I will try once more to sleep.

  Chapter 6

  The Incident of the Dog

  This afternoon, our landlady Mrs. Hudson begged me to come see her ailing terrier downstairs. I thought she had mistaken me for a veterinary surgeon, but she already knew her little dog was doomed, and her only request was that I spare the unfortunate beast its continued suffering. Poor creature! I could not bring myself to do the deed, so I said that I had not the proper drugs to put the dog down.

  "Surely Mr. Holmes has something?"

  "Well, I know he has some poisons in his lab, but I believe those might produce a violently painful or lingering death. Wait until he comes home, and I shall consult with him about what exactly he has, and if there is nothing of use, I shall look up a veterinary surgeon to do the thing for you."

  "Soon?" she pled, obviously feeling badly about having left the matter so long already.

  "Yes, soon." I headed guiltily upstairs again, assuring myself that the matter was best left in the hands of an experienced professional. In the meantime I glanced through my old medical bag to see what drugs I had. How much would it take to kill the suffering terrier? What would merely paralyse him or produce a deceptive coma? Would not my hand slip? Indeed, it must be a professional.

  I waited for Holmes, but he was very late in returning—so late that I knew that the concert could not have detained him all the time. Dinner was on the table before he appeared.

  When Holmes joined me, he spoke rather fancifully about Darwin and music,[13] and I was surprised by the broadness of his ideas.

  "One's ideas must be as broad as Nature if they are to interpret Nature," he said sententiously. Having filled his plate with food, he finally glanced up at me and observed my exhausted state. "What's the matter? You're not looking quite yourself." Ever perceptive, he answered his own question. "This Brixton Road affair has upset you."

  I nodded wearily. "To tell the truth, it has. I ought to be more case-hardened after my Afghan experiences. I saw my own comrades hacked to pieces at Maiwand without losing my nerve."

  "I can understand. There is a mystery about this which stimulates the imagination; where there is no imagination there is no horror."

  I was glad that Holmes had returned, for even if his words were not as tender and comforting as another man's might be, his mere presence was a great solace after my long afternoon. "I can imagine the poor dog's suffering," I said, remembering Mrs. Hudson's terrier. I briefly related to him the landlady's request.

  "I see. It is just as well that you did not do it, Watson. I will go out with you later to find a vet for the beast. I suppose you and I should split the cost between us, as a courtesy to Mrs. Hudson. She will likely take it hard, even knowing that it is for the best; women are emotional that way."

  I found him cold. Men are emotional that way too. I remembered my attachment to my own dog in my youth. We were called a couple of bull-pups, our temperaments were so alike.[14]

  Holmes took no notice of me, for his eyes had been fixed on the Times. "Have you seen the evening paper?"

  "No."

  "It gives a fairly good account of the Lauriston Gardens affair. It does not mention the fact that when the man was raised up a woman's wedding ring fell upon the floor. It is just as well it does not."

  "Why?"

  "Look at this advertisement. I had one sent to every paper this morning immediately after the affair."

  It was the first announcement in the "Found" column, and it ran, "In the Brixton Road, this morning, a plain gold wedding ring, found in the roadway between the White Hart Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Dr. Watson, 221B, Baker Street, between eight and nine this evening."

  He smiled. "Excuse my using your name. If I used my own, some of these dunderheads would recognise it, and want to meddle in the affair."

  I did not mind it, but I protested that I had no ring.

  He handed me one out of his pocket. "This will do very well. It is almost a facsimile."

  Indeed it was. Part of his afternoon must have been spent getting this ring. I slipped it into my own pocket. "And who do you expect will answer this advertisement?"

  "Why, the man in the brown coat—our florid friend with the square toes. If he does not come himself, he will send an accomplice."

  "Would he not consider it as too dangerous?"

  "Not at all. If my view of the case is correct, and I have every reason to believe that it is, this man would rather risk anything than lose the ring." Holmes did not explain how he knew that, but he insisted on the likelihood that, having tried to retrieve the ring once, Square-toes would try again, on the off chance that he had lost the ring in the road, rather than within the empty house. "He would come. He will come. You shall see him within an hour."

  "And then?"

  "Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then. Have you any arms?"

  "I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges."

  "You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate man; and though I shall take him unawares, it is as well to be ready for anything."

  I went to my bedroom to do as he suggested, wondering with trepidation why Holmes chose to take such a serious risk, rather than contact Gregson or Lestrade for some help. A man over six feet tall and in the prime of life would be hard to tackle, as I was still suffering from weakness and stiffness due to my war wound. I did remember that Holmes had demonstrated a certain wiry strength in our battles, hostile and sexual, but I remained worried.

  When I returned to the sitting-room with my pistol, the table had been cleared, and Holmes was scraping upon his violin.

  "The plot thickens," he remarked as I entered; "I have just had an answer to my American telegram. My view of the case is the correct one."

  "And that is—?"

  "My fiddle would be the better for new strings," he teased me. Holmes put aside his violin and lit his pipe, completely calm. "Put your pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes, speak to him in an ordinary way, then leave the rest to me. Don't frighten him by looking at him too hard."

  "It is eight o'clock now."

  "Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the door slightly. That will do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you!"

  I sighed and sat down beside him to wait. He endeavoured to distract me from my anxiety by talking about an old legal book he had bought the other day, printed in 1642. It was an odd, whimsical choice for his shelves, and perhaps an indication that his library would be expanding in new directions.

  As Holmes spoke there came a sharp ring at the bell. He rose softly and moved his chair in the direction of the door. We heard the servant pass along the hall, and the sharp click of the latch as she opened it.

  "Does Dr. Watson live here?" asked a clear but rather harsh voice. After a moment, the visitor began to ascend the stairs with an uncertain and shuffling gait. It surprised us to hear it. Had Square-toes received grievous injury in the struggle with Enoch J. Drebber?

  There finally came a feeble tap at our door.

  "Come in," I cried.

  Instead of the man of violence whom we expected, a very old and wrinkled woman hobbled into the apartment. I glanced at my companion, and his face had assumed such a disconsolate expression that it was all I could do to keep my countenance.

  The old crone drew out an evening paper, and pointed at our advertisement. She told us in a rambling, chatty way that the gold wedding ring belonged to her daughter Sally, who had not been married long and who feared what her husband would think if he found her without her ring.
<
br />   I interrupted the woman's perambulating speech by removing the gold band from my pocket. "Is that her ring?"

  "The Lord be thanked! Sally will be a glad woman this night. That's the ring."

  I thereupon took note of the old woman's name and address, while Holmes disputed her story that Sally had lost the ring while going to a circus last night. "The Brixton Road does not lie between any circus and Houndsditch."

  She fixed him with a keen look, and responded, "The gentleman asked me for my address. Sally lives in lodgings at 3, Mayfield Place, Peckham."

  I finally gave Mrs. Sawyer the ring, and she took it with many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude. Then she rose and shuffled off down the stairs.

  Holmes sprang up at once and rushed into his room, returning in a few seconds enveloped in an ulster and a cravat. "I'll follow her," he said, hurriedly; "she must be an accomplice, and will lead me to him. Wait up for me."

  It was close upon nine when he set out; it is now well past eleven. I worry that some terrible evil has befallen him at the hands of the murderous Square-toes. Holmes should not have gone out unarmed and alone. What use is my pistol sitting here at home with me? What shall I do if he is not back by morning?

  Nearly midnight, Holmes returned. I met him at the sitting-room door, nearly kissed him. He saw it in my eyes and stared back for a moment, saying nothing. Then shutting the door behind him, he caught me close in his arms and kissed my cheek with a smile. "Poor dear Watson," he whispered, "waiting up so long, when he hadn't any sleep at all today."

  How I loved his touch.

  He soon pulled away from me and sat me down on the sofa with him.

  "Where were you?"

  "Where wasn't I?[15] Wandering around trying to find some new thread. Cursing myself for my stupidity. Hating to come home empty-handed."

  "But what happened?"

  "Our florid friend was too smart, and his accomplice too. So much for the brains of Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" He shook his head. "I wouldn't have the Scotland Yarders know it for the world; I have chaffed them so much that they would never have let me hear the end of it."