“We have it all here,” said Gregson, leading us into the hallway and pointing to a litter of objects upon one of the bottom steps of the stairway. ‘A gold watch, No. 97163 by Barraud of London. Gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid. Gold ring with masonic device. Gold pin — bulldog’s head, with rubies as eyes. Russian leather-clad case with cards of Enoch Drebber of Cleveland corresponding with the E.J.D. upon the linen. No purse, but loose money to the extent of seven pounds and thirteen shillings. Pocket edition of Boccaccio’s Decameron, with the name Joseph Stangerson on the flyleaf. Two letters — one addressed to E.J. Drebber and one to Joseph Stangerson.”
“At what address?” asked Holmes, giving the objects a cursory glance.
“American Exchange, Strand — to be left until called for. The letters are from the Guion Steamship Company and refer to the sailing of their boats from Liverpool. It is clear that the poor blighter was about to return to New York.”
“Have you made enquiries about this other man — Stangerson?”
“I did it at once,” said Gregson, beaming. “I have had advertisements sent to all 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 enquiries?”
“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 you considered crucial?”
Gregson seemed somewhat abashed by this query. “Well, I asked about Stangerson,” he said.
Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes in despair. “I have not yet had time to examine the room, but if you will allow me, I shall do so now.”
He strode back into the room, the atmosphere of which felt clearer since the removal of its ghastly inmate. Whipping out a tape-measure and a large magnifying-glass from his pocket, he proceeded to trot around the room, sometimes stopping and sometimes kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with his occupation, he appeared to have forgotten our presence, for he chattered away to himself in a nervous undertone the whole time, sometimes presenting himself with a question and then answering it. As I watched him I was irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded, well-trained fox-hound as it dashes backwards and forwards through the covert, whining in its eagerness, until it comes across the lost scent. Sherlock Holmes was now truly in his element. No drug or stimulant could have so energised and enthused the man as this frantic search for clues. So, for what seemed like fifteen minutes, we stood and watched this remarkable performance as he measured the distance between marks which were entirely invisible to me, and occasionally applied 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 dropped it into an envelope. Finally, he examined the fireplace and then gave a cry of delight. Snatching the candlestick which had been placed on the end, he lit it and held it up into the nearby corner.
“What do you think of this, gentlemen?” he cried, with the flourish of a showman introducing his latest exhibit. The flickering light illuminated a portion of the wall where a large piece of the wallpaper had peeled away, leaving a large discoloured oblong of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there was scrawled in blood-red letters a single word:
RACHE
We rushed forward to examine the writing.
“The other visitor to this room — and it is clear that there were two men here last night — has written it with his own blood. See the smear where it has trickled down the wall?”
“Why was it written there?” I asked.
“The candle on the mantelpiece was lit at the time, and this would have been the brightest corner of the room,” explained Holmes.
“And what does it mean, now that you have found it?” asked Gregson, in a deprecating manner.
“Oh, I can answer that,” crowed Lestrade. “It means that the writer was going to put the female name Rachel, but something prevented him from finishing it. You mark my words, when the case comes to be cleared you will find that a woman by the name of Rachel will feature in the business. It’s all very well for you to laugh, Mr Sherlock Holmes; you may think you are very smart and clever, but I think you will discover that in the end the old hound is the best.”
Holmes, who had exploded with rude laughter at Lestrade’s assertions, attempted to curb his natural amusement.
“I am sure you are correct,” he beamed, his voice heavily tinged with sarcasm. “Please let me know how your investigations go. I shall be happy to give you any help I can. In the mean time, I should like to have words with the constable who discovered the body.”
“He’s off duty now,” said Lestrade.
“Can you give me his name and address?”
Lestrade glanced at his notebook. “John Rance. You will find him at 46 Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate.”
Holmes took note of the address.
“Come along, Doctor,” he said, taking my arm. “We shall go and look him up.”
Gregson stepped forward. “Before you go, Mr Holmes, have you learned anything from your investigations here that would help us?”
“Oh, certainly.”
The two police officers looked at each other and then back at Holmes, waiting for his words of enlightenment.
“I can tell you that a murder has been done, and the murderer was a man. He was more than six feet in height, was in the prime of life, had small feet for his size, wore coarse squaretoed 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 foreleg. In all probability the murderer had a florid face, and the fingernails of his right hand were remarkably long. These are only a few indications, but they may assist you.”
For a moment, the two policemen were rendered speechless by this authoritative recital, and then Gregson roused himself. “If this man was murdered, how was it done?” he asked.
“Poison,” said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. “One thing more,” he added, turning round at the door. “RACHE is German for revenge, so don’t waste your time looking for a lady by the name of Rachel. Goodbye, gentlemen.”
Thirteen
FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER
Not only did Ishare Sherlock Holmes’ great amusement at confounding Lestrade and Gregson as we left Number 3 Lauriston Gardens, but also Iwas excited at the great possibilities which had been bubbling away in my brain as Ihad watched and listened to my new friend demonstrate his remarkable powers. Despite his pomposity and his unabashed love of the limelight, Sherlock Holmes was not only a unique individual, but also he had fascinating personal qualities which, if presented in a dramatised form in an exciting narrative, would make him a heroic figure. With some felicitous alterations to his character traits, Ibelieved that Icould portray Sherlock Holmes as a dynamic detective hero. Indeed, this case in which he was engaged would make an excellent introduction for the reading public. Creating a semi-fictional account of the investigation would both add zest to my time with him and provide me with a more legitimate reason to observe him and his methods.
I felt a warm glow of satisfaction at this revelation. While Moriarty would receive the unadulterated accounts of the doings of Mr Sherlock Holmes, at the same time Iwould be turning them into dramatic stories. Here was an honest and reasonably noble purpose to my miserable existence. From now on, I reasoned, I had to memorise conversations and incidents, and keep copious notes. I was about to become the biographer of London’s greatest private detective.
Holmes interpreted my beaming smile as amusement at his deductive tour de force in front of the open-mouthed police inspectors.
“I take it from your expression, Watson, that you do not believe all I told Gregson and Lestrade back there,” he observed, as we settled back in a cab.
/> “I suspect you embellished the truth a little, and indulged in some guesswork for effect,” I responded honestly.
“Not a bit of it. Everything I said was true. My conclusions were based firmly on all that I observed. The very first thing that caught my eye on arriving at Lauriston Gardens was that a cab had made two ruts with its wheels close to the kerb. Now, up to last night we’d had no rain for a week, so those wheels which left such a deep impression must have been there during the night. There were marks of the horse’s hoofs, too, the outline of one of which was far more clearly cut than the other three, indicating that it was a new shoe. Since the cab was there after the rain began, and was not there in the morning — we have Gregson’s word for that — it follows that it must have been there during the night, and, therefore, it brought both the murderer and his victim to the house.”
“Well, that seems straightforward enough,” said I, “but what about the other man’s height?”
“Why, the height of a man, in nine cases out of ten, can be determined by the length of his stride. I was able to gauge this fellow’s stride on the clay outside and on the dusty floorboards within. To strengthen this deduction, we had the writing on the wall. When a man writes in such a fashion, his instinct leads him to write at about the level of his own eyes. Now, that writing was at just over six feet.”
“And his age?” I asked, determined to follow through all the statements he made, storing them in my memory bank as Holmes explained.
“Well, if a man can stride four and a half feet without the smallest effort, he can’t be quite in the sere and yellow. That was the breadth of the puddle on the garden path. Patent leather boots, our victim, had gone round it, and square-toes had hopped over. There really is no mystery to this. I was merely making observations and drawing logical conclusions from them. Is there anything else that puzzles you?”
“Yes, yes. The length of the fingernails and the Trichinopoly cigar, for instance.”
“The writing on the wall was done with a man’s forefinger dipped in blood. My magnifying-glass revealed that the plaster was slightly scratched by the lettering — because the fellow had long nails. You no doubt saw me collect some scattered ash from the floor. It was dark in colour and flaky — such an ash is made only by a Trichinopoly cigar.”
“Oh, come now!” I cried. “How can you be so precise? The ash could be from any type of cigar.”
Holmes gave me an indulgent grin. “I flatter myself that I can distinguish at a glance the ash of any well-known brand of cigar or tobacco. It is in just such details that the skilled detective differs from the Gregson and Lestrade type.”
“And the florid face?”
“Ah, well that was a more daring shot — although I am in no doubt that I was right. I’ll keep that to myself for the moment.”
“All these facts are interesting, of course, but they do not take us further down the road of explaining the mystery. How came these two men to the empty house? If one was the murderer, how did he persuade his intended victim to enter? You saw no signs of force.”
Holmes shook his head.
“And,” I continued, “what has become of the cabman who delivered them? How could one man compel another to take poison? Where did the blood come from? What was the object of the murder? What significance does the woman’s wedding-ring have? And, above all, why should the second man scrawl the word RACHE on the wall?”
“Bravo, Watson. You have a sharp mind. You sum up the difficulties admirably. I agree that there is much that is still obscure, though I have quite made up my mind on the main facts.”
“You have?” I was astounded by this arrogant boast.
“Oh, certainly. But do not ask me to divulge them to you just yet. There are certain pieces of the puzzle I wish to see in place before I reveal all. You know that the conjuror receives no credit once he has explained his trick, and if I show too much to you of my method of working, you will come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary individual.”
This trick of tantalising me with some details of a case, but withholding the vital ones, was one that Sherlock Holmes was to perform with annoying regularity through our association together. It was appropriate that he referred to himself as a conjuror, for certainly there was a strong streak of the theatrical artiste running through his vain personality. He wished always to be centre-stage, to be in charge, and to mystify and astound. I gradually learned to tolerate his performance.
“However, I will tell you one more thing,” he added, warming to his act of titillation, “the word RACHE is simply a blind intended to put the police upon the wrong track, by suggesting Socialism and secret societies. It was not done by a German. The ‘A’, if you noticed, was printed somewhat after the German fashion, but a real German invariably prints in the Latin character. Therefore, I suggest that we can safely say that this was written by a clumsy imitator as a ruse to divert inquiry into a wrong channel. No doubt he has been successful with Lestrade and Gregson.”
Joseph Stangerson was frightened. When Drebber failed to turn up at the station, he had not been surprised or unduly worried. It would be a woman. It always was with Drebber. Wherever they went, he couldn’t keep his eyes or his hands off a pretty woman. Stangerson had lost count of the number of scrapes they’d landed themselves in because of Drebber’s sexual urges. It was his unwanted attentions towards Mrs Charpentier’s daughter that had caused them to be evicted from their last place of residence. The brother of the girl had threatened to kill Drebber if he ever set eyes on him again.
No doubt, he mused, Drebber had found some tart in a drinking-saloon somewhere and was indulging in the pleasures of the flesh once again. But when his partner failed to turn up as dawn broke, the chill hand of fear started to take hold of Stangerson. In his coward’s heart he always knew that some day retribution would catch up with them for their rash deeds out on that blazing hot desert twenty years ago — when they had shot old man Ferrier in the back and dragged Lucy back to Salt Lake City. He couldn’t block the guilt out with alcohol as Drebber could. They never spoke of that time to each other, but they both knew that the cursed memories of those events were never far from their thoughts.
Stangerson always seemed conscious that someone was following them. They could never rest for long for fear that the avenging force caught up with them. And now Drebber had disappeared.
Stangerson pulled back the lace curtain of his room in Halliday’s Private Hotel and looked out on the grey street. It was empty, save for a lone hansom cab some ten yards away from the entrance. There was no sign of his companion. He knew that he had to wait. Wait for another day at least, sitting in his room, hoping and praying that Drebber would turn up with an innocent explanation for his delay. If only his faith had not left him, he could have prayed. But even in this desperate state he knew that it would be a futile gesture. Hugging himself for comfort, he threw himself down on the bed and stared blankly at the ceiling.
Outside in the street, Jefferson Hope sat hunched up in the driver’s seat of his cab, watching the hotel, a thin cruel smile fixed upon his features. After all these years he was now very close to avenging the death of his beloved. One of the bastards was dead. Now there was just Stangerson. He knew the coward would not dare leave the hotel during the daylight hours. Stangerson would wait to see if his partner returned and then attempt his escape under the cover of darkness.
Hope threw the butt of his cigarette into the street, and with a gentle slap of the reins he set the cab in motion. He would come back at dusk to complete his task.
Fourteen
FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER
On leaving Lauriston Gardens, we first called at the nearest telegraph office, where Holmes despatched a long telegram. We then continued our journey to Audley Court to interview John Rance, the constable who had discovered the body.
“I doubt if we’ll learn anything from this cove,” Holmes said, as we alighted from the cab. “The intelligence of the average man on th
e beat is not terribly high.”
Audley Court was not an attractive locality. The narrow passage led us into a quadrangle paved with flags and lined with sordid dwellings. We picked our way among groups of dirty children, and through lines of grey and discoloured linen, until we came to Number 46, the door of which was decorated with a small tarnished slip of brass engraved with the name of Rance. From a small, emaciated-looking woman, whom Iassumed was Rance’s wife, we learned that the constable was still in bed, and we were shown into a cramped and dowdy front parlour while she went off to rouse him.
He appeared presently, looking a little irritable at having been disturbed in his slumbers.
“I made my report at the office,” he said sharply, as though that were the end of the matter.
Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it pensively.
“We thought that we should like to hear it from your own lips,” he said, flipping the coin in the air.
For a moment an avaricious light flamed in the disgruntled constable’s eyes. “I shall be most happy to tell you anything I can,” he said.
“Just let us hear it all in your own way, as it occurred.”
Rance sat on the horsehair sofa, and knitted his brows, as though determined not to omit any detail in his narrative.
“I’ll tell it ye from the beginning,” he said, with enthusiasm.
He was as good as his word; for some five minutes he took us through the course of his evening, from when he came on duty at around ten o’clock. He even rambled on about clearing some roughs away from outside a pawnshop and helping to deal with a fight at The White Hart.
Holmes waited patiently through this irrelevant recital until he reached the part of his narrative we had come to hear: “It had come on to rain just after two, and I thought I’d take a look round and see that all was right down the Brixton Road. It was precious dirty and lonely. Not a soul did I meet all the way down, though a cab or two went past me. I was wet and miserable, gents, and as I was strollin’, between ourselves, I was thinkin’ how uncommon handy a four of gin-hot would be, when suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the window of that same house. Now, I knows that those dwellings in Lauriston Gardens are empty, on account of him that owns them won’t have the drains seen to, though the last tenant died of typhoid fever. I was knocked all in a heap, therefore, at seeing a light in the window, and I suspected something was wrong.”
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